/  .    ;  ,/ 

At-^  <&tf& 
V 


I 


•^  V 


J 

•.  %     * 


u 


< 

s 


THE 


WORK  S 


OF 


LORD     BYRON, 


INCLUDING 


ALSO 


A   SKETCH   OF   HIS   LIFE. 


BY  J.  W.  LAKE. 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1867. 


CONTENTS. 


LIFE  OF  LORD  b  K  RON. 

HOURS  OP  IDLENESS. 

On  leaving  Newstead  Abbey    -  -       -    Page  1 

Epitaph  on  a  Friend            -  -       -       -   ib. 

A  Fragment         -  .......2 

The  Tear     .....  -       -       -       -    ib. 

An  Occasional  Prologue     -  -    ib. 

On  the  Death  ol'  Mr.  Fox    -  -                       -      3 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady       ...  .....   ib. 


To  Woman  - 
i'o  M.  S.  G. 


To  Mary 

Damajtas  -  - 

To  Marion 

Oscar  ot'Alva       ----- 
To  the  Duke  of  D.      - 

7^-anslations  and  Imitations. 

Adrian's  Address  to  his  Soul,  when  dying 

1  ranslation  --------- 

Translation  from  Catullus  ------ 

Translation  of  the  Epitaph  on  Virgil  and  Tibulius 
Translation  liom  Catullus-  -  -  ... 
Imitated  from  Catullus  -  - 

Translation  froru  Anacreon       -        -  -       - 

Ode  HI  -       - 

Fran.Tient  from  the  Prometheus  Vinctus  - 
The  Episode  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus 
Translation  from  the  Medea  of  Euripides 
Fugitive  Pieces. 

Thoughts  suggested  by  a  College  Examination 
To  the  Earl  of  ***--- 

(.'ran la,  a  Medley 

Lachiri  y  Gair  ....... 

To  Romance 


Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey        ------ 

To  E.  N.  L.  Es<j  - 

To -  

Stanzas-       -•        -------- 

Lines  written  beneatn  an  Elm  in  the  Churchyard  of  Har- 
row on  the  Hill.        -------- 

The  death  of  Caltnar  and  Orla  ------ 


m 

334 

-  3fil 

-  384 
-427 

-  445 

-  4.S7 


CRITIQUE  extracted  from  the  Edinburgh  Review,  No 
22,  for  January,  1808 

ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS    - 

Postscript      ---------- 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE    -      -      -       - 

Notes 

THE  GIAOUR 

Notes 

THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDO8 

Notes    ----- 

THE  CORSAIR    -      -  

Notes 

LARA 

Note     --------.-. 

THE  CURSE  DF  MINERVA 

Notes    -  ......... 

I'HE  SIEGE  C,?  CORINTH     - 

Notes  -  

PARISINA  -  -  - 

Notes .-- 

I'HE  PRISONER  OF  CH1LLON 

Notes     --------- 

BEPPO    

Notes  --.-.--. 

MAZEPPA     

MANFRED    -      -      -  

Notes     -       -  

MARINO  FALIERO 

Notes 

Appendix      ---------- 

SARDANA/r-ALUS 

Note*   -  ... 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI 

Appendix       ----... 

CAIN 

WERNER      

THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED    •       - 
HEAVEN  AND  EARTH    -       ... 
THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTB 

Notes 

THE  ISLAND      -  .      .  4$, 

Appendix  -       -  476 

THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE    -      -       .  .       .      .  4^0 

THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT 187 

MORGANTE  MAGGIORE 495 

WALTZ -      -502 

Notes     -                                     ---...  5»j5 
THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO 500 

HEBREW  MELODIES. 
She  walks  in  beauty     ------ 

The  harp  the  monarch  minstre  swept 

It'  that  high  world       ---.-. 

The   wild    gazelle        ----.. 

Oh  !  weep  lor  those     ----.. 

On  Jordan's  banks  .... 

Juphtha's   daughter      ------ 

Oh!  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom    - 
My  si  ml  is  dark  ----.. 

I  saw  thee  weep   -----.. 

Thy  days  are  done       -  • 

BUM  of  Saul  before  his  last  battle 

Saul 

"  All  is  vanity,  saith  the  preacher"  -       -       - 
YVheii  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay  • 
Vision  of  Belshazzar   ------ 


Sun  uf  the  sleeple 


-  50» 

-  soy 

-  ib 

-  ib. 

-  ib 

-  ib 

-  in 

-  510 

-  i  b. 

-  ib. 

-  ib. 

-  ib. 

-  ib. 

-  511 

-  ib. 

-  ib. 


Dim  in  inu  sleepless      -  ----..    j|j 

Were  my  busoni  as  false  as  thou  dee.Ti'st  it  to  be    -       -  5|-j 
Herod's  lament  for  Mariainne    ------    ib 

On  the  day  of  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem  by  Titua     -    ib. 
liy  the  rivers  of  Babylon  we  pat  down  and  wept    -       -    ib 
The  dt-giruct ion  of  Sennacherib        -----   ,b 

From  Job      -  ....  .513 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Ode  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte  -----. 
MorrTidy  on  the  death  of  the  Right  Hon  H.  B.  Sheridan 
The  Irish  Avatar  ---.-.. 

The  Dream 

Ode  (to  Venice)    ------..- 

Lines  written  in  an  Album         ----.. 

Romance  mny  doloroso  del  sitio  y  toma  de  Alhama     - 

A  very  mournful  Ballad  on  the  siege  and  conquest  of 

Alhama      --------.. 

Sonetio  di  Vittorelli.  with  translation        - 
Stanzas  written  in  passing  the  Ambracian  Gulf 

•  composed  in  a  thunder-storm  near  mount  Pin- 


dus 


Lines  written  at  Athens  ---._. 

written  beneath  a  picture  ----- 

— —  written  after  swimming  from  Scstos  to  Abydoi 

Z<ir;  uuv  aas  ayairia        ---... 

Translation  of  a  Greek  war  eong      ... 

Translation  of  a  Romaic  song  ----- 

On  parting    ------. 


5IS 
514 
515 
5lfi 
51H 
SIU 
5L.'0 

ih. 
5-.S 
ib. 

ib. 

•  Sit 

•  ib. 


•  Thyr 


Sian/as 

To  Thyrza    - 

Euthanasia    - 

Stanzas  - 


On  a  cornelian  heart  which  was  broken  - 
To  a  ynnthful  friend    -  .... 

•]'„  ******    -----... 

From  the  Portuguese  ------ 

Impromptu,  in  reply  to  a  friend  -       -       -       - 

Address,  spoken  at  the  opening  of  Drury-lane 
To  Time        -----.-. 

Translation  of  a  Romaic  love  song 

A  S«ng  - -  . 

On  beine  ask'd  what  was  the  "origin  of  love" 
Remember  him,  etc.    ------ 

Lines  inscribed  upon  a  cup  formed  from  a  skull 
On  the  death  of  Sir  Peter  Parker  Bart    - 


ib. 
ib 
ib 

\n 


9994fiT 

/C/C^  itJJL.. 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


To  &  I, ady  weeping 
Fron  the  Turkish 
fonni.t  to  Genevra 


-  532 

-  ib. 

-  ib. 
ib 


Inscription  on  the  monument  of  a  Newfoundland  dog  -    ih. 
Farewell        ----------  5;>3 

Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul  ------    ih. 

When  we  two  p  rtod  --------    ih. 

S;mizas  for  muni.:         --------    jb. 


Fare  thuewt.. ih. 

To  *** ib. 

O,le  (from  the  French) 535 

From  the  French  -  S«i 

On  the  Star  ot'tbe  Legion  of  Honour  (from  the  French)    ib. 
Napoleon's  Farewell  (from  the  French)  -       -        -        -  537 

S'«nnel ih. 

Written  on  a  blank  leaf  of  "The  Pleasures  of  Memory    ib. 
Stanzas  to***      ---------    ib. 

Darkness  ..-....--  53^ 

Churchill's  Grave        --------    ib. 

Prometheus   ---------          539 

Ode ih. 

Windsor  Poetics 540 

A  sketch  from  private  life  -       -  ....    j|,. 

Carmina  Byronis  in  C.  EUin      ------  541 

Lines  to  Mr.  Moore    --------   jli. 

"On  this  day  1  complete  my  thirty-sixth  year"       -       -   ib. 

LETTER  TO****  *****    ON  BOWLES'S   STRIC- 
TURES ON  POPE 542 

A  FRAGMENT 552 

PARLIAMENTARY  SPEECHES  -  -      -  553 

DON  JUAN -      -      -  561 

Notes 704 

HINTS  FROM  HORACE 711 

ADDITIONS  TO  THE  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

On  a  distant  view  of  the  Village  and  School  of  Harrow 
on  the  Hill -  -  -  -  722 

To  D. ib. 

To  Eddlcston       ---  -.-.-ib. 

Reply  to  sum-!  Verses  of  J.  M.  B.  Pigot,  Esq.        -       -    ih. 

To  the  siuhing  Birephon     ------       -723 

To  Miss  Pi-ot       -       -       -       -       -       -       -       -       -   ib. 

Lines  written  in  "Letters  of  an  Italian  Nun  and  an 
English  Gentleman 724 

The  Cornelian      ---------    jb. 

(In  the  Death  of  a  Young  Lady       -----   j|>. 

To  Emma     ----------   jb. 

To  M.  S.  G.        -       -      -       -  ....  725 

To  Caroline  -       -       -  -  -    ih. 

To  Caroline  ---  .....    j|,. 

To  Caroline  -       -  721! 

The  First  Kiss  of  Love  ...  -   ih. 

To  a  beautiful  Quaker -   ih. 

To  Lesbia     --  ------  7.37 

Lines  addressed  to  a  Young  Lady    -  -    •!>. 

The.  Last  Adieu ih. 

Translation  from  Horace    -------  7'jy 

Fugitive  Pieces 

Answer  to  Verse*  sent  by  a  Friend    -       -       -       -  -  728 

On  a  Change  of  Masters  at  a  great  public  School  -  729 

Childish  Recollections                 ih. 

Answer  to  a  Poem  written  by  Montgomery     -       -  -733 

To  the  Rev.  J.  T.  Becher 734 

To  MissChaworlh       --.---.-ih. 

Remembrance       --------  -ib. 

VfSCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Blues 735 

The  Third  Act  of  Manfred,  in  its  oricinal  shape    -       -  738 
To  my  dear  Mary  Anne    -       -       -       -       -       -       -741 

To  Miss  Chaworth       -----.  -   jb. 

fragment       ----------    jh. 

The  I  raycr  of  Nature        -      -      -  -       -      -  ib. 

'Idrrow 742 


L'Amitie  est  I' Amour  suns  Ailes 
To  my  Son 

Epitaph  on  John  Adams  of  Southwell 


Fragment 

To  Mis.  *** 
A  Love-Song 


-18 

ib 
ib 
ib 


Sum/us  t«  ***  on  leaving  England  -       -       - 

Lines  tu  Mr.  Hoficnun         - 

Lines  in  the  Traveller'  Book  at  Orchomenus 

On  M.ior..1"  last  ()|>i-ialic  Farce         -        -        - 
Epistle  to  Mr.  II. 


•  ib 

•  ib 
ib 

-74: 
-741 

•  ib 


•f 

Do  Lord  Thnrlow's  I'm  ms 
T..  Lord  Thnrlow        -        - 


T.-Tlic 


-Me 


Fragiwni  ol  'an  Epistle  to  Thomas  Moore      • 

Tn-'  Devil's  Drive        -  

Additional  Stanza**  to  the  Ode  to  Napoleon  Bnnaod/le 

To  Lady  Canine  Lainb 

Stanzas  for  Mu>ic 


intended  to  be  recited  at  the  Caledonian  Meet- 
-       - 

On  the  Prince  Regent's  returning  the  Picture  of  Sarah. 
Countess  of  Jersey,  to  Mrs.  Nice 


To  BelstMzznr 


They  say  that  Hope  is  Happiness 
Lines  intended  for  the  opening  of  "The  siege  of  Cornth" 
l-'xiract  from  an  unpublished  Poem  -       -       -       -       - 
To  AUIMI--!:I  ---------- 

To  Thomas  Moore  

Stanzas  to  the  river  Po 


Sonnet  to  George  the  Fourth    ---... 
Francfsca  of  Rimini    ------- 

Stanzas  to  her  who  best  can  understand  them 

To  the  Counless  of  BleninftOB 

Stanzas  written  on  the  Road  between  Florence <iOd  Pisa 

Impromptu    -------  -. 

To  a  Vain  Lnily 

Farewell  to  the  Muse  -  -  - 

To  Anne        -  

To  the  same  -------  -        - 

To  the  Author  of  a  Sonnet         -  - 

On  tindiii;  a  Fan  -       -----  . 

To  an  Oak  at  Ncwstead     -       -       -       -  - 

Dedication  to  Dun  Juan     -       -        -       - 

Parenthetical  Address  by  Dr.  Plagiary      -        -       -       - 

Oh  never  talk  again  to  me         -  - 

Farewell  to  Malta 

Endorsement  to  the  Deed  of  Separation  -       -       -       - 

Who  kill'd  John  Keats 

Song  for  the  Luddites 

The  Cham  I  gave 

Epitaph  for  Jowph  Blacked      ------ 

S.i  we  'II  go  no  more  a  roving    ----.. 

Lines  nn  hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was  ill       - 

T.I  ***  -  

Marl  al.  Lib.  I.  Epig.  I. 


T>>  Dives       ------... 

Verses  t'uunrt  in  H  Summer- House  at  Hales  Owen  • 
From  the  French       ------ 

New  Duet 

Answer         -------.. 

F.pigrams 

IV  Conquest 

Vehicles        --------. 

Epivram.  from  the  French  of  Rulhieres  - 

To  Mr.  Murray  -        -  -        -       . 

Episilr  from  Mr.  Murray  to  Dr.  Polidori 
fpis'leto  Mr.  Murray         ---.-. 

To  Mr.  Murray 

To  Thomas  Moore 

Sianzss-  

Fpitaph  t'.r  VVillinm  Pitt 

On  my  Wedding-day  ------ 

Fpigram        -------- 

The  Charity  Ball         -  .... 

Kpieram 


To  Mr.  Murray    - 

Stanzas,  to  a  Hindoo  Air  -'      - 

On  the  birth  of  John  William  Rizzo  Hopr  er 

Stanzas         ----.- 


ih 
75t 

ib 

ib 
75J 

ib. 
75? 

ib 


ib 

75» 
ib 
ib 

751 
ib 
ib 
ib 

75t 
ib 
ib 
ib 

75t 
ib. 

75!, 
ib 
ib 
ib 

7fiC 
ib 
ib 
ib 

761 
ib. 
ih. 
ih. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ih. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 

7«S 
ib 
ih. 

7(53 
ib. 
ib 
ib. 
ib 
ib. 
ib. 
>b 
il, 
•1.4 
ib 


acfe  ot  Eottr 

BY  J.  W.  LAKE 


O'er  the  Iwrp,  from  earliest  years  beloved, 
He  threw  his  fingers  hurriedly,  and  tones 
Of  melancholy  beauty  died  away 
Upon  its  strings  of  sweetness. 


IT  was  reserved  for  the  present  age  to  pro- 
••  uce  one  distinguished  example  of  the  Muse 
laving  descended  upon  a  bard  of  a  wounded 
spirit,  and  lent  her  lyre  to  tell  afflictions  of 
no  ordinary  description;  afflictions  originating 
probably  in  that  singular  combination  of  feel- 
ing iviih  imagination  which  has  been  called 
the  poetical  temperament,  and  which  has  so 
often  saddened  the  days  of  those  on  whom  it 
lias  been  conferred.  If  ever  a  man  was  enti- 
tled to  lay  claim  to  that  character  in  all  its 
strength  and  all  its  weakness,  with  its  un- 
bounded range  of  enjoyment,  and  its  exquisite 
sensibility  of  pleasure  and  of  pain,  that  man 
was  Lord  Byron.  Nor  does  it  require  much 
time,  or  a  deep  acquaintance  with  human  na- 
ture, to  discover  why  these  extraordinary 
powers  should  in  so  many  cases  have  con- 
tributed more  to  the  wretchedness  than  to  the 
happiness  of  their  possessor. 

The  "  imagination  all  compact,"  which  the 
greatest  poet  who  ever  lived  has  assigned  as 
the  distinguishing  badge  of  his  brethren,  is  in 
every  case  a  dangerous  gift.  It  exaggerates, 
indeed,  our  expectations,  and  can  often  bid 
its  possessor  hope,  where  hope  is  lost  to  reason; 
but  the  delusive  pleasure  arising  from  these 
visions  of  imagination,  resembles  that  of  a 
child  whose  notice  is  attracted  by  a  fragment 
of  glass  to  which  a  sunbeam  has  given  mo- 
mentary splendour.  He  hastens  to  the  spot 
wilh  breathless  impatience,  and  finds  that  the 
object  of  his  curiosity  and  expectation  is 
equally  vulgar  and  worthless.  Such  is  the 
man  of  quick  and  exalted  powers  of  imagina- 
tion :  his  fancy  over-estimates  the  object  of 
his  wishes;  and  pleasure,  tame,  distinction, 
are  alternately  pursued,  attained,  and  despised 
when  in  his  power.  Like  the  enchanted  fruit 
m  the  palace  of  a  sorcerer,  the  objects  of  his 
admiration  lose  their  attraction  and  value  as 
soon  as  they  are  grasped  by  the  adventurer's 
hand ;  and  all  that  remains  is  regret  for  the 
time  lost  in  the  chase,  and  wonder  at  the  hal- 
lucination under  the  influence,of  which  it  was 
undertaken.  The  disproportion  between  hope 
and  possession,  which  is  felt  by  all  men,  is  thus 
doubled  to  those  whom  nature  has  endowed 
with  the  power  of  gilding  a  distant  prospect 
by  the  rays  of  imagination. 

We  think  that  many  points  of  resemblance 
may  be  traced  between  Byron  and  Kousseau. 
Both  are  distinguished  by  the  most  ardent  and 
vivid  delineation  of  intense  conception,  and 
by  a  deep  sensibility  of  passion  rather  than  of 
affection.  Both  too,  by  this  double  power. 


have  held  a  dominion  over  the  sympathy  of  iscrutahle  nature. 

A  2 


their  readers,  far  beyoud  the  rar.se  of  those 
ordinary  feelings  which  are  usually  excited 
by  the  mere  efforts  of  genius.  The  impression 
of  this  interest  still  accompanies  the  perusal 
of  their  writings;  but  there  is  another  interest, 
of  more  lasting  and  far  stronger  power,  which 
each  of  them  possessed, — which  lies  in  the 
continual  embodying  of  the  individual  charac- 
ter, it  might  almost  be  said  of  the  very  person 
of  the  writer.  When  we  speak  or  think  of 
Rousseau  or  Byron,  we  are  not  conscious  of 
speaking  or  thinking  of  an  author.  We  have 
a  vague  but  impassioned  remembrance  of  men 
of  surpassing  genius,  eloquence,  and  power, — 
of  prodigious  capacity  both  of  misery  and 
happiness.  We  feel  as  if  we  had  transiently 
met  such  beings  in  real  life,  or  had  known 
them  in  the  dim  and  dark  communion  of  a 
dream.  Each  of  their  works  presents,  in  suc- 
cession, a  fresh  idea  of  themselves ;  and,  while 
the  productions  of  other  great  men  stand  out 
from  them,  like  something  they  have  created. 
theirs,  on  the  contrary,  are  images,  pictures 
busts  of  their  living  selves, — clothed,  no  doubt, 
at  different  times,  in  different  drapery,  and 
prominent  from  a  different  back-ground, — but 
uniformly  impressed  with  the  same  form,  and 
mien,  and  lineaments,  and  not  to  be  mistaken 
for  the  representations  of  any  other  of  the 
children  of  men. 

But  this  view  of  the  subject,  though  univer- 
sally felt  to  be  a  true  one,  requires  perhaps  a 
little  explanation.  The  personal  character  of 
which  we  have  spoken,  it  should  be  under- 
stood, is  not  altogether  that  on  which  the  seal 
of  life  has  been  set,— and  to  which,  therefore, 
moral  approval  or  condemnation  is  necessa- 
rily annexed,  as  to  the  language  or  conduct 
of  actual  existence.  It  is  the  character,  so  to 
speak,  which  is  prior  to  conduct,  and  yet 
open  to  good  and  to  ill, — the  constitution"  of 
the  being  in  body  and  in  soul.  Each  of  these 
illustrious  writers  has,  in  this  light,  filled  his 
works  with  expressions  of  his  own  character. 
— has  unveiled  to  the  world  the  secrets  of  his 
own  being,  the  mysteries  of  the  framing  of 
man.  They  have  gone  down  into  those  depths 
which  every  man  may  sound  for  nimself, 
though  not  for  another;  and  they  have  made 
disclosures  to  th'e  world  of  what  they  beheld 
and  knew  there— disclosures  that  have  com- 
manded and  forced  a  profound  and  universal 
sympathy,  by  proving  that  all  mankind,  the 
troubled  and  the  untroubled,  the  lofty  and  the 
low,  the  strongest  and  the  frailest,  are  linked 
together  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  bul  in 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


Thus,  each  of  these  wayward  and  richly- 
gifted  spirits  made  himself  the  object  of  pro- 
Found  interest  to  the  world,  and  that  too  dur- 
ing periods  of  society  when  ample  food  was 
e^ery  where  spread  abroad  for  the  meditations 
and  passions  of  men. 

Although  of  widely  dissimilar  fortunes  and 
birth,  a  close  resemblance  in  their  passions 
and  their  genius  may  be  traced  too  between 
Byron  and  Robert  Burns.  Their  careers 
were  short  and  glorious,  and  they  both  perish- 
ed in  the  "  rich  summer  of  their  life  and  song," 
and  in  all  the  splendour  of  a  reputation  more 
likely  to  increase  than  diminish.  One  was  a 
peasant,  and  the  other  was  a  peer;  but  nature 
is  a.  great  leveller,  and  makes  amends  for  the 
injuries  of  fortune  by  the  richness  of  her 
benefactions  :  the  genius  of  Burns  raised  him 
to  a  level  with  the  nobles  of  the  land;  by  na- 
ture, if  not  by  birth,  he  was  the  peer  of  Byron. 
Thoy  both  rose  by  the  force  of  their  genius, 
and  both  fell  by  the  strength  of  their  passions; 
one  wrote  from  a  love,  and  the  other  from  a 
scorn  of  mankind ;  and  they  both  sung  of  the 
emotions  of  their  own  hearts,  with  a  vehe- 
mence and  an  originality  which  few  have 
equalled,  and  none  surely  have  surpassed. 

The  versatility  of  authors  who  have  been 
able  to  draw  and  support  characters  as  differ- 
ent from  each  other  as  from  their  own,  has 
given  to  their  productions  the  inexpressible 
charm  of  variety,  and  has  often  secured  them 
from  that  neglect  which  in  general  attends 
what  is  technically  called  mannerism.  But  it 
was  reserved  for  Lord  Byron  (previous  to  his 
Don  Juan)  to  present  the  same  character  on 
the  public  stage  again  and  again,  varied  only 
oy  the  exertions  of  that  powerful  genius, 
which,  searching  the  springs  of  passion  and 
of  feeling  in  their  innermost  recesses,  knew 
how  to  combine  their  operations,  so  that  the 
interest  was  eternally  varying,  and  never 
abated,  although  the  most  important  person 
of  the  drama  retained  the  same  lineaments. 

"  But  that  noble  tree  will  never  more  bear 
fruit  or  blossom  !  It  has  been  cut  down  in  its 
strength,  and  the  past  is  all  that  remains  to  us 
of  Byron.  That  voice  is  silent  for  ever,  which, 
bursting  so  frequently  on  our  car,  was  often 
heard  with  rapturous  admiration,  sometimes 
with  regret,  but  always  \vit\\  the  deepest  in- 
terest."— Yet  the  impression  of  his  works  still 
remains  vivid  and  strong.  The  charm  which 
cannot  pass  away  is  there, — life  breathing  in 
dead  words — the  stern  grandeur — the  intense 
power  and  energy — the  fresh  beauty,  the  un- 
dimrned  lustre — the  immortal  bloom,  and  ver- 
dure, and  fragrance  of  life,  all  those  still  are 
Ihere.  But  it  was  not  in  these  alone,  it' was  in 
that  continual  impersonation  of  himself  in  his 
writings,  by  which  he  was  for  ever  kept 
brightly  before  the  eyes  of  men. 

H  might,  at  first,  seem  that  his  undisguised 
(evelation  of  feelings  and  passions,  which  the 
l-ecorninCT  pride  of  human  nature,  jealous  of 
ils  own  dignity,  would  in  general  desire  to 
hold  in  unviolated  silence,  could  have  pro- 
duced in  the  public  mind  only  pity,  sorrow, 
or  repugnance.  But  in  the  case  of  men  of 
-<:al  genius,  like  Bvron  it  is  otherwise:  they 


are  not  felt,  while  we  read,  as  declarations 
published  to  the  world,  but  almost  as  secrets 
whispered  to  chosen  ears.  Who  is  there'that 
feels  for  a  moment,  that  the  voice  which 
reaches  the  inmost  recesses  of  his  heart  is 
speaking  to  the  careless  multitudes  around 
him?  Or  if  we  do  so  remember,  the  words 
seem  to  pass  by  others  like  air,  and  to  find 
their  way  to  the  hearts  for  whom  they  were 
intended ;  kindred  and  sympathetic  spirits, 
who  discern  and  own  that  secret  language, 
of  which  the  privacy  is  not  violated,  though 
spoken  in  hearing  of  the  uninitiated,  because 
it  is  not  understood.  A  great  poet  may  ad- 
dress the  whole  world,  in  the  language  of 
intensest  passion,  concerning  objects  of  which 
rather  than  speak  face  to  face  with  any  one 
human  being  on  earth,  he  would  perish  in  his 
misery.  For  it  is  in  solitude  that  he  utters 
what  is  to  be  wafted  by  all  the  winds  of  heaven: 
there  are,  during  his  inspiration,  present  with 
him  only  the  shadows  of  men.  He  is  not 
daunted,  or  perplexed,  or  disturbed,  or  repel- 
led, by  real,  living,  breathing  features.  He 
con  updraw  just  as  much  of  the  curtain  as  he 
chooses,  that  hangs  between  his  own  solitude 
and  the  world  of  life.  He  there  pours  his  soul 
out,  partly  to  himself  alone,"  partly  to  the  ideal 
abstractions  and  impersonated  images  that 
float  around  him  at  his  own  conjuration;  and 
partly  to  human  beings  like  himself,  moving 
in  the  dark  distance  of  the  every-day  world. 
He  confesses  himself,  not  before  men,  but 
before  the  spirit  of  humanity ;  and  he  thus 
fearlessly  lays  open  his  heart,  assured  that 
najture  never  prompted  unto  genius  that  which 
will  not  triumphantly  force  its  wide  way  into 
the  human  heart. 

We  have  admitted  that  Byron  has  depicted 
much  of  himself,  in  all  his  heroes ;  but  when 
we  seem  to  see  the  poet  shadowed  out  in  all 
those  states  of  disordered  being  which  his 
Childe  Harolds,  Giaours,  Conrads,  Laras,and 
Alps  exhibit,  we  are  far  from  believing  that 
his  own  mind  has  gone  through  those  states 
of  disorder,  in  its  own  experience  of  life.  We 
merely  conceive  of  it,  as  having  felt  within 
itself  the  capacity  of  such  disorders,  and  there- 
fore exhibiting  itself  before  us  in  possibility. 
This  is  not  general, — it  is  rare  with  great 
poets.  Neither  Homer,  nor  Shakspeare,  nor 
Milton,  ever  so  show  themselves  in  the  cha- 
racters which  they  pourtray.  Their  poetical 
personages  have  no  references  to  themselves, 
but  are  distinct,  independent  creatures  ol 
their  minds,  produced  in  the  full  freedom  of 
intellectual  power.  In  Byron,  there  does  not 
seem  this  freedom  of  power — there  is  little 
appropriation  of  character  to  events.  Charac- 
ter is  first,  and  all  in  all ;  it  is  dictated,  com- 
pelled by  some  force  in  his  own  mind — ne- 
cessitating him,—  and  the  events  obey.  Hi» 
poems,  therefore,  excepting  Don  Juan,  are 
not  full  and  complete  narrations  of  some  one 
definite  story,  containing  within  itself  ;\  pic- 
ture of  human  life.  They  are  merely  bold, 
confused,  and  turbulent  exemplifications  of 
certain  sweeping  energi"?  and  irres/stiblo 
passions;  they  r.re  fragments  cf  a  poet1:.'. dark 
dream  of  life.'  The  very  perjonages,  riv'vdl) 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


vil 


as  they  are  pictured,  are  yet  felt  to  be  ficti- 
tious, and  derive  their  chief  power  over  us 
from  their  supposed  mysterious  connexion 
with  the  poet  himself,  and,  it  may  be  added, 
with  each  other.  The  law  of  his  mind  was  to 
embody  his  peculiar  feelings  in  the  forms  of 
other  men.  In  all  his  heroes  we  recognise, 
though  with  infinite  modifications,  the  same 
great  characteristics  :  a  high  and  audacious 
conception  of  the  power  of  the  mind, — an  in- 
tense sensibility  of  passion, — an  almost  bound- 
less capacity  of  tumultuous  emotion, — a  boast- 
ing admiration  of  the  grandeur  of  disordered 
power,  and,  above  all,  a  soul-felt,  blood-felt 
delight  in  beauty — a  beauty,  which,  in  his 
wild  creation,  is  often  scared  away  from  the 
agitated  surface  of  life  by  storrnie'r  passions, 
but  which,  like  a  bird  of  calm,  is  for  ever  re- 
turning, on  its  soft,  silvery  wings,  ere  the 
black  swell  has  finally  subsided  into  sunshine 
and  peace.  • 

These  reflections  naturally  precede  the 
sketch  we  are  about  to  attempt  of  Lord  By- 
ron's literary  and  private  life :  indeed,  they 
are  in  a  manner  forced  upon  us  by  his  poetry, 
by  the  sentiments  of  weariness  of  existence 
and  enmity  with  the  world  which  it  so  fre- 
quently expresses,  and  by  the  singular  analo- 
gy which  such  sentiments  hold  with  the  real 
incidents  of  his  life. 

Lord  Byron  was  descended  from  an  illus- 
trious line  of  ancestry.  From  the  period  of 
the  Conquest,  his  family  were  distinguished, 
not  merely  for  their  extensive  manors  in  Lan- 
cashire and  other  parts  of  the  kingdom,  but 
for  their  prowess  in  arms.  John  de  Byron 
attended  Edward  the  First  in  several  warlike 
expeditions.  Two  of  the  Byrons  fell  at  the 
battle  of  Cressy.  Another  member  of  the 
family,  Sir  John  de  Byron,  rendered  good 
jervice  in  Bosworth  field  to  the  Earl  of  Rich- 
mond, and  contributed  by  his  valour  to  trans- 
fer the  crown  from  the  head  of  Richard  the 
Third  to  that  of  Henry  the  Seventh.  This  Sir 
John  was  a  man  of  honour,  as  well  as  a  brave 
warrior.  He  was  very  intimate  with  his  neigh- 
bour SirGervase  Clifton;  and,  although  By- 
ron fought  under  Henry,  and  Clifton  under 
Richard,  it  did  not  diminish  their  friendship, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  put  it  to  a  severe  test. 
Previous  to  the  battle,  the  prize  of  which  was 
a  kingdom,  they  had  mutually  promised  that 
whichever  of  them  was  vanquished,  the  other 
should  endeavour  to  prevent  the  forfeiture  of 
his  friend's  estate.  While  Clifton  was  bravely 
fighting  at  the  head  of  his  troop,  he  was  struck 
off  his  horse,  which  Byron  perceiving,  lie 
quitted  the  ranks,  and  ran  to  the  relief  of  his 
friend,  whom  he  shielded,  but  who  died  in  his 
arms.  Sir  John  de  Byron  kept  his  word:  he 
interceded  with  the  kin^:  the  estate  was  pre- 
served to  the  Clifton  family,  and  is  now  in  the 
possession  of  a  descendant  of  Sir  Gervase. 

In  the  wars  between  Charles  the  First  and 
.'he  Parliament,  the  Byrons  adhered  to  the 
royal  cause.  Sir  Nicholas  Byron,  the  eldest 
brother  and  representative  of  the  family,  was 
an  eminent  loyalist,  who,  having  distinguished 
himself  in  the  wars  of  the  Low  Countries, 
was.  appointed  governor  of  Chelsea,  in  1642. 


He  had  two  sons,  who  both  died  without  issue: 
and  his  youneer  brother,  Sir  John,  became 
their  heir.  Tin's  person  was  made  a  Knight 
of  the  Bath,  at  the  coronation  of  Jame£  Ilifi 
First.  He  had.  eleven  sons,  most  of  v»!;uin 
distinguished  themselves  for  their  loyaii  /  and 
gallantry  on  the  side  of  Charles  the  I-1  -rsr 
Seven  of  these  brothers  were  engaged  ^i  the 
battle  of  Marston-moor,  of  whom  four  fell  i.. 
defence  of  the  royal  cause.  Sir  John  Byron, 
one  of  the  survivors,  was  appointed  to  many 
important  commands,  and  on  the  26th  of  Oc- 
tober, 1643,  was  created  Lord  Byron,  with  a 
collateral  remainder  to  his  brothers.  On  the 
decline  of  the  king's  affairs,  he  was  appointed 
governor  to  the  Duke  of  York,  and?  in  this 
office,  died  without  issue,  in  France,  in  1652; 
upon  which  his  brother  Richard,  a  celebrated 
cavalier,  became  the  second  Lord  Byron.  He 
was  governor  of  Appleby  Castle,  and  distin- 
guished himself  at  Newark.  He  died  in  1 697, 
aged  seventy-four,  and  was  succeeded  by  his 
eldest  son  William,  who  married  Elizabeth, 
the  daughter  of  John  Viscount  Chaworth,  of 
the  kingdom  of  Ireland,  by  whom  he  had  five 
sons,  allof  whom  died  young,  except  William, 
whose  eldest  son,  William,  was  born  in  1722, 
and  came  to  the  title  in  1736. 

William,  Lord  Byron,  passed  the  early  par* 
of  his  life  in  the  navy.  In  1763,  he  was  made 
master  of  the  stag-hounds ;  and  in  1 765,  was 
sent  to  the  Tower,  and  tried  before  the  HOUSP 
of  Peers,  for  killing  his  relation  and  neigh- 
bour, Mr.  Chaworth,  in  a  duel. — The  follow 
ing  details  of  this  fatal  event  are  peculiarly 
interesting,  from  subsequent  circumstances 
connected  with  the  subject  of  our  sketch. 

The  old  Lord  Byron  belonged  to  a  club,  of 
which  Mr.  Chaworth  was  also  a  member.  It 
met  at  the  Star  and  Garter  tavern,  Pall  Mall, 
once  a  month,  and  was  called  the  Nottingham- 
shire Club.  On  the  29th  January,  1765,  they 
met  at  four  o'clock  to  dinner  as  usual,  and 
every  thing  went  agreeably  on,  until  about 
seven  o'clock,  when  a  dispute  arose  betwixt 
Lord  Byron  and  Mr.  Chaworth,  concerning 
the  quantity  of  game  on  their  estates.  The 
dispute  rose  to  a  high  pitch,  and  Mr.  Cha- 
worth, having  paid  his  share  of  the  bill,  retired. 
Lord  Byron  followed  him  out  of  the  room  in 
which  they  had  dined,  and,  stopping  him  on 
the  landing  of  the  stairs,  called  to  the  waiter 
to  show  them  into  an  empty  room.  They  were 
shown  into  one,  and  a  single  candle  being 
placed  on  the  table, — in  a  few  minutes  the 
bell  was  rung,  and  Mr.  Chaworth  found  mor- 
tally wounded.  He  said  that  Lord  Byron  and 
he  entered  the  room  together,  Lord  Bvron 
leading  the  way;  that  his  lordship,  in  walking 
forward,  said  something  relative  to  the  lonnei 
dispute,  on  which  he  proposed  fastening  the 
door;  that  on  turning  himself  round  from  this 
act.  he  perceived  his  lordship  w>th  his  sword 
half  drawn,  or  nearly  so:  on  which,  knowinq 
his  man,  he  instantly  drew  his  own,  and  made 
a  thrust  at  him,  which  he  thought  had  wound- 
ed or  killed  him ;  that  then,  perceiving  his 
lordship  shorten  his  sword  to  return  the  thrust; 
he  thought  to  have  parried  it  with  his  left  hand; 
that  he  felt  the  sword  enter  )iis  body,  and  go 


vn 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


•<eep  Ihrowgh  his  back;  that  lie  struggled,  and 
neirijr  the  stronger  man,  disarmed  his  l 


lordship, 

and  expressed  a  concern,  as  under  the  appre- 
hension of  having  mortally  wounded  him; 
that  Lord  Byron  replied  by  saying  something 
(o  the  like  effect,  adding  at  the  same  time, 
that  he  hoped  "  he  would  now  allow  him  to 
be  as  brave  a  man  as  any  in  the  kingdom." 

For  this  offence  he  was  unanimously  con- 
victeu  of  manslaughter,  but,  on  being  brought 
up  for  judgment,  pleaded  his  privilege  as  a 
peer,  and  was,  in  consequence,  discharged. 
After  this  affair  he  was  abandoned  by  his  rela- 
tions, and  retired  to  Newstead  Abbey;  where, 
though  he  lived  in  a  state  of  perfect  exile  from 
persons  of  his  own  rank,  his  unhappy  temper 
found  abundant  exercise  in  continual  war 
with  his  neighbours  and  tenants,  and  sufficient 
punishment  in  their  hatred.  One  of  his  amuse- 
ments was  feeding  crickets,  which  were  his 
only  companions.  He  had  made  them  so  tame 
as  to  crawl  over  him  ;  and  used  to  whip  them 
with  a  wisp  of  straw,  if  too  familiar.  In  this 
forlorn  condition  he  lingered  out  a  long  life, 
doing  all  in  his  power  to  ruin  the  paternal 
mansion  for  that  other  branch  of  the  family 
to  which  he  was  aware  it  must  pass  at  his 
death,  all  his  own  children  having  descended 
before  him  to  the  grave. 

John,  the  next  brother  to  William,  and  born 
in  the  year  after  him,  that  is  in  1723,  was  of  a 
very  different  disposition,  although  his  career 
in  life  was  almost  an  unbroken  scene  of  mis- 
fortunes. The  hardships  he  endured  while 
accompanying  Commodore  Anson  in  his  ex- 
pedition to  the  South  Seas,  are  well  known, 
from  his  own  highly  popular  and  affecting 
narrative.  His  only  son,  born  in  1751,  who 
••eceived  an  excellent  education,  and  whose 
father  procured  for  him  a  commission  in  the 
euards,  was  so  dissipated  that  he  was  known 
by  the  name  of"  mad  Jack  Byron."  He  was 
one  of  the  handsomest  men  of  his  time  ;  but 
his  character  was  so  notorious,  that  his  father 
"  is  obliged  to  desert  him,  an!  his  company 
was  shunned  by  the  better  Dart  of  society. 
'n  his  twenty-seventh  year,  he  seduced  the 
ivl  arc  hioness  of  Carmarthen,  who  had  been 
but  a  few  years  married  to  a  husband  with 
whom  she  had  lived  in  the  most  happy  state, 
until  she  formed  this  unfortunate  connexion. 
After  one  fruitless  attempt  at  reclaiming  his 
lady,  the  Marquis  obtained  a  divorce;  and  a 
marriage  was  brought  about  between  her  and 
her  seducer;  which,  after  the  most  brutal 
conduct  on  his  part,  and  the  greatest  misery 
and  keenest  remor&e  on  hers,  was  dissolved 
in  two  years,  by  her  sinking  to  the  grave,  the 
victim  of  a  broken  heart.  About  three  years 
subsequently,  Captain  Byron  sought  to  recruit 
his  fortunes  by  matrimony,  and  having  made 
a  conquest  of  Miss  Catherine  Gordon,  an 
Aberdeenshire  heiress  (lineally  descended 
from  the  Eail  of  Huntley  and  the  Princess 
Jane,  daughter  of  James  II.  of  Scotland,}  he 
united  himself  to  her,  ran  through  her  proper- 
ty in  a  few  ^ears,  and,  leaving  her  and  her 
only  chilo,  the  subject  of  this  memoir,  in  a 
.lest'tute  and  defenceless  state,  fied  to  France 


to  avoid  his  creditors,  and  died  at  Valencien, 
nes,  in  1791. 

In  Captain  Medwin's  "  Conversations  o* 
Lord  Bvron,"  the  following  expressions  ars 
said  to  have  fallen  from  his  lordship,  on  the 
subject  of  his  unworthy  father: — 

"  I  lost  my  father  when  I  was  only  six  years 
of  age.  My  mother,  when  she  was  in  a  rage 
with  me  (and  I  gave  her  cause  enough,)  used 
to  say,  'Ah !  you  little  dog,  you  are  a  Byron 
all  over;  you  are  as  bad  as  your  father!'  It 
was  very  different  from  Mrs.  Malaprop's  say- 
ing, '  Ah !  good  dear  Mr.  Malaprop  !  I  never 
loved  him  till  he  was  dead.'  But,  in  fact,  my 
father  was,  in  his  youth,  any  thing  but  a 
'  Coelebs  in  search  of  a  wife.'  He  would  have 
made  a  bad  hero  for  Hannah  More.  He  ran 
out  three  fortunes,  and  married  or  ran  away 
with  three  women ;  and  once  wanted  a  guinea 
that  he  wrote  for :  I  have  the  note.  He  seem- 
ed born  for  his  own  ruin,  and  that  of  the  other 
sex.  He  began  by  seducing  Lady  Carmar- 
then, and  spent  for  her  four  thousand  pounds 
a-year ;  and,  not  content  with  one  adventure 
of  this  kind,  afterwards  eloped  with  Miss 
Gordon.  This  marriage  was  not  destined  to 
be  a  very  fortunate  one  either,  and  I  don't 
wonder  at  her  differing  from  Sheridan's  widow 
in  the  play ;  they  certainly  could  not  have 
claimed  '  the  flitch.'  " 

George  Byron  Gordon  (for  so  he  was  called 
on  account  of  the  neglect  his  father's  family 
had  shown  to  his  mother)  was  born  at  Dover 
on  the  22d  of  January,  1 788.  On  the  unnatu- 
ral desertion  of  his  father,  the  entire  care  of 
his  infant  years  devolved  upon  his  mother 
who  retired  to  Aberdeen,  where  she  lived  in 
almost  perfect  seclusion,  on  the  ruins  of  her 
fortune.  Her  undivided  affection  was  natu- 
rally concentred  in  her  son,  who  was  her 
darling ;  and  when  he  only  went  out  for  an 
ordinary  walk,  she  would  entreat  him,  with 
the  tear  glistening  in  her  eye,  to  take  care  of 
himself,  as  "  she  had  nothing  on  earth  but  him 
to  live  for;"  a  conduct  not  at  all  pleasing  to 
his  adventurous  spirit;  the  more  especially 
as  some  of  his  companions,  who  witnessed  the 
affectionate  scene,  would  laugh  and  ridicule 
him  about  it.  This  excessive  maternal  indul- 
gence, and  the  absence  of  that  salutary  disci- 
pline and  control  so  necessary  to  childhood, 
doubtless  contributed  to  the  formation  of  the 
less  pleasing  features  of  Lord  Byron's  charac- 
ter. It  must,  however,  be  remembered,  in 
Mrs.  Byron's  extenuation,  not  only  that  the 
circumstances  in  which  she  had  been  left  with 
her  son  were  of  a  very  peculiar  nature,  but 
also  that  a  slight  malformation  of  one  of  his 
feet,  and  great  weakness  of  constitution,  na 
turally  solicited  for  him  in  the  heart  of  a  mo 
ther  a  more  than  orci  nary  portion  of  tender 
ness.  For  these  latter  reasons,  he  was  not  soul 
very  early  to  school,  but  was  allowed  to  ex 
pand  his  lungs,  and  brace  his  limbs,  v.pon  the 
mountains  of  the  neighbourhood.  This  was 
evidently  the  most  judicious  method  for  im 
parting  strength  to  his  bodily  frame ;  and  tlu; 
sequel  showed  that  it  was  far  from  the  worst 
for  giving  tone  and  t  gour  to  his  mil  1.  The 


^  OF  LORD  BVRON. 


ravage  grandeur  of  nature  around  him ;  the 
feeling  that  he  was  upon  hills  where 

"  Foreign  tyrant  never  trod, 
But  Freedom  with  her  faulchion  bright, 
Swept  the  stranger  from  her  sight ;" 

nis  intercourse  with  a  people  whose  chief 
amusements  consisted  in  the  recital  of  heroic 
tales  of  other  times,  feats  of  strength,  and  a 
display  of  independence,  blended  with  the 
wild  supernatural  stories  peculiar  to  remote 
and  thinly-peopled  districts ; — all  these  were 
calculated  to  foster  that  poetical  feeling  innate 
in  his  character. 

AVhen  George  was  seven  years  of  age,  his 
mother  sent  him  to  the  grammar-school  at 
Aberdeen,  where  he  remained  till  his  removal 
to  Harrow,  with  the  exception  of  some  inter- 
vals of  absence,  which  were  deemed  requisite 
for  the  establishment  of  his  health.  His  pro- 
gress beyond  that  of  the  general  rim  of  his 
class-fellows,  was  never  so  remarkable  as 
after  those  occasional  intervals,  when,  in  a  few 
days,  he  would  master  exercises  which,  in  the 
school  routine,  it  had  required  weeks  to  ac- 
complish. But  when  he  had  overtaken  the 
rest  of  the  class,  he  always  relaxed  his  exer- 
tions, and,  contenting  himself  with  being  con- 
sidered a  tolerable  scholar,  never  made  any 
extraordinary  effort  to  place  himself  at  the 
head  of  the  highest  form.  It  was  out  of  school 
that  he  aspired  to  be  the  leader  of  every  thine: 
in  all  boyish  games  and  amusements,  he  would 
be  first  if  possible.  For  this  he  was  emi- 
nently calculated;  quick,  enterprising,  and 
daring,  the  energy  of  his  mind  enabled  him 
to  overcome  the  impediments  which  nature 
had  thrown  in  his  way.  Even  at  that  early 
period  (from  eight  to  ten  years  of  age),  all  his 
sports  were  of  a  manly  character;  fishing. 
shooting,  swimming,  and  managing  a  horse, 
or  steering  and  trimming  the  sails  of  a  boat, 
constituted  his  chief  delights,  and,  to  the  super- 
ficial observer,  seemed  his  sole  occupations. 

He  was  exceedingly  brave,  and  in  the  ju- 
venile wars  of  the  school,  he  generally  gained 
the  victory;  upon  one  occasion,  a  boy  pur- 
sued by  another  took  refuge  in  Mrs.  Byron's 
house :  the  latter,  who  had  been  much  abused 
*>y  the  former,  proceeded  to  take  vengeance 
m  him  even  on  the  landing-place  of  the  draw- 
ing-room stairs,  when  George  interposed  in 
his  defence,  declaring  that  nobody  should  be 
ill-used  while  under  his  roof  and  "protection. 
Upon  this  the  aggressor  dared  him  to  fight : 
and,  although  the  former  was  by  much  the 
stronger  of  tt»e  two,  the  spirit  of  youriir  Byron 
was  so  determined,  that  after  the  combat  had 
lasted  for  nearly  two  hours,  it  was  suspend- 
ed because  both  the  boys  were  entirely  ex- 
hausted. 

A  school-fellow  of  Byron  had  a  very  small 
.Shetland  pony,  which  his  father  had  bought 
him:  and  one  day  they  went  to  the  banks  of 
the  Don  to  hathf;  but  havine  only  one  pony. 
they  were  obliged  to  follow  the  good  old  prac- 
tice relied  in  Scotland  "  ride  and  tie."  When 
they  cainc  to  the  bridsre  over  that  dark  ro- 
mantic stream,  Byron  bethoueht  him  of  the 
irophccv  which  he  has  quoted  in  Don  Juan  : 


"  Brig  of  Balgounie,  black's  your  wo'; 
Wi'  a  wife's  ae  son  and  a  mear's  ae  fouL 
Doun  ye  shall  fa'." 

He  immediately  stopped  his  companion,  win 
was  then  riding,  and  asked  him  if  he  remem 
bered  the  prophecy,  saying,  that  as  they  were 
both  only  sons,  and  as  the  pony  might  be  "  s 
mare's  ae  foal,"  he  would  rather  ride  over  first; 
because  he  had  only  a  mother  to  lament  him, 
should  the  prophecy  be  fulfilled  by  the  falling 
of  the  bridge,  whereas  the  other  had  both  a 
father  and  a  mother  to  grieve  for  him. 

It  is  the  custom  of  the  grammar-schcol  at 
Aberdeen,  that  the  boys  of  all  the  five  classes 
of  which  it  is  composed,  should  be  assembled 
for  prayers  in  the  public  school  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning;  after  prayers,  a  censor  calls 
over  the  names  of  all,  and"  those  who  are  ab- 
sent are  punished.  The  first  time  that  Lord 
Byron  had  come  to  school  after  his  accession 
to  his  title,  the  rector  had  caused  his  name  to 
be  inserted  in  the  censor's  book,  Georgius 
Dominus  de  Byron,  instead  of  G?orgius  Byron 
Gordon,  as  formerly.  The  boys,  unaccus- 
tomed to  this  aristocratic  sound,  set  up  a  loud 
and  involuntary  shout,  which  had  such  an  ef- 
fect on  his  sensitive  mind  that  he  burst  into 
tears,  and  would  have  fled  from  the  school, 
had  lie  not  been  restrained  by  the  master. 

An  answer  which  Lord  Byron  made  to  a 
fellow  scholar,  who  questioned  him  as  to  the 
cause  of  the  honorary  addition  of  "  Dorninus 
de  Byron"  to  his  name,  served  at  that  time, 
when  he  was  only  ten  years  of  age,  to  point 
out  that  lie  would  be  a  man  who  would  think, 
speak,  and  act  for  himself— who,  whatever 
might  be  his  sayings  or  his  doings,  his  vice? 
or  his  virtues,  would  not  condescend  to  takp 
them  at  second-hand.  This  happened  on  the 
very  day  after  lie  had  been  menaced  with  being 
Hogged  round  the  school  for  a  fault  which  he 
had  not  committed ;  and  when  the  question 
was  put  to  him,  he  replied,  "  it  is  not  my  do- 
ing; Fortune  was  to  whip  me  yesterday  fe" 
what  another  did,  and  she  has  this  day  made 
me  a  lord  for  what  another  lias  ceased  to  do. 
I  need  not  thank  her  in  either  case,  for  I  have 
asked  nothing  at  her  hands.'' 

On  the  17th  of  May,  1798,  William,  the  fi«h 
Lord  Byron,  departed  this  life  at  Newstead. 
As  the  son  of  this  eccentric  nobleman  had  died 
ivhen  George  was  five  years  old,  and  as  the 
descent  both  of  the  titles  and  estates  was  to 
heirs  male,  the  latter,  of  course,  succeeded 
his  great-uncle.  Upon  this  change  of  fortune, 
Lord  Byron,  now  ten  years  of  age,  was  re- 
moved from  the  immediate  care  of  his  mother 
and  placed  as  a  ward  under  the  guardianship 
of  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  whose  father  had  mar- 
ried Isabella,  the  sister  of  the  preceding  Lord 
Byron.  In  one  or  two  points  of  character 
this  great-aunt  resembled  the  bard:  she  also 
wrote  beautiful  poetry,  and  after  adorning  the 
gav  and  fashionable  world  for  many  years,  she 
left  it  without  any  apparent  cause,  and  with 
perfect  indifference,  and  in  a  great  measure 
secluded  herself  from  society. 

The  young  nobleman's  guardian  decided 
that  he  should  receive  the  usual  education 
given  to  England's  titled  sons,  and  that  be 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


should,  in  1lie  first  instance,  be  sent  to  the 
public  schoil  at  Harrow.  He  was  accord- 
ingly place«l  there  under  the  tuition  of  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Drury,  to  whom  he  has  testified  his 
gratitude  in  a  note  to  the  fourth  canto  of 
Childe  Harold,  in  a  manner  which  does  equal 
honour  to  the  tutor  and  the  pupil.  A  change 
of  scene  and  of  circumstances  so  unforeseen 
and  so  rapid,  would  have  been  hazardous  to 
any  hoy,  out  it  was  doubly  so  to  one  of  Byron's 
ardent  mind  and  previous  habits.  Taken  at 
once  from  the  society  of  boys  in  humble  life, 
and  placed  among  youths  of  his  own  newly- 
acquired  rank,  with  means  of  gratification 
which  to  him  must  have  appeared  considera- 
ble, it  is  by  no  means  surprising  that  he  should 
have  been  betrayed  into  every  sort  of  extrav- 
agance :  none  of  them  appear,  however,  to 
have  been  of  a  very  culpable  nature.  . 

"  Though  he  was  lame,"  says  one  of  his 
school-fellows,  "  he  was  a  great  lover  of  sports, 
and  preferred  hockey  to  Horace,  relinquished 
even  Helicon  for  '  duck-puddle,'  and  gave  up 
the  best  poet  that  ever  wrote  hard  Latin  for 
a  game  of  cricket  on  the  common.  He  was 
not  remarkable  (nor  was  he  ever)  for  his  learn- 
ing, but  he  was  always  a  clever,  plain-spoken, 
and  undaunted  boy.  I  have  seen  him  fight  by 
the  hour  like  a  Trojan,  and  stand  up  against 
the  disadvantage  of  his  lameness  with  all  the 
spirit  of  an  ancient  combatant.  '  Don't  you 
remember  your  battle  with  Pitt?'  (a  brewer's 
son)  said  I  to  him  in  a  letter  (for  I  had  wit- 
nessed it),  but  it  seems  that  he  had  forgotten 
it.  '  You  are  mistaken,  I  think,'  said  he  in 
reply ;  '  it  must  have  been  with  Rice-Pud- 
ding Morgan,  or  Lord  Jocelyn,  or  one  of  the 
Douglases,  or  George  Raynsford,  or  Pryce 
(with  whom  I  had  two  conflicts),  or  with  Moses 
Moore  (the  ctod),  or  with  somebody  else,  and 
not  with  Pitt;  for  with  all  the  above-named, 
and  other  worthies  of  the  fist,  had  I  an  inter- 
change of  black  eyes  and  bloody  noses,  at 
various  and  sundry  periods ;  however  it  may 
have  happened  for  all  that.'  " 

The  annexed  anecdotes  are  characteristic  : 

The  boys  at  Harrow  had  mutinied,  and  in 
their  wisdom  had  resolved  to  set  fire  to  the 
scene  of  all  their  ills  and  troubles — the  school- 
room :  Byron,  however,  was  against  the  mo- 
tion; and  by  pointing  out  to  the  young  rebels 
the  names  of  their  fathers  on  the  walls,  he 
prevented  the  intended  conflagration.  This 
early  specimen  of  his  power  over  the  passions 
of  his  school-fellows,  his  lordship  piqued  him- 
self not  a  little  upon. 

Byron  long  retained  a  friendship  for  several 
of  his  Harrow  school-fellows ;  Lord  Clare  was 
one  of  his  constant  correspondents ;  Scroopc 
Davies  was  also  one  of  his  chief  companions, 
before  his  lordship  went  to  the  continent. 
This  gentleman  and  Byron  once  lost  all  their 
money  at  "chicken  hazard,"  in  one  of  the 
bells  of  St.  James's,  and  the  next  morning 
l)nvies  sent  for  Byron's  pistols  to  shoot  him- 
tclf  with;  Byron  sent  a  note  refusing  to  give 
them,  on  the  ground  that  they  would  be  for- 
feited as  a  deodand.  This  comic  excuse  had 
!he  desired  effect. 

Byron,  whilst  living  at  Newstead  during 


the  Harrow  vacation,  saw  and  became  en 
amoured  of  Miss  Chaworth :  she  is  the  Mary 
of  his  poetry,  and  his  beautiful  "  Dreamn  re"- 
lates  to  their  loves.  Miss  Chaworth  was  oldei 
than  his  lordship  by  a  few  years,  was  light 
and  volatile,  and  though,  no  doubt,  highly  flat 
tered  by  his  attachment,  yet  she  treate'd  oui 
poet  less  as  an  ardent  lover  than  as  a  youngei 
brother.  She  was  punctual  to  the  assignations 
which  took  place  at  a  gate  dividing  the  grounds 
of  the  Byrons  from  the  Chaworths,  and  ac- 
cepted his  letters  from  the  confidants;  but  hei 
answers,  it  is  said,  were  written  with  more  ot 
the  caution  of  coquetiy  than  the  romance  ol 
"love's  young  dream;"  she  gave  him,  how 
ever,  her  picture,  but  her  hand  was  reserved 
for  another. 

It  was  somewhat  remarkable  that  Lord 
Byron  and  Miss  Chaworth  should  both  have 
been  under  the  guardianship  of  Mr.  White. 
This  gentleman  particularly  wished  that  his 
wards  should  be  married  together  ;  but  Miss 
C.,  as  young  ladies  generally  do  in  such  cir- 
cumstances, differed  from  him,  and  was  re- 
solved to  please  herself  in  the  choice  of  a 
husband.  The  celebrated  Mr.  M.,  commonly 
known  by  the  name  of  Jack  M.,  was  at  this 
time  quite  the  rage,  and  Miss  C.  was  not  subtle 
enough  to  conceal  the  penchant  she  had  for 
this  jack-a-f/flw/y;  and  though  Mr.  W.  took 
her  from  one  watering-place  to  another,  still 
the  lover,  like  an  evil  spirit,  followed,  and 
at  last,  being  somehow  more  persuasive  than 
the  "  child  of  song,"  he  carried  off  the  lady 
to  the  great  grief  of  Lord  Byron.  The  mar 
riage,  however,  was  not  a  happy  one ;  J.he 
parties  soon  separated,  and  Mrs.  M.  »ter- 
wards  proposed  an  interview  with  her  former 
lover,  which,  by  the  advice  of  his  sister,  he 
declined. 

From  Harrow  Lord  Byron  was  removed, 
and  entered  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge  ; 
there,  however,  he  did  not  mend  his  manners, 
nor  hold  the  sages  of  antiquity  in  higher  es- 
teem than  when  under  the  command  of  his 
reverend  tutor  at  Harrow.  He  was  above 
studying  the  poetics,  and  held  the  rules  of  the 
Stagyrite  in  as  little  esteem  as  in  after-life  he 
did  the  "  invariable  principles"  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Bowles.  Reading  after  the  fashion  of  the 
studious  men  of  Cam,  was  to  him  a  bore,  and 
he  held  a  senior  wrangler  in  the  greatest  con- 
tempt. Persons  of  real  genius  are  seldom 
candidates  for  college  prizes,  and  Byron  left 
"  the  silvercup"  for  those  plodding  characters 
who,  perhaps,  deserve  them,  as  the  guerdon 
of  the  unceasing  labour  necessary  to  over- 
come the  all  but  invincible  natural  dullness 
of  their  intellects.  Byron,  instead  of  reading 
what  pleased  tutors,  read  what  pleased  him- 
self, and  wrote  what  could  not  fail  to  displease 
those  political  weathercocks.  He  did  not  ad- 
mire their  system  of  education ;  and  they,  an 
is  the  case  with  most  scholars,  could  admire 
no  other.  He  took  to  quizzing  them,  and  no 
one  likes  to  be  laughed  at;  doctors  frowned, 
and  fellows  fumed,  and  Byron  at  the  age  of 
nineteen  left  the  university  without  a  degree. 

Among  other  means  which  he  adopted  tc 
show  his  contempt  for  academ>«  tl  honour* 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


he  kept  a  vounw  bear  in  his  room  for  some 
time,  which  he  told  all  his  friends  lie  was  train- 
ing up  for  a  fellowship;  but,  however  much 
the  fellows  of  Trinity  may  claim  acquaintance 
w  ith  the  "  ursa  major,"  they  were  by  no  means 
desirous  of  associating  with  his  lordship's  Hive. 

When  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  Lord 
ByroTi  bade  adieu  to  the  university,  and  took 
up  his  residence  at  Newstead  Abbey.  Here 
his  pursuits  were  principally  those  of  amuse- 
ment. Among  others,  he  was  extremely  fond 
of  the  water.  In  his  aquatic  exercises  he  had 
Geldom  any  other  companion  than  a  large 
Newfoundland  dog,  to  try  whose  sagacity  and 
fidelity,  he  would  sometimes  fall  out  of  the 
boat,  as  if  by  accident,  when  the  dog  would 
seize  him,  and  drag  him  ashore.  On  losing 
this  dog,  in  the  autumn  of  1808,  he  caused  a 
monument  to  be  erected,  with  an  inscription 
commemorative  of  its  attachment.  (See  page 
53"2  of  this  edition.) 

The  following  descriptions  of  Newstead's 
hallowed  pile  will  be  found  interesting: 

This  abbey  was  founded  in  the  year  1170, 
hy  Henry  II.,  as  a  priory  of  Black  Canons, 
and  dedicated  to  the  Virgin  Mary.  It  con- 
tinued in  the  family  of  the  Bvrons  until  the 
time  of  the  late  lord,  who  sold  it  first  to  Mr. 
Claughtoa  for  the  sum  of  140,000/.,  and  on 
that  gentleman's  not  being  able  to  fulfil  the 
agreement,  and  thus  paying  20,000/.  of  a  for- 
feit, it  was  afterwards  sold  to  another  person, 
and  most  of  the  money  vested  in  trustees  for 
the  jointure  of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Byron.  The 
greater  part  of  the  edifice  still  remains.  The 
present  possessor,  Major  Wildman,  is,  with 
genuine  Gothic  taste,  repairing  this  beautiful 
specimen  of  architecture.  The  late  Lord 
Byron  repaired  a  considerable  part  of  it ; 
but,  forgetting  the  roof,  he  had  turned  his  at- 
tention to  the  inside,  and  the  consequence 
was,  that  in  a  few  years,  the  rain  paying  a 
visit  to  the  apartments,  soon  destroyed  all 
those  elegant  devices  which  his  lordship  had 
contrived.  His  lordship's  own  study  was  a 
neat  little  apartment,  decorated  with  some 
good  classic  busts,  a  select  collection  of  books, 
an  antique  cross,  a  sword  in  a  gilt  case,  and, 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  two  finely  polished 
skulls  on  a  pair  of  light  fancy  stands.  In  the 
garden,  likewise,  was  a  great  number  of  these 
skulls,  taken  from  the  burial-ground  of  the 
abbey,  and  piled  up  together;  but  afterwards 
they  were  recommitted  to  the  earth.  A  writer, 
ivho  visited  it  soon  after  Lord  Byron  had  sold 
't,  says  :  "  In  one  corner  of  the  servants'  hall 
lay  a  stone  coffin,  in  which  were  fencing 
gloves  and  foils,  and  on  the  walls  of  the  ample 
But  cheerless  kitchen  was  painted  in  large  let- 
ters. '  Waste  not — want  not.'  During  the  mi- 
nority of  Lord  Byron,  the  abbey  was  in  the 

possession  of  Lord  G ,  his  "hounds,  and 

divers  colonies  of  jackdaws,  swallows,  and 
starlings.  The  internal  traces  of  this  Goth 
•vere  swept  away  :  but  without,  all  appeared 
as  rude  and  unreclaimed  as  he  could  have  left 
it.  With  the  exception  of  the  dog's  tomb,  a 
conspicuous  and  elegant  object,  I  do  not  re- 
sollect  the  si ightesf trace  of  culture  or  im- 
provement. The  late  lord,  a  stern  and  despe- 


rate character,  who  is  never  mentioned  by  tne 
neighbouring  peasants  without  a  significant 
shake  of  the  head,  might  have  returned  and 
recognised  every  thing  about  him,  except 
perhaps,  an  additional  crop  of  weeds.  There 
still  slept  that  old  pond,  into  which  he  is  said 
to  have  hurled  his  lady  in  one  of  his  fits  of 
fury,  whence  she  was  rescued  by  the  gardener, 
a  courageous  blade,  who  was  the  lord's  mas- 
ter, and  chastised  him  for  his  barbarity.  There 
still,  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  in  a  grove  of 
oak,  two  towering  satyrs,  he  with  his  goat  ana 
club,  and  Mrs.  Satyr  with  her  chubby  cloven 
footed  brat,  placed  on  pedestals  at  the  inter 
sections  of  the  narrow  and  gloomy  pathways, 
struck  for  a  moment  with  their  grim  visages 
and  silent  shaggy  forms,  the  fear  into  your 
bosom  which  is  felt  by  the  neighbouring  pea- 
santry at  '  th'  oud  laird's  devils.'  I  have  fre- 
quently asked  the  country  people  near  New- 
stead,  what  sort  of  man  his  lordship  (our  Lord 
Byron)  was.  The  impression  of  his  eccentric 
but  energetic  character  was  evident  in  the 
reply,  '  He 's  the  devil  of  a  fellow  for  comical 
fancies.  He  flogs  th' oud  laird  to  nothing;  but 
he 's  a  hearty  good  fellow  for  all  that.'  " 

Walpole,  wlio  had  visited  Newstead.  gives, 
in  his  usual  bitter,  sarcastic  manner,  the  fol- 
lowing account  of  it : 

u  As  I  returned  I  saw  Newstead  and  Al- 
thorpe ;  I  like  both.  The  former  is  the  very 
abbey.  The  great  cast  window  of  the  church 
remains,  and  connects  with  the  house ;  the 
hall  entire,  the  refectory  entire,  the  cloister 
untouched,  with  the  ancient  cistern  of  the 
convent,  and  their  arms  on  it :  it  has  a  private 
chapel  quite  perfect.  The  park,  which  is  still 
charming,  has  not  been  so  much  unprofaned. 
The  present  lord  has  lost  large  sums,  and  paid 
part  in  old  oaks,  five  thousand  pounds'  worth 
of  which  have  been  cut  near  the  house.  En 
revanche,  he  has  built  two  baby  forts,  to  pay 
his  country  in  castles  for  damage  done  to  the 
navy,  and  planted  a  handful  of  Scotch  firs, 
that  look  like  ploughboys  dressed  in  old  family 
liveries  for  a  public  day.  In  the  hall  is  a  very 
good  collection  of  pictures,  all  animals.  The 
refectory,  now  the  great  drawing-room,  is  full 
of  Byrons  :  the  vaulted  roof  remaining,  but 
the  windows  have  new  dresses  making  for 
them  by  a  Venetian  tailor." 

This  is  a  careless  but  happy  description  of 
one  of  the  noblest  mansions  in  England,  and 
it  will  now  be  read  with  a  far  deeper  interest 
than  when  it  was  written.  Walpole  saw  the 
seat  of  the  Byrons,  old,  majestic,  and  venera- 
ble :  but  he  saw  nothing  of  that  magic  beauty 
which  fame  sheds  over  the  habitations  of  ge 
nius,  and  which  now  mantles  every  turret  of 
Newstead  Abbey.  He  saw  it  when  decay 
was  doing  its  work  on  the  cloister,  the  refec- 
tory, and  the  chapel,  and  all  its  honours  seemed 
mouldering  into  oblivion.  He  could  not  know 
that  a  voice  was  soon  to  go  forth  from  those 
antique  cloisters,  that  should  be  heard  through 
all  future  ages,  and  cry,  '  Sleep  no  more  to  all 
the  house.'  Whatever  may  be  its  future  fc.te, 
Newstead  Abbey  must  henceforth  be  a  memo- 
rable abode.  Time  may  shed  its  wild  flower* 
on  the  walls,  and  let  the  fox  in  upon  the  ro«irt- 


XII 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON*. 


yard  and  the  t,  lambnrs ;  it  may  even  pass  into 
Uie  hands  cf  unlettered  pride,  or  plebeian 
opulence:  biu  it  has  been  the  mansion  of  a 
mighty  poet.  Its  name  is  associated  with  glo- 
ries that  cannot  perish,  and  will  go  down  to 
posterity  in  one  of  the  proudest  pages  of  our 
annals. 

Lord  Byron  showed,  even  in  his  earliest 
years,  that  nature  had  added  to  the  advan- 
tages of  high  descent  the  richest  gifts  of  genius 
and  of  fancy.  His  own  tale  is  partly  told  in 
two  lines  of  Lara : 

"  Left  by  his  sire,  too  vounjs;  such  loss  to  know, 
Lord  of  himself,  that  he.ivage  of  woe." 

His  first  literary  adventure,  and  its  fate,  are 
well  remembered.  The  poems  which  he  pub- 
lished in  his  minority  had,  indeed,  those  faults 
of  conception  and  diction  which  are  insepara- 
ble from  juvenile  attempts,  arid  in  particular 
may  rather  be  considered  as  imitative  of  what 
had  caught  the  ear  and  fancy  of  the  youthful 
author,  than  as  exhibiting  originality  of  con- 
ception and  expression.  It  was  like  the  first 
essay  of  the  singing-bird,  catching  at  and  imi- 
tating the  notes  of  its  parent,  ere  habit  and 
time  have  given  the  fulness  of  tone,  confi- 
dence, and  self-possession  which  render  assist- 
ance unnecessary.  Yet  though  there  were 
many,  and  those  not  the  worst  judges,  who 
discerned  in  his  "  Hours  of  Idleness"  a  depth 
of  thought  and  felicity  of  expression  which 
promised  much  at  a  more  mature  age,  the 
work  did  not  escape  the  critical  lash  of  the 
"  Scotch  Reviewers,"  who  could  not  resist  the 
opportunity  of  pouncing  upon  a  titled  poet, 
of  showing  off  their  own  wit,  and  of  seeking 
to  entertain  their  readers  with  a  flippant  ar- 
ticle, without  much  respect  to  the  feelings  of 
the  author,  or  even  to  the  indications  of  merit 
which  the  work  displayed.  The  review  was 
read,  and  excited  mirth;  the  poems  were 
neglected,  the  author  was  irritated,  and  took 
his  revenge  in  keen  iambics,  which,  at  the 
same  time,  proved  the  injustice  of  the  offend- 
ing critic  and  the  ripening  talents  of  the  bard. 
Having  thus  vented  his  indignation  against 
the  reviewers  and  their  readers,  and  put  all 
the  laughter  on  his  side,  Lord  Byron  went 
abroad,  and  the  controversy  was  for  some 
years  forgotten. 

It  was  at  Newstead,  just  before  his  coming 
of  age,  he  had  planned  his  future  travels,  and 
his  original  intention  included  a  much  larger 
portion  of  the  world  than  that  which  he  after- 
wards visited.  He  first  thought  of  Persia,  to 
which  idea  indeed  he  for  a  long  time  adhered. 
He  afterwards  meant  to  sail  for  India,  and  had 
so  far  contemplated  this  project  as  to  write 
for  information  from  the  Arabic  professor  at 
<  Cambridge,  and  to  ask  his  mother  to  inquire 
of  a  friend  who  had  lived  in  India,  what  things 
would  be  necessary  for  his  voyage.  He  formed 
nis  plan  of  travelling  upon  very  different 
grounds  from  those  which  he  afterwards  ad- 
vanced. All  men  should  travel  at  one  time  or 
another,  he  thought,  and  he  had  then  no  con- 
nexions to  prevent  him;  when  he  returned 
he  migtit  enter  into  political  life,  for  which 


travelling  would  noi  incapacitate  him,  and 
he  wished  to  judg_e  of  men  by  experience. 

At  lengvh,  in  July,  1809,  in  company  with 
John  Cam  Iiobhouse,Esq.  (with  whom  his  ac- 
quaintance commenced  at  Cambridge),  Lord 
Byron  embarked  at  Falmouth  for  Lisbon,  and 
thence  proceeded,  by  the  southern  provinces 
of  Spain,  to  the  Mediterranean.  The  objects 
that  he  met  with  as  far  as  Gibraltar  seem  to 
have  occupied  his  mind,  to  the  temporary 
exclusion  of  his  gloomy  and  misanthropic 
thoughts ;  for  a  letter  which  he  wrote  to  his 
mother  from  thence  contains  no  indication  of 
them,  but,  on  the  contrary,  much  playful  de- 
scription of  the  scenes  through  which  he  had 
passed.  At  Seville,  Lord  Byron  lodged  in  the 
house  of  two  single  ladies,  one  of  whom,  how- 
ever, was  about  to  be  married.  Though  he 
remained  there  only  three  days,  she  paid  him 
the  most  particular  attentions,  and,  at  their 
parting,  embraced  him  with  great  tenderness, 
cutting  off  a  lock  of  his  hair,  and  presenting  him 
with  one  of  her  own.  With  this  specimen  of 
Spanish  female  manners,  he  proceeded  to  Ca- 
di/., where  various  incidents  occurred  to  con- 
'firrn  the  opinion  he  had  formed  it  Seville  of 
the  Andalusian  belles,  and  whici  made  him 
leave  Cadiz  with  regret,  and  determine  to  re- 
turn to  it.  Lord  Byron  wrote  to  his  mother 
from  Malta*  announcing  his  safety,  and  again 
from  Previsa,  in  November.  Upon  arriving 
at  Yanina,  Lord  Byron  found  that  Ali  Pacha 
was  with  his  troops  in  Illyrium,  besieging 
Ibrahim  Pacha  in  Berat;  but  the  vi/.ier.  'hay- 
ing heard  that  an  English  nobleman  was  in 
his  country,  had  given  orders  at  Yanina  to 
supply  him  with  every  kind  of  accommoda- 
tion, free  of  expense.  From  Yanina,  Lord 
Byron  went  to  Tepaleen.  Here  lie  was  lodged 
in  the  palace,  and  the  next  day  introduced  to 
Ali  Pacha,  who  declared  that  he  knew  him 
to  be  a  man  of  rank  from  the  smallness  of  his 
ears,  his  curling  hair,  and  his  white  hands, 
and  who  sent  him  a  variety  of  sweetmeats, 
fruits,  and  other  luxuries.  In  going  in  a 
Turkish  ship  of  war,  provided  for  him  by 
Ali  Pacha,  from  Previsa,  intending  to  sail  for 
Patras.  Lord  Byron  was  very  near  being  lost 
in  but  a  moderate  gale  of  wind,  from  the  igno- 
rance of  the  Turkish  officers  and  sailors,  and 
was  driven  on  the  coast  of  Suli.  An  instance 
of  disinterested  hospitality  in  the  chief  of  a 
Suliote  village  occurred  to  Lord  Byron,  in 
consequence  of  his  disasters  in  the  Turkish 
galliot.  The  honest  Albanian,  after  assisting 
him  in  his  distress,  supplying  his  wants,  and 
lodging  him  and  his  suite,  refused  to  receive 
any  remuneration.  When  Lord  Byron  pressed 
him  to  take  money,  he  said :  "  I  wish  you  to 
love  me,  not  to  pay  me."  At  Yanina,  on  his 
return,  he  was  introduced  to  Hussien  Boy 
and  Mahomet  Pacha,  two  young  children  of 
Ali  Pacha.  Subsequently,  he  visited  Smyrna 
whence  he  went  in  the  Salsette  frigate  t« 
Constantinople. 

On  the  3d  of  May,  1810,  while  this  frigate 
was  lying  at  anchor  in  the  Dardanelles,  Lord 
Byron,  accompanied  by  lieutenant  Eken- 
head,  swam  the  Hellespon*  from  the  European 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XI.) 


shore  to  the  Asiatic — about  two  miles  wide. 
The  tide  of  the  Dardanelles  runs  so  strong, 
thai  it  is  impossible  either  to  swim  or  to  sail 
to  any  given  point.  Lord  Byron  went  from 
the  castle  to  Abydos,  and  landed  on  the  oppo- 
site shore,  full  thr  re  miles  below  his  meditated 
place  of  approach.  He  had  a  boat  in  attend- 
ance all  the  way ;  so  that  no  danger  coul^  be 
apprehended  even  if  his  strength  had  failed. 
His  lordship  records,  in  one  of  his  minor 
poems,  that  he  got  the  ague  by  the  voyage ; 
but  it  was  well  known,  that  when  he  landed, 
lie  was  so  much  exhausted,  that  he  gladly  ac- 
cepted the  offer  of  a  Turkish  fisherman,  and 
reposed  in  his  hut  for  several  hours;  he  was 
then  very  ill,  and  as  Lieutenant  Ekenhead 
was  compelled  to  go  on  board  his  frigate,  he 
was  left  alone.  The  Turk  had  no  idea  of  the 
rank  or  consequence  of  his  inmate,  but  paid 
him  most  marked  attention.  His  wife  was 
his  nurse,  and,  at  the  end  of  five  days,  he  left 
the  shore,  completely  recovered.  When  he 
was  about  to  embark,  the  Turk  gave  him  a 
large  loaf,  a  cheese,  and  a  skin  filled  with 
wine,  and  then  presented  him  with  a  few 
paras  (about  a  penny  each),  prayed  Allah  to 
bless  him,  and  wished  him  safe  home.  His 
lordship  made  him  no  return  to  this,  more  than 
saying  he  felt  much  obliged.  But  when  he 
arrived  at  Abydos,  he  sent  over  his  man  Ste- 
fano,  to  the  Turk,  with  an  assortment  of  fish- 
ing-nets, a  fowling  piece,  a  brace  of  pistols, 
and  twelve  yards  01  silk  to  make  gowns  for 
his  wife.  The  poor  Turk  was  astonished,  and 
said,  "  What  a  noble  return  for  an  act  of  hu- 
manity!" He  then  formed  the  resolution  of 
crossing  the  Hellespont,  and,  in  proprin 
persona,  thanking  his  lordship.  His  wife  ap- 
proved of  the  plan  ;  and  he  had  sailed  about 
half  way  across,  when  a  sudden  squall  upset 
his  boat,  and  the  poor  Turkish  fisherman 
found  a  watery  grave.  Lord  Byron  was 
much  distressed  when  he  heard  of  the  catas- 
trophe, and,  with  all  that  kindness  of  heart 
which  was  natural  to  him,  he  sent  to  the 
widow  fifty  dollars,  and  told  her  he  would 
ever  be  her  friend.  This  anecdote,  so  highly 
honourable  to  his  lordship's  memory,  is  very 
little  known.  Lieutenant  Hare,  who  was  on 
the  spot  at  the  time,  furnished  the  particulars, 
and  added  that,  in  the  year  1817,  Lord  Byron, 
then  proceeding  to  Constantinople,  landed  at. 
the  same  spot,  and  made  a  handsome  present 
to  the  widow  and  her  son,  who  recollected 
the  circumstance,  but  knew  not  Lord  Byron, 
his  dress  and  appearance  having  so  altered 
him. 

It  was  not  until  after  Lord  Byron  arrived 
at  Constantinople  that  he  decided  not  to  go 
on  to  Persia,  but  to  pass  the  following  summer 
in  the  Morea.  At  Constantinople,  Mr.  Hob- 
douse  left  him  to  return  to  England.  On  losing 
bis  companion.  Lord  Byron  Vent  again,  and 
alone,  over  much  of  the  old  track  which  he  had 
already  visited,  and  studied  the  scenery  and 
manners, of  Greeoeespecially,  with  the  search- 
ing eye  of  a  poet  and  a  painter.  His  mind 
Appeared  occasionally  to  have  some  tendency 
rewards  a  recovery  from  (lie  morbid  state  of 
moral  apathy  which  he  had  previously  evinced, 


and  the  gratification  which  he  manifested  OD 
observing  the  superiority,  in  every  respect,  of 
England  to  other  countries,  proved  that  patri- 
otism was  far  from  being  extinct  in  his  bosom 
The  embarrassed  state  of  his  affairs  at  length 
induced  him  to  return  home,  to  endeavour  tf 
arrange  them ;  and  he  arrived  in  the  Volagt 
frigate  on  the  2d  of  July,  1811,  having  been 
absent  exactly  two  years.  His  health  had  not 
suffered  by  his  travels,  although  it  had  been 
interrupted  by  two  sharp  fevers ;  but  he  had 
put  himself  entirely  on  a  vegetable  diet,  and 
drank  no  wine. 

Soon  after  his  arrival,  he  was  summoned  (o 
IVewstead,  in  consequence  of  the  serious  ill- 
ness of  his  mother ;  but  on  reaching  the  ab- 
bey, found  that  she  had  breathed  her  last.  He 
suffered  much  from  this  loss,  and  from  the  dis- 
appointment of  not  seeing  her  before  her  death; 
and  while  his  feelings  on  the  subject  were  still 
very  acute,  he  received  the  intelligence,  that 
a  friend,  whom  he  highly  esteemed,  had  been 
drowned  in  the  Cam.  He  had  not  long  before 
heard  of  the  death,  at  Coimbra,  of  a  school- 
fellow, to  whom  he  was  much  attached.  These 
three  melancholy  events,  occurring  within  the 
space  of  a  month,  had,  no  doubt,  a  powerful 
effect  on  Lord  Byron's  feelings. 

Towards  the  termination  of  his  "  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Ileviewers,"  the  noble  au- 
thor had  declared,  that  it  was  his  intention  to 
break  off,  from  that  period,  his  newly-formed 
connexion  with  the  Muses,  and  that,  should 
he  return  in  safety  from  the  "  Minarets"  of 
Constantinople,  the  "  Maidens"  of  Georgia, 
and  the  "  Sublime  Snows  of  Mount  Cau- 
casus, nothing  on  earth  should  tempt  him  to 
resume  the  pen.  Such  resolutions  are  seldom 
maintained.  In  February,  1812,  the  first  two 
cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage"  (with 
the  manuscript  of  which  he  had  presented  his 
friend  Mr.  Dallas,)  made  their  appearance, 
producing  an  effect  upon  the  public,  equal  to 
that  of  any  work  which  has  been  published 
within  this  or  the  last  century. 

This  poem  is,  perhaps,  the  most  original  in 
the  English  language,  both  in  conception  and 
execution.  It  is  no  more  like  Beattie's  Min 
strel  than  Paradise  Lost — though  the  former 
pi'oduction  vsas  in  the  noble  author's  mind 
when  first  thinking  of  Childe  Harold.  A  great 
poet,  who  gives  himself  up  free  and  uncon- 
fined  to  the  impulses  of  his  genius,  as  Byron 
did  in  the  better  part  of  this  singular  creation, 
shows  to  us  a  spirit  as  if  sent  out  from  the 
hands  of  nature,  to  range  over  the  earth  and 
the  societies  of  men.  Even  Shakspeare  him- 
self submits  to  the  shackles  of  history  and 
society.  But  here  Byron  has  traversed  the 
•vhole  earth,  borne  along  by  the  whirlwind  of 
his  own  spirit.  Wherever  a  forest  ftowned, 
or  a  temple  glittered — there  he  was  privi- 
leged to  bend  Tiis  flight.  He  suddenly  start» 
up  from  his  solitary  dream,  by  the  secret  foun- 
tain of  the  desert,  and  descends  at  once  into 
the  tumult  of  peopled  or  the  silence  of  de- 
serted cities.  Whatever  actually  lived — had 
perished  heretofore — or  that  had  within  it  a 
[«,>wft-  lu  kindle  passion,  became  the  material 
of  his  all-embracing  song.  There  are  no  unit.*- 


11 V 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON 


of  time  or  pKce  to  fetter  him — and  we  fly 
with  him  Iroui  hill-too  to  hill-top,  and  from 
tower  to  tower,  over  all  the  solitude  of  nature, 
and  all  the  magnificence  of  art.  When  the 
past  pageants  of  history  seemed  too  dim  and 
faded,  he  would  turn  to  the  splendid  spe'cta- 
cles  that  have  dignified  our  own  days,  and  the 
images  of  kings  and  conquerors  of  old  gave 
place  to  those  that  were  yet  living  in  sove- 
reignty and  exile.  Indeed,  much  of  the  power 
which  Byron  possessed  was  derived  from  this 
source.  He  lived  in  a  sort  of  sympathy  with 
the  public  mind — sometimes  wholly  distinct 
from  it — sometimes  acting  in  opposition  to  it 
— sometimes  blending  with  it, — but,  at  all 
times,  in  all  his  thoughts  and  actions,  bearing 
a  reference  to  the  public  mind.  His  spirit 
needed  not  to  go  back  into  the  past, — though 
it  often  did  so, — to  bring  the  objects  of  its  love 
back  to  earth  in  more  beautiful  life.  The  ex- 
istence he  painted  was — the  present.  The 
objects  he  presented  were  marked  out  to  him 
by  men's  actual  regards.  It  was  his  to  speak 
of  all  those  great  political  events  which  were 
objects  of  such  passionate  and  universal  sym- 
pathy. But  chiefly  he  spoke  our  own  feelings, 
exalted  in  thought,  language,  and  passion. 
His  travels  were  not,  at  first,  the  self-impelled 
act  of  a  mind  severing  itself  in  lonely  roaming 
from  all  participation  in  the  society  to  which 
it  belonged,  but  rather  obeying  the  general 
notion  of  the  mind  of  that  society. 

The  indications  of  a  bold,  powerful,  and 
original  mind,  which  glanced  through  every 
line  of  Childe  Harold,  electrified  the  mass  of 
reader?,  and  placed  at  once  upon  Lord  By- 
ron's head  the  garland  for  which  other  men 
of  genius  have  toiled  long,  and  which  they 
have  gained  late.  He  was  placed  pre-eminent 
among  the  literary  men  of  his  country,  by 
general  acclamation.  Those  who  had  so  rigor- 
ously censured  his  juvenile  essays,  and  perhaps 
"  dreaded  such  another  field,"  were  the  first 
to  pay  warm  homage  to  his  matured  efforts : 
while  others,  who  saw  in  the  sentiments  of 
Childe  Harpld  much  to  regret  and  to  censure, 
did  not  withhold  their  tribute  of  applause  to 
the  depth  of  thought,  the  power  and  force  of 
expression,  and  the  energy  of  sentiment, 
which  animated  the  "  Pilgrimage."  Thus,  as 
all  admired  the  poem,  all  were  prepared  to 
greet  the  author  with  that  fame  which  is  the 
poet's  best  reward  It  was  amidst  such  feel- 
ings of  admiration  that  Lord  Byron  fully  en- 
tered on  that  public  stage,  where,  to  the  close 
of  his  life,  he  made  so  distinguished  a  figure. 

Every  thing  in  his  manner,  person,  and 
conversation,  tended  to  maintain  the  charm 
which  his  trenius  had  flung  around  him  ;  and 
those  admitted  to  his  conversation,  far  from 
finding,  that  the  inspired  poet  sunk  into  ordi- 
nary mortality,  felt  themselves  attached  to  him 
not  only  by  many  noble  qualities,  but  by  the 
.merest  of  a  mysterious,  undefined,  and  almost 
•>ainful  curiosity 

It  is  well  known  how  wide  the  doors  of  so- 
ciety are  opened  in  London  to  literary  merit, 
even  to  a  degree  far  inferior  to  Lord  Byron's, 
and  that  it  is  only  necessary  to  be  honourably 
distinguished  by  the  public  voice,  to  move  as  a 


denizen  in  the  first  circles.  This  passport  was 
not  necessary  to  Lord  Byron,  who  possessed 
the  hereditary  claims  of  birth  and  rank.  But 
the  interest  which  his  genius  attached  to  his 
presence,  and  to  his  conversation,  was  of  v 
nature  far  beyond  what  these  hereditary 
claims  could  of  themselves  have  conferred, 
and  his  reception  was  enthusiastic  beyond 
any  thing  imaginable.  Lord  Byron  was  not 
one  of  those  literary  men  of  whom  it  may  be 
truly  said,  minuit  prcEsentlafamam.  A  coun- 
tenance, exquisitely  modeled  to  the  expres- 
sion of  feeling  and  passion,  and  exhibiting  the 
remarkable  contrast  of  very  dark  hair  and 
eyebrows,  with  light  and  expressive  eyes, 
presented  to  the  physiognomist  the  most  in- 
teresting subject  for  the  exercise  of  his  art. 
The  predominating  expression  was  that  of 
deep  and  habitual  thought,  which  gave  way  to 
the  most  rapid  play  of  features  when  he  en- 
gaged in  interesting  discussion ;  so  that  a 
brother  poet  compared  them  to  the  sculpture 
of  a  beautiful  alabaster  vase,  only  seen  to  per 
fection  when  lighted  up  from  within.  The 
flashes  of  mirth,  gaiety,  indignation,  or  sa- 
tirical dislike,  which  frequently  animated  Lord 
Byron's  countenance,  might,  during  an  even- 
ing's conversation,  be  mistaken  by  a  stranger 
for  its  habitual  expression,  so  easily  and  so 
happily  was  it  formed  for  them  all ;  but  those 
who  had  an  opportunity  of  studying  his  fea- 
tures for  a  length  of  time,  and  upon  various 
occasions,  both  of  rest  and  emotion,  knew 
that  their  proper  language  was  that  of  melan 
choly.  Sometimes  shades  of  this  gloom  inter- 
rupted even  his  gayest  and  most  happy  mo- 
ments ;  and  the  following  verses  are  said  to 
have  dropped  from  his  pen  to  excuse  a  tran- 
sient expression  of  melancholy  which  over 
clouded  the  general  gaiety. 

"  When  from  the  heart  where  Sorrow  sits, 

Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high, 
And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits, 

And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eye — 
Heed  not  the  gloom  that  soon  shall  sink, 

My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well ; 
Back  to  my  breast  the  captives  shrink, 

And  bleed  within  their  silent  cell." 

It  was  impossible  to  notice  a  dejection  be- 
longing neither  to  the  rank,  the  age,  noi  the 
success  of  this  young  nobleman,  witnout 
feeling  an  indefinable  curiosity  to  ascertain 
whether  it  had  a  deeper  cause  than  habit  or 
constitutional  temperament.  It  was  obviously 
of  a  degree  incalculably  more  serious  than  thai 
alluded  to  by  Prince  Arthur — 

I  remember  when  I  was  in  France, 

Vour^'  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night, 
Only  for  wantonness 

But,  howsoever  derived,  this,  joined  to  Lord 
Byron's  air  of  mingling  in  amusements  and 
sports  as  if  he  contemned  them,  and  fc't  that 
his  sphere  was  far  above  the  fashionable  ind 
frivolous  crowd  which  surrounded  him,  gave 
a  strong  effect  of  colouring  to  a  charact»- 
whose  tints  were  otherwise  decidedly  roman' 
tic.  Noble  and  far  descended,  the  pilgrim  of 
distant  and  savage  countries,  eminent  >.s  a 
poet  among  the  first  whom  Britain  has  pro 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


duceJ,  and  having  besides  cast  around  him  a 
mysterious  charm  arising  from  the  sombre 
tone  of  his  poetry,  and  the  occasional  melan- 
choly of  his  deportment,  Lord  Byron  occu- 
pied the  eyes  and  interested  the  feelings  of  all. 
The  enthusiastic  looked  on  him  to  admire, 
the  serious  with  a  wish  to  admonish,  and  the 
soft  with  a  desire  to  console.  Even  literary 
envy,  a  base  sensation,  from  which,  perhaps, 
this  age  is  more  free  than  any  other,  forgave 
the  man  whose  splendour  dimmed  the  fame  of 
his  competitors.  The  generosity  of  Lord  By- 
ron's disposition,  his  readiness  to  assist  merit 
in  distress,  and  to  bring  it  forward  where  un- 
known, deserved  and  obtained  general  re- 
gard ;  while  his  poetical  effusions,  poured  forth 
with  equal  force  and  fertility,  showed  at  once 
a  daring  confidence  in  his  own  powers,  and  a 
determination  to  maintain,  by  continued  ef- 
fort, the  high  place  he  had  attained  in  British 
literature. 

At  one  of  the  fashionable  parties  where  the 
noble  bard  was  present,  His  Majesty,  then 
Prince  Regent,  entered  the  room  :  Lord  By- 
ron was  at  some  distance  at  the  time,  but,  on 
learning  who  he  was,  His  Royal  Highness 
sent  a  gentleman  to  him  to  desire  that  he 
would  be  presented.  Of  course  the  presenta- 
tion took  place ;  the  Regent  expressed  his 
admiration  of  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage," 
and  entered  into  a  conversation  which  so  fas- 
cinated the  poet,  that  had  it  not  been  for  an 
accident  which  deferred  a  levee  intended  to 
have  been  held  the  next  day,  he  would  have 
gone  to  court.  Soon  after,  however,  an  un- 
fortunate influence  counteracted  the  effect  of 
royal  praise,  and  Lord  Byron  permitted  him- 
self to  write  and  speak  disrespectfully  of  the 
Prince. 

The  whole  of  Byron's  political  career  may 
be  summed  up  in  the  following  anecdotes: 

The  Earl  of  Carlisle  having  declined  to  in- 
troduce Lord  Byron  to  the  House  of  Peers, 
he  resolved  to  introduce  himself,  and  accord- 
ingly went  there  a  little  before  the  usual  hour, 
when  he  knew  few  of  the  lords  would  be 
present.  On  entering,  he  appeared  rather 
abashed,  and  looked  very  pale,  but,  passing 
the  woolsack,  where  the  Chancellor  (Lord 
Eldon)  was  engaged  in  some  of  the  ordinary 
routine  of  the  house,  he  went  directly  to  the 
fable,  where  the  oaths  were  administered  to 
him  in  the  usual  manner.  The  Lord  Chan- 
cellor then  approached,  and  offered  his  hand 
in  the  most  open  familiar  manner,  congratu- 
lating him  on  his  taking  possession  of  his  seat. 
Lord  Byron  only  placed  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
m  the  Chancellor's  hand  ;  the  latter  returned 
to  his  seat,  and  Byron,  after  lounging  a  few 
minutes  on  one  of  the  opposition  benches,  re- 
tired. To  his  friend,  Mr.  Dallas,  who  followed 
him  out,  he  gave  as  a  reason  for  not  entering 
into  the  spirit  of  the  Chancellor,  "  that  it 
might  have  been  supposed  he  would  join  the 
court  party,  whereas  he  intended  to  have  no- 
thing at  all  to  do  with  politics." 

He  only  addressed  the  house  three  times  : 
the  first  of  his  speeches  was  on  the  Frame- 
work Bill ;  the  second  in  favour  of  the  Cath- 


olic claims,  which  gave  good  hopes  of  his  be- 
coming an  orator;  and  the  other  related  to  a 
petition  from  Major  Cartwright.  Byron  him- 
self says,  the  Lords  told  him  "  his  manner 
was  not  dignified  enough  for  them,  and  would 
better  suit  the  lower  house ;"  others  say,  they 
gathered  round  him  while  speaking,  listening 
with  the  greatest  attention — a  sign  at  any  rate 
that  he  was  interesting.  He  always  voted 
with  the  opposition,  but  evinced  no  likelihood 
of  becoming  the  blind  partisan  of  either  side. 

The  following  is  a  pleasing  instance  of  the 
generosity,  the  delicacy,  and  the  unwounding 
benevolence  of  Byron's  nature : 

A  young  lady  of  considerable  talents,  but 
who  had  never  been  able  to  succeed  in  turn- 
ing them  to  any  profitable  account,  was  re- 
duced to  great  hardships  through  the  misfor- 
tunes of  her  family.  The  only  persons  from 
whom  she  could  have  hoped  for  relief  were 
abroad,  and  so  urged  on,  more  by  the  suffer- 
ings of  those  she  held  dear  than  by  her  own 
she  summoned  up  resolution  to  wait  on  Lord 
Byron  at  his  apartments  in  the  Albany,  and 
ask  his  subscription  to  a  volume  of  poems: 
she  had  no  previous  knowledge  of  him  except 
from  his  works,  but  from  the  boldness  and 
feeling  expressed  in  them,  she  concluded  that 
he  must  be  a  man  of  kind  heart  and  amiable 
disposition.  Experience  did  not  disappoint 
her,  and  though  she  entered  the  apartment 
with  faltering  steps  and  a  palpitating  heart, 
she  soon  found  courage  to  state  her  request, 
which  she  did  in  the  most  simple  and  delicate 
manner:  he  heard  it  with  the  most  marked 
attention  and  the  keenest  sympathy;  and 
when  she  had  ceased  speaking,  he,  as  if  to 
avert  her  thoughts  from  a  subject  which  could 
not  be  but  painful  to  her,  began  to  converse 
in  words  so  fascinating,  and  tones  so  gentle, 
that  she  hardly  perceived  he  had  been  writ- 
ing, until  he  put  a  folded  slip  of  paper  into  her 
hand,  saying  it  was  his  subscription,  and  that 
he  most  heartily  wished  her  success.  "  But," 
added  he,  "  we  are  both  young,  and  the  world 
is  very  censorious,  and  so  if  I  were  to  take 
any  active  part  in  procuring  subscribers  to 
your  poems,  I  fear  it  would  do  you  harm  rather 
than  good."  The  young  lady,  overpowered 
by  the  prudence  anil  delicacy  of  his  conduct, 
took  her  leave,  and  upon  opening  in  the  street 
the  paper,  which  in  her  agitation  she  had  not 
previously  looked  at,  she  found  it  was  a  draft 
upon  his  banker  for  fifty  pounds  ! 

The  enmity  that  Byron  entertained  towards 
the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  w  as  owing  to  two  causes : 
the  Earl  had  spoken  rather  irreverently  o' 
the  "  Hours  of  Idleness,"  when  Byron  ex1 
pected,  as  a  relation,  that  he  would  have 
countenanced  it.  He  had  moreover  refused 
to  introduce  his  kinsman  to  the  Houae  of 
Lords,  even,  it  is  said,  somewhat  doubting  his 
right  to  a  seat  in  that  honourable  house. 

The  Earl  of  Carlisle  was  a  great  admirer 
of  the  classic  drama,  and  once  published  a 
sixpenny  pamphlet,  in  which  he  strenuously 
argued  in  behalf  of  the  propriety  and  neces- 
sity of  small  theatres  :  on  the  same  day  that 
this  weighty  publication  appeared  he  snt» 


XVI 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


scribed  a -thousand  pounds  for  some  public 
purpose.  On  this  occasion,  Byron  composed 
the  following  epigram : 

"  Carlisle  subscribes  a  thousand  pound 

Out  of  his  rich  domains  ; 

And  for  a  sixpence  circles  round 

The  produce  of  his  brains  : 

'T  is  thus  the  difference  you  may  hit 

Between  his  fortune  and  his  wit." 

Byron  retained  his  antipathy  to  this  relative 
to  the  last.  On  reading  some  lines  in  the 
newspapers  addressed  to  Lady  Holland  by 
the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  persuading  her  to  reject 
the  snuff-box  bequeathed  to  her  by  Napoleon, 
beginning: 

"  Lady,  reject  the  gift,"  etc. 

he  immediately  wrote  the  following  parody : 
"  Lady,  accept  the  gift  a  hero  wore, 

In  spite  of  all  this  elegiac  stuff: 
Let  not  seven  stanzas  written  by  a  bore 
Prevent  your  ladyship  from  taking  snuff." 

Sir  Lumley  Skeffington  had  written  a  tra- 
gedy, called,  if  we  remember  right,  "The 
Mysterious  Bride,"  which  was  fairly  damned 
on  the  first  night :  a  masquerade  took  place 
soon  after  this  fatal  catastrophe,  to  which  went 
John  Cam  Hobhouse,  as  a  Spanish  nun  who 
had  been  ravished  by  the  French  army,  and 
was  under  the  protection  of  his  lordship. 
Skeffington,  compassionating  the  unfortunate 
young  woman,  asked,  in  a  very  sentimental 
manner,  of  Byron,  "who  isshe?"  "  The  Mys- 
terious Bride,"  replied  his  lordship. 

On  Byron's  return  from  his  first  tour,  Mr. 
Dallas  called  upon  him,  and,  after  the  usual 
salutations  had  passed,  inquired  if  he  was  pre- 
pared with  any  other  work  to  support  the 
fame  winch  he  had  already  acquired.     Byron 
then  delivered  for  his  examination  a  poem, 
entitled  "  Hints  from  Horace,"  being  a  para- 
phrase of  the  art  of  poetry.  Mr.  Dallas  prom- 
ised  to   superintend  the   publication  of  this 
piece  as  he  had  done  that  of  the  satire,  and, 
accordingly,  it  was  carried  to  Cawthorn  the 
bookseller,  and  matters  arranged ;   but  Mr. 
Dallas,  not  thinking  the  poem  likely  to  in- 
crease his  lordship's  reputation,  allowed  it  to 
linger  in  the  press.     It  began  thus : 
"  Who  would  not  laugh  if  Lawrence,  hired  to  grace 
His  costly  canvas  with  each  fiatter'd  face, 
Abused  his  art,  till  Nature  with  a  blush 
Saw  cits  orow  centaurs  underneath  his  brush  ? 
Or  should  some  iimner  join,  for  show  or  sale, 
A  maid  of  honour  to  a  mermaid's  tail ; 
Or  LowT)+**  (as  once  the  world  has  seen) 
Degrade  Go-l's  creatures  in  his  graphic  spleen — 
Not  all  that  forced  politeness  which  defends 
Fools  in  their  faults,  could  gag  his  grinning  friends. 
Kn'.ieve  me,  Moschus,  like  that  picture  seems 
The  book  which,  sillier  than  a  sick  man's  dreams, 
Displays  a  crowd  of  figures  incomplete, 
Poetic  nightmares,  without  head  or  feet." 

Mr.  Dallas  expressed  his  sorrow  that  his 
lordship  hnr!  written  nothing  else.  Byron  then 
told  him  that  he  had  occasionally  composed 
some  verses  in  Spenser's  measure,  relative  to 
the  countries  lie  had  visited.  "  They  are  not 
worth  troubling  you  with,'  =;aid  his  lordship, 
but  you  shall  have  them  all  with  vou:"  he 


then  took  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage"  from 
a  trunk,  and  delivered  it  to  him.  Mr.  Dallas, 
having  read  the  poem,  was  in  raptures  with 
it ;  he  instantly  resolved  to  do  his  utmost  in 
suppressing  the  "  Hints  from  Horace,"  and 
to  bring  out  Childe  Harold.  He  urged  Byron 
to  publish  this  last  poem  ;  but  he  was  unwill- 
ing, and  preferred  to  have  the  "  Hints"  pub- 
lished. He  would  not  be  convinced  of  the 
great  merit  of  the  "  Childe,"  and  as  some  per- 
son had  seen  it  before  Mr.  Dallas,  and  ex- 
pressed disapprobation,  Byron  was  by  no 
means  sure  of  its  kind  reception  by  the  world. 
In  a  short  time  afterwards,  however,  he  agreed 
to  its  publication,  and  requested  Mr.  Dallas 
not  to  deal  with  CaAvthorn,  but  offer  it  to  Mil- 
ler of  Albemarle  street :  he  wished  a  fashion- 
able publisher ;  but  Miller  declined  it,  chiefly 
on  account  of  the  strictures  it  contained  on 
Lord  Elgin,  whose  publisher  he  was.  Long- 
man had  refused  to  publish  the  "  Satire,"  and 
Byron  would  not  suffer  any  of  his  works  to 
come  from  that  house  :  the  work  was  there- 
fore carried  to  Mr.  Murray,  who  then  kept  a 
shop  opposite  St.  Dunstan's  church  in  Fleet 
street.  Mr.  Murray  had  expressed  a  desire 
to  publish  for  Lord  Byron,  and  regretted  that 
Mr.  Dallas  had  not  taken  the  "  English  Bards 
and  Scotch  Reviewers"  to  him ;  but  this  was 
after  its  success. 

Byron  fell  into  company  with  Hogg,  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd,  at  the  Lakes.  The  Shep- 
herd was  standing  at  the  inn-door  of  Amble- 
side,  when  forth  came  a  strapping  young  man 
from  the  house,  and  off  with  his  hat,  and  out 
with  his  hand.  Hogg  did  not  know  him,  and, 
appearing  at  a  dead  halt,  the  other  relieved 
him  by  saying,  "  Mr.  Hoeg,  I  hope  you  will 
excuse  me;  my  name  is  Byron,  and  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  we  ought  to  hold  ourselves 
acquainted."  The  poets  accordingly  shook 
hands  immediately,  and,  while  they  continued 
at  the  Lakes,  were  hand  and  glove,  drank 
furiously  together,  and  laughed  at  their  brother 
bards.  On  Byron's  leaving  the  Lakes,  he  sent 
Hogg  a  letter  quizzing  the  Lakists,  which  the 
Shepherd  was  so  mischievous  as  to  show  to 
them. 

When  residing  at  Mitylene  in  the  year 
1812,  he  portioned  eight  young  girls  very  libe- 
rally, and  even  danced  with  them  at  the  mar- 
riage feast ;  he  gave  a  cow  to  one  man,  horses 
to  another,  and  cotton  and  silk  to  several  girls 
who  lived  by  weaving  these  materials :  he  also 
bought  a  new  boat  for  a  fisherman  who  had 
lost  his  own  in  a  gale,  and  he  often  gave  Greek 
testaments  to  the  poor  children. 

While  at  Metaxata,  in  1823,  an  embank- 
ment, at  which  several  persons  had  been  en- 
sragad  digging,  fell  in,  and  buried  some  of 
them  alive :  he  was  at  dinner  when  he  heard 
of  the  accident,  and,  starting  up  from  the  ta- 
ble, ran  to*the  spot,  accompanied  by  his  phy- 
sician, who  took  a  supply  of  medicines  with 
him.  The  labourers  who  were  employed  to 
extricate  their  companions,  soon  became 
alarmed  for  themselves,  and  refused  to  so  on, 
saving,  they  believed  they  had  dug  out  all  the 
bodies  which  had  been  covered  by  the  rums. 
Lord  Byron  endeavoured  to  induce  them  to 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


xvu 


continue  their  exertions,  but  finding  menaces 
hi  vain,  he  seized  a  spade  and  began  to  dig 
most  zealously ;  at  length  the  peasantry  joined 
him,  ajid  they  succeeded  in  saving  two  more 
persons  from  certain  death. 

It  is  stated  in  the  "  Conversations,"  that 
Byron  was  engaged  in  several  duels, — that  in 
one  instance  he  was  himself  principal  in  an 
"  affair  of  honour"  with  Hobhpuse, — and  would 
have  been  so  in  another  with  Moore,  if  the 
Bard  of  Erin's  challenge  had  been  properly 
forwarded  to  him. 

On  the  2d  of  January,  1815,  Lord  Byron 
married,  at  Seaham,  in  the  county  of  Durham, 
Anne  Isabella,  only  daughter  of  Sir  Ralph 
Millbank  (since  Noel),  Bart.  To  this  lady  he 
had  made  a  proposal  twelve  months  before, 
but  was  rejected :  well  would  it  have  been  for 
their  mutual  happiness  had  that  rejection  been 
repeated.  After  their  marriage,  Lord  and 
Lady  Byron  took  a  house  in  London ;  gave 
splendid  dinner-parties ;  kept  separate  car- 
na  jes ;  and,  in  short,  launched  into  every  sort 
of  fashionable  extravagance.  This  could  not 
last  long ;  the  portion  which  his  lordship  had 
received  with  Miss  Millbank  (ten  thousand 
pounds]  soon  melted  away ;  and,  at  length,  an 
execution  was  actually  levied  on  the  furniture 
of  his  residence.  It  was  then  agreed  that 
Lady  Byron,  who,  on  the  10th  of  December, 
1815,  had  presented  her  lord  with  a  daughter, 
should  pay  a  visit  to  her  father  till  the  storm 
was  blown  over,  and  some  arrangements  had 
been  made  with  their  creditors.  From  that 
visit  she  never  returned,  and  a  separation  en- 
sued, for  which  various  reasons  have  been 
assigned ;  the  real  cause  or  causes,  however, 
of  that  regretted  event,  are  up  to  this  moment 
involved  in  mystery,  though,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, a  wonderful  sensation  was  excited  at 
the  time,  and  every  description  of  contra- 
dictory rumour  was  in  active  circulation. 

Byron  was  first  introduced  to  Miss  Mill- 
bank  at  Lady 's.  In  going  up  stairs  he 

stumbled,  and  remarked  to  Moore,  who  ac- 
companied him,  that  it  was  a  bad  omen.  On 
entering  the  room,  he  perceived  a  lady  more 
simply  dressed  than  the  rest  sitting  on  a  sofa. 
He  asked  Moore  if  she  was  a  humble  com- 
panion to  any  of  the  ladies.  The  latter  replied, 
''  She  is  a  great  heiress;  you'd  better  marry 
her,  and  repair  the  old  place  Newstead." 

The  following  anecdotes  on  the  subject  of 
this  unfortunate  marriage,  are  given  from 
Lord  Byron's  Conversations,  in  his  own  words: 

"  There  was  something  piquant,  and  what 
we  term  pretty,  in  Miss  Millbank ;  her  fea- 
tures were  small  and  feminine,  though  not 
regular ;  she  had  the  fairest  skin  imaginable ; 
her  figure  was  perfect  for  her  height,  and  there 
was  a  simplicity,  a  retired  modesty  about  her, 
which  was  very  characteristic,  and  formed  a 
happy  contrast  to  the  cold  artificial  formality 
and  studied  stiffness,  which  is  called  fashion : 
sne  interested  me  exceedingly.  It  is  unne- 
cessary to  detail  the  progress  of  our  acquaint- 
ance :  I  became  daily  more  attached  to  her, 
and  it  ended  in  my  making  her  a  proposal  that 
was  rejected ;  her  refusal  was  couched  in 
lenrtd  that  could  not  offend  me.  I  was  besides 
B  2  3 


persuaded  that  in  declining  my  offer,  she  was 
governed  by  the  influence  of  her  mother ;  and 
was  the  more  confirmed  in  this  opinion  by  her 
reviving  our  correspondence  herself,  twelve 
months  after.  The  tenor  of  he/  letter  was, 
that  although  she  could  not  love  me,  she  de- 
sired my  friendship.  Friendship  is  a  dangerous 
word  for  young  ladies ;  it  is  love  full-fledged, 
and  waiting  for  a  fine  day  to  fly. 

"  I  was  not  so  young  when  my  father  died, 
but  that  I  perfectly  remember  him,  and  had 
very  early  a  horror  of  matrimony  from  the 
sight  of  domestic  broils :  this  feeling  came 
over  me  very  strongly  at  my  wedding.  Some- 
thing whispered  me  that  I  was  sealing  my  own 
death-warrant.  I  am  a  great  believer  in  pre- 
sentiments; Socrates'  demon  was  not  a  fic- 
tion ;  Monk  Lewis  had  his  monitor ;  and  Na- 
poleon many  warnings.  At  the  last  moment, 
I  would  have  retreated  if  I  could  have  done 
so ;  I  called  to  mind  a  friend  of  mine,  who  had 
married  a  young,  beautiful,  and  rich  girl,  and 
yet  was  miserable;  he  had  strongly  urged  me 
against  putting  my  neck  in  the  same  yoke : 
and,  to  show  you  how  firmly  I  was  resolved  to 
attend  to  his  advice,  I  betted  Hay  fifty  guineas 
to  one  that  I  should  always  remain  single.  Six 
years  afterwards,  I  sent  him  the  money.  The 
day  before  I  proposed  to  Lady  Byron,  I  had 
no  idea  of  doing  so. 

"It  had  been  predicted  by  Mrs.  Williams, 
that  twenty-seven  was  to  be  a  dangerous  age 
for  me ;  the  fortune-telling  witch  was  right, — 
it  was  destined  to  prove  so.  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  2d  of  January !  Lady  Byron,  (Byrn, 
he  pronounced  it,)  was  the  only  unconcerned 
person  present ;  Lady  Noel,  her  mother,  cried ; 
I  trembled  like  a  leaf,  made  the  wrong  re- 
sponses, and,  after  the  ceremony,  called  her 
Miss  Millbank. 

"  There  is  a  singular  history  attached  to  the 
ring ;  the  very  day  the  match  was  concluded, 
a  ring  of  my  mother's  that  had  been  lost,  was 
dug  up  by  the  gardener  at  Newstead.  I. thought 
it  was  sent  on  purpose  for  the  wedding ;  but 
my  mother's  marriage  had  hot  been  a  fortu- 
nate one,  and  this  ring  was  doomed  to  he  the 
seal  of  an  unhappier  union  still. 

"  After  the  ordeal  was  over,  we  set  off  for  a 
country-seat  of  Sir  Ralph's,  and  I  was  sur- 
prised at  the  arrangements  for  the  journey, 
and  somewhat  out  of  humour  to  find  a  lady's 
maid  stuck  between  me  and  my  bride.  It  was 
rather  too  early  to  assume  the  husband,  so  I 
was  forced  to  submit ;  but  it  was  not  with  a 
very  good  grace. 

"  I  have  been  accused  of  saying,  on  getting 
into  the  carriage,  that  I  had  married  Lady 
Byron  out  of  spite,  and  because  she  had  re- 
fused me  twice.  Though  I  was  for  a  moment 
vexed  at  her  prudery,  or  whatever  it  may  be 
called,  if  1  had  made  so  uncavalier,  not  to  say 
brutal,  a  speech,' I  am  convinced  Lady  Byron 
would  instantly  have  left  the  carriage  to  me 
and  the  maid,  (I  mean  the  lady's) ;  she  had 
spirit  enough  to  have  done  so,  and  vould  prop- 
erly have  resented  the  affront. 

"  Our  honey-moon  was  not  all  sunshine ; 
it  had  its  clouds ;  and  Hobhouse  has  some  let- 
ters which  would  serve  to  explain  the  rise  MM* 


XVlll 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


fall  in  the  barometer;  but  it  was  never  down 
:it  zero. 

"  A  curious  thing  happened  to  me  shortly 
after  the  honey-moon,  which  was  very  awk- 
ward at  the  time,  but  has  since  amused  me 
much.  It  so  happened  that  three  married 
women  were  on  a  wedding  visit  to  my  wife, 
(and  in  the  same  room  at  the  same  time), 
whom  I  had  known  to  be  all  birds  of  the  same 
nest.  Fancy  the  scene  of  confusion  that  en- 
sued. 

The  world  says  I  married  Miss  Millbank 
for  her  fortune,  because  she  was  a  great  heir- 
ess. All  I  have  ever  received,  or  am  likely 
to  receive,  (and  that  has  been  twice  paid  back 
too),  was  10,000/.  My  own  income  at  this 
period  was  small,  and  somewhat  bespoke. 
Newstead  was  a  very  unprofitable  estate,  and 
brought  me  in  a  bare  1500/.  a-year ;  the  Lan- 
cashire property  was  hampered  with  a  law- 
suit, which  has  cost  me  14,000£.  and  is  not  yet 
finished. 

"  I  heard  afterwards  that  Mrs.  Charlment 
had  been  the  means  of  poisoning  Lady  Noel's 
mind  against  me ;  that  she  had  employed  her- 
self and  others  in  watching  me  in  London, 
and  had  reported  having  traced  me  into  a 
house  in  Portland-Place.  There  was  one  act 
unworthy  of  any  one  but  such  a  confidante ; 
F  allude  to  the  breaking  open  my  writing- 
desk  :  a  book  was  found  in  it  th&c  did  not  do 
much  credit  to  my  taste  in  literature,  and  some 
letters  from  a  married  woman,  with  whom  I 
had  been  intimate  before  my  marriage.  The 
use  that  was  made  of  the  latter  was  most  un- 
justifiable, whatever  may  be  thought  of  the 
breach  of  confidence  that  led  to  their  discov- 
ery. Lady  Byron  sent  them  to  the  husband 
of  the  lady,  who  had  the  good  sense  to  take 
no  notice  of  their  contents.  The  gravest  ac- 
cusation that  has  been  made  against  me,  is 
that  of  having  intrigued  with  Mrs.  Mardyn  in 
my  own  house,  introduced  her  to  my  own  ta- 
ble, etc. ;  there  never  was  a  more  unfounded 
calumny.  Being  on  the  Committee  of  Drury- 
Lane  Theatre,  I  have  no  doubt  that  several 
actresses  called  on  me ;  but  as  to  Mrs.  Mar- 
dyn, who  was  a  beautiful  woman,  and  might 
have  been  a  dangerous  visitress,  I  was  scarcely 
acquainted  (to  speak)  with  her.  I  might  even 

make  a  more  serious  charge  against than 

employing  spies  to  watch  suspected  amours. 
I  had  been  shut  up  in  a  dark  street  in  Lon- 
don, writing  'The  Siege  of  Corinth,'  and  had 
refused  myself  to  every  one  till  it  was  finished. 
I  was  surprised  one  day  by  a  doctor  and  a 
lawyer  almost  forcing  themselves  at  the  same 
time  into  my  room ;  1  did  not  know  till  after- 
wards the  real  object  of  their  visit.  1  thought 
Jheir  questions  singular,  frivolous,  and  some- 
what importunate,  if  not  impertinent;  but 
what  should  I  have  thought  if  I  had  known 
that  they  were  sent  to  provide  proofs  of  my 
insanity  ?  I  have  no  doubt  that  my  answers  to 
fhese  emissaries'  interrogations  were  not  very 
rational  or  consistent,  for  my  imagination  was 
heated  by  other  things;  but  Dr.  Baillie  could 
not  conscientiously  make  me  out  a  certificate 
for  Bedlam,  and  perhaps  the  lawyer  gave  a 
more  favourable  report  t  J  his  employers.  The 


doctor  said  afterwards  he  had  been  told  that 
I  always  looked  down  when  Lady  Byron  bent 
her  eyes  on  me, and  exhibited  other  symptoms 
equally  infallible,  particularly  those  that  mark 
ed  the  late  kind's  case  so  strongly.  I  do  not 
however,  tax  Lady  Byron  with  this  transac- 
tion :  probably  she  was  not  privy  to  it;  she 
was  the  tool  of  others.  Her  mother  always 
detested  me;  she  had  not  even  the  decency  to 
conceal  it  in  her  own  house.  Dining  one  day 
at  Sir  Ralph's  (who  was  a  good  sort  of  man, 
and  of  whom  you  may  form  some  idea,  when 
I  tell  you  tha't  a  leg  of  mutton  was  always 
served  at  his  table,  that  he  might  cut  the  same 
joke  upon  it)  I  broke  a  tooth,  and  was  in  great 
pain,  which  I  could  not  avoid  showing.  'It 
will  do  you  good,'  said  Lady  Noel ;  '  I  am  glad 
of  it !'  1  gave  her  a  look  ! 

"Lady  Byron  had  good  ideas,  but  could 
never  express  them ;  wrote  poetry  too,  but  it 
was  only  good  by  accident ;  her  letters  were 
always  enigmatical,  often  unintelligible.  She 
was  easily  made  the  dupe  of  the  designing, 
for  she  thought  her  knowledge  of  mankind 
infallible.  She  had  got  some  foolish  idea  of 
Madame  de  Stael's  into  her  head,  that  a  per- 
son may  be  better  k«nown  in  the  first  hour  than 
in  ten  years.  She  had  the  habit  of  drawing 
people's  characters  after  she  had  seen  them 
once  or  twice.  She  wrote  pages  on  pages 
about  my  character,  but  it  was  as  unlike  as 
possible.  She  was  governed  by  what  she 
called  fixed  rules  and  principles,  squared 
mathematically.  She  would  have  made  an 
excellent  wrangler  at  Cambridge.  It  must 
be  confessed,  however,  that  she  gave  no  proof 
of  her  boasted  consistency ;  first,  she  refused 
me,  then  she  accepted  me,  then  she  separated 
herself  from  me — so  much  for  consistency.  I 
need  not  tell  you  of  the  obloquy  and  oppro- 
brium that  were  cast  upon  my  name  when 
our  separation  was  made  public  ;  I  once  made 
a  list  from  the  journals  of  the  day  of  the  dif- 
ferent worthies,  ancient  and  modern,  to  whom 
I  was  compared  :  I  remember  a  few,  Nero, 
Apicius,  Epicurus,  Caligula,  Heliogabalus, 
Henry  the  Eighth,  and  lastly,  the  —  '- — .  All 
my  former  friends,  even  my  cousin  George 
Byron,  who  had  been  brought  up  with  me, 
and  whom  I  loved  as  a  brother,  tooli  my  wife's 
part :  he  followed  the  stream  when  it  was 
strongest  against  me,  and  can  never  expect 
any  thing  from  me ;  he  shall  never  touch  a 
sixpence  of  mine.  I  was  looked  upon  as  the 
worst  of  husbands,  the  most  abandoned  and 
wicked  of  men ;  and  my  wife  as  a  suffering 
angel,  an  incarnation  of  all  the  virtues  and 
perfections  of  the  sex.  I  was  abused  in  the 
public  prints,  made  the  common  talk  of  pri- 
vate companies,  hissed  as  I  went  to  the  House 
of  Lords,  insulted  in  the  streets,  afraid  to  rr0 
to  the  theatre,  whence  the  unfortunate  Mrs. 
Mardyn  had  been  driven  with  insult.  The 
Examiner  was  the  only  paper  that  dared  say 
a  word  in  my  defence,  and  Lady  Jersey  the 
only  person  in  the  fashionable  world  tl.at  did 
not  look  upon  me  as  a  monster." 

"  In  addition  to  all  these  mortificat  ons,  my 
affairs  were  irretrievably  involved,  t.nd  almost 
so  as  to  make  me  what  Ihev  wished  i  wai 


LIFE  OP  LORD  BYRON. 


XIX 


compelled  to  part  with  Newstead,  which  I 
never  could  have  ventured  to  sell  in  my  moth- 
er's lifetime.  As  it  is,  I  shall  never  forgive 
myself  for  having  done  so,  though  I  am  told 
that  the  estate  would  not  bring  half  as  much 
as  I  got  for  it :  this  does  not  at  all  reconcile 
me  to  having  parted  with  the  old  Abbey.  I 
did  not  make  up  my  mind  to  this  step  but  from 
the  last  necessity;  I  had  my  wife's  portion  to 
repay,  and  was  determined  to  add  10,000/. 
more  of  my  own  to  it,  which  I  did :  I  always 
hated-being  in  debt,  and  do  not  owe  a  guinea. 
The  moment  I  had  put  my  affairs  in  train,  and 
in  little  more  than  eighteen  months  after  my 
marriage,  I  left  England,  an  involuntary  ex- 
ile, intending  it  should  be  for  ever." 

We  shall  here  avail  ourselves  of  some  ob- 
servations by  a  powerful  and  elegant  critic,1 
whose  opinions  on  the  personal  character  of 
Lord  Byron,  as  well  as  on  the  merits  of  his 
poems,  are,  from  their  originality,  candour, 
and  keen  discrimination,  of  considerable 
weight. 

"The  charge  against  Lord  Byron,"  says 
this  writer,  "  is,  not  that  he  fell  a  victim  to 
excessive  temptations,  and  a  combination  of 
circumstances,  which  it  required  a  rare  and 
extraordinary  degree  of  virtue,  wisdom,  pru- 
dence, and  steadiness  to  surmount ;  but  that 
he  abandoned  a  situation  of  uncommon  ad- 
vantages, and  fell  weakly,  pusillanimously, 
and  selfishly,  when  victory  would  have  been 
easy,  and  when  defeat  was  ignominious.  In 
reply  to  this  charge,  I  do  not  deny  that  Lord 
Byron  inherited  some  very  desirable,  and  even 
enviable  privileges  in  the  lot  of  life  which  fell 
to  his  share.  I  should  falsify  my  own  senti- 
ments, if  I  treated  lightly  the  gift  of  an  an- 
cient English  peerage,  and  a  name  of  honour 
and  venerable  antiquity;  but  without  a  for- 
tune competent  to  that  rank,  it  is  not  '  a  bed 
of  roses,'  nay,  it  is  attended  with  many  and 
extreme  difficulties,  and  the  difficulties  are 
exactly  such  as  a  genius  and  temper  like  Lord 
Byron's  were  least  calculated  to  meet — at  any 
rate,  least  calculated  to  meet  under  the  pecu- 
liar collateral  circumstances  in  which  he  was 
placed.  His  income  was  very  narrow ;  his 
Newstead  property  left  him  a  very  small  dis- 
posable surplus;  his  Lancashire  property  was, 
in  its  condition,  etc.,  unproductive.  A  pro- 
fession, such  as  the  army,  might  have  lessened, 
or  almost  annihilated  the  difficulties  of  his  pe- 
culiar position ;  but  probably  his  lameness 
rendered  this  impossible.  He  seems  to  have 
had  a  love  of  independence,  which  was  noble, 
and  probably  even  an  intractability;  but  this 
temper  added  to  his  indisposition  to  bend  and 
adapt  himself  to  his  lot.  A  dull,  or  supple, 
or  intriguing  man,  without  a  single  good 
quality  of  head  or  heart,  might  have  managed 
it  much  better;  he  might  have  made  himself 
subservient  to  government,  and  wormed  him- 
self into  some  lucrative  place ;  or  he  might 
have  lived  mean'v,  conformed  himself  stu- 
pidly or  cnngingly  to  all  humours,  and  been 


1  Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  Bart,  who  has  written  so 
«iffi.-«-  v  and  so  ably  on  Lord  B>  on's  genius  and 
enaraotw 


borne  onward  on  the  wings  of  society  with 
little  personal  expense. 

"Lord  Byron  was  of  another  quality  and 
temperament.  If  the  world  would  not  con 
form  to  him,  still  less  would  he  conform  to  the 
world.  He  had  all  the  manly,  baronial  pride 
of  his  ancestors,  though  he  had  not  all  then 
wealth,  and  their  means  of  generosity,  hospi- 
tality, and  patronage.  He  Had  the  will,  alas ! 
without  the  power. 

"  With  this  temper,  these  feelings,  this  ge« 
nius,  exposed  to  a  combination  of  such  un- 
toward and  trying  circumstances,  it  would 
indeed  have  been  inimitably  praiseworthy  if 
Lord  Byron  could  have  been  always  wise, 
prudent,  calm,  correct,  pure,  virtuous,  and 
unassailable : — if  he  could  have  shown  all  the 
force  and  splendour  of  his  mighty  poetical  en- 
ergies, without  any  mixture  of  their  clouds, 
their  baneful  lightnings,  or  their  storms: — if 
he  could  have  preserved  all  his  sensibility  to 
every  kind  and  noble  passion,  yet  have  re- 
mained placid,  and  unaffected  by  the  attack 
of  any  blameable  emotion ; — that  is,  it  would 
have  been  admirable  if  he  had  been  an  angel, 
and  not  a  man ! 

"  Unhappily,  the  outrages  he  received,  the 
gross  calumnies  which  were  heaped  upon  him, 
even  in  the  time  of  his  highest  favour  with  the 
public,  turned  the  delights  of  his  very  days 
of  triumph  to  poison,  and  gave  him  a  sort  of 
moody,  fierce,  and  violent  despair,  which  led 
to  humours,  acts,  and  words,  that  mutually 
aggravated  the  ill-will  and  the  offences  be- 
tween him  and  his  assailants.  There  was  a 
daring  spirit  in  his  temper  and  his  talents 
which  was  always  inflamed  rather  than  cor- 
rected by  opposition. 

"  In  this  most  unpropitious  state  of  things, 
every  thing  that  went  wrong  was  attributed 
to  Lord  Byron,  and,  when  once  attributed, 
was  assumed  and  argued  upon  as  an  undenia- 
ble fact.  Yet,  to  my  mind,  it  is  quite  clear, — 
quite  unattended  by  a  particle  of  doubt, — that 
in  many  things  in  which  he  has  been  the  most 
blamed,  he  was  the  absolute  victim  of  misfor- 
tune; that  unpropitious  trains  of  events  (for 
I  do  not  wish  to  shift  the  blame  on  others)  led 
to  explosions  and  consequent  derangements, 
which  no  cold,  prudent  pretender  to~extreme 
propriety  and  correctness  could  have  averted 
or  met  in  a  manner  less  blameable  than  *  hat 
in  which  Lord  Byron  met  it. 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  a  character  less 
fitted  to  conciliate  general  society  by  his  man- 
ners and  habits,  than  that  of  Lord  Byron.  It 
is  probable  that  he  could  make  his  address 
and  conversation  pleasing  to  ladies,  when  he 
chose  to  please ;  but,  to  the  young  dandies  of 
fashion,  noble  and  ignoble,  he  must  have  been 
very  repulsive  :  as  long  as  he  continued  to  be 
the  ton, — the  lion, — they  may  have  endnred 
him  without  opening  their  mouths,  because  li« 
had  a  frown  and  a  lash  which  they  were  riot 
willing  to  encounter ;  but  when  his  back  was 
turned,  and  they  thought  it  safe,  1  do  not 
doubt  that  they  burst  out  into  full  cry  !  1  have 
heard  complaints  of  his  vanity,  his  peevish- 
ness, his  desire  to  monopolize  distinction,  Inn 
dislike  of  all  hobbies  but  his  own.  It  is  P'.-' 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


improbaolt  that  there  may  have  been  some 
foundation  for  these  complaints :  I  am  sorry 
for  it  if  there  was;  I  regret  such  littlenesses. 
And  then  another  part  of  the  story  is  proba- 
bly left  untold :  wa  hear  nothing  of  the  provo- 
cations given  him ; — sly  hints,  curve  of  the 
lip,  side  looks,  treacherous  smiles,  flings  at 
poetry,  shrugs  at  noble  authors,  slang  jokes, 
idiotic  bets,  enigmatical  appointments,  and 
boasts  of  being  senseless  brutes !  We  do  not 
hear  repeated  the  jest  of  the  glory  of  the  Jew, 
that  buys  the  ruined  peer's  falling  castle ;  the 
d — d  good  fellow,  that  keeps  the  finest  stud 
and  the  best  hounds  in  the  country  out  of  the 
snippings  and  odds  and  ends  of  his  contract ; 
and  the  famous  good  match  that  the  duke's 
daughter  is  going  to  make  with  Dick  Wigly, 
the  son  of  the  rich  slave-merchant  at  Liver- 
pool !  We  do  not  hear  the  clever  dry  jests 

whispered  round  the  table  by  Mr. ,  eldest 

son  of  the  new  and  rich  Lord ,  by  young 

Mr. ,  only  son  of  Lord ,  the  ex-lords 

A.,  B.,  and  C.,  sons  of  the  three  Irish  Union 
earls,  great  borough-holders,  and  the  very 

grave  and  sarcastic  Lord  ,  who  believes 

that  he  has  the  monopoly  of  all  the  talents, 
and  all  the  political  and  legislative  knowledge 
of  the  kingdom,  and  that  a  poet  and  a  bell- 
man are  only  fit  to  be  yoked  together. 

"  Thus,  then,  was  this  illustrious  and  mighty 
poet  driven  into  exile !  Yes,  driven !  who 
would  live  in  a  country  in  which  he  had  been 
so  used,  even  though  it  was  the  land  of  his 
nativity,  the  land  of  a  thousand  noble  ances- 
tors, the  land  of  freedom,  the  land  where  his 
head  had  been  crowned  with  laurels, — but 
where  his  heart  had  been  tortured,  where  all 
his  most  generous  and  most  noble  thoughts 
had  been  distorted  and  rendered  ugly,  and 
where  his  slightest  errors  and  indiscretions 
had  been  magnified  into  hideous  crimes." 

Lord  Byron's  own  opinions  on  the  connu- 
bial state  are  thus  related  by  Captain  Parry: — 

"  There  are,"  said  his  lordship,  "  so  many 
undefinable,  and  nameless,  and  not-to-be- 
named  causes  of  dislike,  aversion,  and  disgust, 
in  the  matrimonial  state,  that  it  is  always  im- 
possible for  the  public,  or  the  best  friends  of 
the  parties,  to  judge  between  man  and  wife. 
Theirs  is  a  relation  about  which  nobody  but 
themselves  can  form  a  correct  idea,  or  have 
any  right  to  speak.  As  long  as  neither  party 
commits  gross  injustice  towards  the  other ;  as 
long  as  neither  the  woman  nor  the  man  is 
guilty  of  any  offence  which  is  injurious  to  the 
community ;  as  long  as  the  husband  provides 
for  his  offspring,  and  secures  the  public  against 
the  dangers  arising  from  their  neglected  edu- 
cation, or  from  the  charge  of  supporting  them ; 
by  what  right  does  it  censure  him  for  ceasing 
to  dwell  under  the  same  roof  with  a  woman, 
who  is  to  him,  because  he  knows  her,  while 
others  do  not,  an  object  of  loathing?  Can  any 
thing  be  more  monstrous  than  for  the  public 
voice  to  compel  individual*  who  dislike  each 
otner  to  continue  their  cohabitation  ?  This  is 
at  least  the  effect  of  its  interfering  with  a  re- 
btionsrnp,  of  which  it  has  no  possible  means 
of  judging.  It  does  not  indeed  drag  a  man  to 
b  woman's  bed  by  physical  force ;  but  it  does 


exert  a  moral  force  continually  and  effective!} 
to  accomplish  the  same  purpose.  Nobody  can 
escape  this  force  but  those  who  are  too  high, 
or  those  who  are  too  low,  for  public  opinion  t<? 
reach ;  or  those  hypocrites  who  are,  before 
others,  the  loudest  in  their  approbation  of  the 
empty  and  unmeaning  forms  of  society,  that 
they  may  securely  indulge  all  their  propensi- 
ties in  secret.  I  have  suffered  amazingly  from 
this  interference;  for  though  I  set  it  at  defi 
ance,  I  was  neither  too  high  nor  too  lo^  to  bo 
reaci  }d  by  it,  and  I  was  not  hypocrite  enough 
to  guard  myself  from  its  consequences. 

"  What  do  they  say  of  my  family  affairs  in 
England,  Parry?  My  story,  I  suppose,  like 
other  minor  events,  interested  the  people  for  a 
day,  and  was  then  forgotten?"  I  replied,  no; 
I  thought,  owing  to  the  very  great  interest  the 
public  took  in  him,  it  was  still  remembered 
and  talked  about.  I  mentioned  that  it  was 
generally  supposed  a  difference  of  religious 
sentiments  between  him  and  Lady  Byron  had 
caused  the  public  breach.  "  No,  Parry,"  was 
the  reply;  "  Lady  Byron  has  a  liberal  mind, 
particularly  as  to  religious  opinions ;  and  I 
wish,  when  I  married  her,  that  I  had  possess- 
ed the  same  command  over  myself  that  I  now 
do.  Had  I  possessed  a  little  more  wisdom, 
and  more  forbearance,  we  might  have  been 
happy.  I  wished,  when  I  was  first  married, 
to  have  remained  in  the  country,  particularly 
till  my  pecuniary  embarrassments  were  over. 
1  knew  the  society  of  London ;  I  knew  the 
characters  of  many  of  those  who  are  called 
ladies,  with  whom  Lady  Byron  would  neces 
sarily  have  to  associate,  and  I  dreaded  her 
contact  with  them.  But  I  have  too  much  of 
my  mother  about  me  to  be  dictated  to :  I  like 
freedom  from  constraint;  I  hate  artificial  regu- 
lations :  my  conduct  has  always  been  dictated 
by  my  own  feelings,  and  Lady  Byron  was 
quite  the  creature  of  rules.  She  was  not  per- 
mitted either  to  ride,  or  run,  or  walk,  but  as 
the  physician  prescribed.  She  was  not  suf- 
fered to  go  out  when  I  wished  to  go ;  and  then 
the  old  house  was  a  mere  ghost-house ;  I 
dreamed  of  ghosts,  and  thought  of  them  waking. 
It  was  an  existence  I  could  not  support." 
Here  Lord  Byron  broke  off  abruptly,  saying, 
"  I  hate  to  speak  of  my  family  affairs ;  though 
I  have  been  compelled  to  talk  nonsense  con 
cerning  them1  to  some  of  my  butterfly  visitors, 
glad  on  any  terms  to  get  rid  of  their  importu- 
nities. I  long  to  be  again  on  the  mountains.  I 
am  fond  of  solitude,  and  should  never  talk  non- 
sense if  I  always  found  plain  men  to  talk  to." 

In  the  spring  of  1816,  Lord  Byron  quitted 
England,  to  return  to  it  no  more.  He  crossed 
over  to  France,  through  which  he  passed 
rapidly  to  Brussels,  taking  in  his  way  a  sur- 
vey of  the  field  of  Waterloo.  He  then  pro 
ceeded  to  Coblentz,  and  up  the  Rhine  to 
Basle.  He  passed  the  summer  on  the  banks 
of  the  lake  of  Geneva.  With  what  enthusi- 
asm he  enjoyed,  and  with  what  contemplations 
he  dwelt  among  its  scenery,  his  own  poetry 
soon  exhibited  to  the  world.  His  third  canto  of 
Childe  Harold  ins  Manfred,  and  his  Prisoner 
of  Chillon.  *\ere  composed  at  the  Campugna 
Diodati.  at  Coligny,  a  mile  from  Geneva 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XX' 


These  productions  evidently  proved,  that 
the  unfortunate  events  which  had  induced 
Lord  Byron  to  become  a  voluntary  exile  from 
his  native  land,  however  tney  might  have  ex- 
acerbated his  feelings,  had  in  no  measure  chill- 
ed his  poetical  fire. 

The  anecdotes  that  follow  are  given  as  his 
lordship  related  them  to  Captain  Medwin : 

"  Switzerland  is  a  country  I  have  been  satis- 
fied with  seeing  once ;  Turkey  I  could  live  in 
for  ever.  I  never  forget  my  predilections.  I 
was  in  a  wretched  state  of  health,  and  worse 
spirits,  when  I  was  at  Geneva ;  but  quiet  and 
the  lake,  physicians  better  than  Polidori,  soon 
set  me  up.  I  never  led  so  moral  a  life  as  during 
my  residence  in  that  country ;  but  I  gained 
no  credit  by  it.  Where  there  is  a  mortifica- 
tion, there  ought  to  be  reward.  On  the  con- 
trary, there  is  no  story  so  absurd  that  they  did 
not  invent  at  my  cost.  I  was  watched  by 

f  lasses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake,  and 
y  glasses  too  that  must  have  had  very  dis- 
torted optics.  I  was  waylaid  in  my  evening 
drives — I  was  accused  of  corrupting  all  the 
rriseltes  in  the  rue  Basse.  I  believe  that  they 
looked  upon  me  as  a  man-monster  worse  than 
the  piqueur." 

"I  knew  very  few  of  the  Genevese.  Hentsh 
was  very  civil  to  me ;  and  I  have  a  great  re- 
spect for  Sismondi.  I  was  forced  to  return 
the  civilities  of  one  of  their  professors  by  ask- 
ing him,  and  an  old  gentleman,  a  friend  of 
Gray's,  to  dine  with  me.  I  had  gone  out  to 
sail  early  in  the  morning,  and  the  wind  pre- 
vented me  from  returning  in  time  for  dinner. 
I  understand  that  I  offended  them  mortally. 
Polidori  did  the  honours. 

"  Among  our  countrymen  I  made  no  new 
acquaintances;  Shelley,  Monk  Lewis,  and 
Hobhouse,  were  almost  the  only  English  peo- 
ple I  saw.  No  wonder ;  I  showed  a  distaste  for 
society  at  that  time,  and  went  little  among  the 
Genevese;  besides,  I  could  not  speak  French. 
What  is  become  of  my  boatman  and  boat  ?  I 
suppose  she  is  rotten ;  she  was  never  worth 
much.  When  I  went  the  tour  of  the  lake  in 
her  with  Shelley  and  Hobhouse,  she  was  nearly 
wrecked  near  the  very  spot  where  Saint- 
Preux  and  Julia  were  in  danger  of  being 
drowned.  It  would  have  been  classical  to 
have  been  lost  there,  but  not  so  agreeable. 
Shelley  was  on  the  lake  much  oftener  than  I, 
at  all  hours  of  the  night  and  day :  he  almost 
lived  on  it ;  his  great  rage  is  a  boat.  We  are 
both  building  now  at  Genoa,  I  a  yacht,  and 
he  an  open  boat." 

"  Somebody  possessed  Madame  de  Stael  with 
an  opinion  of  my  immorality.  I  used  occa- 
sionally to  visit  her  at  Coppet ;  and  once  she 
invited  me  to  a  family-dinner,  and  I  found  the 
room  full  of  strangers,  who  had  come  to  stare 
it  me  as  at  some  outlandish  beast  in  a  raree- 
show.  One  of  the  ladies  fainted,  and  the  rest 
looked  as  if  his  Satanic  majesty  had  been 
among  them.  Madame  ^e  Stael  took  the 
iiberty  to  read  me  a  lecture  before  this  crowd, 
to  which  I  only  made  her  a  low  bow." 

His  lordship's  travelling  equipage  was 
-ather  a  singular  one,  and  afforded  a  strange 
catalogue  for  the  Dogana:  seven  servants. 


five  carriages,  nine  horses,  a  monkey,  a  bull- 
dog and  mastiff,  two  cats,  three  pea -fowls,  and 
som&  hens,  (I  do  not  know  whether  I  have 
classed  them  in  order  of  rank),  formed  part 
of  his  live  stock;  these,  and  all  his  books 
consisting  of  a  very  large  library  of  modern 
works,  (for  he  bought  all  the  best  that  camo 
out),  together  with  a  vast  quantity  of  furni- 
ture, might  well  be  termed,  with  Caesar,  "  im- 
pediments." 

From  about  the  commencement  of  the  yea. 
1817  to  that  of  1820,  Lord  Byron's  principal 
residence  was  Venice.  Here  he  continued  to 
employ  himself  in  poetical  composition  with 
an  energy  still  increasing.  He  wrote  the  La- 
ment of  Tasso,  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe 
Harold,  the  dramas  of  Marino  Faliero,  and 
the  Two  Foscari ;  Beppo,  Mazeppa,  arid  the 
earlier  cantos  of  Don  Juan,  etc. 

Considering  these  only  with  regard  to  in- 
tellectual activity  and  force,  there  can  be  no 
difference  of  opinion ;  though  there  may  be 
as  to  their  degree  of  poetical  excellence,  the 
class  in  the  scale  of  literary  merit  to  which 
they  belong,  and  their  moral,  religious,  and 
political  tendencies.  The  Lament  of  Tasso, 
which  in  every  line  abounds  in  the  most  per- 
fect poetry,  is  liable  to  no  countervailing  ob- 
jection on  the  part  of  the  moralist. 

In  the  third  canto  of  the  "  Pilgrimage,"  the 
discontented  and  repining  spirit  of  Harold 
had  already  become  much  softened : 

"  Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  his  face, 
Bui  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  would  steal  with  tranquQ 
grace." 

He  is  a  being  of  still  gentler  mould  in  the 
fourth  canto ;  his  despair  has  even  sometimes 
assumed  a  smilingness,  and  the  lovely  and 
lively  creations  of  the  poet's  brain  are  less 
painfully  alloyed,  and  less  suddenly  checked 
by  the  gloomy  visions  of  a  morbid  imagina- 
tion. He  represented  himself,  from  the  be- 
ginning, as  a  ruin;  and  when  we  first  gazed 
upon  him,  we  saw  indeed  in  abundance  the 
black  traces  of  recent  violence  and  convul- 
sion. The  edifice  was  not  rebuilt ;  but  its 
hues  were  softened  by  the  passing  wings  of 
Time,  and  the  calm  slow  ivy  had  found  leisure 
to  wreath  the  soft  green  of  its  melancholy 
among  the  fragments  of  the  decay.  In  so  far 
the  pilgrim  became  wiser,  as  he  seemed  to 
think  more  of  others,  and  with  a  greater  spirit 
of  humanity.  There  was  something  fiendish 
in  the  air  with  which  he  surveyed  the  first 
scene  of  his  wanderings ;  and  no  proof  of  the 
strength  of  genius  was  ever  exhibited  so 
strong  and  unquestionable  as  the  sudden  and 
entire  possession  of  the  minds  of  men  by  such 
a  being  as  he  then  appeared  to  be.  He  looked 
upon  a  bull-fight  and  a  field  of  battle  with  no 
variety  of  emotion.  Brutes  and  men  were, 
in  his  eyes,  the  same  blind,  stupid  victims  of 
the  savage  lust  of  power.  He  seemed  to  shut 
his  eyes  to  every  thing  of  that  citizenship  and 
patriotism  which  ennobles  the  spirit  of  the 
soldier,  and  to  delight  in  scattering  the  dust 
and  ashes  of  his  derision  over  all  the  most  sa- 
cred resting-places  of  the  soul  of  man.  Even 
then,  we  must  allow,  the  original  spiril  it"  th» 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


HngLshman  ind  the  poet  broke  triumphantly, 
at  times,  thiough  the  chilling  mist  in  which  it 
had  been  spontaneously  enveloped.  In  Greece, 
above  all,  the  contemplation  of  Actium,  Sa- 
lamis,  Marathon,  Thermopylae,  and  Platsea, 
subdued  the  prejudices  of  him  who  had  gazed 
unmoved,  or  with  disdain,  upon  fields  of  more 
recent  glory.  The  nobility  of  manhood  ap- 
peared to  delight  this  moody  visitant ;  and  he 
accorded,  without  reluctance,  to  the  shades 
of  long  departed  heroes  that  reverent  homage 
which,  in  the  strange  mixture  of  envy  and 
scorn  wherewith  the  contemplative  so  often 
regard  active  men,  he  had  refused  to  the  liv- 
ing, or  to  the  newly  dead. 

But  there  would  be  no  end  of  descanting 
on  the  character  of  the  Pilgrim,  nor  of  the 
moral  reflections  which  it  aw  akens ;  we  there- 
fore take  leave  of  Childe  Harold  in  his  own 
beautiful  language  : 

Farewell !  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been — 

A  sound  which  makes  us  linger  ; — yet,  farewell ! 

Ye  !   who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 

Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 

A  thought,  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 

A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 

He  wore  his  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell ; 

Farewell  [***** 

*  ******* 

Alas  !  we  must  now  say  farewell  "  for  ever." 

Manfred  was  the  first  of  Lord  Byron's  dra- 
matic poems,  and,  we  think,  the  finest.  The 
spirit  of  his  genius  seems  there  wrestling  with 
the  spirit  of  his  nature,  the  struggle  being  for 
the  palm  of  sublimity.  Manfred  has  always  ap- 
peared to  us  one  of  the  most  genuine  creations 
of  the  noble  bard's  mind.  The  melancholy  is 
more  heartfelt :  the  poet  does  not  here  seem 
to  scowl  his  brows,  but  they  drop  under  the 
weight  of  his  thoughts ;  his  intellect,  too,  is 
strongly  at  work  in  it,  and  the  stern  haughti- 
ness of  the  principal  character  is  altogether 
of  an  intellectual  cast :  the  conception  of  this 
character  is  Miltonic.  The  poet  has  made 
him  worthy  to  abide  amongst  those  "  palaces 
of  nature,"  those  "  icy  halls,"  "  where  forms 
and  falls  the  avalanche."  Manfred  stands  up 
against  the  stupendous  scenery  of  the  poem, 
and  is  as  lofty,  towering,  and  grand  as  the 
mountains :  when  we  picture  him  in  imagina- 
tion, he  assumes  a  shape  of  height  and  inde- 
pendent dignity,  shining  in  its  own  splendour 
amongst  the  snowy  summits  which  he  was  ac- 
customed to  climb.  The  passion,  too,  in  this 
composition,  is  fervid  and  impetuous,  but  at 
the  same  time  deep  and  full,  which  is  not  al- 
ways the  case  in  Byron's  productions ;  it  is 
serious  and  sincere  throughout.  The  music 
of  the  language  is  as  solemn  and  as  touching 
as  that  of  the  wind  coming  through  the  bend- 
ing ranks  of  the  inaccessible  Alpine  forests; 
and  the  mists  and  vapours  rolling  down  the 
gullies  and  ravines  that  yawn  horribly  on  the 
eye,  are  not  more  wild  and  striking  in  their 
Appearance  than  are  the  supernatmal  crea- 
tions of  the  poet's  fancy,  whose  magical  agen- 
cv  is  of  mighty  import,  but  is  nevertheless 
tionnnually  surmounted  by  the  high  intellec- 
tual power,  invincible  will,  and  intrepid  phi- 
htsopby  of  Manfred. 


The  first  idea  of  the  descriptive  passages  of 
this  beautiful  poem  will  be  easily  recognised 
in  the  following  extract  from  Lord  Byron  8 
travelling  memorandum  book: 

"Sept.  22,  1816.  Left  Thun  in  a  boat, 
which  carried  us  the  length  of  this  lake  in 
three  hours.  The  lake  small,  but  the  banks 
fine — rocks  down  to  the  water's  edge — landed 
at  Newhouse.  Passed  Interlachen — entered 
upon  a  range  of  scenes  beyond  all  description 
or  previous  conception.  Passed  a  rock  bear- 
ing an  inscription — two  brothers — one  mur- 
dered the  other — just  the  place  for  it.  After 
a  variety  of  windings,  came  to  an  enormous 
rock — arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  (the 
Jungfrawj — glaciers — torrents — one  of  these 
900  feet  visible  descent — lodge  at  the  curate's 
— set  out  to  see  the  valley — heard  an  avalanche 
fall,  like  thunder ! — glaciers  enormous — storm 
comes  on — thunder~and  lightning,  and  hail ! 
all  in  perfection  and  beautifu1.  The  torrent 
is  in  shape,  curving  over  the  rock,  like  the 
tail  of  the  white  horse  streaming  in  the  wind 
— just  as  might  be  conceived  would  be  that  of 
the  '  Pale  Horse,'  on  which  Death  is  mounted 
in  the  Apocalypse.  It  is  neither  mist  nor  wa- 
ter, but  a  something  between  both ;  its  im- 
mense height  gives  it  a  wave,  a  curve,  a 
spreading  here,  a  condension  there — wonder- 
ful— indescribable. 

"  Sept.  23.  Ascent  of  the  Wingren,  the 
Dent  d'argent  shining  like  truth  on  one  side, 
on  the  other  the  clouds  rose  from  the  opposite 
valley,  curling  up  perpendicular  precipices, 
like  the  foam  of  the  ocean  of  hell  during  a 
spring  tide !  It  was  white  and  sulphury,  and 
immeasurably  deep  in  appearance.  The  side 
we  ascended  was  of  course  not  of  so  precipi- 
tous a  nature,  but  on  arriving  at  the  summit 
we  looked  down  on  the  other  side  upon  a  boil- 
ing sea  of  cloud,  dashing  against  the  crag  on 
which  we  stood.  Arrived  at  the  Greender- 
wold  :  mounted  and  rode  to  the  higher  glacier 
— twilight,  but  distinct — very  fine — glacier 
like  a  frozen  hurricane — starlight  beautiful — 
the  whole  of  the  day  was  fine,  and,  in  point 
of  weather,  as  the  day  in  which  Paradise  was 
made.  Passed  whole  woods  of  withered  pines 
— all  withered — trunks  stripped,  and  lifeless — 
done  by  a  single  winter." 

Of  Lord  Byron's  tragedies  we  shall  merely 
remark,  with  reference  to  the  particular  na- 
ture of  their  tragic  character,  that  the  effect 
of  them  all  is  rather  grand,  terrible,  and  ter- 
rific, than  mollifying,"  subduing,  or  pathetic. 
As  dramatic  poems,  they  possess  much  beauty 
and  originality. 

The  style  and  nature  of  the  poem  of  Don 
Juan  forms  a  singularly  felicitous  mixture  of 
burlesque  and  pathos,  of  humorous  observa 
tion,  and  the  higher  elements  of  poetical  com 
position.  Never  was  the  English  language 
festooned  into  more  luxurious  stanzas  than  in 
Don  Juan  :  like  the  dolphin  sporting  in  its  na 
five  waves,  at  every  turn,  however  grotesque 
displaying  a  new  hue  and  a  now  beauty,  so 
the  noble  author  there  shows  an  absolute  con- 
trol over  his  means,  and  at  every  cadence, 
rhyme,  or  construction,  however  whimsical 
delights  us  with  novel  and  mag.cil  associ* 


LIFE  OF  LORD  JBYROA'. 


xxi  i» 


tions.  We  wish,  we  heartily  wish,  that  the 
fine  poetry  which  is  so  richly  scattered  through 
the  sixteen  cantos  of  this  most  original  and 
most  astonishing  production,  had  not  been 
mixed  up  with  very  much  that  is  equally  frivo- 
lous as  foolish ;  and  sincerely  do  we  regret, 
that  the  alloying  dross  of  sensuality  should  run 
BO  freely  through  the  otherwise  rich  vein  of 
the  author's  verse. 

Whilst  at  Venice,  Byron  displayed  a  most 
noble  instance  of  generosity.  The  house  of  a 
shoemaker,  near  his  lordship's  residence  in 
St.  Samuel,  was  burnt  to  the  ground,  with 
every  article  it  contained,  and  the  proprietor 
reduced,  with  a  large  family,  to  the  greatest 
indigence  and  %vant.  When  Lord  Byron  as- 
certained the  afflicting  circumstance?  of  that 
calamity,  he  not  only  ordered  a  new  and  su- 
perior habitation  to  be  immediately  built  for 
the  sufferer,  the  whole  expense  of  which  was 
borne  by  his  lordship,  but  also  presented  the 
unfortunate  tradesman  with  a  sum  equal  in 
value  to  the  whole  of  his  lost  stock  in  trade 
and  furniture. 

Lord  Byron  avoided,  as  much  as  possible, 
any  intercourse  with  his  countrymen  at  Ven- 
ice ;  this  seems  to  have  been  in  a  great  mea- 
sure necessary,  in  order  to  prevent  the  intru- 
sion of  impertinent  curiosity.  In  an  appendix 
to  one  of  his  poems,  written  with  reference  to 
a  book  of  travels,  the  author  of  which  dis- 
claimed any  wish  to  be  introduced  to  the  no- 
ble lord,  he  loftily  and  sarcastically  chastises 
the  incivility  of  such  a  gratuitous  declaration, 
expresses  his  "  utter  abhorrence  of  any  con- 
tact with  the  travelling  English;"  and  thus 
concludes:  "Except  Lords  Lansdowue, Jer- 
sey, and  Lauderdale,  Messrs.  Scott,  Ham- 
mond, Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  the  late  Mr. 
Lewis,  W.  Bankes,  M.  Hoppner,  Thomas 
Moore,  Lord  Kinnaird,  his  brother,  Mr.  Joy, 
and  Mr.  Hobhouse,  I  do  not  recollect  to  have 
exchanged  a  word  with  another  Englishman 
since  I  left  their  country,  and  almost  all  these 
I  had  known  before.  The  others,  and  God 
knows  there  were  some  hundreds,  who  bored 
me  with  letters  or  visits.  I  refused  to  have  any 
communication  with ;  and  shall  be  proud  and 
happy  when  that  wish  becomes  mutual." 

After  a  residence  of  three  years  at  Venice, 
Lord  Byron  removed  to  Ravenna,  towards  the 
close  of  the  year  1819.  Here  he  wrote  the 
Prophecy  of  Dante,  which  exhibited  a  new 
specimen  of  the  astonishing  variety  of  strength 
and  expansion  of  faculties  he  possessed  and 
exercised.  About  the  same  time  he  wrote 
Sardanapalus,  a  tragedy;  Cain,  a  mystery; 
and  Heaven  and  Earth,  a  mystery.  Though 
there  are  some  obvious  reasons  which  render 
Sardanapalus  unfit  for  the  English  state,  it  is, 
on  the  whole,  the  most  splendid  specimen 
which  our  language  affords  of  that  species  of 
Tragedy  which  was  the  exclusive  object  of 
_<ord  Byron's  admiration.  Cain  is  one  of  the 
productions  which  has  subjected  its  noble  au- 
thor to  the  severest  denunciations,  on  account 
of  the  crime  of  impiety  alleged  aerainst  it;  as 
it  seems  to  have  a  tendency  ito  call  in  question 
the  benevolence  of  Providence.  Tn  answer 
to  the  lo»d  and  general  outcry  which  this  pro- 


duction occasioned.  Lord  Byron  observed,  ir 
a  letter  to  his  publisher,  "  If  '  Cain'  be  blag- 
phemous, '  Paradise  Lost'  is  blasphemous,  anil 
the  words  of  the  Oxford  gentleman,  '  Evil,  be 
thou  my  good,'  are  from  that  very  poem  from 
the  mouth  of  Satan ;  and  is  there  any  thing! 
more  in  that  of  Lucifer  in  the  mystery . 
'  Cain'  is  nothing  more  than  a  drama,  not  fc 
piece  of  argument:  if  Lucifer  and  Cain  speak 
as  the  first  rebel  and  first  murderer  may  be 
supposed  to  speak,  nearly  all  the  rest  of  the 
personages  talk  also  according  to  their  char- 
acters ;  and  the  stronger  passions  have  ever 
been  permitted  to  the  drama.  I  have  avoided 
introducing  the  Deity  as  in  Scripture,  though 
Milton  does,  and  not  very  wisely  either:  but 
have  adopted  his  angel  as  sent  to  Cain  instead, 
on  purpose  to  avoid  shocking  any  feelings  on 
the  subject,  by  falling  short  of  what  all  unin- 
spired men  must  fall  short  in,  viz.  giving  an 
adequate  notion  of  the  effect  of  the  presence 
of  Jehovah.  The  old  mysteries  introduced 
him  liberally  enough,  and  all  this  I  avoided  in 
the  new  one." 

An  event  occurred  at  Ravenna  during  his 
lordship's  stay  there,  which  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  him,  and  to  which  he  alludes  in 
the  fifth  canto  of  Don  Juan.  The  military 
commandant  of  the  place,  who,  though  sus- 
pected of  being  secretly  a  Carbonaro,  was 
too  powerful  a  man  to  be  arrested,  was  assas- 
sinated opposite  to  Lord  Byron  s  palace.  His 
lordship  had  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  at  the  usual 
hour  of  exercise,  when  his  horse  started  at 
the  report  of  a  gun :  on  looking  up,  Lord  By- 
ron perceived  a  man  throw  down  a  carbine 
and  run  away  at  full  speed,  and  another  man 
stretched  upon  the  pavement  a  few  yards  from 
himself;  it  was  the  unhappy  commandant.  A 
crowd  was  soon  collected,  but  no  one  ventured 
to  offer  the  least  assistance.  Lord  Byron  di- 
rected his  servant  to  lift  up  the  bleeding  body, 
and  carry  it  into  his  palace;  though  it  was 
represented  to  him  that  by  doing  so  he  would 
confirm  the  suspicion,  which  was  already  en- 
tertained, of  his  belonging  to  the  same  party. 
Such  an  apprehension  could  have  no  effect  on 
Byron's  mind,  when  an  act  of  humanity  was 
to  be  performed  ;  he  assisted  in  bearing  the 
victim  of  assassination  into  the  house,  and 
putting  him  on  a  bed.  He  was  already  dead 
from  several  wounds :  "  he  appeared  to  have 
breathed  his  last  without  a  struggle,"  said  his 
lordship,  when  afterwards  recounting  the  af- 
fair. "  I  never  saw  a  countenance  so  calm. 
His  adjutant  followed  the  corpse  into  the  house; 
I  remember  his  lamentation  over  him : — 
•  Povero  diavolo!  non  aveva  fatta  male,  anchc 
ad  un  cane.'  "  The  following  were  the  noble 
writer's  poetical  reflections  (in  Don  Juan)  ou 
viewing  the  dead  bod/. 

"  I  gazed  (as  oft  I  gazed  the  same) 

To  try  if  I  could  wrench  aught  out  of  death, 
Which  should  confirm,  or  shake,  or  make  a  faitn  ; 
But  it  was  all  a  mystery  : — here  we  are, 

And  there  we  go  : — but  where  1  Five  bit*  of  lead 
Or  three,  or  two,  or  one,  send  very  far. 

And  is  this  blood,  then,  form'd  but  to  be  shea  '' 
Can  every  element  our  elements  mar  1 
And  air,  earth,  water,  fire, — live,  and  we  dead  * 


XXIV 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


We  whoso  minds  comprehend  all  things  ? — No  more  : 
But  let  us  to  the  story  as  before." 

That  a  being  of  such  glorious  capabilities 
should  abstractedly,  and  without  an  attempt 
to  throw  the  responsibility  on  a  fictitious  per- 
sonage, have  avowed  such  startling  doubts, 
was  a  daring  which,  whatever  might  then  have 
been  his  private  opmion,  he  ought  not  to  have 
hazarded. 

"  It  is  difficult,"  observes  Captain  Medwin, 
"  to  judge,  from  the  contradictory  nature  of 
his  writings,  what  the  religious  opinions  of 
Lord  Byron  really  were  From  the  conver- 
sations I  held  with  him,  on  the  whole,  I  am 
inclined  to  think,  that  if  he  were  occasionally 
sceptical,  and  thought  it,  as  he  says  in  Don 
Juan, 

— — —  '  A  pleasant  voyage,  perhaps,  to  float 

Like  Pyrrho,  in  a  sea  of  speculation,' 

vet  his  wavering  never  amounted  to  a  disbe- 
lief in  the  divine  Founder  of  Christianity. 

"  Calling  on  him  one  day,"  continues  the 
Captain,  "  we  found  him,  as  was  sometimes 
the  case,  silent,  dull,  and  sombre.  At  length 
he  said :  '  Here  is  a  little  book  somebody  has 
sent  me  about  Christianity,  that  has  made  me 
very  uncomfortable ;  the  reasoning  seems  to 
me  very  strong,  the  proofs  are  very  stagger- 
ing. I  don't  think  you  can  answer  it,  Shelley, 
at  least  I  am  sure  I  can't,  and  what  is  more,  I 
don't  wish  it.' 

"  Speaking  of  Gibbon,  Lord  Byron  said : 

'  L —  B thought  the  question  set  at  rest 

in  the  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall,  but  I 
am  not  so  easily  convinced.  It  is  not  a  matter 
of  volition  to  unbelieve.  Who  likes  to  own 
that  he  has  been  a  fool  all  his  life, — to  unlearn 
all  that  he  has  been  taught  in  his  youth,  or 
can  think  that  some  of  the  best  men  that  ever 
lived  have  been  fools  ?  I  don't  know  why  I  am 
considered  an  unbeliever.  I  disowned,  the 
other  day,  that  I  was  of  Shelley's  school  in 
metaphysics,  though  I  admired  his  poetry; 
not  but  what  he  has  changed  his  mode  of 
thinking  very  much  since  he  wrote  the  notes 
to  "  Queen  Mab,"  which  I  was  accused  of 
having  a  hand  in.  I  know,  however,  that  / 
am  considered  an  infidel.  My  wife  and  sister, 
when  they  joined  parties,  sent  me  prayer- 
books.  There  was  a  Mr.  Mulock,  who  went 
about  the  continent  preaching  orthodoxy  in 
politics  and  religion,  a  writer  of  bad  sonnets, 
and  a  lecturer  in  worse  prose,— he  tried  to 
convert  me  to  some  new  sect  of  Christianity. 
He  was  a  great  anti-materialist,  and  abused 
Locke.' 

"  On  anofnet  occasion  he  said :  '  I  have  just 
received  a  letter  from  a  Mr.  Sheppard,  in- 
closing a  prayer  made  for  my  welfare  by  his 
wife,  :i  few  days  before  her  death.  The  letter 
states  that  he  has  had  the  misfortune  to  lose 
'his  amiable  woman,  who  had  seen  me  at 
Ramsgate,  many  years  ago,  rambling  among 
the  cliffs ;  that  she  had  been  impressed  with  a 
sense  of  my  irreligion  from  the  tenor  of  my 
works,  and  had  often  prayed  fervently  for  my 
conversion,  particularly  in  her  last  moments. 
Tbe  prayer  is  beautifully  written.  I  like  de- 


votion in  women.  She  must  have  been  a  en 
vine  creature.  I  pity  the  man  who  has  los1, 
her  !  I  shall  write  to  him  by  return  of  the 
courier,  to  condole  with  him,  and  tell  him  that 
Mrs.  S.  need  not  have  entertained  any  con- 
cern for  my  spiritual  affairs,  for  that  no  man 
is  more  of  a  Christian  than  I  am,  whatevei 
my  writings  may  have  led  her  and  others  to 
suspect.' " 

We  have  given  the  above  extracts  from  a 
sense  of  justice  to  the  memory  of  Lord  By- 
ron ;  they  are  redeeming  and  consolatory  evi- 
dences that  his  heart  was  far  from  being 
sheathed  in  unassailable  scepticism,  and,  as 
such,  ought  not  to  be  omitted  in  a  preface  to 
his  works. 

In  the  autumn  of  1821,  the  noble  bard  re- 
moved to  Pisa,  in  Tuscany.  He  took  up  his 
residence  there  in  the  Lanfranchi  palace,  and 
engaged  in  an  intrigue  with  the  beautiful 
Guiccioli,  wife  of  the  count  of  that  name, 
which  'connexion,  with  more  than  his  usual 
constancy,  he  maintained  for  nearly  three 
years,  during  which  period  the  countess  was 
separated  from  her  husband,  on  an  applica- 
tion from  the  latter  to  the  Pope. 

The  following  is  a  sketch  of  this  "  fair  en- 
chantress," as  taken  at  the  time  the  Hainan 
was  formed  between  her  and  Byron.  "  The 
countess  is  twenty-three  years  of  age,  though 
she  appears  no  more  than  seventeen  or  eigh- 
teen. Unlike  most  of  the  Italian  women,  her 
complexion  is  delicately  fair.  Her  eyes, 
large,  dark,  and  languishing,  are  shaded  by 
the  longest  eyelashes  in  the  world,  and  her 
hair,, which  is  ungathered  on  her  head,  plays 
over  her  falling  shoulders  in  a  profusion  of 
natural  ringlets  of  the  darkest  auburn.  Her 
figure  is,  perhaps,  too  much  embonpoint  for 
her  height;  but  her  bust  is  perfect.  Her 
features  want  little  of  possessing  a  Grecian 
regularity  of  outline ;  and  she  has  the  most 
beautiful  mouth'and  teeth  imaginable.  It  is 
impossible  to  see  without  admiring — to  hear 
the  Guiccioli  speak  without  being  fascinated. 
Her  amiability  and  gentleness  show  them- 
selves in  every  intonation  of  her  voice,  which, 
and  the  music  of  her  perfect  Italian,  gives  a 
peculiar  charm  to  every  thing  she  utters. 
Grace  and  elegance  seem  component  parts 
of  her  nature.  Notwithstanding  that  she 
adores  Lord  Byron,  it  is  evident  that  the  ex- 
ile and  poverty  of  her  aged  father  sometimes 
affect  her  spirits,  and  throw  a  shade  of  melan- 
choly on  her  countenance,  which  adds  to  the 
deep  interest  this  lovely  woman  creates.  Her 
conversation  is  lively  without  being  learned ; 
she  has  read  all  the  best  authors  of  her  own 
and  the  French  language.  She  often  conceals 
what  she  knows,  from  the  fear  of  being  thought 
to  know  too  much,  possibly  from  being  aware 
that  Lord  Byron  was  not  fond  of  blues.  He 
is  certainly  very  much  attached  to  her,  with- 
out being  actually  in  love.  His  description 
of  the  Georgioni  in  the  Manfriui  palace  at 
Venice,  is  meant  for  the  countess.  Tne  beau- 
tiful sonnet  prefixed  to  the  '1'ropheoy  of 
Dante'  was  addressed  to  her." 

The  annexed  lines,  written  }y  Rvnn  \viea 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XXV 


uo  was  about  to  quit  Venice  to  join  the  count- 
ess at  Ravenna,  will  show  the  state  of  his 
feelings  at  that  time : 

"  River  '  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  walls 

Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  she 

Walks  by  the  brink,  and  there  perchance  recalls 
A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me : 

"  What  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 
A  mirror  of  my  heart,  where  she  may  read 

The  thousand  thoughts  I  now  betray  to  thee, 
Wild  as  thy  wave,  and  headlong  as  thy  speed  ? 

"  What  do  I  say — a  mirror  of  my  heart  ? 

Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark,  and  strong  ? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art ; 

And  such  as  thou  art,  were  my  passions  long. 

"  Time  may  have  somewhat  tamed  them;  not  for  ever 
Thou  overflow's!  thy  banks  ;  and  not  for  aye 

Thy  bosom  overboils,  congenial  river  ! 

Thy  floods  subside,  and  mine  have  sunk  away— 

"  But  left  long  wrecks  behind  them,  and  again 
Borne  on  our  old  unchanged  career,  we  move  ; 

Thou  tendest  wildly  onward  to  the  main, 
And  I  to  loving  one  I  should  not  love. 

"  The  current  I  behold  will  sweep  beneath 
Her  native  wails,  and  murmur  at  her  feet ; 

Her  eyes  will  look  on  ihee,  when  she  shall  breathe 
The  twilight  air,  unharm'd  by  summer's  heat. 

"  She  will  look  on  thee  ;  I  have  look'd  on  thee 
Full  of  that  thought,  and  from  that  mom'jnt  ne'er 

Thv  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name,  or  see, 
Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  her. 

"  Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream  ; 

Yes,  they  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now  : 
Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream, 

That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow. 

**  The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more  : 
Will  she  return  by  whom  that  wave  shall  sweep  ? 

Both  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore  ; 
I  near  thy  source,  she  by  the  dark-blue  deep. 

"  But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 
Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth, 

Bat  the  distraction  of  a  various  lot, 

As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

"  A  stranger  loves  a  lady  of  the  land, 

Born  far  beyond  the  mountains,  but  his  blood 

Is  all  meridian,  as  if  never  fann'd 

By  the  bleak  wind  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 

"  My  blood  is  all  meridian  ;  were  it  not, 
I  had  not  left  my  clime  ;— I  shall  not  be, 

In  spite  of  tortures  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
A  slave  again  of  love,  at  least  of  thee. 

"  'T  is  vain  to  struggle — let  me  perish  young — 
Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  have  loved : 

To  dust  if  I  return,  from  dust  I  sprung, 

And  then  at  least  my  heart  can  ne'er  be  moved." 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a  more  unvaried 
fife  than  Lord  Byron  led  at  this  period  in  the 
society  of  a  few  select  friends.  Billiards,  con- 
^ersation,  or  reading,  filled  up  the  intervals 
ill  it  was  time  to  take  the  evening-drive,  ride, 
»nd  pistol-practice. 

He  dined  at  half  an  hour  after  sunset,  then 
drove  to  Count  Gamba's,  the  Countess  Guic- 
cioli's  father,  passed  several  hours  in  her  so- 
ciety, returned  to  his  palace,  and  either  read 

IThePo. 

0  4  < 


or  wrote  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning 
occasionally  drinking  spirits  diluted  with  wa 
ter  as  a  medicine,  from  a  dread  of  a  nephritic 
complaint,  to  which  he  was,  or  fancied  him- 
self, subject. 

While  Lord  Byron  resided  at  Pisa,  a  sen 
ous  affray  occurred,  in  which  he  was  person- 
ally concerned.  Taking  his  usual  ride,  with 
some  friends,  one  of  them  was  violently  jostled 
by  a  serjeant-major  of  hussars,  who  dashed, 
at  full  speed,  through  the  midst  of  the  party. 
They  pursued  and  overtook  him  near  the 
Piaggia  gate ;  but  their  remonstrances  were 
answered  only  by  abuse  and  menace,  and  an 
attempt,  on  the  part  of  the  guard  at  the  gate, 
to  arrest  them.  This  occasioned  a  severe 
scuffle,  in  which  several  of  Lord  Byron's  party 
were  wounded,  as  was  also  the  hussar.  The 
consequence  was.  that  all  Lord  Byron's  ser- 
vants (who  were  warmly  attached  to  him,  and 
had  shown  great  ardour  in  his  defence),  were 
banished  from  Pisa ;  and  with  them  the  Counts 
Gamba,  father  and  son.  Lord  Byron  was  him- 
self advised  to  leave  it;  and  as  the  countess 
accompanied  her  father,  he  soon  after  joined 
them  at  Leghorn,  and  passed  six  weeks  at 
Monte  Nero.  His  return  to  Pisa  was  occa- 
sioned by  a  new  persecution  of  the  Counts 
Gamba.  An  order  was  issued  for  them  to 
leave  the  Tuscan  states  in  four  days;  ana 
after  their  embarkation  for  Genoa,  the  count- 
ess and  Lord  Byron  openly  lived  together,  a* 
the  Lanfranchi  palace. 

It  was  at  Pisa  that  Byron  wrote  "  Werner," 
a  tragedy ;  the  "  Deformed  Transformed," 
and  continued  his  "  Don  Juan"  to  the  end  ol 
the  sixteenth  canto.  We  venture  to  intro- 
duce here  the  following  critical  summary  of 
this  wonderful  production  of  genius. 

The  poem  of  Don  Juan  has  all  sorts  of 
faults,  many  of  which  cannot  be  defended., 
and  some  of  which  are  disgusting;  but  it  has, 
also,  almost  every  sort  of  poetical  merit :  there 
are  in  it  some  of  the  finest  passages  Lord  By- 
ron ever  wrote ;  there  is  amazing  knowledge 
of  human  nature  in  it;  there  is  exquisite  hu- 
mour; there  is  freedom,  and  bound,  and  vig- 
our of  narrative,  imagery,  sentiment,  and  style, 
which  are  admirable ;  there  is  a  vast  fertility 
of  deep,  extensive,  and  original  thought ;  and 
at  the  same  time,  there  is  the  profusion  of  a 
prompt  and  most  richly-stored  memory.  The 
invention  is  lively  and  poetical ;  the  descrip- 
tions are  brilliant  and  glowing,  yet  nol  over- 
wrought, but  fresh  from  nature,  and  faithful 
to  her  colours ;  and  the  prevalent  character 
of  the  whole,  (bating  too  many  dark  spots) 
not  dispiriting,  though  gloomy ,  not  misan- 
thropic, though  bitter;  and  not  iepulsive  to 
the  visions  of  poetical  enthusiasm,  though 
indignant  and  resentful. 

Lord  Byron's  acquaintance  with  Leign 
Hunt,  the  late  editor  of  the  Examiner,  origin- 
ated in  his  grateful  feeling  for  the  manner  in 
which  Mr.  Hunt  stood  forward  in  his  uistifi 
cation,  at  a  time  when  the  current  of  public 
opinion  ran  strongly  against  him.  This  feel 
ing.  induced  him  to  invite  Mr.  Hunt  to  the 
Lanfranchi  palace,  where  a  suite  of  apart- 
ments were  fitted  up  for  him.  On  his  arriva 


XXM 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


ii.  thn  spnng  of  1822,  a  periodical  publication 
was  projected,  under  the  title  of  "'  The  Lib- 
eral,' of  which  Hunt  was  to  be  the  editor, 
and  to  which  Lord  Byron  and  Percy  Shelley 
(who  had  been  residing  for  some  time  on  terms 
of  great  intimacy  with  his  lordship)  were  to 
contribute.  Three  numbers  of  the  "Liberal" 
were  published  in  London,  when,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  unhappy  fate  of  Mr.  Shelley, 
(who  perished  in  the  Mediterranean  by  the 
upsetting  of  a  boat),  and  of  other  discouraging 
circumstances,  it  was  discontinued. 

Byron  attended  the  funeral  of  his  poet- 
friend  ;  the  following  description  of  which, 
by  a  person  who  was  present,  is  not  without 
interest : — 

"  18th  August,  1822. — On  the  occasion  of 
Shelley's  melancholy  fate,  I  revisited  Pisa, 
and  on  the  day  of  my  arrival,  learnt  that  Lord 
Byron  was  gone  to  the  sea-shore,  to  assist  in 
performing  the  last  offices  to  his  friend.  We 
came  to  a  spot  marked  by  an  old  and  withered 
trunk  of  a  fir-tree,  and  near  it,  on  the  beach, 
stood  a  solitary  hut  covered  with  reeds.  The 
situation  was  well  calculated  for  a  poet's  grave. 
A  few  weeks  before,  I  had  ridden  with  him 
and  Lord  Byron  to  this  very  spot,  which  I  af- 
terwards visited  more  than  once.  In  front 
was  a  magnificent  extent  of  the  blue  and 
windless  Mediterranean,  with  the  isles  of  Elba 
and  Guyana, — Lord  Byron's  yacht  at  anchor 
,n  the  offing:  on  the  other  side  an  almost 
boundless  extent  of  sandy  wilderness,  uncul- 
tivated and  uninhabited,  here  and  there  inter- 
spersed in  tufts  with  underwood  curved  by 
the  sea-breeze,  and  stunted  by  the  barren  and 
dry  nature  of  the  soil  in  which  it  grew.  At 
equal  distances  along  the  coast  stood  high 
square  towers,  for  the  double  purpose  of  guard- 
ing the  coast  from  smuggling,  and  enforcing 
the  quarantine  laws.  Thfs  view  was  bounded 
by 'an  immense  extent  of  the  Italian  Alps, 
which  are  here  particularly  picturesque  from 
their  volcanic  and  manifold  appearances,  and 
which,  being  composed  of  white  marble,  give 
their  summits  the  appearance  of  snow.  As  a 
foreground  to  this  picture  appeared  as  extra- 
ordinary a  group.  Lord  Byron  and  Trelawney 
were  seen  standing  over  the  burning  pile,  with 
some  of  the  soldiers  of  the  guard ;  and  Leigh 
Hunt,  whose  feelings  and  nerves  could  not 
carry  him  through  the  scene  of  horror,  lying 
back  in  the  carriage, — the  four  post-horses 
ready  to  drop  with  the  intensity  of  the  noon- 
day sun.  The  stillness  of  all  around  was  yet 
moie  felt  by  the  shrill  scream  of  a  solitary 
curlew,  which,  perhaps  attracted  by  the  body, 
wheeled  in  such  narrow  circles  round  the 
pile,  that  it  might  have  been  struck  with  the 
liand,  and  was  so  fearless  that  it  could  not  be 
driven  away.  Looking  at  the  corpse.  Lord 
Byron  said  : — '  Why,  that  old  black  silk  hand- 
k< i.rchief  retains  its  form  better  than  that  hu- 
nun  body  !'  Scarcely  was  the  ceremony  con- 
cluded, when  Lord  Byron',  agitated  by  the 
spectacle  he  had  witnessed,  tried  to  dissipate 
in  some  degree  the  impression  of  it  by  his  fa- 
rourite  recreation.  He  took  off  his  clothes, 
therefore,  and  swam  to  the  yacht,  which  was 


riding  a  few  miles  distant.  The  heat  of  the 
sun  and  checked  perspiration  threw  him  into 
a  fever,  which  he  felt  coming  on  before  he  left 
the  water,  and  which  became  more  violent 
before  he  reached  Pisa.  On  his  return,  he 
immediately  took  a  warm  bath,  and  the  next 
morning  was  perfectly  recovered." 

The  enmity  between  Byron  and  Southey, 
the  poet-laureate,  is  as  well  known  as  that  be- 
tween Pope  and  Colley  Gibber.  Their  poli 
tics  were  diametrically  opposite,  and  the  noblt 
bard  regarded  the  bard  of  royalty  as  a  rene- 
gado  from  his  early  principles.  It  was  not. 
however,  so  much  on  account  of  political 
principles  that  the  enmity  between  Byron  and 
Southey  was  kept  up.  The  peer,  in  his  satire, 
had  handled  the  epics  of  the  laureate  *'  too 
roughly,"  and  this  the  latter  deeply  resented. 
Whilst  travelling  on  the  continent,  Southey 
observed  Shelley's  name  in  the  Album,  at 
Mont  Anvert,  with  "  Afltoj"  written  after  it, 
and  an  indignant  comment  in  the  same  lan- 
guage written  under  it;  also  the  names  of  some 
of  Byron's  other  friends.  The  laureate,  it  is 
said,  copied  the  names  and  the  comment,  and, 
on  his  return  to  England,  reported  the  whole 
circumstances,  and  hesitated  not  to  conclude 
Byron  of  the  same  principles  as  his  friends. 
In  a  poem  he  subsequently  wrote,  called  the 
';  Vision  of  Judgment,"  he  stigmatized  Lord 
Byron  as  the  father  of  the  "  Satanic  School 
of  Poetry."  His  lordship,  in  a  note  appended 
to  the  "Two  Foscari,"  retorted  in  a  very  se- 
vere manner,  and  even  permitted  himself  to 
ridicule  Southey's  wife,  the  sister  of  Cole- 
ridge's wife,  they  having  been  at  one  time 
"  two  milliners  of  Bath."  The  laureate  wrote 
an  answer  to  this  note  in  the  Courier  news- 
paper, which,  when  Byron  saw  it.  enraged 
him  so  much,  that  he  consulted  with  his  friends 
whether  or  not  he  ought  to  go  to  England  to 
answer  it  personally.  In  cooler  moments, 
however,  he  resolved  merely  to  write  hu 
"  Vision  of  Judgment,"  which  was  a  parody 
on  Southey's,  and  appeared  in  one  of  the  num- 
bers of  the  "  Liberal,"  for  which  Hunt,  the 
publisher,  was  prosecuted  by  the  "  Constitu- 
tional Association,"  and  found  guilty. 

As  some  of  our  readers  may  be  curious  to 
know  the  rate  at  which  Lord  Byron  was  paid 
for  his  productions,  we  annex  the  following 
statement,  by  Mr.  Murray,  the  bookseller,  of 
the  sums  given  by  him  for  the  copy-rights  ot 
most  of  his  lordship's  works : 

Childe  Harold,  I.  II 6002. 

,  III 1,575 

,  IV 2,100 

Giaour 525 

Bride  of  Abydos 525 

Corsair 525 

Lara 700 

Sie^e  of  Corinth 625 

Parisina , 125 

Lament  of  Tasso 'U5 

Manfred SI/. 

Beppo 525 

Don  Juan,  I.  II 1,525 

,  III.  IV.  V 1,525 

Doge  of  Venice 1,050 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XXV 


Sardanapalus,  Cain,  and  Foscari, 

Mazeppa 

Prisoner  of  Chillon 

Sundries 


1,1001. 
525 
525 
430 


Total 


As  is  the  case  with  many  men  in  affluent 
ci,  cunistances,  Byron  was  at  times  more  than 
generous;  and  again,  at  other  times,  what 
might  be  called  mean.  He  once  borrowed 
5UO/.  in  order  to  give  it  to  the  widow  of  one 
who  had  been  his  friend  :  he  frequently  dined 
on  five  Pauls,  arid  once  gave  his  bills  to  a  lady 
to  be  examined,  because  he  thought  he  was 
cheated.  He  gave  1000/.  for  a  yacht,  which 
lie  sold  again  for  300/.,  and  refused  to  give  the 
sailors  their  jackets.  It  ought,  however,  to  be 
observed,  that  generosity  was  natural  to  him, 
and  that  his  avarice,  if  it  can  be  so  termed, 
was  a  mere  whim  or  caprice  of  the  moment  — 
a  role  he  could  not  long  sustain.  He  once 
borrowed  100/.  to  give  to  the  brother-in-law 
of  Southey,  Coleridge,  the  poet,  when  the 
latter  was  in  distress.  In  his  quarrel  with  the 
laureate,  he  was  provoked  to  allude  to  this 
circumstance,  which  certainly  he  ought  not 
to  have  done. 

Byron  was  a  great  admirer  of  the  Waverley 
novels,  and  never  travelled  without  them. 
"  They  are,"  said  he  to  Captain  Mcdwin  one 
day,  "  a  library  in  themselves,  —  a  perfect  lite- 
rary treasure.  I  could  read  them  once  a-year 
with  new  pleasure."  During  that  morning, 
lie  had  been  reading  one  of  Sir  Walter's  nov- 
els, and  delivered,  according  to  Medwin,  the 
following  criticism  :  "  How  difficult  it  is  to 
say  any  thing  new  !  Who  was  that  voluptuary 
of  antiquity,  who  offered  a  reward  for  a  new 
pleasure?  Perhaps  all  nature  and  art  could 
not  supply  a  new  idea." 

The  anxious  and  paternal  tenderness  Lord 
Byron  felt  for  his  daughter,  is  expressed  with 
unequalled  beauty  and  pathos  in  the  first 
stanza  of  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  Ada  ?"  said  he  to  Med- 
win, looking  earnestly  at  his  daughter's  minia- 
ture, that  hung  by  the  side  of  his  writing-ta- 
ble. "  They  tell  me  she  is  like  me  —  but  she 
lias  her  mother's  eyes.  It  is  very  odd  that  my 
mother  was  an  only  child  ;  —  I  am  an  only  child  ; 
my  wife  is  an  only  child  ;  and  Ada  is  an  only 
child.  It  is  a  singular  coincidence;  that  is 
the  least  that  can  be  said  of  it.  I  can't  help 
thinking  it  was  destined  to  be  so  ;  and  perhaps 
it  is  best.  I  was  once  anxious  for  a  son  ;  but, 
after  our  separation,  was  glad  to  have  had  a 
daughter  ;  for  it  would  have  distressed  me  too 
much  to  have  taken  him  away  from  Lady  By- 
ron, and  I  could  not  have  trusted  her  with  a 
son's  education.  I  have  no  idea  of  boys  being 
brought  up  by  mothers.  I  suffered  too  much 
from  that  myself:  and  then,  wandering  about 
the  world  as  I  do,  I  could  not  take  proper  care 
of  a  child  ;  otherwise  I  should  not  have  left 
Alleura,  poor  little  thing!  at  Ravenna.  She 
has  been  a  great  resource  to  me,  though  I  am 
not  so  fond  of  her  as  of  Ada  :  and  yet  I  mean 
to^  make  their  fortunes  equal  —  there  will  be 
enough  for  them  both.  I  have  desired  in  my 
will  that  Allegra  shall  not  marry  an  English- 


man. The  Irish  and  Scotch  make  oetter  mis 
bands  than  we  do.  You  will  think  it  was  an 
odd  fancy ;  but  I  was  not  in  the  best  of  hu- 
mours with  my  countrymen  at  that  momenl 
— you  know  the  reason.  I  am  told  that  Ada 
is  a  little  termagant ;  I  hope  not.  I  shall  write 
to  my  sister  to  know  if  this  is  the  case :  per- 
haps I  am  wrong  in  letting  Lady  Byron  have 
entirely  her  own  way  in  her  education.  I  hear 
that  my  name  is  not  mentioned  in  her  pres- 
ence ;  that  a  green  curtain  is  always  kept 
over  my  portrait,  as  over  something  forbidden ; 
and  that  she  is  not  to  know  that  she  has  a 
father  till  she  comes  of  age.  Of  course  she 
will  be  taught  to  hate  me ;  she  will  be  brought 
up  to  it.  Lady  Byron  is  conscious  of  all  this, 
and  is  afraid  that  I  shall  some  day  carry  off 
her  daughter  by  stealth  or  force.  I  might 
claim  her  of  the  Chancellor,  without  having 
recourse  to  either  one  or  the  other;  but  I  haa 
rather  be  unhappy  myself  than  make  her 
mother  so;  probably  1  shall  never  see  her 
again."  Here  he  opened  his  writing-desk 
and  showed  Captain  Medwin  some  hair,  which 
he  told  him  was  his  child's. 

Several  years  ago,  Lord  Byron  presented 
his  friend,  Mr.  Thomas  Moore,  with  his 
"  Memoirs,"  written  by  himself,  with  an  un- 
derstanding that  they  were  not  to  be  publish- 
ed until  after  his  death.  Mr.  Moore,  with  the 
consent,  and  at  the  desire  of  Lord  Byron,  sold 
the  manuscript  to  Mr.  Murray,  the  bookseller, 
for  the  sum  of  two  thousand  guineas.  The 
following  statement  by  Mr.  Moore,  will  how- 
ever show  its  fate:  "Without  entering  into 
the  respective  claims  of  Mr.  Murray  and  my- 
self to  the  property  in  these  memoirs,  (a 
question  which  now  that  they  are  destroyed 
can  be  but  of  little  moment  to  any  one),  it  is 
sufficient  to  say,  that,  believing  the  manuscript 
still  to  be  mine.  I  placed  it  at  the  disposal  of 
Lord  Byron's  sister,  Mrs.  Leigh,  with  the  sole 
reservation  of  a  protest  against  its  total  de 
struction ;  at  least,  without  previous  perusal 
and  consultation  among  the  parties.  The  ma- 
jority of  the  persons  present  disagreed  with 
this  opinion,  and  it  was  the  only  point  upon 
which  there  did  exist  any  difference  between 
us.  The  manuscript  was  accordingly  torn 
and  burnt  before  our  eyes,  and  I  immediately 
paid  to  Mr.  Murray,  in  the  presence  of  the 
gentlemen  assembled,  two  thousand  guineas, 
with  interest,  etc.,  being  the  amount  of  what 
I  owed  him  upon  the  security  of  my  bond, 
and  for  which  I  now  stand  indebted  to  my 
publishers,  Messrs.  Longman  and  Co. 

"Since  then,  the  family  of  Lord  Byron  have, 
in  a  manner  highly  honourable  to  themselves, 
proposed  an  arrangement,  by  which  the  sum 
thus  paid  to  Mr.  Murray  might  be  reimburp 
ed  me ;  but  from  feelings  and  consideration*, 
which  it  is  unnecessary  here  to  explain,  1  have 
respectfully,  but  peremptorily,  declined  their 
offer." 

One  evening,  after  a  dinner-party  at  the 
Lanfranchi  palace,  his  lordship  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing drinking-song : 

"  Fill  the  goblet  again,  for  I  never  beforp 

Felt  the  glow  that  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  it»  co»»  « 


xxvni 


LIFE  OP  LORD  BYRON. 


i>ei  us  drink — who  would  not  ?  since,  through  life's 

varied  round, 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

'  1  have  tried,  in  its  turn,  all  that  life  can  supply ; 
i  have  bask'd  in  the  beams  of  a  dark  rolling  eye  ; 
I  have  loved — who  has  not  1  but  what  tongue  will 

declare 
That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there  1 

"  In  the  days  of  our  youth,  when  the  heart 's  in  its 

spring, 

And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 
I  had  friends — who  has  not  ?  but  what  tongue  will 

avow 
That  friends,  rosy  wine,  are  so  faithful  as  thou  ? 

"  The  breast  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange, 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sun-beam,  thou  never  canst 

change ; 
Thou  grow'st  old — who  does  not  ?  but  on  earth  what 

appears, 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  but  increase  with  our  years 

"  Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow, 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below, 
We  are  jealous — who 's  not  ?  thou  hast  no  such  alloy, 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  they  enjoy. 

"  When  the  season  of  youth  and  its  jollity 's  past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last, 
Then  we  find — who  does  not  ?  in  the  flow  of  the  soul 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 

"  When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  opened  on  earth, 
And  Memory's  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
Hope  was  left — was  she  not  ?  but  the  goblet  we  kiss, 
And  care  not  for  Hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

"  Long  life  to  the  grape !   and  when  summer  is  flown, 
The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  my  own. 
We  must  die — who  does  not  ?  may  our  sins  be  forgiven 
And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven." 

Before  we  close  the  details  of  what  may  be 
termed  Lord  Byron's  poetical  life — before  we 
enter  on  the  painfully  interesting  particulars 
connected  with  the  last  and  noblest  part  he 
pei  formed  in  his  brilliant  but  brief  career — 
we  beg  leave  to  introduce  the  following  sum 
mary  of  his  character : 

There  seems  to  have  been  something  of  a 
magical  antidote  in  Lord  Byron's  genius  to 
the  strange  propensities  to  evil  arising  botl 
from  his  natural  passions  and  temper,  and  thi 
accidental  unpropitious  circumstances  of  hi 
life.     In  no  man  were  good  and  evil  minglec 
in  such  strange  intimacy,  and  in  such  strange 
proportions.     His  passions  were  extraordina 
rily  violent  and  fierce ;  and  his  temper,  un 
easy,  bitter,  and  capricious.     His  pride  wa 
deep  and  gloomy,  and  his  ambition  ardent  an 
uncontrollable.     All  these  were  exactly  sue 
as  the  fortuitous  position  of  his  infancy,  boy 
hood,  and  first  manhood,  tended  to  aggravat 
by  discouragements,  crosses,  and  rnortifica 
tions.  He  was  directly  and  immediately  sprunc 
from  a  stock  of  old  nobility,  of  a  historf 
name,  of  venerable  antiquity.     All  his  alii 
ances,  including  his  father,  had  moved  in  hig 
society.  But  this  gay  father  died,  improviden 
or  reckless  of  the  future,  and  left  him  to  wast 
his  childhood  in  poverty  and  dereliction,  i 
Jie  remote  town  of  Aberdeen,  among  the  fev 
iiaternal  relations  who  yet  would  not  utterl 
aSando*.  his  mother's  shipwrecked  fortunes 


it  the  age  of  six  years  he  became  presump- 

ive  heir  to  the  family  peerage,  and  at  the  age 

f  ten  the  peerage  devolved  on  him.  He  then 

ras  sent  to  the  public  school  of  Harrow ;  but 

either  his  person,  his  acquired  habits,  his 

cholarship,  nor  his  temper,  fitted  him  for  this 

trange  arena.     A  peer,  not  immediately  is- 

uing  from  the  fashionable  circles,  and  not  as 

ich  as  foolish  boys  suppose  a  peer  ought  to 

>e,  must  have  a  wonderful  tact  of  society,  and 

a  managing,  bending,  intriguing  temper,  to 

jlay  his  part  with  eclat,  or  with  comfort,  or 

even  without  degradation.    All  the  treatment 

which  Lord  Byron  now  received,  confirmed 

he  bitterness  of  a  disposition  and  feelings 

naturally  sour,  and   already  augmented   by 

ihilling  solitude,  or  an  uncongenial  sphere  of 

ociety. 

To  a  mind  endowed  with  intense  sensibility 
and  unextinguishable  ambition,  these  circum- 
stances operated  in  cherishing  melancholy, 
and  even  misanthropy.  They  bred  an  intract- 
ability to  the  light  humours,  the  heartless 
cheerfulness,  and  all  the  artillery  of  unthink- 
ng  emptiness  by  which  the  energies  of  the 
josom  are  damped  and  broken.  There  were 
implanted  within  him  the  seeds  of  profound 
reflection  and  emotion,  which  grew  in  him  to 
such  strength,  that  the  tameness,  the  petty 
passions,  and  frivolous  desires  of  mankind  in 
their  ordinary  intercourses  of  pleasure  and 
dissipation,  could  never  long  retain  him  in 
their  chains  without  weariness  and  disgust, 
even  when  they  courted,  dandled,  flattered, 
and  admired  him.  He  was  unskilled  in  their 
pitiful  accomplishments,  and  disdained  the 
trifling  aims  of  their  vanity,  and  the  tests  of 
excellence  by  which  they  were  actuated,  and 
by  which  they  judged.  He  never,  therefore, 
enjoyed  their  blandishments,  and,  ere  long, 
broke  like  a  giant  from  their  bonds. 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  that  disappoint- 
ments, working  on  a  sombre  temper,  and  the 
consequent  melancholy  and  sensitiveness,  aid- 
ing, and  aided  by,  the  spells  of  the  muse,  were 
Lord  Byron's  preservatives;  at  least,  that  they 
produced  redeeming  splendours,  and  moments 
of  pure  and  untainted  intellect,  and  exalting 
ebullitions  of  grand  or  tender  sentiment,  or 
noble  passion,  which,  by-fits  at  least,  if  not 
always,  adorned  his  compositions,  and  will  for 
ever  electrify  and  elevate  his  readers. 

Had  Lord  Byron  succeeded  in  the  ordinary 
way  to  his  peerage,  accompanied  by  the  usual 
circumstances  of  prosperity  and  ease. — had 
nothing  occurred  capable  of  stimulating  to 
strong  personal  exertions,  the  mighty  seeds 
within  him  had  probably  been  worse  than 
neutral — they  had  worked  to  unqualified  mis- 
chief! In  many  cases,  this  is  not  the  effect  of 
prosperity;  but  Lord  Byron's  qualities  were 
of  a  very  peculiar  cast,  as  well  as  intense  and 
unrivalled  in  degree. 

When,  in  the  spring  of  1816.  Lord  Byron 
quitted  England,  to  return  to  it  no  more,  he 
had  a  dark,  perilous,  and  appalling  prospect 
before  him.  The  chances  against  the  due  lu- 
ture  use  of  his  miraculous  and  fearful  shifts  of 
genius,  poisoned  and  frenzied  as  they  w  ere  b» 
blighted  hopes,  and  all  the  evil  incident;  n\V'-ti 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XXIX 


nad  befallen  him,  *vere  too  numerous  to  b 
calculated    without    overwhelming    dismay 
Few  persons,  of  a  sensibility  a  little  above  tin 
common,  would  have  escaped  the  pit  of  black 
and  unmitigated  despondence !  But  Lord  By- 
ron's elasticity  of  mind  recovered  itself,  anc 
soon  rose  to  far  higher  conceptions  and  per- 
formances than  before.     He  passed  the  sum 
mer  upon  the  banks  of  the  lake  of  Geneva 
With  what  enthusiasm  he  enjoyed,  and  with 
what  contemplations  he  dwelt  among  its  scene- 
ry, his  own  poetry  soon  exhibited  tolhe  world 
He  has  been  censured  for  his  peculiarities 
his  unsocial  life,  and  his  disregard  of  the  habits 
the  decorums,  and  the  civilities  of  the  world 
and  of  the  rank  to  which  he  belonged.     He 
might  have  pleaded,  that  the  world  rejectee 
him,  and  he  the  world ;  but  the  charge  is  idle 
in  itself,  admitting  it  to  have  originated  witf 
his  own  will.     A  man  has  a  right  to  live  in 
solitude,  if  he  chooses  it;  and,  above  all,  he 
who  gives  such  fruits  of  his  solitude ! 

Inlhe  autumn  of  1822,  Lord  Byron  quittec 
Pisa,  and  went  to  Genoa,  where  he  remainec 
throughout  the  winter.  A  Idtter  written  by 
his  lordship,  while  at  Genoa,  is  singularly 
honourable  to  him,  and  is  the  more  entitled  to 
notice,  as  it  tends  to  diminish  the  credibility 
of  an  assertion  made  since  his  death,  that  he 
could  bear  no  rival  in  fame,  but  instantly  be- 
came animated  with  a  bitter  jealousy  and  ha- 
tred of  any  person  who  attracted  the  public 
attention  from  himself.  If  there  be  a  living 
being  towards  whom,  according  to  that  state- 
ment. Lord  Byron  would  have  experienced 
such  a  sentiment,  it  must  be  the  presumed 
a  ithor  of  "  Waverley."  And  yet,  in  a  letter 
to  Monsieur  Beyle,  dated  May  29,  1823,  the 
following  r\re  the  just  and  liberal  expressions 
used  by  Lord  Byron,  in  adverting  to  a  pam- 
phlet which  had  been  recently  published  by 
Monsieur  Beyle : 

"  There  is  one  part  of  your  observations  in 
the  pamphlet  which  I  shall  venture  to  remark 
upon  : — it  regards  Walter  Scott.  You  say  that 
his  character  is  little  worthy  of  enthusiasm,' 
at  the  same  time  that  you  mention  his  produc- 
tions in  the  manner  they  deserve.  I  have 
known  Walter  Scott  long  and  well,  and  in 
occasional  situations  which  call  forth  the  real 
character,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  his  char- 
acter is  worthy  of  admiration; — that,  of  all 
men,  he  is  the  most  open,  the  most  honour- 
able, the  most  amiable.  With  his  politics  I 
have  nothing  to  do:  they  differ  from  mine, 
which  renders  it  difficult  for  me  to  speak  of 
them.  But  he  is  perfectly  sincere  in  them,  and 
sincerity  may  be  humble,  but  she  cannot  be 
servile.  I  pray  you,  therefore,  to  correct  or 
soften  that  passage.  You  may,  perhaps,  at- 
tribute this  officiousness  of  mine  to  a  false 
affectation  of  candour,  as  I  happen  to  be  a 
writer  also.  Attribute  it  to  what  motive  you 
please,  but  believe  the  truth.  I  say  that  Wal- 
ter Scott  is  as  nearly  a  thorough  good  man  as 
man  can  be,  because  I  know  it  by  experience 
to  be  the  case." 

The  motives  which  ultimately  inducH  Lord 
Byron  to  leave  Italy,  and  join  the  Greeks, 
k.-.-uggling  for  emancipation,  are  sufficiently 
c  a 


obvious.  It  was  in  Greece  that  his  high  po 
etical  faculties  had  been  first  fully  developed 
Greece,  a  land  of  the  most  venerable  ana*  il 
lustrious  history  of  peculiarly  grand  ana 
beautiful  scenery,  inhabited  by  various  race« 
of  the  most  wild  and  picturesque  manners 
was  to  him  the  land  of  excitement, — never- 
cloying,  never-wearying,  never-changing  ex~ 
citement.  It  was  necessarily  the  chosen  and 
favourite  spot  of  a  man  of  powerful  and  orig 
inal  intellect,  of  quick  and  sensible  feelings, 
of  a  restless  and  untameable  spirit,  of  various 
information,  and  who,  above  all,  was  satiated 
with  common  enjoyments,  and  disgusted  with 
what  appeared  to  him  to  be  the  formality,  hy- 
pocrisy, and  sameness  of  daily  life.  Dwelling 
upon  that  country,  as  it  is  clear  from  all  Lord 
Byron's  writingsie  did,  with  the  fondest  so- 
licitude, and  being,  as  he  was  well  known  to 
be,  an  ardent,  though,  perhaps,  not  a  very  sys- 
tematic lover  of  freedom,  he  could  be  no  un- 
concerned spectator  of  its  recent  revolution  : 
and  as  soon  as  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  pres- 
ence might  be  useful,  he  prepared  to  visit 
once  more  the  shores  of  Greece.  It  is  not 
improbable,  also,  that  he  had  become  ambi- 
tious of  a  name  as  distinguished  for  deeds  as 
it  was  already  by  his  writings.  A  glorious  and 
novel  career  apparently  presented  itself,  and 
he  determined  to  try  the  event. 

Lord  Byron  embarked  at  Leghorn,  and  ar- 
rived in  Cephalonia  in  the  early  part  of  Au- 
gust, 1823,  attended  by  a  suite  of  six  or  seven 
friends,  in  an  English  vessel,  (the  Hercules 
Captain  Scott),  which  he  had  chartered  for 
the  express  purpose  of  taking  him  to  Greece. 
His  lordship  had  never  seen  any  of  the  vol- 
canic mountains,  and  for'this  purpose  theves 
sel  deviated  from  its  regular  course,  in  order 
to  pass  the  island  of  Stromboli,  and  lay  off  that 
place  a  whole  night,  in  the  hopes  of  witness- 
ing the  usual  phenomena,  but,  for  the  first  time 
within  the  memory  of  man,  the  volcano  emit- 
ted no  fire.  The  disappointed  poet  was  obliged 
:o  proceed,  in  no  good  humour  with  the  fabled 
forge  of  Vulcan. 

Greece,  though  with  a  fair  prospect  of  ulti- 
mate triumph,  was  at  that  time  in  an  unsettled 
state.  The  third  campaign  had  commenced, 
with  several  instances  of  distinguished  suc- 
cess— her  arms  were  every  where  victorious, 
)ut  her  councils  were  distracted.  Western 
Greece  was  in  a  ciitical  situation, and  although 
he  heroic  Marco  Botzaris  had  not  fallen  in 
/ain,  yet  the  glorious  enterprise  in  which  he 
>erished,  only  checked,  and  did  not  prevent 
he  advance  of  the  Turks  towards  Anatolica 
ind  Missolonghi.  This  gallant  chief,  worthy 
of  the  best  days  of  Greece,  hailed  with  trans 
>prt  Lord  Byron's  arrival  in  that  country,  and 
iis  last  act,  before  proceeding  to  the  attack 
n  which  he  fell,  was  to  write  a  warm  invita- 
ion  for  his  lordship  to  come  to  Missolonghi. 
n  his  letter,  which  he  addressed  to  a  friend  at 
VTissolonghi,  Botzaris  alludes  to  almost  the 
irst  proceeding  of  Lord  Byron  in  Greece, 
vhich  was  the  arming  and  provisioning  of 
brty  Suliotes,  whom  he  sent  to  join  in  the  do 
ence  of  Missolonghi.  After  the  battle.  Lord 
Byron  transmitted  bandages  and  medicine* 


XJX 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


of  which  he  had  brought  a  large  store  from 
Italy,  and  pecuniary  succour  to  those  who  had 
been  wounded.    He  had  already  made  a  very 
generous  offer  to  the  government.     He  sayf 
IP  a.  letter,  "  I  offered  to  advance  a  thousar 
dollars  a  month,  for  the  succour  of  Mis    - 
longhi,  and  the  Suliotes  under  Botzaris  (si  - je 
killed);  but  the  government  have  answ  -.ed 

me  through of  this  island,  that  they   vish 

to  confer  with  me  previously,  which  is,  in  fact, 
saying  they  wish  me  to  spend  my  money  in 
some  other  direction.  I  will  take  care  that  it 
is  for  the  public  cause,  otherwise  I  will  not 
advance  a  para.  The  opposition  say  they 
want  to  cajole  me,  and  the  party  in  power  say 
the  others  wish  to  seduce  me ;  so,  between  the 
two,  I  have  a  difficult  part  to  play:  however, 
I  will  have  nothing  to  dp  with  the  factions, 
unless  to  reconcile  them,  if  possible." 

Lord  Byron  established  himself  for  some 
time  at  the  small  village  of  Metaxata,  in 
Cephalonia,  and  despatched  two  friends,  Mr. 
Trelawney  and  Mr.  Hamilton  Browne,  with 
a  letter  to  the  Greek  government,  in  order  to 
collect  intelligence  as  to  the  real  state  of 
things.  His  lordship's  generosity  was  almost 
daily  exercised  in  his  new  neighbourhood.  He 
provided  for  many  Italian  families  in  distress, 
and  even  indulged  the  people  of  the  country 
in  paying  for  the  religious  ceremonies  which 
they  deemed  essential  to  their  success. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Lord  Byron's  friends 
proceeded  to  Tripolitza,  and  found  Coloco- 
troni  (the  enemy  of  Mavrocordato,  who  had 
been  compelled  to  flee  from  the  presidency) 
in  great  power:  his  palace  was  filled  with 
armed  men,  like  the  castle  of  some  ancient 
feudal  chief,  and  a  good  idea  of  his  character 
may  be  formed  from  the  language  he  held.  He 
declared  that  he  had  told  Mavrocordato,  that 
unless  he  desisted  from  his  intrigues,  he  would 
put  him  on  an  ass  and  whip  him  out  of  the 
Morea,  and  that  he  had  only  been  withheld 
from  doing  so  by  the  representation  of  his 
friends,  who  had  said  that  it  would  injure  the 
cause. 

They  next  proceeded  to  Salamis,  where  the 
congress  was  sitting,  and  Mr.  Trelawney 
agreed  to  accompany  Odysseus,  a  brave  moun- 
tain chief,  into  Negrppont.  At  this  time  the 
Greeks  were  preparing  for  many  active  en- 
terprises. Marco  Botzaris'  brother,  with  his 
Suliotes  and  Mavrocordato,  were  to  take 
charge  of  Missolonghi,  which,  at  that  time, 
(October,  1823),  was  in  a  very  critical  state, 
being  blockaded  both  by  land  and  sea.  "  There 
have  been,"  says  Mr.  Trelawney.  "thirty  bat- 
tles fought  and  won  by  the  late  Marco  Bot- 
zaris, and  his  gallant  tribe  of  Suliotes,  who 
are  shut  up  in  Missolonghi.  If  it  fall,  Athens 
will  be  in  danger,  and  thousands  of  throats  cut. 
A  few  thousand  dollars  would  provide  ships 
to  relieve  it;  a  portion  of  this  sum  is  raised — 
and  1  would  coin  my  heart  to  save  this  key  of 
Greece  !"  A  report  like  this  was  sufficient  to 
show  the  point  where  succour  was  most  need- 
ed, and  Lord  Byron's  determination  to  relieve 
Missolonghi,  was  still  more  decidedly  con- 
firmed by  a  letter,  which  he  received  from 
Mavrocordato 


Mavrocordato  was  at  this  time  endeavour 
ing  to  collect  a  fleet  for  the  relief  of  Misso- 
k>nghi,  and  Lord  Byron  generously  offered  to 
advance  four  hundred  thousand  piastres  (about 
12,000/.)  to  pay  for  fitting  it  out.  In  a  .ettei  in 
which  he  announced  this  his  noble  intention, 
he  alluded  to  the  dissensions  in  Greece,  and 
stated,  that  if  these  continued,  all  hope  of  a 
loan  in  England,  or  of  assistance,  or  even  good 
wishes  from  abroad,  would  be  at  an  end. 

"  I  must  frankly  confess,"  he  says  in  his 
letter,  "  that  unless  union  and  order  are  con- 
firmed, all  hopes  of  a  loan  will  be  in  vain,  and 
all  the  assistance  which  the  Greeks  cculd  ex- 
pect from  abroad,  an  assistance  which  might 
be  neither  trifling  nor  worthless,  will  be  sus- 
pended or  destroyed ;  and,  what  is  worse,  the 
great  powers  of  Europe,  of  whom  no  one  was 
an  enemy  to  Greece,  but  seemed  inclined  to 
favour  her  in  consenting  to  the  establishment 
of  an  independent  power,  will  be  persuaded 
that  the  Greeks  are  unable  to  govern  them- 
selves, and  will,  perhaps,  themselves  under- 
take to  arrange  your  disorders  in  such  a  way 
as  to  blast  the  brightest  hopes  you  indulge, 
and  that  are  indulged  by  your  friends. 

"  And  allow  me  to  add  once  for  all,  I  desire 
the  well-being  of  Greece,  and  nothing  else  ; 
I  will  do  all  I  can  to  secure  it;  but  I  cannot 
consent — I  never  will  consent  to  the  English 
public,  or  English  individuals  being  deceived 
as.  to  the  real  state  of  Greek  affairs.  The 
rest,  gentlemen,  depends  on  you ;  you  have 
fought  gloriously ;  act  honourably  towards 
your  fellow-citizens,  and  towards  the  world, 
and  then  it  will  no  more  be  said,  as  has  been 
repeated  for  two  thousand  years,  with  the  Ko- 
man  historian,  that  Philopoemen  was  the  last 
of  the  Grecians.  Let  not  calumny  itself  (and 
it  is  difficult  to  guard  against  it  in  so  difficult 
a  struggle)  compare  the  Turkish  Pacha  with 
the  patriot  Greek  in  peace,  after  you  have 
exterminated  him  in  war." 

The  dissensions  among  the  Greek  chiefs 
evidently  gave  great  pain  to  Lord  Byron, 
whose  sensibility  was  keenly  affected  by  the 
slightest  circumstance  which  he  considered 
likely  to  retard  the  deliverance  of  Greece. 
"  For  my  part,"  he  observes,  in  another  of  hi? 
letters,  "  I  will  stick  by  the  cause,  while  a 
plank  remains  which  can  be  honourably  clung 
to;  if  I  quit  it,  it  will  be  by  the  Greeks'  con- 
duct, and  not  the  Holy  Allies,  or  the  holier 
Mussulmans."  In  a  letter  to  his  banker  at 
Cephalonia,  he  says  :  "  I  hope  things  here  will 
go  well,  some  time  or  other ;  I  will  stick  by 
the  cause  as  long  as  a  cause  exists." 

His  playful  humour  sometimes  broke  out 
amidst  the  deep  anxiety  he  felt  for  the  suc- 
cess of  the  Greeks.  He  ridiculed,  with  great 
pleasantry,  some  of  the  supplies  which  had 
been  sent  out  from  England  by  the  Greek 
committee.  In  one  of  his  letters,  also,  after 
alluding  to  his  having  advanced  4,000/..  anc 
expecting  to  be  called  on  for  4,000/.  more,  he? 
sa ys :  "  How  can  I  refuse,  if  they  (the  Greeks) 
will  fight,  and  especially  if  I  should  haipen 
to  be  in  their  company  ?  I  therefore  request 
and  require  that  you  should  apprise  my  ti  asty 
and  trustworthy  trustee  and  banker,  and 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


crown  and  sheet-anchor,  Douglas  Kinnaird 
the  honourable,  that  he  prepare  all  moneys  of 
mine,  including  the  purchase-money  of  Roch- 
dale manor,  and  mine  income  for  the  year  A. 
D.  18-24,  to  answer  and  anticipate  any  orders 
or  drafts  of  mine,  for  the  good  cause,  in  good 
and  lawful  money  of  Great  Britain,  etc.  etc. 
etc.  May  you  live  a  thousand  years !  which 
is  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  longer  than 
the  Spanish  Cortes  constitution." 

All  being  ready,  two  Ionian  vessels  were 
ordered,  and,  embarking  his  horses  and  ef- 
fects, Lord  Byron  sailed  from  Argostoli  on  the 
29th  of  December.  At  Zante,  his  lordship 
took  a  considerable  quantity  of  specie  on 
board,  and  proceeded  towards  Missolonghi. 
Two  accidents  occurred  in  this  short  passage. 
Count  Gamba,  who  had  accompanied  his  lord- 
ship from  Leghorn,  had  been  charged  with 
the  vessel  in  which  the  horses  and  part  of  the 
money  were  embarked.  When  off  Chiarenza, 
a  point  which  lies  between  Zante  and  the 
place  of  their  destination,  they  were  surprised 
at  daylight  on  finding  themselves  under  the 
bows  of  a  Turkish  frigate.  Owing,  however, 
to  the  activity  displayed  on  board  Lord  By- 
ron's vessel,  and  her  superior  sailing,  she  es- 
caped, while  the  second  was  fired  at,  brought 
to,  and  carried  into  Patras.  Count  Gamba 
and  his  companions,  being  taken  before  Yusuff 
Pacha,  fully  expected  to  share  the  fate  of 
some  unfortunate  men  whom  that  sanguinary 
chief  had  sacrificed  the  preceding  year  at 
Previsa,  and  their  fears  would  most  prob- 
ably have  been  realized,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  presence  of  mind  displayed  by  the  count, 
who,  assuming  an  air  of  hauteur  and  indiffer- 
ence, accused  the  captain  of  the  frigate  of  a 
scandalous  breach  of  neutrality,  in  firing  at 
and  detaining  a  vessel  under  English  colours, 
and  concluded  by  informing  Yusuff,  that  he 
might  expect  the  vengeance  of  the  British 
government,  in  thus  interrupting  a  nobleman 
who  was  merely  on  his  travels,  and  bound  to 
Calamos.  The  Turkish  chief,  on  recognisin 
in  the  master  of  the  vessel  a  person  who  had 
saved  his  life  in  the  Black  Sea  fifteen  years 
before,  not  only  consented  to  the  vessel's  re- 
lease, but  treated  the  whole  of  the  passengers 
with  the  utmost  attention,  and  even  urged 
them  to  take  a  day's  shooting  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. 

Owing  to  contrary  winds.  Lord  Byron's  ves- 
sel was  obliged  to  take  shelter  at  the  Scropes, 
a  cluster  of  rocks  within  a  few  miles  of  Mis- 
solonghi. While  detained  here,  he  was  in 
considerable  danger  of  being  captured  by 
the  Turks. 

Lord  Byron  was  received  at  Missolonghi 
with  enthusiastic  demonstrations  of  joy.  No 
mark  of  honour  or  welcome  which  the  Greek 
could  devise  was  omitted.  The  ships  anchored 
off  the  fortress,  fired  a  salute  as  he  passed. 
Prince  Mavrocordato,  and  all  the  authorities, 
with  the  troops  and  the  population,  met  him 
«»n  his  landing,  and  accompanied  him  to  the 
liouse  which  had  been  prepared  for  him,  amidst 
the  shouts  of  the  multitude,  and  the  discharge 
ol  cannon. 

One  of  the  first  objects  to  which  he  turned 


his  attention,  was  to  mitigate  the  ferocity  with 
which  the  war  had  been  carried  on.  The  very 
day  of  his  lordship's  arrival  was  signalized  by 
his  rescuing  a  Turk,  who  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  some  Greek  sailors.  The  individual 
thus  saved,  having  been  clothed  by  his  orders, 
was  kept  in  the  house  until  an  opportunity 
occurred  of  sending  him  to  Patras.  Nor  had 
his  lordship  been  long  at  Missolonghi,  before 
an  opportunity  presented  itself  for  showing 
his' sense  of  Yusuff  Pacha's  moderation  in  re- 
leasing Count  Gamba.  Hearing  that  there 
were  four  Turkish  prisoners  in  the  town,  he 
requested  that  they  might  be  placed  in  his 
hands.  This  being  immediately  granted,  he 
sent  them  to  Patras,  with  a  letter  addressed 
to  the  Turkish  chief,  expressing  his  hope  that 
the  prisoners  thenceforward  taken  on  both 
sides,  would  be  treated  with  humanity.  This 
act  was  followed  by  another  equally  praise- 
worthy, which  proved  how  anxious  Lord  By- 
ron felt  to  give  a  new  turn  to  the  system  of 
warfare  hitherto  pursued.  A  Greefe  cruiser 
having  captured  a  Turkish  boat,  in  which 
there  was  a  number  of  passengers,  chiefly 
women  and  children,  they  were  also  placed 
in  the  hands  of  Lord  Byron,  at  his  particular 
request;  upon  which  a  vessel  was  smmediately 
hired,  and  the  whole  of  them,  to  the  number 
of  twenty-four,  were  sent  to  PrevisJi,  provided 
with  every  requisite  for  their  comfort  during 
the  passage.  The  Turkish  governor  of  Pre- 
visa thanked  his  lordship,  and  assured  him, 
that  he  would  take  care  equal  attention  should 
be  in  future  shown  to  the  Greeks  who  might 
become  prisoners. 

Another  grand  object  with  Lord  Byron,  and 
one  which  he  never  ceased  to  forward  with 
the  most  anxious  solicitude,  was  to  reconcile 
the  quarrels  of  the  native  chiefs,  to  make  them 
friendly  and  confiding  towards  one  another, 
and  submissive  to  the  orders  of  the  govern- 
ment. He  had  neither  time  nor  opportunity 
to  carry  this  point  to  any  great  extent :  much 
good  was,  however,  done. 

Lord  Byron  landed  at  Missolonghi  animated 
with  military  ardour.     After  paying  the  fleet, 
which,  indeed,  bad  only  come  out  under  the 
expectation  of  receiving  its  arrears  from  the 
loan  which  he  promised  to  make  to  the  pro- 
visional government,  he  set  about  forming  a 
brigade  of  Suliotes.     Five  hundred  of  these, 
the  bravest  and  most  resolute  of  the  soldiers 
of  Greece,  were  taken  into  his  pay  on  the  1st 
of  January,  1824.   An  expedition  against  Le- 
panto  was  proposed,  of  which  the  command 
was  given  to  Lord  Byron.     This  expedition, 
however,  had  to  experience  delay  and  disap- 
pointment. The  Suliotes,  conceiving  that  they 
liad  found  a  patron  whose  wealth  was  inex 
haustible,  and  whose  generosity  was  bound 
less,  determined  to  make  the  most  of  the  on 
casion,and  proceeded  to  the  most  extravagant 
demands  on  th-!:ir  leader  for  arrears,  and  un- 
der other  pretences.     These   mountaineers 
untatneable  in  the  field,  and  unmanagcabw  iu 
a  town,  were,  at  this  moment,  peculiarly  dis- 
posed to  be  obstinate,  riotous,  and  mercenary 
They  had  been  chiefly  instrumental  in  pre 
sen  ing  Missolonghi,  when  besieged  the  pr« 


tx.tn 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


vioas  autumn  by  the  Turks ;  had  been  driven 
(t  »n  their  abodes;  and  the  whole  of  their 
families  were,  at  this  time,  in  the  town,  des- 
titute of  either  home  or  sufficient  supplies. 
Of  turbulent  and  reckless  character,  they 
kept  the  place  in  awe ;  and  Mavrocordato 
having,  unlike  the  other  captains,  no  sol- 
diers of  his  own,  was  glad  to  find  a  body  of 
valiant  mercenaries,  especially  if  paid  for  out 
of  the  funds  of  another;  and,  consequently, 
was  not  disposed  to  treat  them  with  harshness. 
Within  a  fortnight  after  Lord  Byron's  arrival, 
a  burgher  refusing  to  quarter  some  Suliotes, 
who  rudely  demanded  entrance  into  his  house, 
was  killed,  and  a  riot  ensued,  in  which  some 
lives  were  lost.  Lord  Byron's  impatient  spirit 
could  ill  brook  the  delay  of  a  favourite  scheme, 
but  he  saw,  with  the  utmost  chagrin,  that  the 
state  of  his  troops  was  such  as  to  render  any 
attempt  to  lead  them  out  at  that  time  imprac- 
ticable. 

The  project  of  proceeding  against  Lepanto 
being  thus  suspended,  at  a  moment  when  Lord 
Byron's  enthusiasm  was  at  its  height,  and  when 
he  had  fully  calculated  on  striking  a  blow 
which  could  not  fail  to  be  of  the  utmost  ser- 
vice to  the  Greek  cause,  the  unlooked-for  dis- 
appointment preyed  on  his  spirits,  and  pro- 
duced a  degree  of  irritability,  which,  if  it  was 
not  the  sole  cause,  contributed  greatly  to  a 
severe,  fit  of  epilepsy,  with  which  he  was  at- 
tacked en  the  15th  of  February.  His  lordship 
was  sitting  in  the  apartment  of  Colonel  Stan- 
hope, talking  in  a  jocular  manner  with  Mr. 
Parry,  the  engineer,  when  it  was  observed, 
from  occasional  and  rapid  changes  in  his  coun- 
tenance, that  he  was  suffering  under  some 
strong  emotion.  On  a  sudden  he  complained 
of  a  weakness  in  one  of  his  legs,  and  rose,  but 
finding  himself  unable  to  walk,  he  cried  out 
for  assistance.  He  then  fell  into  a  state  of 
nervous  and  convulsive  agitation,  and  was 
placed  on  a  bed.  For  some  minutes  his  coun- 
tenance was  much  distorted.  He  however 
quickly  recovered  his  senses,  his  speech  re- 
turned, and  he  soon  appeared  perfectly  well, 
although  enfeebled  and  exhausted  by  the  vio- 
lence of  the  struggle.  During  the  fit,  he  be- 
haved with  his  usual  extraordinary  firmness, 
and  his  efforts  in  contending  with,  and  at- 
tempting to  master,  the  disease,  are  described 
as  gigantic.  In  the  course  of  the  month,  the 
attack  was  repeated  four  times ;  the  violence 
of  the  disorder,  at  length,  yielded  to  the  reme- 
dies which  his  physicians  advised,  such  as 
bleeding,  cold  bathing,  perfect  relaxation  of 
mind,  etc.,  and  he  gradually  recovered.  An 
accident,  however,  happened  a  few  days  after 
Ins  first  illness,  which  was  ill  calculated  to  aid 
the  efforts  of  his  medical  advisers.  A  Suliote, 
accompanied  by  another  man,  and  the  late 
Marco  Botzaris'  little  boy,  walked  into  the 
Seraglio,  a  place  which,  before  Lord  Byron's 
arrival,  had  been  used  as  a  sort  of  fortress  and 
barrack  for  the  Suliotes,  and  out  of  which  they 
were  ejected  with  great  difficulty  for  the  re- 
ception of  the  committee-stores,  and  for  the 
occupation  of  the  engineers,  who  required  it 
(or  a  laboratory.  The  sentinel  on  guard  or- 
dered the  Suliote  to  retire,  which  being  a  spe- 


cies of  motion  to  which  Suliotes  are  not  ac 
customed,the  man  carelessly  advanced;  upon 
which  the  serjeant  of  the  guard  (a  German) 
demanded  his  business,  and  receiving  no  sat- 
isfactory answer,  pushed  him  back.  These 
wild  warriors,  who  will  dream  for  years  of  a 
blow  if  revenge  is  out  of  their  power,  are  not 
slow  to  resent  even  a  push.  The  Suliote  struck 
again,  the  serjeant  and  he  closed  and  strug- 

fled,  when  the  Suliote  drew  a  pistol  from  his 
elt ;  the  serjeant  wrenched  it  out  of  his  hand, 
and  blew  the  powder  out  of  the  pan.  At  this 
moment,  Captain  Sass,  a  Swede,  seeing  the 
fray,  came  up,  and  ordered  the  man  to  be  ta- 
ken to  the  guard-room.  The  Suliote  was  then 
disposed  to  depart,  and  would  have  done  so  ii 
the  serjeant  would  have  permitted  him.  Un- 
fortunately, Captain  Sass  did  not  confine  him- 
self to  merely  giving  the  order  for  his  arrest; 
for  when  the  Suliote  struggled  to  get  away, 
Captain  Sass  drew  his  sword,  and  struck  him 
with  the  flat  part  of  it ;  whereupon  the  en- 
raged Greek  flew  upon  him,  with  a  pistol  in 
one  hand  and  the  sabre  in  the  other,  and  at 
the  same  moment  nearly  cut  off  the  Captain's 
right  arm,  and  shot  him  through  the  head. 
Captain  Sass,  who  was  remarkable  for  his 
mild  and  courageous  character,  expired  in  a 
few  minutes.  The  Suliote  also  was  a  man  of 
distinguished  bravery.  This  was  a  serious  af- 
fair, and  great  apprehensions  were  entertained 
that  it  would  not  end  here.  The  Suliotes  re- 
fused to  surrender  the  man  to  justice,  alleging 
that  he  had  been  struck,  which,  in  Suliote 
law,  justifies  all  the  consequences  which  may 
follow. 

In  a  letter  written  a  few  days  after  Lord 
Byron's  first  attack,  to  a  friend  in  Zante,  he 
speaks  of  himself  as  rapidly  recovering.  "  1 
am  a  good  deal  better,"  he  observes,  "  though 
of  course  weakly.  The  leeches  took  too  much 
blood  from  my  temples  the  day  after,  and  there 
was  some  difficulty  in  stopping  it;  but  I  have 
been  up  daily,  and  out  in  boats  or  on  horse- 
back. To-day  I  have  taken  a  warm  bath, 
and  live  as  temperately  as  well  can  be,  with- 
out any  liquid  but  water,  and  without  any  ani- 
mal food."  After  adverting  to  some  other 
subjects,  the  letter  thus  concludes :  "  Matters 
are  here  a  little  embroiled  with  the  Suliotes, 
foreigners,  etc. ;  but  I  still  hope  better  things, 
and  will  stand  by  the  cause  as  long  as  my 
health  and  circumstances  will  permit  me  to 
be  supposed  useful." 

Notwithstanding  Lord  Byron's  improvement 
in  health,  his  friends  felt,  from  the  first,  that 
he  ought  to  try  a  change  of  air.  Missolonghi 
is  a  flat,  marshy,  and  pestilential  place,  and, 
except  for  purposes  of  utility,  never  would 
have  been  selected  for  his  residence.  A  gen- 
tleman of  Zante  wrote  to  him  early  in  March, 
to  induce  him  to  return  to  that  island  for  a 
time.  To  his  letter  the  following  answer  was 
received : — 

"  I  am  extremely  obliged  by  your  offer  of 
your  country-house,  as  for  all  other  kindness, 
in  case  my  health  should  require  my  removal; 
but  I  cannot  quit  Greece  while  there  is  a 
chance  of  my  being  of  (even  supposed)  utility 
There  is  a  stake  worth  millions  such  as  I  ant 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


XXXIIi 


auJ  while  I  can  stand  at  all,  I  must  stand  by 
the  cause.  While  I  say  this,  I  am  aware  of 
the  difficulties,  and  dissensions,  and  defects  of 
the  Greeks  themselves :  but  allowance  must 
be  made  for  them  by  all  reasonable  people." 

It  may  be  well  imagined,  after  so  severe  a 
fit  of  illness,  and  that  in  a  great  measure 
brought  on  by  the  conduct  of  the  troops  he 
had  taken  into  his  pay,  and  treated  with  the 
utmost  generosity,  that  Lord  Byron  was  in  no 
humour  to  pursue  his  scheme  against  Le- 
panto,  even  supposing  that  his  state  of  health 
had  been  such  as  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  a  cam- 
paign in  Greece.  The  Suliotes,  however, 
showed  some  signs  of  repentance,  and  offered 
to  place  themselves  at  his  lordship's  disposal. 
But  still  they  had  an  objection  to  the  nature 
of  the  service :  "  they  would  not  fight  against 
stone  walls !"  It  is  not  surprising  that  the  ex- 
pedition to  Lepantp  was  no  longer  thought  of. 

In  conformity  with  our  plan,  we  here  add  a 
selection  of  anecdotes,  etc.  connected  with 
Lord  Byron's  residence  at  Missolonghi.  They 
are  principally  taken  from  Captain  Parry's 
"  Last  Days  of  Lord  Byron ;"  a  work  which 
seems  to  us,  from  its  plain  and  unvarnished 
style,  to  bear  the  stamp  and  impress  of  truth. 

In  speaking  of  the  Greek  Committee  one 
day,  his  lordship  said — "  I  conceive  that  I 
have  been  already  grossly  ill-treated  by  the 
committee.  In  Italy,  Mr.  Blaquiere,  their 
agent,  informed  me  that  every  requisite  sup- 
ply would  be  forwarded  with  all  despatch.  I 
was  disposed  to  come  to  Greece,  but  I  has- 
tened my  departure  in  consequence  of  earnest 
solicitations.  No  time  was  to  be  lost,  I  was 
told,  and  Mr.  Blaquiere,  instead  of  waiting 
on  me  at  his  return  from  Greece,  left  a  paltry 
note,  which  gave  me  no  information  what- 
ever. If  I  ever  meet  with  him,  I  shall  not  fail 
t«>  mention  my  surprise  at  his  conduct;  but  it 
has  been  all  of  a-piece.  I  wish  the  acting 
committee  had  had  some  of  the  trouble  which 
has  fallen  on  me  since  my  arrival  here ;  they 
would  have  been  more  prompt  in  their  pro- 
ceedings, and  would  have  known  better  what 
tne  country  stood  in  need  of.  They  would  not 
have  delayed  the  supplies  a  day,  nor  have  sent 
out  German  officers,  poor  fellows,  to  starve  at 
Missolonghi,  but  for  my  assistance.  I  am  a 
plain  man,  and  cannot  comprehend  the  use 
of  printing-presses  to  a  people  who  do  not 
read.  Here  the  committee  have  sent  supplies 
of  maps,  I  suppose,  that  I  may  teach  the  young 
mountaineers  geography.  Here  are  bugle- 
horns,  without  buglemen,  and  it  is  a  chance 
if  we  can  find  any  body  in  Greece  to  blow 
them.  Books  are  sent  to  a  peoole  who  want 
guns :  they  ask  for  a  sword,  and  the  commit- 
tee give  them  the  lever  of  a  printing-press. 
Heavens  !  one  would  think  the  committee 
meant  to  inculcate  patience  and  submission, 
and  to  condemn  resistance.  Some  materials 
for  constructing  fortifications  they  have  sent, 
but  they  have  chosen  their  people  so  ill,  that 
the  work  is  deserted,  and  not  one  para  have 
they  sent  to  procure  .other  labourers.  Their 
secretary,  Mr.  Bowring,  was  disposed,  I  be- 
lieve, to  claim  the  privilege  of  an  acquaint- 
ance with  me.  He  wrote  me  a  long  letter 


about  the  classic  land  of  freedom,  the  birth- 
place of  the  arts,  the  cradle  of  genius,  the 
habitation  of  the  gods,  the  heaven  of  poets, 
and  a  great  many  such  fine  things.  I  was 
obliged  to  answer  him,  and  I  scrawled  some 
nonsense  in  reply  to  his  nonsense ;  but  I  fancy 
I  shall  get  no  more  such  epistles.  When  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  of  the  poetry  part  of 
my  letter,  I  wrote,  '  so  much  for  blarney,  now 
for  business.'  I  have  not  since  heard  in  the 
same  strain  from  Mr.  Bowring." 

"  My  future  intentions,"  continued  he,  "  as 
to  Greece,  may  be  explained  in  a  few  words : 
I  will  remain  here  till  she  is  secure  against 
the  Turks,  or  till  she  has  fallen  under  their 
power.  All  my  income  shall  be  spent  in  her 
service ;  but,  unless  driven  by  some  great  ne- 
cessity, I  will  not  touch  a  farthing  of  the  sum 
intended  for  my  sister's  children.  Whatever 
I  can  accomplish  with  my  income,  and  my 
personal  exertions,  shall  be  cheerfully  done. 
When  Greece  is  secure  against  external  ene- 
mies, I  will  leave  the  Greeks  to  settle  their 
government  as  they  like.  One  service  more, 
and  an  eminent  service  it  will  be,  I  think  I 
may  perform  for  them.  You,  Parry,  shall 
have  a  schooner  built  for  me,  or  I  will  buy  a 
vessel ;  the  Greeks  shall  invest  me  with  the 
character  of  their  ambassador  or  agent ;  I  will 
go  to  the  United  States,  and  procure  that  free 
and  enlightened  government  to  set  the  exam- 
ple of  recognising  the  federation  of  Greece 
as  an  independent  state.  This  done,  England 
must  follow  the  example,  and  then  the  fate  of 
Greece  will  be  permanently  fixed,  and  she 
will  enter  into  all  her  lights,  as  a  member  of 
the  great  commonwealth  of  Christian  Eu- 
rope." 

"  This,"  observes  Captain  Parry,  in  his  plain 
and  manly  manner,  "  was  Lord  Byron's  hope 
and  this  was  to  be  his  last  project  in  favour  of 
Greece.  Into  it  no  motive  of  personal  ambi- 
tion entered,  more  than  that  just  and  proper 
one,  the  basis  of  all  virtue,  and  the  distin- 
guished characteristic  of  an  honourable  mind 
— the  hope  of  gaining  the  approbation  of  good 
men.  As  an  author,  he  had  already  attained 
the  pinnacle  of  popularity  and  of  fame ;  but 
this  did  not  satisfy  his  noble  ambition.  He 
hastened  to  Greece,  with  a  devotion  to  liberty, 
and  a  zeal  in  favour  of  the  oppressed,  as  pure 
as  ever  shone  in  the  bosom  of  a  knight  in  the 
purest  days  of  chivalry,  to  gain  the  reputation 
of  an  unsullied  warrior,  and  of  a  disinterested 
statesman.  He  was  by  her  unpaid,  but  the 
blessings  of  all  Greece,  and  the  high  honours 
his  own  countrymen  bestow  on  his  memory 
bearing  him  in  their  hearts,  prove  that  he  was 
not  her  unrewarded  champion." 

Lord  Byron's  address  was  the  most  affable 
and  courteous  perhaps  ever  seen ;  his  man- 
ners, when  in  a  good  humour,  and  desirous  of 
being  well  with  his  guest,  were  winning,  fas- 
cinating in  the  extreme,  and  though  bland, 
still  spirited,  and  with  an  air  of  frankness  and 
generosity — qualities  in  which  he  was  cer- 
tainly not  deficient.  He  was  open  to  a  fault 
— a  characteristic  probably  the  result  of  Lis 
fearlessness,  and  independence  of  the  world, 
but  so  open  was  he,  that  his  friends  wei« 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


obliged  to  be  upon  their  guard  with  him.  He 
was  the  worst  person  in  the  world  to  confide 
a  secret  to ;  and  if  any  charge  against  any 
body  was  mentioned  to  him,  it  was  probably 
the  first  communication  he  made  to  the  per- 
son in  question.  He  hated  scandal  and  tit- 
tle-tattle— loved  the  manly  straight-forward 
course:  he  would  harbour  no  doubts,  and 
never  live  with  another  with  suspicions  in  his 
bosom — out  carne  the  accusation ,  and  he  called 
upon  the  individual  to  clear,  or  be  ashamed 
of,  himself.  He  detested  a  lie — nothing  en- 
raged him  so  much :  he  was  by  temperament 
and  education  excessively  irritable,  and  a  lie 
completely  unchained  him — his  indignation 
knew  no  bounds.  He  had  considerable  tact 
in  detecting  untruth;  he  would  smell  it  out 
almost  instinctively ;  he  avoided  the  timid 
driveller,  and  generally  chose  his  companions 
among  the  lovers  and  practisers  of  sincerity 
and  candour.  A  man  tells  a  falsehood  and 
conceals  the  truth,  because  he  is  afraid  that 
the  declaration  of  th3  thing  as  it  is  will  hurt 
him.  Lord  Byron  was  above  all  fear  of  this 
sort :  he  flinched  from  telling  no  one  what  he 
thought  to  his  face ;  from  his  infancy  he  had 
been  afraid  of  no  one.  Falsehood  is  not  the 
vice  of  the  powerful :  the  Greek  slave  lies, 
the  Turkish  tyrant  is  remarkable  for  his  ad- 
herence to  truth.  The  anecdote  that  follows, 
told  by  Parry,  is  highly  characteristic  : — 

•'  When  the  Turkish  fleet  was  lying  off  Cape 
Papa,  blockading  Missolonghi,  I  was  one  day 
ordered  by  Lord  Byron  to  accompany  him  to 
the  mouth  of  the  harbour  to  inspect  the  forti- 
fications, in  order  to  make  a  report  on  the  state 
they  were  in.  He  and  I  were  in  his  own  punt, 
a  little  boat  which  he  had.  rowed  by  a  boy; 
and  in  a  large  boat,  accompanying  us,  were 
Prince  Mavrocordato  and  his  attendants.  As 
I  was  viewing,  on  one  hand,  the  Turkish  fleet 
attentively,  and  reflecting  on  its  powers,  and 
our  means  of  defence;  and  looking,  on  the 
olher,  at  Prince  Mavrocordato  and  his  attend- 
ants, perfectly  unconcerned,  smoking  their 
pipes,  and  gossiping  as  if  Greece  were  libe- 
rated and  at  peace,  and  Missolonghi  in  a  state 
of  complete  security,  I  could  not  help  giving 
vent  to  a  feeling  of  contempt  and  indignation. 
'  What  is  the  matter,'  said  his  lordship,  ap- 
pearing to  be  very  serious,  '  what  makes  you 
so  angry,  Parry  ?'  '  I  am  not  angry,'  I  replied, 
'  my  lord,  but  somewhat  indignant.  The 
Turks,  if  they  were  not  the  most  stupid 
wretches  breathing,  might  take  the  fort  of 
Vasaladi,  by  means  of  two  pinnaces,  any  night 
they  pleased ;  they  have  only  to  approach  it 
with  muffled  oars;  they  will  not  be  heard,  I 
will  answer  for  their  not  being  seen ;  and  they 
may  storm  it  in  a  few  minutes.  With  eight 
tjun-boats,  properly  armed  with  24-pounders, 
cheV  might  batter  both  Missolonghi  and  Ana- 
tolica  to  the  ground.  And  there  sits  the  old 
gentlewoman,  Prince  Mavrocordato  and  his 
troop,  10  whom  I  applied  an  epithet  I  will  not 
iere  repeat,  as  if  they  were  all  perfectly  safe. 
They  know  their  powers  of  defence  are  in- 
adequate, and  they  have  no  means  of  improv- 
ing them.  If  1  were  in  their  place,  I  should 
he  in  a  fever  it  tbe  tnought  of  my  own  inca- 


pacity and  ignorance,  and  I  should  ourn  witb 
impatience  to  attempt  the  destruction  ot  those 
stupid  Turkish  rascals.  The  Greeks  ana 
Turks  are  opponents  worthy,  by  their  imbe- 
cility, of  each  other.'  I  had  scarcely  explain- 
ed myself  fully,  when  his  lordship  ordered  our 
boat  to  be  placed  alongside  the  other,  and  ac- 
tually related  our  whole  conversation  to  the 
prince.  In  doing  it,  however,  he  took  on  him- 
self the  task  of  pacifying  both  the  prince  and 
me,  and  though  I  was  at  first  very  angry,  and 
the  prince,  I  T>elieve,  very  much  annoyed,  he 
succeeded.  Mavrocordato  afterwards  showed 
no  dissatisfaction  with  me,  and  I  prized  Lord 
Byron's  regard  too  much,  to  remain  long  dis- 
pleased with  a  proceeding  which  was  only  an 
unpleasant  manner  of  reproving  us  both." 

"  On  one  occasion  (which  we  before  slightly 
alluded  to),  he  had  saved  twenty-four  Turkish 
women  and  children  from  .slavery,  and  all  its 
accompanying  horrors.  I  was  summoned  to 
attend  him,  and  receive  his  orders,  that  every 
thing  should  be  done  which  might  contribute 
to  their  comfort.  He  was  seated  on  a  cushion 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  the  women  and 
children  were  standing  before  him,  with  their 
eyes  fixed  steadily  on  him,  and  on  his  right 
hand  was  his  interpreter,  who  was  extracting 
from  the  women  a  narrative  of  their  suffer- 
ings. One  of  them,  apparently  about  thirty 
years  of  age,  possessing  great  vivacity,  and 
whose  manners  and  dress,  though  she  was  then 
dirty  and  disfigured,  indicated  that  she  was 
superior  in  rank  and  condition  to  her  com- 
panions, was  spokeswoman  for  the  whole.  I 
admired  the  good  order  the  others  preserved, 
never  interfering  with  the  explanation,  or  in- 
terrupting the  single  speaker.  I  also  admired 
the  rapid  manner  in  which  the  interpreter  ex- 
plained every  thing  they  said,  so  as  to  make 
it  almost  appear  that  there  was  but  one 
speaker. — After  a  short  time,  it  was  evident 
that  what  Lord  Byron  was  hearing,  affected 
his  feelings — his  countenance  changed,  his 
colour  went  and  came,  and  I  thought  he  was 
ready  to  weep.  But  he  had,  on  all  occasions, 
a  ready  and  peculiar  knack  in  turning  con- 
versation from  any  disagreeable  or  unpleasant 
subject;  and  he  had  recourse  to  this  expedi- 
ent. He  rose  up  suddenly,  and  turning  round 
on  his  heel,  as  was  his  wont,  he  said  something 
quickly  to  his  interpreter,  who  immediately 
repeated  it  to  the  women.  All  eyes  were  in- 
stantly fixed  on  me,  and  one  of  the  party,  a 
young  and  beautiful  woman,  spoke  very 
warmly.  Lord  Byron  seemed  satisfied,  and 
said  they  might  retire.  The  women  all  slip- 
ped off  their  shoes  in  an  instant,  and  going  up 
to  his  lordship,  each  in  succession,  accompa- 
nied byr  their  children,  kissed  his  hand  fer- 
vently, invoked,  in  the  Turkish  manner,  a 
blessing  both  on  his  head  and  heart,  and  then 
quitted  the  room.  This  was  too  much  for  Lord 
Byron,  and  he  turned  his  face  away  to  con- 
ceal his  emotion." 

"  One  of  Lord  Byron's  household  had  sey 
eral  times  involved  himself  and  his  master  in 
perplexity  and  trouble,  by  his  unrestrained 
attachment  to  women.  In  Greece  this  had 
been  very  annoying,  and  induced  Lord  Byron 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


xxxv 


ic  think  of  a  means  of  curing  it.  A  young 
riuliote  of  the.  guard  was  accordingly  dressed 
up  like  a  woman,  and  instructed  to  place  him- 
self in  the  way  of  the  amorous  swain.  The 
bait  took,  and  after  some  communication,  had 
rather  by  signs  than  by  words,  for  the  pair  did 
not  understand  each  other's  language,  the 
sham  lady  was  carefully  conducted  by  the  gal- 
lant to  one  of  Lord  Byron's  apartments.  Here 
the  couple  were  surprised  by  an  enraged  Su- 
liote.  a  husband  provided  for  the  occasion, 
accompanied  by  half  a  dozen  of  his  comrades, 
whose  presence  and  threats  terrified  the  poor 
lacquey  almost  out  of  his  senses.  The  noise 
of  course  brought  Lord  Byron  to  the  spot,  to 
laugh  at  the  tricked  serving-man,  and  rescue 
him  from  the  effects  of  his  terror." 

"  A  few  days  after  the  earthquake,  which 
took  place  on  the  21st  of  February,  as  we 
were  all  sitting  at  table  in  the  evening,  we 
were  suddenly  alarmed  by  a  noise  and  a 
shaking  of  the  house,  somewhat  similar  to 
that  which  we  had  experienced  when  the 
earthquake  occurred.  Of  course  all  started 
from  their  places,  and  there  was  the  same  kind 
of  confusion  as  on  the  former  evening,  at 
which  Byron,  who  was  present,  laughed  im- 
moderately ;  we  were  re-assured  by  this,  and 
soon  learnt  that  the  whole  was  a  method  he 
had  adopted  to  sport  with  our  fears." 

"  The  regiment,  or  rather  the  brigade,  we 
formed,  can  be  described  only  as  Byron  him- 
self describes  it.  There  was  a  Greek  tailor, 
who  had  been  in  the  British  service  in  the 
Ionian  Islands,  where  he  had  married  an  Ital- 
ian woman.  This  lady,  knowing  something 
of  the  military  service,  petitioned  Lord  Byron 
to  appoint  her  husband  master-tailor  of  the 
brigade.  The  suggestion  was  useful,  and  this 
part  of  her  petition  was  immediately  granted. 
At  the  same  time,  however,  she  solicited  that 
she  might  be  permitted  to  raise  a  corps  of 
women,  to  be  placed  under  her  orders,  to  ac- 
company the  regiment.  She  stipulated  for 
free  quarters  and  rations  for  them,  but  reject- 
ed all  claim  for  pay.  They  were  to  be  free 
of  all  incumbrances,  and  were  to  wash,  sew, 
cook,  and  otherwise  provide  for  the  men.  The 
proposition  pleased  Lord  Byron,  and,  stating 
the  matter  to  me,  he  said  he  hoped  I  should 
have  no  objection.  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  see  women  accompany  the  English  army 
and  I  knew  that,  though  sometimes  an  incum- 
brance,  they  were,  on  the  whole,  more  bene- 
ficial than  otherwise.  In  Greece,  there  were 
many  circumstances  which  would  make  their 
services  extremely  valuable,  and  I  gave  my 
consent  to  the  measure.  The  tailor's  wife  die 
accordingly  recruit  a  considerable  number  of 
unincunYbered  women,  of  almost  all  nations 
bin  principally  Greeks,  Italians,  Maltese,  anc 
Negresses.  '  I  was  afraid,'  said  Lord  Byron 
'  when  I  mentioned  this  matter  to  you,  you 
would  be  crusty,  and  oppose  it — it  is  the  very 
thing.  Let  me  see,  my  corps  outdoes  Fal- 
staff's:  there  are  English.  Germans,  French, 
Maltese,  Ragusians,  Italians,  Neapolitans, 
Transylvanians,  Russians,  Suliotes,  Moreotes, 
and  Western  Greeks  in  front,  and,  to  bring  up 
the  rea-\  the  tailor's  v/ife  and  her  troop.  (Glo- 


rious Apollo !  no  general  had  ever  before  such 
an  army.' " 

"  Lord  Byron  had  a  black  groom  with  him 
n  Greece,  an  American  by  birth,  to  whom  he 
was  very  partial.  He  always  insisted  on  this 
man's  calling  him  Massa,  whenever  he  spoke 
to  him.  On  one  occasion,  the  groom  met  with 
two  women  of  his  own  complexion,  who  had 
been  slaves  to  the  Turks  and  liberated,  but 
iiad  been  left  almost  to  starve  when  the  Greeks 
had  risen  on  their  tyrants.  Being  of  the  same 
colour  was  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  them 
and  the  groom,  and  he  applied  to  me  to  give 
both  these  women  quarters  in  the  Seraglio.  I 
granted  the  application,  and  mentioned  it  to 
Lord  Byron,  who  laughed  at  the  gallantry  of 
his  groom,  and  ordered  that  he  should  be 
brought  before  him  at  ten  o'clock  the  next 
day,  to  answer  for  his  presumption  in  making 
such  an  application.  At  ten  o'clock,  accord- 
ingly, he  attended  his  master  with  great  trem- 
bling and  fear,  but  stuttered  so  when  he  at- 
tempted to  speak,  that  he  could  not  make 
himself  understood ;  Lord  Byron  endeavour- 
ing, almost  in  vain,  to  preserve  his  gravity, 
reproved  him  severely  for  his  presumption. 
Blacky  stuttered  a  thousand  excuses,  and  was 
ready  to  do  any  thing  to  appease  his  massa's 
anger.  His  great  yellow  eyes  wide  open,  he 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  his  wandering 
and  stuttering  excuses,  his  visible  dread — all 
tended  to  provoke  laughter;  and  Lord  By- 
ron, fearing  his  own  dignity  would  be  hove 
overboard,  told  him  to  hold"  his  tongue,  and 
listen  to  his  sentence.  I  was  commanded  to 
enter  >*  in  his  memorandum-book,  and  then 
he  pronounced,  in  a  solemn  tone  of  voice, 
while  Blacky  stood  aghast,  expecting  some 
severe  punishment,  the  following  doom  :  '  My 
determination  is,  that  the  children  born  of 
these  black  women,  of  which  you  may  be  the 
father,  shall  be  my  property,  and  I  will  main- 
tain them.  What  say  you?'  'Go — Go — God 
bless  you,  massa,  may  you  live  great  while,' 
stuttered  out  the  groom,  and  sallied  forth  tc 
tell  the  good  news  to  the  two  distressed  •wo- 
men." 

The  luxury  of  Lord  Byron's  living  at  this 
time,  may  be  seen  from  the  following  order, 
which  he  gave  his  superintendent  of  the  house- 
hold, for  the  daily  expenses  of  his  own  table. 
It  amounts  to  no  more  than  one  piastre. 

FARAS. 

Bread,  a  pound  and  a  half 15 

Wine 7 

Fish     16 

Olives 3 

40 

This  was  his  dinner  ;  his  breakfast  consisted 
of  a  single  dish  of  tea,  without  milk  or  sugar 

The  circumstances  that  attended  the  death 
of  this  illustrious  and  noble-minded  man,  are 
described  in  the  following  plain  and  simple 
manner,  by  his  faithful  valet  and  constant  tol 
lower,  Mr.  Fletcher: — 

"  My  master,"  says  Mr.  Fletcher,  "  con 
tinued  his  usual  custom  of  riding  daily,  wlici 
the  weather  would  permit,  until  the  9(h  o-. 
April.  But  on  that  ill-fate^  'lay  ic  f*of  ven 


SLXXVl 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


wet ;  and  on  his  return  home,  his  lordship 
changed  the  whole  of  his  dress;  but  he  had 
been  too  long  in  his  wet  clothes,  and  the  cold, 
of  which  he  had  complained  more  or  less  ever 
since  we  left  Cephalonia,  made  this  attack  be 
more  severely  felt.  Though  rather  feverish 
during  the  night,  his  lordship  slept  pretty  yvell, 
but  complained  in  the  morning  of  a  pain  in 
his  bones,  and  a  head-ache :  this  did  not,  how- 
ever, prevent  him  from  taking  a  ride  in  the 
afternoon,  which,  I  grieve  to  say,  was  his  last. 
On  his  return,  my  master  said  that  the  saddle 
was  not  perfectly  dry,  from  being  so  wet  the 
day  before,  and  observed,  that  he  thought  it 
had  made  hirn  worse.  His  lordship  was  again 
visited  by  the  same  slow  fever,  and  I  was  sorry 
to  perceive,  on  the  next  morning,  that  his  ill- 
ness appeared  to  be  increasing.  He  was  very 
low,  and  complained  of  not  having  had  any 
sleep  during  the  night.  His  lordship's  appe- 
tite was  also  quite  gone.  I  prepared  a  little 
arrow-root,  of  which  he  took  three  or  four 
spoonfuls,  saying  it  was  very  good,  but  he 
could  take  no  more.  It  was  not  till  the  third 
day,  the  12th,  that  I  began  to  be  alarmed  for 
my  master.  In  all  his  former  colds,  he  always 
slept  well,  and  was  never  affected  by  this  slow 
fever.  I  therefore  went  to  Dr.  Bruno  and 
Mr.  Millingen.  the  two  medical  attendants, 
and  inquired  minutely  into  every  circumstance 
connected  with  my  master's  present  illness : 
both  replied  that  there  was  no  danger,  and  I 
might  make  myself  perfectly  easy  on  the  sub- 
ject, for  all  would  be  Well  in  a  few  days.  This 
was  on  the  13th.  On  the  following  day,  I  found 
my  master  in  such  a  slate,  that  I  could  not 
feel  happy  without  supplicating  that  he  would 
send  to  Zante  for  Dr.  Thomas.  After  ex- 
pressing my  fears  lest  his  lordship  should  get 
worse,  he  desired  me  to  consult  the  doctors, 
which  I  did,  and  was  told  there  was  no  occa- 
sion for  calling  in  any  person,  as  they  hoped 
all  would  be  well  in  a  few  days.  Here  I  should 
remark,  that  his  lord.ship  repeatedly  said,  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  he  was  sure  the  doctors 
did  not  understand  his  disease ;  to  which  I  an- 
swered, 'Then,  my  lord,  have  other  advice 
by  all  means.'  '  They  tell  me,'  said  his  lord- 
ship, '  that  it  is  only  a  common  cold,  which, 
you  know,  I  have  had  a  thousand  times.'  '  I  am 
sure,  my  lord,'  said  I,  '  that  you  never  had 
one  of  so  serious  a  nature.'  '  I  think  I  never 
had,' was  his  lordship's 'answer.  I  repeated 
my  supplications  that  Dr.  Thomas  should  be 
sent  for,  on  the  15th,  and  was  again  assured 
that  my  master  would  be  better  in  two  or  three 
days.  After  these  confident  assurances,  I  did 
not  renew  my  entreaties  until  it  was  too  late. 
With  respect  to  the  medicines  that  were  given 
to  my  master,  I  could  not  persuade  myself 
lhat  those  of  a  strong  purgative  nature  were 
die  best  adapted  for  his  complaint,  concluding 
(hat.  as  he  had  nothing  an  his  stomach,  the 
only  effect  would  be  to  create  pain  ;  indeed, 
thii  must  have  beer,  the  case  with  a  person  in 
iierfect  health.  The  whole  nourishment  taken 
')V  my  master,  for  the  last  eight  days,  consist- 
ed of  a  small  quantity  of  broth,  at  two  or  three 
iliffprent  times,  and  two  spoonfuls  of  arrow- 
n«il  on  the  18th,  the  day  before  his  death. 


The  first  time  I  heard  of  there  being  any  in 
tention  of  bleeding  his  lordship,  was  on  the 
15th,  when  it  was  proposed  by  Dr.  Bruno,  but 
objected  to  at  first  by  my  master,  who  askec1 
Mr.  Millingen  if  there  was  any  great  reasoi 
for  taking  blood?  The  latter  replied  that  i. 
might  be  of  service,  but  added,  it  might  bt 
deferred  till  the  next  day;  and,  accordingly 
my  master  was  bled  in  the  right  arm  on  the 
evening  of  the  16th,  and  a  pound  of  blood  was 
taken.  1  observed,  at  the  time,  that  it  had  a 
most  inflamed  appearance.  Dr.  Bruno  now 
began  to  say,  that  he  had  frequently  urged  my 
master  to  be  bled,  but  that  he  always  refused. 
A  long  dispute  now  arose  about  the  time  that 
had  been  lost,  and  the  necessity  of  sending 
for  medical  aid  to  Zante  ;  upon  which  I  was 
informed,  for  the  first  time,  that  it  would  be 
of  no  use,  as  my  master  would  be  better,  or 
no  more,  before  the  arrival  of  Dr.  Thomas. 
His  lordship  continued  to  get  worse,  but  Dr. 
Bruno  said,  he  thought  letting  blood  again 
would  save  his  life;  and  I  lost  no  time  in  tell- 
ing my  master  how  necessary  it  was  to  com- 
ply with  the  doctor's  wishes.  To  this  he  re- 
plied, by  saving,  he  feared  they  knew  nothing 
about  his  disorder;  and  then,  stretching  out 
his  arm,  said,  '  Here,  take  my  arm,  and  do 
whatever  you  like.'  His  lordship  continued 
to  get  weaker,  and  on  the  17th  he  was  bled 
twice  in  the  morning,  and  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  ;  the  bleeding  at  both  times  was 
followed  by  fainting  fits,  and  he  would  have 
fallen  down  more  than  once,  had  I  not  caught 
him  in  my  arms.  In  order  to  prevent  suclfan 
accident,  I  took  care  not  to  permit  his  lord- 
ship to  stir  without  supporting  him.  On  this 
day  my  master  said  to  me  twice,  '  I  cannot 
sleep,  and  you  well  know  I  have  not  been 
able  to  sleep  for  more  than  a  week ;  I  know,' 
added  his  lordship,  '  that  a  man  can  only  be 
a  certain  time  without  sleep,  and  then  he  must 
go  mad,  without  any  one  being  able  to  save 
him ;  and  I  would  ten  times  sooner  shoot  my- 
self than  be  mad,  for  I  am  not  afraid  of  dying 
— I  am  more  fit  to  die  than  people  think  !' 

"  I  do  not,  however,  believe  that  his  lord- 
ship had  any  apprehension  of  his  fate  till  the 
day  after  the  18th,  when  he  said,  'I  fear  you 
and  Titawill  be  ill  by  sitting  continually  night 
and  day.'  I  answered,  '  We  shall  never  leave 
your  lordship  till  you  are  better.'  As  my  mas- 
ter had  a  slight  fit  of  delirium  on  the  1 6th,  I  took 
care  to  remove  the  pistol  and  stiletto,  which 
had  hitherto  been  kept  at  his  bedside  in  tho 
night.  On  the  18th,  his  lordship  addressed  me 
frequently,  and  seemed  to  be  very  much  dis- 
satisfied with  his  medical  treatment.  I  then 
said,  '  Do  allow  me  to  send  for  Dr.  Thomas?' 
to  which  he  answered,  '  Do  so,  but  be  quick ; 
I  am  sorry  1  did  not  let  you  do  so  before,  as  1 
am  sure  they  have  mistaken  my  disease. 
Write  yourself,  for  I  know  they  would  not 
like  to  see  other  doctors  here.'  1  did  not  lose 
a  moment  in  obeying  my  master's  orders ;  and 
on  informing  Dr.  Bruno  and  Mr.  Millincen 
of  it,  they  said  it  was  very  right,  as  they  now 
began  to  be  afraid  themselves.  On  returning 
to  my  master's  room,  his  first  words  were 
'  have  you  sent?' — '  I  have,  my  lord.'  was  niy 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON 


XXX\  II 


answer:  \  pon  .vhioh  lio  said,  '  you  have  done 
right,  for  1  shuula  list,  xo  knot?  what  is  the 
matter  with  me.'  Although  his  lordship  djd 
not  appear  to  think  his  dissolution  was  so  near, 
I  could  peiceive  he  was  getting  weaker  every 
hour,  and  he  even  began  to  have  occasional 
fits  of  delirium.  He  afterwards  said,  '  I  now 
begin  to  think  I  am  seriously  ill,  and  in  case 
I  should  be  taken  off  suddenly,  I  wish  to  give 
you  several  directions,  which  I  hope  you  will 
be  particular  in  seeing  executed.'  I  answered 
I  would,  in  case  such  an  event  came  to  pass, 
but  expressed  a  hope  that  he  would  live  many 
years  to  execute  them  much  better  himself 
than  1  could.  To  this  my  master  replied,  '  No, 
it  is  now  nearly  over;'  and  then  added,  'I 
must  tell  you  all,  without  losing  a  moment !'  I 
then  said,  '  Shall  I  go,  my  lord,  and  fetch  pen. 
ink,  and  paper?' — 'Oh,  my  God!  no;  you  will 
Ipse  too  much  time,  and  I  have  it  not  to  spare, 
for  my  time  is  now  short,'  said  his  lordship, 
and  immediately  after,  '  Now,  pay  attention  !' 
His  lordship  commenced  by  saying,  '  You  will 
be  provided  for.'  I  begged  him,  however,  to 
proceed  with  things  of  more  consequence.  He 
then  continued,  '  Oh,  my  poor  dear  child  !  my 
dear  Ada!  my  God!  could  I  but  have  seen  her ! 
Give  her  my  blessing — and  my  dear  sister 
Augusta,  and  her  children  :  and  you  will  go 
to  Lady  Byron,  and  say — tell  her  every  thing, 
— you  are  friends  with  her.'  His  lordship 
seemed  to  be  greatly  affected  at  this  moment. 
Here  my  master's  voice  failed  him,  so  that  I 
could  only  catch  a  word  at  intervals;  but  he 
kept  muttering  something  very  seriously  for 
some  time,  and  would  often  raise  his  voice, 
and  said,  '  Fletcher,  now  if  you  do  not  exe- 
cute every  order  which  I  have  given  you,  I 
will  torment  you  hereafter,  if  possible.'  Here 
I  told  his  lordship,  in  a  state  of  the  greatest 
perplexity,  that  I  had  not  understood  a  word 
of  what  he  said;  to  which  he  replied,  'Oh, 
my  God  !  then  all  is  lost,  for  it  is  now  too  late ! 
Can  it  be  possible  you  have  not  understood 
me?' — '  No,  my  lord,'  said  I,  '  but  I  pray  you 
to  try  and  inform  me  once  more.'  '  How  can 
I  ?'  rejoined  my  master,  '  it  is  now  too  late, 
and  all  is  over!'  I  said,  'Not  our  will,  but 
God's  be  done !' — and  he  answered,  '  Yes,  not 
mine  be  done ! — but  I  will  try.'  His  lordship 
did  indeed  make  several  efforts  to  speak,  but 
could  only  speak  two  or  three  words  at  a  time, 
— such  as  '  My  wife  !  my  child  !  my  sister ! — 
you  know  all — you  must  say  all  —you  know 
my  wishes' — the  rest  was  quite  unintelligible. 
A  consultation  was  now  held  (about  noon), 
when  it  was  determined  to  administer  some 
Peruvian  bark  and  wine.  My  master  had 
now  been  nine  days  without  any  sustenance 
whatever,  except  what  I  have  already  men- 
tioned. With  the  exception  of  a  few  words, 
which  can  only  interest  those  to  whom  they 
were  addressed,  and  which,  if  required,  I  shall 
communicate  to  themselves,  it  was  impossible 
to  understand  any  thing  his  lordship  said  after 
taking  the  bark.  He  expressed  a  wish  to 
sleep.  I  at  one  time  asked  whether  I  should 
call  Mr.  Parry,  to  which  he  replied,  'Yes, 
you  may  call  him.'  Mr.  Parry  desired  him 
to  compose  himself.  He  shed  tears,  and  ap- 


parently sunk  into  a  slumber.  Mr.  Parry 
went  away,  expecting  to  find  him  refreshed 
on  his  return, — but  it  was  the  commencement 
of  the  lethargy  preceding  his  death.  The  last 
words  I  heard  my  master  utter,  were  at  six 
o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  18th,  when  he 
said,  '  I  must  sleep  now;'  upon  which  he  laid 
down,  never  to  rise  again ! — for  he  did  not 
move  hand  or  ^xrt  during  the  following  twen- 
ty-four hours.  His  lordship  appeared,  how- 
ever, to  be  in  a  state  of  suffocation  at  intervals, 
and  had  a  frequent  rattling  in  the  throat ;  on 
these  occasions,  I  called  Tita  to  assist  me  in 
raising  his  head,  and  I  thought  he  seemed  to 
get  quite  stiff.  The  rattling  and  choking  in 
the  throat  took  place  every  half-hour,  and  we 
continued  to  raise  his  head  whenever  the  fit 
came  on,  till  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the 
19th,  when  I  saw  my  master  open  his  eyes  and 
then  shut  them,  but  without  showing  any  symp- 
tom of  pain,  or  moving  hand  or  foot.  '  Oh  ! 
my  God  !'  I  exclaimed,  '  I  fear  his  lordship  is 
gone!'  the  doctors  then  felt  his  pulse,  and  said, 
'  You  are  right — lie  is  gone !'  " 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  a  description 
of  the  universal  sorrow  that  ensued  at  Misso- 
longhi.  Not  only  Mavrocordato  and  his  im- 
mediate circle,  but  the  whole  city  and  all  its 
inhabitants  were,  as  it  seemed,  stunned  by  this 
blow;  it  had  been  so  sudden,  so  unexpected. 
His  illness,  indeed,  had  been  known,  and  for 
the  last  three  days  none  of  his  friends  could 
walk  in  the  streets,  without  anxious  inquiries 
from  every  one,  of  "  How  is  my  lord  ?" 

On  the  day  of  this  melancholy  event,  Prince 
Mavrocordato  issued  a  proclamation  expres- 
sive of  the  deep  and  unfeigned  grief  felt  by  all 
classes,  and  ordering  every  public  demonstra- 
tion of  respect  and  sorrow  to  be  paid  to  the 
memory  of  the  illustrious  deceased,  by  firing 
minute-guns,  closing  all  the  public  offices  ^nd 
shops,  suspending  the  usual  Easter  festivities, 
and  by  a  general  mourning,  and  funeral  pray- 
ers in  all  the  churches.  It  was  resolved  that 
the  body  should  be  embalmed,  and  after  the 
suitable  funeral  honours  had  been  performed, 
should  be  embarked  for  Zante, — thence  to  be 
conveyed  to  England.  Accordingly  the  med- 
ical men  opened  the  body  and  embalmed  it, and 
having  enclosed  the  heart,  and  brain,  and  in- 
testines in  separate  vessels,  they  placed  it  in 
a  chest  lined  with  tin,  as  there  were  no  means 
of  procuring  a  leaden  coffin  capable  of  hold- 
ing the  spirits  necessary  for  its  preservation 
on  the  voyage.  Dr.  Bruno  drew  up  an  ac- 
count of  the  examination  of  the  body,  by 
which  it  appeared  his  lordship's  death  had 
been  caused  by  an  inflammatory  fever.  Dr. 
•Meyer,  a  Swiss  physician,  who  was  present, 
and  had  accidentally  seen  Madame  de  Stael 
after  her  death,  stated,  that  the  formation  o; 
the  brain  in  both  these  illustrious  persons  wa» 
extremely  similar,  but  that  Lord  Byron  haJ 
a  much  greater  quantity. 

On  the  22d  of  April,  1824,  in  the  midst  of 
his  own  brigade,  of  the  troops  of  the  govei  n 
ment,  and  of  the  whole  population,  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  officers  of  his  corps,  relieved 
occasionally  by  other  Greeks,  the  mosr  pre- 
cious portion  of  his  bonouied  len.ainr  VPT* 


XXXV111 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


carried  to  the  church,  where  lie  the  bodies  of 
Marco  Botzaris  and  of  General  Norman n. 
There  they  were  laid  down :  the  coffin  was  a 
rude,  ill-constructed  chest  of  wood ;  a  black 
mantle  served  for  a  pall,  and  over  it  were 
placed  a  helmet,  a  sword,  and  a  crown  of  lau- 
rel. But  no  funeral  pomp  could  have  left  the 
impression,  nor  spoken  the  feelings,  of  this 
simple  ceremony.  The  wretchedness  and  deso- 
lation of  the  place  itself;  the  wild  and  half- 
civilized  warriors  present;  their  deep-felt,  un- 
affected grief;  the  fond  recollections ;  the  dis- 
appointed hopes ;  the  anxieties  and  sad  pre- 
sentiments which  might  be  read  on  every 
countenance — all  contributed  to  form  a  scene 
more  moving  more  truly  affecting,  than  per- 
haps was  ever  before  witnessed  round  the  grave 
of  a  great  man. 

When  the  funeral  service  was  over,  the  bier 
was  left  in  the  middle  of  the  church,  where  it 
remained  until  the  evening  of  the  next  day, 
and  was  guarded  by  a  detachment  of  his  own 
brigade.  The  church  was  incessantly  crowd- 
ed by  those  who  came  to  honour  and  to  regret 
the  benefactor  of  Greece.  In  the  evening  of 
the  23d,  the  bier  was  privately  carried  back 
by  his  officers  to  his  own  house.  The  coffin 
was  not  closed  till  the  29th  of  the  month. 

Immediately  after  his  death,  his  countenance 
had  an  air  of  calmness,  mingled  with  a  se- 
verity, that  seemed  gradually  to  soften,  and 
the  whole  expression  was  truly  sublime. 

On  May  2d,  the  remains  of  Lord  Byron 
were  embarked,  under  a  salute  from  the  guns 
of  the  fortress.  "  How  different,"  exclaims 
Count  Gamba,  "from  that  which  had  wel- 
comed the  arrival  of  Byron  only  four  months 
ago!"  After  a  passage  of  three  days,  the  ves- 
sel reached  Zante,  and  the  precious  deposit 
was  placed  in  the  quarantine  house.  Here 
some  additional  precautions  were  taken  to  en- 
sure its  safe  arrival  in  England,  by  providing 
another  case  for  the  body.  On  May  the  10th, 
Colonel  Stanhope  arrived  at  Zante,  from  the 
Morea.  and,  as  he  was  on  his  way  back  to 
England,  he  took  charge  of  Lord  Byron's  re- 
mains, and  embarked  with  them  on  board  the 
Florida.  On  the  25th  of  May  she  sailed  from 
Zante,  on  the  29th  of  June  entered  the  Downs, 
and  from  thence  proceeded  to  Stangate  creek, 
to  perform  quarantine,  where  she  arrived  on 
Thursday,  July  1st. 

John  Cam  Hobhouse,  Esq.  and  John  Han- 
son, Esq.  Lord  Byron's  executors,  after  hav- 
ing proved  his  will,  claimed  the  body  from  the 
Florida,  and  under  their  directions  it  was  re- 
moved to  the  house  of  Sir  Edward  Knatch- 
bull,  No.  20,  Great  George-street,  West- 
minster. 

It  was  announced,  from  time  to  time,  that 
the  body  of  Lord  Byron  was  to  be  exhibited 
in  state,  and  the  progress  of  the  embellish- 
ments of  the  poet's  bier  was  recorded  in  the 
pages  of  a  hundred  publications.  They  were 
at  length  completed,  and  to  separate  the  curi- 
osity of  the  poor  from  the  admiration  of  the 
rich,  the  latter  were  indulged  with  tickets  of 
admission,  and  a  day  was  set  apart  for  them 
ic  no  and  wonder  over  the  decked  room  and 
!l»e  tojblazoned  bier  Peers  and  peeresses, 


priests,  poets,  and  politicians,  came  in  gilded! 
chariots,  and  in  hired  hacks,  to  gaze  upon  the 
splendour  of  the  funeral  preparations,  and  tc 
see  in  how  rich  and  how  vain  a  shroud  the 
body  of  the  immortal  bard  had  been  hid. 
Those  idle  trappings,  in  which  rank  seems  to 
mark  its  altitude  above  the  vulgar,  belonged 
to  the  state  of  the  peer,  rather  than  to  the  state 
of  the  poet;  genius  required  no  such  attrac- 
tions, and  all  this  magnificence  served  only  to 
distract  our  regard  from  the  man,  whose  in- 
spired tongue  was  now  silenced  for  ever. 
Who  cared  for  Lord  Byron,  the  peer  and  the 
privy-counsellor,  with  his  coronet,  and  his 
long  descent  from  princes  on  one  side,  and 
from  heroes  on  both  ?  and  who  did  not  care 
for  George  Gordon  Byron,  the  poet,  who  has 
charmed  us,  and  will  charm  our  descendants, 
with  his  deep  and  impassioned  verse?  The 
homage  was  rendered  to  genius,  not  surely  to 
rank — for  lord  can  be  stamped  on  any  clay, 
but  inspiration  can  only  be  impressed  on  the 
finest  metal. 

A  few  select  friends  and  admirers  followed 
Lord  Byron  to  the  grave — his  coronet  was 
borne  before  him,  and  there  were  many  indi- 
cations of  his  rank ;  but,  save  the  assembled 
multitude,  no  indications  of  his  genius.  In 
conformity  with  a  singular  practice  of  the 
great,  a  long  train  of  their  empty  carriages 
followed  the  mourning-coaches— mocking  the 
dead  with  idle  state,  and  impeding  with  barren 
pageantry  the  honester  sympathy  of  the  crowd. 
Where  were  the  owners  of  those  machines  ol 
sloth  and  luxury — where  were  the  men  of 
rank,  among  whose  dark  pedigrees  Lord  By- 
ron threw  the  light  of  his  genius,  and  lent  the 
brows  of  nobility  a  halo  to  which  they  were 
strangers?  Where  were  the  great  whigs? 
where  were  the  illustrious  tones?  could  a 
mere  difference  in  matters  of  human  belief 
keep  those  fastidious  persons  away  ?  But,above 
all,  where  were  the  friends  with  whom  wed- 
lock had  united  him  ?  On  his  desolate  corpse 
no  wife  looked,  no  child  shed  a  tear.  We  have 
no  wish  to  set  ourselves  up  as  judges  in  do- 
mestic infelicities,  and  we  are  willing  to  be- 
lieve they  were  separated  in  such  a  way  as  to 
render  conciliation  hopeless  ;  but  who  could 
stand  and  look  on  his  pale  manly  face,  and  his 
dark  locks,  which  early  sorrows  were  making 
thin  and  gray,  without  feeling  that,  gifted  as 
he  was,  with  a  soul  above  the  mark  of  other 
men,  his  domestic  misfortunes  called  for  our 
pity,  as  surely  as  his  genius  called  for  our  ad- 
miration ? 

As  the  cavalcade  proceeded  through  the 
streets  of  London,  a  fine-looking  honest  tar 
was  observed  to  walk  near  the  hearse  uncov- 
ered, throughout  the  morning,  and  on  being 
asked  bv  a" stranger  whether  he  formed  part 
of  the  funeral  cortege,  he  replied,  he  came 
there  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  deceased,  with 
whom  he  had  served  in  the  Levant,  when  he 
made  the  tour  of  the  Grecian  Islands.  This 
poor  fellow  was  kindly  offered  a  place  by  some 
of  the  servants  who  were  behind  the  carriage, 
but  he  said  he  was  strong,  and  had  rather  walk 
near  the  hearse. 

It  was  not  'ill  Friday,  July   16th,  that  the 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


xxxix 


into  ment  took  place.  Lord  Byron  was  buried 
in  the  family  vault,  at  .the  village  of  Huck- 
nall,  eight  miles  beyond  Nottingham,  and 
within  two  miles  of  the  venerable  abbey  of 
Newstead.  He  was  accompanied  to  the  grave 
by  crowds  of  persons  eager  to  show  this  last 
testimony  of  respect  to  his  memory.  In  one 
of  his  earlier  poems,  he  had  expressed  a  wish 
that  his  dust  might  mingle  with  his  mother's, 
and,  in  compliance  with  this  wish,  his  coffin 
was  placed  in  the  vault  next  to  hers.  It  was 
twenty  minutes  past  four  o'clock,  on  Friday, 
July  1 6th,  1824,  when  the  ceremony  was  con- 
cluded, when  the  tomb  closed  for  ever  on  By- 
ron, and  when  his  friends  were  relieved  from 
every  care  concerning  him,  save  that  of  doing 
justice  to  his  memory,  and  of  cherishing  his 
fame. 

The  following  inscription  was  placed  on 
the  coffin : — 

"  George  Gordon  Noel  Byron, 

Lord  Byron, 

of  Rochdale, 

Born  in  London,1 

Jan.  22,  1788, 

died  at  Missolonghi, 

in  Western  Greece, 

April  19th,  1824." 

1  Mi.  Dallas  saya  Dover  which  a  undoubtedly  correct 


An  urn  accompanied  the  coffin,  and  on  it 
was  inscribed : 

"  Within  this  urn  are  deposited  the  heart, 

brain,  etc. 
of  the  deceased  Lord  Byron." 

An  elegant  Grecian  tablet  of  white  marble, 
has  been  placed  in  the  chancel  of  the  Hucknall 
church.  We  subjoin  a  copy  of  the  inscrip- 
tion. 

The  words  are  in  Roman  capitals,  and  di- 
vided into  lines,  as  under: 

IN    THE    VAULT    BENEATH, 
WHERE  MANY  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS  AND  HIS  MOTHER 

ARE    BURIED, 
LIE    THE    REMAINS    OF 

GEORGE  GORDON  NOEL  BYRON, 

LORD    BYRON,  OF    ROCHDALE, 
IN    THE    COUNTY    OF    LANCASTER; 

THE  AUTHOR  OF  "CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE." 
HE  WAS    BORN    IN    LONDON,  ON  THE 

22D    OF    JANUARY,  1788. 
HE  DIED  AT  MISSOLONGHI,  IN  WESTERN  GREECE, 

ON  THE  19TH  OF  APRIL,  1824, 

ENGAGED  IN  THE  GLORIOUS   ATTEMPT  TO  RE  STORK 

THAT  COUNTRY  TO  HER  ANCIENT  FREEDOM 

AND    RENOWN. 


HIS   SISTER,  THE  HONOURABLE 

AUGUSTA    MARIA    LEIGH, 
PLACED   THIS   TABLET   TO   HIS   MEMOBF. 


THE 


COMPLETE  WORKS 


$  of  Jftrleness, 


MJJT'  ap  fit  /toX'  a"vt£,  y.f\rt  TI  vcua. 

HOMER.  //i(«f.  10. 

He  whistled  as  he  went  for  want  of  thought. 
DRYDEN. 


1O  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  FREDERICK,  EARL  OF  CARLISLE 

KNIGHT    OF    THE    GARTER,  etc., 

THESE  POEMS  ARE  INSCRIBED, 

BV    HI8    OBLIGED    WARD,    AND    AFFECTIONATE    KINSMAN, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


ON  LEAVING  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 


Why  dost  thou  build  the  hall  7  Son  or  the  winged  days ! 
riiou  lookest  from  thy  tower  to-day ;  yet  a  few  years,  and  the 
Dlast  of  the  desert  comes ;  it  howls  in  thy  empty  court. 

OSSIAN. 


THRODGH  thy  battlements,  Newstead,  the  hollow  winds 

whistle ; 

Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  art  gone  to  decay; 
in  thy  once  smiling  garden,  the  hemlock  and  thistle 
Have  choked  up  the  rose  which  late  bloom'd  in  the 
way. 

Of  the  mail-cover'd  barons  who,  proudly,  to  battle 
Led  their  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain, 

The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every  blast  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain. 

No  more  doth  old  Robert,  with  harp-stringing  numbers, 
Raise  a  flame  in  the  breast,  for  the  war-laurel'd  wreath; 

Near  Askalon's  Towers  John  of  Honstan1  slumbers, 
Unnerved  is  the  hand  of  his  minstrel  by  death. 

Paul  and  Hubert  too  sleep,  in  the  valley  of  Cressy ; 

For  the  safety  of  Edward  and  England  they  fell ; 
My  fathers !  the  tears  of  your  country  redress  ye ; 

How  you  fought !  how  you  died !  still  her  annals  can 
ML 

On  Marston,1  with  Rupert J  'gainst  traitors  contending, 
Four  brothers  enrich'd  with  their  blood  the  bleak  field ; 


1  HorUtan  Castle,  in  Deroyihire,  an  ancient  seat  of  the 
Byron  family. 

t  The  battle  of  Marston  moor,  where  the  adherents  of 
Charles  I.  were  defeated. 

3  Son  ot'the  Elector  Palatine,  and  related  to  Charles  I.  He 
tfterwards  commanded  the  fleet  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II. 


For  the  rights  of  a  monarch,  their  cou.itry  defending. 
Till  death  their  attachment  to  royalty  seal'd. 

Shades  of  heroes,  farewell !  your  descendant  departing 
From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors  bids  you  adieu  ! 

Abroad  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  imparting 
New  courage,  he  '11  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 
'T  is  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret ; 

Far  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  erruilation, 
The  fame  of  his  fathers  he  ne'er  can  forget. 

That  fame,  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish. 

He  vows  that  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown , 
Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you  will  he  perish ; 

When  decay'd,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  .your  own 

1803. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  /RIEND. 


vpiv  ptv  tAa/jTtj  cvi  ^ooiatv  ttaui 
LAERTIUS. 


OH,  Friend !  for  ever  loved,  for  ever  dear ! 
What  fruitless  tears  have  bathed  thy  hnnour'd  bier 
What  sighs  re-echo'd  to  thy  parting  breath, 
While  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  dearu ' 
Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course  ; 
Could  sighs  avert  his  dart's  relentless  force  , 
Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  a  short  delay. 
Or  beauty  charm  the  spectre  from  his  prev  : 
Thou  still  had'st  lived,  to  bless  my  achins  sijrm. 
Thy  comrade's  honour,  and  thy  friend'*  delight 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


If,  }  et   t\iy  ge*;t  e  spirit  hover  nigh 
The  spot,  where  now  thy  mouldering  ashes  lie, 
Here  wilt  thou  tread,  recorded  on  my  heart, 
A  grief  too  deep  to  trust  the  sculptor's  art. 
No  murble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
Cut  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weop ; 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 
What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  line, 
A  father's  sorrows  cannot  equal  mine  ! 
Though  none,  like  thee,  his  dying  hour  will  cheer, 
if  et,  other  offspring  sooth  his  anguish  here : 
But  who  with  me  shall  hold  thy  former  place? 
Thine  image  what  new  friendship  can  efface  ? 
Ah,  none !   a  father's  tears  will  cease  to  flow, 
Time  will  assuage  an  infant  brother's  woe ; 
To  all,  save  one,  is  consolation  known, 
While  solitary  Friendship  sighs  alone. 

1803. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

WHEN  to  their  airy  hall  my  fathers'  voice 
Shall  call  my  spirit,  joyful  in  their  choice ; 
When,  poised  upon  the  gale,  my  form  shall  ride, 
Or,  dark  in  mist,  descend  the  mountain's  side ; 
Oh !  may  my  shade  behold  no  sculptured  urns, 
To  mark  the  spot  where  earth  to  earth  returns : 
No  lengthen'd  scroll,  no  praise-encumber'd  stone ; 
My  epitaph  shall  be  my  name  alone : 
If  that  with  honour  fail  to  crown  my  clay, 
Oh '.  may  no  other  fame  my  deeds  repay ; 
TW,  only  that,  shall  single  out  the  spot, 
Bv  that  rememl>er'd,  or  with  that  forgot. 


1303. 


THE  TEAR. 


O  lacrymarum  ferns,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo ;  quater 
Felix!  in  imo  qui  gcatentem 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  eensH. 


GRAY. 


WHEW  Friendship  or  Love 

Our  sympathies  move ; 
When  Truth  in  a  glance  should  appear ; 

The  lips  may  beguile, 

With  a  dimple  or  smile, 
But  the  test  of  affection 's  a  Tear. 

Too  oft  is  a  smile 

But  the  hypocrite's  wile, 
To  mask  detestation  or  fear ; 

Give  me  the  soft  sigh, 

Whilst  the  soul-telling  eye 
Is  dimm'd,  for  a  time,  with  a  Tear. 

Mild  charity's  glow, 

To  us  mortals  below, 
Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear ; 

Compassion  will  melt, 

Where  this  virtue  is  felt,  . 

And  its  dew  is  diffused  in  a  Tear 

The  man  doom'd  to  sail, 
With  the  blast  of  the  gaie, 
I  hrough  bifiows  Atlantic  to  steer ; 


As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave, 
Which  may  soon  be  his  grave, 

OTt- 

The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear. 

The  soldier  braves  death, 

For  a  fanciful  wreath, 
In  Glory's  romantic  career ; 

But  he  raises  the  foe, 

When  in  battle  laid  low, 
And  bathes  every  wound  with  a  Tear. 

If,  with  high-bounding  pride, 

He  return  to  his  bride, 
Renouncing  the  gore-crimson'd  spear , 

All  his  toils  are  repaid, 

When,  embracing  the  maid, 
From  her  eyelid  he  kisses  the  Tear. 

Sweet  scene  of  my  youth, 

Seat  of  Friendship  and  T  uth, 
Where  love  chased  each  fast-lteeting  year ; 

Loth  to  leave  thee,  I  mourn'd, 

For  a  last  look  I  tum'd, 
But  thy  spire  was  scarce  seen  through  a  Teas. 

Though  my  vows  I  can  pour, 

To  my  Mary  no  more, 
My  Mary,  to  Love  once  so  dear ; 

In  the  shade  of  her  bower, 

I  remember  the  hour, 
She  rewarded  those  vows  with  a  Tear. 

By  another  possest, 

May  she  ever  live  blest, 
Her  name  still  my  heart  must  revere  j 

With  a  sigh  I  resign, 

What  I  once  thought  was  mine 
And  forgive  her  decei'  with  a  Tear. 

Ye  friends  '      ,,y  heart, 

Ere  from  you  I  depart, 
This  hope  to  my  breast  is  most  near ; 

If  again  we  shall  meet, 

In  this  rural  retreat, 
May  we  meet,  as  we  part,  with  a  Tear. 

When  my  soul  wings  her  flight, 

To  the  regions  of  night, 
And  my  corse  shall  recline  on  its  bier ; 

As  ye  pass  by  the  tomb, 

Where  my  ashes  consume, 
Oh !  moisten  their  dust  with  a  Tear. 

May  no  marble  bestow 

The  splendour  of  woe, 
Which  the  children  of  vanity  rear ; 

No  fiction  of  fame 

Shall  blazon  my  name, 
All  I  ask,  all  I  wish,  is  a  Tear. 

1806. 


AN  OCCASIONAL  PROLOGUE, 

Delivered  previous  to  the  performance  of  "  The  7FW 

of  Fortune1''  at  a  private  theatre. 

SINCE  the  refinement  of  this  polish'd  age 
Has  swept  immoral  raillery  from  the  stage ; 
Since  taste  has  now  expunged  licentious  wit, 
Which  stamp'd  disgrace  on  all  an  author  writ  ; 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


Since,  now,  to  please  with  purer  scenes  we  seek, 

Nor  dare  to  call  the  blush  from  Beauty's  cheek  ; 

Oh !  let  the  modest  Muse  some  pity  claim, 

And  meet  indulgence  though  she  find  not  fame. 

Still,  not  for  her  alone  we  wish  respect, 

Others  appear  more  conscious  of  defect; 

To-night,  no  Veteran  Roscii  you  behold, 

In  all  the  art*  of  scenic  action  old ; 

No  COOKE,  no  KEMBLE,  can  salute  you  here, 

No  SIDDONS  draw  the  sympathetic  tear  ; 

To-night,  you  throng  to  witness  the  debut 

( )f  embryo  Actors,  to  the  drama  new. 

Here,  then,  our  almost  unfledged  wings  we  try ; 

Clip  not  our  pinions,  ere  the  birds  can  fly ; 

Failing  in  this  our  first  attempt  to  soar, 

Drooping,  alas !   we  fall  to  rise  no  more. 

Not  one  poor  trembler,  only,  fear  betrays, 

Who  hopes,  yet  almost  dreads,  to  meet  your  praise, 

But  all  our  Dramatis  Personae  wait, 

In  fond  suspense,  this  crisis  of  their  fate. 

No  venal  views  our  progress  can  retard, 

Your  generous  plaudits  are  our  sole  reward  5 

For  these,  each  Hero  all  his  power  displays, 

Each  timid  Heroine  shrinks  before  your  gaze: 

Surely,  the  last  will  some  protection  find, 

None  to  the  softer  sex  can  prove  unkind : 

Whilst  Youth  and  Beauty  form  the  female  shield, 

The  sternest  Censor  to  the  fair  must  yield. 

Yet  should  our  feeble  efforts  nought  avail, 

Should,  after  all,  our  best  endeavours  fail ; 

Still,  let  some  mercy  in  your  bosoms  live, 

And,  if  you  can't  applaud,  at  least  forgive. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR  FOX. 

The   following    illiberal    Impromptu    appeared    in    a 

Morning  Paper, 

OUR  Nation's  foes  lament,  on  Fox's  death, 
But  bless  the  hour  when  PITT  resign'd  his  breath ; 
These  feelings  wide  let  Sense  and  Truth  undue, 
We  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  it  due. 
To  which  the  Author  of  these  Pieces  sent  the  follovnng 

Reply. 

OH!  factious  viper !  whose  envenom'd  tooth 
Would  mangle  still  the  dead,  perverting  truth  ; 
What,  though  our  "  nation's  foes"  lament  the  fate, 
With  generous  feeling,  of  the  good  and  great  ; 
Shall  dastard  tongues  essay  to  blast  the  name 
Of  him,  whose  meed  exists  in  endless  fame '/ 
When  PITT  expired,  in  plenitude  of  power, 
Though  ill  success  obscured  his  dying  hour, 
Pity  her  dewy  wings  before  him  spread, 
For  nobce  spirits  "  war  not  with  the  dead." 
His  friends,  in  tears,  a  last  sad  requiem  gave, 
As  all  his  errors  slumber'd  in  the  grave ; 
He  sunk,  an  Atlas,  bending  'neath  the  weight 
Of  cares  o'erwhelming  our  conflicting  state ; 
When,  lo !  a  Hercules,  in  Fox,  appear'd, 
*Vho,  fo.  a  time,  the  ruin'd  fabric  rear'd ; 
He,  too,  is  fall'n,  who  Britain's  loss  supplied ; 
With  him,  our  fast-reviving  hopes  have  died : 
Not  one  great  people  only  raise  his  urn, 
All  Europe's  far-extended  regions  mourn. 
•'  These  feelings  wide  let  Sense  and  Truth  undue, 
"l«y  gtvc  ai<s  palm  where  Justice  points  it  due ;" 


Yet  let  not  canker'd  calumny  assail, 

Or  round  our  statesman  wind  her  gloomy  veil. 

Fox !  o'er  whose  corse  a  mourning  world  m*,t  weeo 

Whose  dear  remains  in  honour'd  marble  sleep 

For  whom,  at  last,  e'en  hostile  nations  groan, 

While  friends  and  foes  alike  his  talents  own ; 

Fox  shall,  in  Britain's  future  annals,  shine, 

Nor  e'en  to  PITT  the  patriot's  palm  resign, 

Which  Envy,  wearing  Candour's  sacred  mask, 

For  PITT,  and  PITT  alone,  has  dared  to  ask. 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY. 

With  the  Poems  of  Camoens. 

This  votive  pledge  of  fond  esteem, 

Perhaps,  dear  girl !  for  me  thou  'It  prize  ; 
It  sings  of  Love's  enchanting  dream, 

A  theme  we  never  can  despise. 
Who  blames  it  but  the  envious  fool, 

The  old  and  disappointed  maid  ? 
Or  pupil  of  the  prudish  school, 

In  single  sorrow  doom'd  to  fade. 
Then  read,  dear  girl,  with  feeling  read, 

For  thou  wilt  ne'er  be  one  of  ihose  ; 
To  thee  in  vain  I  shall  not  plead, 

In  pity  for  the  Poet's  woes. 
He  was,  in  sooth,  a  genuine  bard  ; 

His  was  no  faint  fictitious  flame  ; 
Like  his,  may  love  be  thy  reward, 

But  not  thy  hapless  fate  the  same. 


TO  M***. 

OH  !  did  those  eyes,  instead  of  fire, 

With  bright,  but  mild  affection  shine ; 
Though  they  might  kindle  less  desire, 

Love,  more  than  mortal,  would  be  thine. 
For  thou  art  form'd  so  heavenly  fair, 

Howe'er  those  orbs  may  wildly  beam, 
We  must  admire,  but  still  despair : 

That  fatal  glance  forbids  esteem. 
When  Nature  stamp'd  thy  beauteous  birth, 

So  much  perfection  in  thee  shone, 
She  fear'd  that,  too  divine  for  earth, 

The  skies  might  claim  thee  for  their  own 
Therefore,  to  guard  her  dearest  work, 

Lest  angels  might  dispute  the  prize, 
She  bade  a  secret  lightning  lurk 

Within  those  once  celestial  eyes. 
These  might  the  boldest  sylph  appal, 

When  gleaming  with  meridian  blaze  ! 
Thy  beauty  must  enrapture  all, 

But  who  can  dare  thine  ardent  gaze  7 
'T  is  said,  that  Berenice's  hair 

In  stars  adorns  the  vault  of  heaven , 
But  they  would  ne'er  permit  thee  there, 

Thou  would'st  so  far  outshine  the  seven. 
For,  did  those  eyes  as  planets  roll, 

Thy  sister  lights  would  scarce  appear: 
E'en  suns,  which  systems  now  control, 

Would  twinkle  dimly  through  tbeir  spheu 
.80* 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


TO  WOMAN. 

!  experience  might,  have  told  me, 
That  aL  must  love  thee  who  behold  thee, 
Surely,  experience  might  have  taught, 
Thy  firmest  promisss  are  nought ; 
But,  placed  in  all  thy  charms  before  me, 
All  1  forget,  but  to  adore  thee. 
Oh !  Memory !   thou  choicest  blessing ; 
When  jom'd  with  hope,  when  still  poss 
But  how  much  cursed  by  every  lover, 
When  hope  is  fled,  and  passion's  over. 
Woman,  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver, 
How  prompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her ! 
How  throbs  the  pulse,  when  first  we  view 
The  eye  that  rolls  in  glossy  blue, 
Or  sparkles  black,  or  mildly  throws 
A  beam  from  under  hazel  brows ! 
How  quick  we  credit  every  oath, 
And  hear  her  plight  the  willing  troth ! 
Fondly  we  hope 't  will  last  for  aye, 
When,  lo !  she  changes  in  a  day. 
This  record  will  for  ever  stand, 
"Woman !  thy  vows  are  traced  in  sand."1 


TO  M.  S.  G. 
WHEN  I  dream  that  you  love  me,  you'll  surely  forgive, 

Extend  not  your  anger  to  sleep  ; 
For  in  visions  alone,  your  affection  can  live ; 

I  rise,  and  it  leaves  me  to  weep. 
Then,  Morpheus !   envelope  my  faculties  fast, 

Shed  o'er  me  your  languor  benign ; 
Should  Jie  dream  of  to-night  but  resemble  the  last ; 

What  rapture  «elestial  is  mine ! 
They  tell  us,  that  slumber,  the  sister  of  death, 

Mortality's  emblem  is  given  ; 
To  fate  how  I  long  to  resign  my  frail  breath, 

If  this  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven ! 
Ah !  frown  not,  sweet  Lady,  unbend  your  soft  brow, 

Nor  deem  me  too  happy  in  this  ; 
If  I  sin  «n  my  dream,  I  atone  for  it  now, 

Thus  doom'd  but  to  gaze  upon  bliss. 
.Though  in  visions,  sweet  Lady,  perhaps,  you  may  smile, 

Oh !  think  not  my  penance  deficient ; 
Whe«  dreams  of  your  presence  my  slumbers  beguile, 

To  awake  will  be  torture  sufficient. 


SONG. 
WHEN  I  roved,  a  young  Highlander,  o'er  the  dark  heath, 

And  climb'd  thy  steep  summit,  oh !  Morven  of  Snow,2 
To  gaze  on  the  torrent  that  thunder'd  beneath, 

Or  the  mist  of  the  tempest  that  gather'd  below,* 

1  The  last  line  is  almost  a  literal  translation  from  the  Spanish 
proverb. 

2  Morven,  a  lofty  mountain  in  Aberdeenshire :  "  Gormal  of 
Bnow."  is  an  expression  frequpntly  to  be  found  in  Ossian. 

3  This  will  no!  appear  extraordinary  to  those  who  have  been 
accustomed  to  the  mountains    it  is  by  no  means  uncommon  on 
attaining  the  top  of  Ben  e  vis.  Run  y  bourrt,  etc.  to  perceive, 
between  ihn  summit  and  (ne  valley,  clouds  pouring  down  rain, 
and.  occasionally,  accompanied  by  lightning,  while  the  spec- 
tator literal  *  looks  down  un  the  storm,  perfectly  secure  from 


Untutor'd  by  science,  a  stranger  to  fear, 

And  rude  as  the  rocks  where  my  infancy  grew, 

No  feeling,  save  one,  to  my  bosom  was  dear, 

Need  I  say,  my  sweet  Mary,  't  was  centred  in  you  7 

Yet,  it  could  not  be  Love,  for  I  knew  not  the  name ; 

What  passion  can  dwell  in  the  heart  of  a  child  ? 
But,  still,  I  perceive  an  emotion  the  same 

As  I  fe.lt,  when  a  boy,  on  the  crag-cover'd  wild : 
One  image,  alone,  on  my  bosom  imprest, 

I  loved  my  bleak  regions,  nor  panted  for  new  ; 
And  few  were  my  wants,  for  my  wishes  were  blest, 

And  pure  were  my  thoughts,  for  my  soul  was  w;th  you 

I  arose  with  the  dawn ;  with  my  dog  as  my  guide, 

From  mountain  to  mountain  I  bounded  along, 
I  breasted  '  the  billows  of  Dee's  2  rushing  tide, 

And  heard  at  a  distance  the  Highlander's  song : 
At  eve,  on  my  heath-cover'd  couch  of  repose. 

No  dreams,  save  of  Mary,  were  spread  to  my  view 
And  warm  to  the  skies  my  devotions  arose, 

For  the  first  of  my  prayers  was  a  blessing  on  you. 

I  left  my  bleak  home,  and  my  visions  are  gone, 

The  mountains  are  vanish'd,  my  youth  is  no  more ; 
As  the  last  of  my  race,  I  must  wither  alone, 

And  delight  but  in  days  I  have  witness'd  before. 
Ah  !  splendour  has  rais'd,  but  embiuer'd  my  lot, 

More  dear  were  the  scenes  which  my  infancy  knew 
Though  my  hopes  may  have  fail'd-,  yet  they  are  not  forgot, 

Though  cold  is  my  heart,  still  it  lingers  with  you. 

When  I  see  some  dark  hill  point  its  crest  U>  the  sky, 

I  think  of  the  rocks  that  o'ershadow  Colbleen  ; 
When  I  see  the  soft  blue  of  a  love-speaking  eyn, 

I  think  of  those  eyes  that  endear'd  the  rude  scene  ; 
When,  haply,  some  light  waving  locks  I  beheld, 

That  faintly  resemble  my  Mary's  in  hue, 
I  think  on  the  long  flowing  ringlets  of  gold, 

The  locks  that  were  sacred  to  beauty,  and  you. 

Yet  the  day  may  arrive,  when  the  mountains,  once  mom, 

Shall  rise  to  my  sight,  in  their  mantles  of  snow : 
But  while  these  soar  above  me,  unchanged  as  before, 

Will  Mary  be  there  to  receive  me  ?  ah,  no !    • 
Adieu !  then,  ye  hills,  where  my  childhood  was  bred, 

Thou  sweet  flowing  Dee,  to  thy  waters  adieu  ! 
No  home  in  the  forest  shall  shelter  my  head ; 

Ah !  Mary,  what  home  coukl  be  mine,  but  with  you  ? 


TO  *  +  *. 

OH  !  yes,  I  will  own  we  were  dear  to  each  other, 
The  friendships  of  childhood,  though   fleeting,    are 
true  ; 

The  love  which  you  felt  was  the  love  of  a  brother, 
Nor  less  the  affection  I  cherish'd  for  you. 

But  Friendship  can  vary  her  gentle  dominion, 
The  attachment  of  years  in  a  moment  expires  ; 

Like  Love  too,  she  moves  on  a  swift-waving  pinion, 
But  glows  not,  like  Love,  with  unquenchable  fires. 


1  "Breasting  the  lofty  surge."— Sh.ikspt.are. 

2  The  Dee  is  a  beautiful  river,  which  rises  near  Mar  *x><lgu 
and  fulls  into  the  sea  at  New  Aberdeen. 

3  Colbleen  is  a  mountain  near  the  verge  of  t'*»  VJ  enia  ds 
not  far  from  the  ruins  of  Dee  Castle. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


Full  oft  have  we  wander'd  through  Ida  together, 

And  blest  were  the  scenes  of  our  youth,  I  allow ; 
In  the  spring  of  our  life,  how  serene  is  the  weather  ! 

But  winter's  rude  tempests  are  gathering  now. 
No  more  with  Affection  shall  Mpmory  blending 

The  wonted  delights  of  our  childhood  retrace ; 
When  Pride  steels  the  bosom,  the  heart  is  unbending, 

And  what  would  be  Justice  appears  a  disgrace. 
However,  dear  S ,  for  I  still  must  esteem  you, 

The  few  whom  I  love  I  can  never  upbraid, 
The  chance,  which  has  lost,  may  in  future  redeem  you, 

Repentance  will  cancel  the  vow  you  have  made. 
[  will  not  complain,  and  though  chill'd  is  affection, 

With  me  no  corroding  resentment  shall  live  ; 
My  bosom  is  calm'd  by  the  simple  reflection, 

That  both  may  be  wrong,  and  that  both  should 

forgive. 
You  knew  that  my  soul,  that  my  heart,  my  existence, 

If  danger  demanded,  were  wholly  your  own ; 
You  knew  me  unalter'd,  by  years  or  by  distance, 

Devoted  to  love  and  to  'Hendship  alone. 
You  knew, — but  away  with  the  vain  retrospection, 

The  bond  of  affection  no  longer  endures  ; 
Too  late  you  may  droop  o'er  the  fond  recollection, 

And  sigh  for  the  friend  who  was  formerly  yours. 
For  the  present,  we  part, — I  will  hope  not  for  ever, 

For  time  and  regret  will  restore  you  at  last ; 
To  forget  our  dissension  we  both  should  endeavour ; 

I  ask  no  atonement,  but  days  like  the  past. 


TO  MARY, 

On  receiving  her  picture. 

THIS  faint  resemblance  of  thy  charms, 

Though  strong  as  mortal  art  could  give, 
My  constant  heart  of  fear  disarms, 

Revives  my  hopes,  and  bids  me  live. 
Here,  I  can  trace  the  locks  of  gold, 

Which  round  thy  snowy  forehead  wave ; 
The  cheeks,  which  sprung  from  Beauty's  mould, 

The  lips,  which  made  me  Beauty's  slave. 
Here,  I  can  trace ah  no !  that  eye, 

Whose  azure  floats  in  liquid  fire, 
Must  all  the  painter's  art  defy, 

And  bid  him  from  the  task  retire. 
Here  I  behold  its  beauteous  hue, 

But  where's  the  beam  so  sweetly  straying? 
Which  cave  a  lustre  to  its  blue, 

Like  Luna  o'er  the  ocean  playing. 
Sweet  copy  !  far  more  dear  to  me, 

Lifeless,  unfeeling  as  thou  art, 
Than  all  the  living  forms  could  be, 

Save  her  who  placed  thee  next  my  heart. 
She  placed  it,  sad,  with  needless  fear, 

Lest  time  might  shake  my  wavering  soul, 
Unconscious,  that  her  image,  there, 

Held  every  sense  in  fast  control. 
I'hro'  hours,  thro'  years,  thro'  time,  'twill  cheer; 

My  hope,  iu  gloomy  moments,  raise  ; 
In  life's  last  conflict 't  will  appear, 

And  meet  my  fond  expiring  gaze. 


DAM^ETAS. 

IN  law  an  infant, '  and  in  years  a  boy, 
In  mind  a  slave  to  every  vicious  joy, 
From  every  sense  of  shame  and  virtue  wean'il, 
In  lies  an  adept,  in  deceit  a  fiend ; 
Versed  in  hypocrisy,  while  yet  a  child, 
Fickle  as  wind,  of  inclinations  wild ; 
Woman  his  dupe,  his  heedless  friend  a  tool, 
Old  in  the  world,  tho'  scarcely  broke  from  sch^a. 
Danvetas  ran  through  all  the  maze  of  sin, 
And  found  the  goal,  when  others  just  begin , 
Even  still  conflicting  passions  shake  his  soul, 
And  bid  him  drain  the  dregs  of  pleasure's  bowl ; 
But,  pall'd  with  vice,  he  breaks  his  former  chain, 
And,  what  was  once  his  bliss,  appears  his  bano. 


TO  MARION. 

MARION!  why  that  pensive  brow? 

What  disgust  to  life  hast  thou? 

Change  that  discontented  air ; 

Frowns  become  not  orte  so  fair. 

'T  is  not  love  disturbs  thy  rest, 

Love's  a  stranger  to  thy  breast ; 

He  in  dimpling  smiles  appears , 

Or  mourns  in  sweetly  timid  tears  , 

Or  bends  the  languid  eyelid  down, 

But  shuns  the  cold  forbidding  frown. 

Then  resume  thy  former  fire, 

Some  will  love,  and  all  admire ; 

While  that  icy  aspect  chills  us, 

Nought  but  cool  indifference  thrills  us. 

Wouldst  thou  wandering  hearts  beguile, 

Smile,  at  least,  or  seem  to  smile  ; 

Eyes  like  thine  were  never  meant 

To  hide  their  orbs,  in  dark  restraint ; 

Spite  of  all  thou  fain  wouldst  say 

Still  in  truant  beams  they  play. 

Thy  lips, — but  here  my  modest  Muse 

Her  impulse  chaste  must  needs  refuse ; 

She  blushes,  curtsies,  frowns, — in  short,  she 

Dreads,  lest  the  subject  should  transport  me  • 

And  flying  off,  in  search  of  reason, 

Brings  prudence  back  in  proper  season. 

All  I  shall  therefore  say  (whate'er 

I  think  is  neither  here  nor  there), 

Is  that  such  lips,  of  looks  endearing, 

Were  form'd  for  better  things  than  sneering  ; 

Of  soothing  compliments  divested, 

Advice  at  least  disinterested ; 

Such  is  my  artless  song  to  thee, 

From  all  the  flow  of  flattery  free ; 

Counsel,  like  mine,  is  as  a  brother's, 

My  heart  is  given  to  some  others ; 

That  is  to  say,  unskill'd  to  cozen, 

It  shares  itself  amongst  a  dozen. 

Marion!   adieu!  oh!   pritl-ee  slight  Mot 

This  warning,  though  it  nwy  delight  not : 

And  lest  my  precepts  be  displeasing 

To  those  who  think  remonstrance  teazing, 

At  once  I  '11  tell  thee  our  opinion, 

Concerning  woman's  soft  dominun: 


1  In  law,  every  perron  is  an  infant  who  lias  not  t  rained  Uw 
age  of  twenty-one. 


B\  RON'S  WORKS 


Ilowc'er  we  gaze  with  admiratbn, 
On  eyes  of  blue,  or  lips  carnation ; 
Howe'er  the  flowing  locks  attract  us, 
Howe'er  those  beauties  may  distract  us ; 
Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove, 
These  cannot  fix  our  souls  to  love ; 
It  is  not  too  severe  a  stricture, 
To  say  they  form  a  pretty  picture. 
But  would'st  thou  see  the  secret  chain, 
Which  binds  us  in  your  humble  train, 
To  hail-you  queens  of  all  creation, 
I  low,  in  a  word,  't  is  ANIMATION. 


OSCAR  OF  ALVA.' 

A    TALE. 

How  sweetly  shine.,,  through  azure  skies, 
The  lamp  of  heaven  on  Lora's  shore, 

Where  Alva's  hoary  turrets  rise, 
And  hear  the  din  of  arms  no  more. 

But  often  has  yon  rolling  moon 
On  Alva's  casques  of  silver  play'd, 

And  view'd,  at  midnight's  silent  noon, 
Her  chiefs  in  gleaming  mail  array'd. 

And  on  tne  crimson'd  rocks  beneath, 
Which  scowl  o'er  ocean's  sullen  flow, 

Pale  in  the  scatter'd  ranks  of  death, 
She  saw  the  gasping  warrior  low. 

While  many  an  eye,  which  ne'er  again 
Could  mark  the  rising  orb  of  day, 

Tarn'd  feebly  from  the  gory  plain, 
Beheld  in  death  her  fading  ray. 

Once,  to  thoju  eyes  the  lamp  of  Love, 
They  blest  her  dear  propitious  light : 

But  now,  she  glimmer'd  from  above, 
A  sad  funereal  torch  of  night. 

Faded  is  Alva's  noble  race, 

And  grey  her  towers  are  seen  afar ; 
No  more  her  heroes  urge  the  chase, 

Or  roll  the  crimson  tide  of  war. 

But  who  was  last  of  Alva's  clan  ? 

Why  grows  the  moss  on  Alva's  stone? 
Her  towers  resound  no  steps  of  man, 

They  echo  to  the  gale  alone. 

And,  when  that  gale  is  fierce  and  high, 
A  sound  is  heard  in  yonder  hall, 

It  rises  hoarsely  through  the  sky, 

And  vibrates  o'er  the  mouldering  wall. 

Yes,  when  the  eddying  tempest  sighs, 
It  shakes  the  shield  of  Oscar  brave  ; 

hut  there  no  more  his  banners  rise, 
No  more  his  plumes  of  sable  wave. 

fair  shone  the  sun  on  Oscar's  birth, 
When  Angus  hail'd  his  eldest  born ; 

Ine  vassals  round  their  chieftain's  hearth, 
Crowd  to  applaud  the  happy  morn. 


I  The  catastrophe  of  this  tale  was  suggested  by  the  story  of 
Juronymo  ami  Lorenzo,"  in  the  first  volume  of  "The  Ar- 
ii'iiiHii.  or  <tlmst-Se«r:"  it  mso  bears  some  resemblance  to 
icenc  in  tlie  third  act  of  "  Macbeth. " 


They  feast  upon  the  mountain  deer, 
The  Pibroch  raised  its  piercing  no'e, 

To  gladden  more  their  Highland  cheer, 
The  strains  in  martial  numbers  float. 

And  they  who  heard  the  war-notes  wild, 
Hoped  that,  one  day,  the  Pibroch's  strain 

Should  play  before  the  Hero's  child, 
While  he  should  lead  the  Tartan  train. 

Another  year  is  quickly  past, 

And  Angus  hails  another  son, 
His  natal  day  is  like  the  last, 

Nor  soon  the  jocund  feast  was  done. 

Taught  by  their  sire  to  bend  the  bow, 

On  Alva's  dusky  hills  of  wind, 
The  boys  in  childhood  chased  the  roe, 

And  left  their  hounds  in  speed  behind 

But,  ere  their  years  of  youth  are  o'er 
They  mingle  in  the  ranks  of  war  ; 

They  lightly  wield  the  bright  claymore, 
And  send  the  whistling  arrow  far. 

Dark  was  the  flow  of  Oscar's  hair, 
Wildly  it  stream'd  along  the  gale ; 

But  Allan's  locks  were  bright  and  fair, 
And  pensive  seem'd  his  cheek,  and  pale. 

But  Oscar  own'd  a  hero's  soul, 

His  dark  eye  shone  through  beams  of  truth  . 
Allan  had  early  learn'd  control, 

And  smooth  his  words  had  been  from  youth. 

Both,  both  were  brave  ;  the  Saxon  spear 
Was  shiver'd  oft  beneath  their  steel ; 

And  Oscar's  bosom  scom'd  to  fear, 
But  Oscar's  bosom  knew  to  feel. 

While  Allan's  soul  belied  his  form, 

Unworthy  with  such  charms  to  dwell ; 
Keen  as  the  lightning  of  the  storm, 

On  foes  his  deadly  vengeance  fell. 
From  high  Southannon's  distant  tower 

Arrived  a  young  and  noble  dame ; 
With  Kenneth's  lands  to  form  her  dower 

Glenalvon's  blue-eyed  daughter  came : 

And  Oscar  claim'd  the  beauteous  bride, 

And  Angus  on  his  Oscar  smiled  ; 
It  soothed  the  father's  feudal  pride, 

Thus  to  obtain  Glenalvon's  child. 
Hark !  to  the  Pibroch's  pleasing  note, 

Hark !  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song  ; 
In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float, 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

See  how  the  heroes'  blood-red  plumes, 

Assembled  wave  in  Alva's  hall ; 
Each  youth  his  varied  plaid  assumes, 

Attending  on  their  chieftain's  call. 
It  is  not  war  their  aid  demands, 

The  Pibroch  plays  the  song  of  peace ; 
To  Oscar's  nuptials  throng  the  bands. 

Nor  yet  the  sounds  of  pleasure  cease. 
But  where  is  Oscar?  sure  'tis  late : 

Is  this  a  bridegroom's  ardent  flame  ' 
While  thronging  guests  and  ladies  wait 

Nor  Oscar  nor  his  brother  rame. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


At  length  young  Allan  join'd  the  bride, 
"  Why  comes  not  Oscar  ?"  Angus  said ; 

"  Is  he  not  here?"  The  youth  replied, 
"  With  me  he  roved  not  o'er  the  glade. 

"  Perchance,  forgetful  of  the  day, 
'T  is  his  to  chase  the  bounding  roe ; 

Or  Ocean's  waves  prolong  his  stay, 
Yet  Oscar's  bark  is  seldom  slow." 

"  Oh !  no !"  the  anguish'd  sire  rejoin'd, 
" Nor  chase  nor  wave  my  boy  delay; 

Would  he  to  Mora  seem  unkind  ? 
Would  aught  to  her  impede  his  way  ? 

"  Oh !  search,  ye  chiefs !  oh,  search  around ! 

Allan,  with  these  through  Alva  fly, 
Till  Oscar,  till  my  son  is  found, 

Haste,  haste,  nor  dare  attempt  reply !" 
All  is  confusion — through  the  vale 

The  name  of  Oscar  hoarsely  rings, 
It  rises  on  the  murmuring  gale, 

Till  night  expands  her  dusky  wings. 
It  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night, 

But  echoes  through  her  shades  in  vain ; 
It  sounds  through  morning's  misty  light, 

But  Oscar  comes  not  o'er  the  plain. 
Three  days,  three  sleepless  nights,  the  chief 

For  Oscar  search'd  each  mountain  cave ; 
Then  hope  is  lost  in  boundless  grief, 

His  locks  in  grey  torn  ringlets  wave. 
"  Oscar !  my  son ! — Thou  God  of  heaven ! 

Restore  the  prop  of  sinking  age ; 
Or,  if  that  hope  no  more  is  given, 

Yield  his  assassin  to  my  rage. 
"  Yes,  on  some  desert  rocky  shore 

My  Oscar's  whiten'd  bones  must  lie  ; 
Then,  grant,  thou  God !  I  ask  no  more, 

With  nim  his  frantic  sire  may  die. 
"  Yet,  he  may  live — away  despair ; 

Be  calm,  my  soul !  he  yet  may  live  ; 
T'  arraign  my  fate,  my  voice  forbear ; 

0  God,  my  impious  prayer  forgive. 

"  What,  if  he  live  for  me  no  more, 

1  sink  forgotten  in  the  dust, 
The  hope  of  Alva's  age  is  o'er ; 

Alas !  can  pangs  like  these  be  just  ?" 

Thus  did  the  hapless  parent  mourn, 

Till  Time,  who  soothes  severest  woe, 
Hud  bade  serenity  return, 

And  made  the  tear-drop  cease  to  flow. 
For  still  some  latent  hope  survived, 

That  Oscar  might  once  more  appear ; 
His  hope  now  droop'd,  and  now  revived, 

Till  Time  had  told  a  tedious  year. 

Days  roll'd  along,  the  orb  of  light 
\gain  had  run  his  destined  race ; 

No  Oscai  bless'd  his  father's  sight, 
And  sorrow  left  a  fainter  trace. 

For  youthful  Allan  still  remain'd, 

Anil,  now,  his  father's  only  joy  : 
And  Mora's  heart  was  quickly  gain'd, 

For  lioiuty  CrcwnVl  the  fair-hair'd  boy. 


She  thought  that  Oscar  low  was  laid, 
And  Allan's  face  was  wondrous  fair ; 

If  Oscar  lived,  some  other  maid 

Had  claim'd  his  faithless  bosom's  care. 

And  Angus  said,  if  one  year  more 
In  fruitless  hope  was  pass'd  away, 

His  fondest  scruple  should  be  o'er, 
And  he  would  name  their  nuptial  day. 

Slow  roll'd  the  moons,  but  blest  at  last, 
Arrived  the  dearly  destined  mom ; 

The  year  of  anxious  trembling  past, 
What  smiles  the  lover's  cheeks  adorn ! 

Hark !  to  the  Pibroch's  pleasing  note, 
Hark !  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song ; 

In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float, 
And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

Again  the  clan,  in  festive  crowd, 

Throng  through  the  gate  of  Alva's  hafl , 

The  sounds  of  mirth  re-echo  loud, 
And  all  their  former  joy  recall. 

But  who  is  he,  whose  darken'd  brow 
Glooms  in  the  midst  of  general  mirth  ? 

Before  his  eye's  far  fiercer  glow 
The  blue  flames  curdle  o'er  the  hearth. 

Dark  is  the  robe  which  wraps  his  form, 
And  tall  his  plume  of  gory  red  ; 

His  voice  is  like  the  rising  storm, 
But  light  and  trackless  is  his  tread. 

'T  is  noon  of  night,  the  pledge  goes  round, 
The  bridegroom's  health  is  deeply  quaftj 

With  shouts  the  vaulted  roofs  resound, 
And  all  combine  to  hail  the  draught. 

Sudden  the  stranger  chief  arose, 

And  all  the  clamorous  crowd  are  hush'd  j 
And  Angus'  cheek  with  wonder  glows, 

And  Mora's  tender  bosom  blush'd. 

"  Old  man  !"  he  cried,  "  this  pledge  is  done 
Thou  saw'st  't  was  duly  drunk  by  me, 

It  hail'd  the  nuptials  of  thy  son ; 

Now  will  I  claim  a  pledge  from  thee. 

"  While  all  around  is  mirth  and  joy, 
To  bless  thy  Allan's  happy  lot ; 

Say,  had'st  thou  ne'er  another  boy? 
Say  why  should  Oscar  be  forgot?" 

"  Alas  !"  the  hapless  sire  replied, 
The  big  tear  starting  as  he  spoke ; 

"  When  Oscar  left  my  hall,  or  died, 
This  aged  heart  was  almost  broke. 

"  Thrice  has  the  earth  revolved  her  course. 
Since  Oscar's  form  has  blest  my  sight ; 

And  Allan  is  my  last  resource, 

Since  martial  Oscar's  death  or  flight." 

"  'T  is  well,"  replied  the  stranger  stem, 
And  fiercely  flash'd  his  rolling  eye  ; 

"  Thj  Oscar's  fate  I  fain  would  learn  ; 
Perhaps  the  hero  did  not  die. 

"  Perct.ance,  if  those  whom  most  he  loved 
Would  call,  thy  Oscar  misht  retu— i .- 


8 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Perchance  the  chief  has  only  roved, 

For  him  thy  Beltane  '  yet  may  burn. 
•'  Fill  high  the  bowl,  the  table  round, 

We  will  not  claim  the  pledge  by  stealth ; 
With  wine  let  every  cup  be  crown'd, 

Pledge  me  departed  Oscar's  health." 
"  With  all  my  soul,"  old  Angus  said, 

And  fill'd  his  goblet  fo  the  brim  ; 
"  Here  's  to  my  boy  !  alive  or  dead, 

I  ne'er  shall  find  a  son  like  him." 
"  Bravely,  old  man,  this  health  has  sped, 

But  why  does  Allan  trembling  stand  ? 
Come,  drink  remembrance  of  the  dead, 

And  raise  thy  cup  with  firmer  hand." 
The  crimson  glow  of  Allan's  face 

Was  turn'd  at  once  to  ghastly  hue  ; 
The  drops  of  death  each  other  chase, 

Adown  in  agonizing  dew. 
Thrice  did  he  raise  the  goblet  high, 

And  thrice  his  lips  refused  to  taste ; 
For  thrice  he  caught  the  stranger's  eye, 

On  his  with  deadly  fury  placed. 
"  And  is  it  thus  a  brother  hails 

A  brother's  fond  remembrance  here  7 
If  thus  affection's  strength  prevails, 

What  might  we  not  expect  from  fear  ?" 
Roused  by  the  sneer,  he  raised  the  bowl ; 

"  Would  Oscar  now  could  share  our  mirth !" 
Internal  fear  appall'd  his  soul, 

He  said,  and  dash'd  the  cup  to  earth. 
"  'Tis  he  !  I  hear  my  murderer's  voice," 

Loud  shrieks  a  darkly-gleaming  Form  ; 
"  A  murderer's  voice  !"  the  roof  replies, 

And  deeply  swells  the  bursting  storm. 

The  tapers  wink,  the  chieftains  shrink, 
The  stranger  's  gone,  amidst  the  crew 

A  Form  was  seen,  in  tartan  green, 
And  tall  the  shade  terrific  grew. 

His  waist  was  bound  with  a  broad  belt  round, 

His  plume  of  sable  stream'd  on  high ; 
But  his  breast  was  bare,  with  the  red  wounds  there, 

And  fix'd  was  the  glare  of  his  glassy  eye. 

\nd  thrice  he  smiled,  with  his  eye  so  wild, 

On  Angus,  bending  low  the  knee ; 
And  thrice  he  frown'd  on  a  Chief  on  the  ground, 

Whom  shivering  crowds  with  horror  see. 

The  bolts  loud  roll,  from  pole  to  pole, 

The  thunders  through  the  welkin  ring ; 
And  the  gleaming  Form,  through  the  mist  of  the  storm, 

Was  borne  on  high  by  the  whirlwind's  wing. 

Cold  was  the  feast,  the  revel  ceased  ; 

Who  lies  upon  the  stony  floor? 
Oblivion  prest  old  Angus'  breast, 

At  length  his  life-pulse  throbs  once  more. 

"  Away,  away,  let  the  leech  essay, 
To  pour  the  light  on  Allan's  eyes  J" 

His  sand  is  done, — his  race  is  run, 
Oh !  never  more  shall  Allan  rise ! 


I  Beltane-Tree.— A  Highland  festival,  on  the  1st  of  May, 
beta  near  fires  lighted  for  the  occasion. 


But  Oscar's  breast  is  cold  as  clay, 

His  locks  are  lifted  by  the  gale, 
And  Allan's  barbed  arrow  lay, 

With  him  in  dark  Glentanar's  vale. 
And  whence  the  dreadful  stranger  came, 

Or  who,  no  mortal  wight  can  tell ; 
But  no  one  doubts  the  Form  of  Flame, 

For  Alva's  sons  knew  Oscar  well. 
Ambition  nerved  young  Allan's  hand, 

Exulting  demons  wing'd  his  dart, 
While  Envy  waved  her  burning  brand, 

And  pour'd  her  venom  round  his  heart. 
Swift  is  the  shaft  from  Allan's  bow : 

Whose  streaming  life-blood  stains  his  side? 
Dark  Oscar's  sable  crest  is  low, 

The  dart  has  drunk  his  vital  tide. 
And  Mora's  eye  could  Allan  move, 

She  bade  his  wounded  pride  rebel : 
Alas !  that  eyes,  which  beam'd  with  love, 

Should  urge  the  soul  to  deeds  of  Hell. 
Lo !  see'st  thou  not  a  lonely  tomb, 

Which  rises  o'er  a  warrior  dead ! 
It  glimmers  through  the  twilight  gloom ; 

Oh !  that  is  Allan's  nuptial  bed. 
Far,  distant  far,  the  noble  grave, 

Which  held  his  clan's  great  ashes,  stood ; 
And  o'er  his  corse  no  banners  wave, 

For  they  were  stain'd  with  kindred  blood. 
What  minstrel  grey,  what  hoary  bard, 

Shall  Allan's  deeds  on  harp-strings  raise  ? 
The  song  is  glory's  chief  reward, 

But  who  can  strike  a  murderer's  praise  ? 
Unstrung,  untouch'd,  the  harp  must  stand, 

No  minstrel  dare  the  theme  awake  ; 
Guilt  would  benumb  his  palsied  hand, 

His  harp  in  shuddering  chords  would  brc  A 
No  lyre  of  fame,  no  hallow'd  verse, 

Shall  sound  his  glories  high  in  air, 
A  dying  father's  bitter  curse, 

A  brother's  death-groan  echoes  theie. 

TO  THE  DUKE  OF  D. 


In  looking  over  my  papers,  to  select  a  few  additional  1  oemt 
for  this  second  edition,  I  found  the  following  lines,  which  1 
had  totally  forgotten,  composed  in  the  Summer  of  1805,  a 

short  time  previous  to  my  departure  from  H .    They 

were  addressed  to  a  young  school-fellow  of  high  rank,  who 
had  been  my  frequent  companion  in  some  rambles  through 
the  neighbouring  country;  however  he  never  saw  the  lines, 
and  most  probably  never  will.  As,  on  a  re-perusal:  1  found 
them  not  worse  than  some  other  pieces  in  the  collection,  1 
have  now  published  them,  for  the  first  time,  after  a  slight 
revision. 

D — R — T  !  whose  early  steps  with  mine  have  stray'd, 
Exploring  every  path  of  Ida's  glade, 
Whom,  still,  affection  taught  me  to  defend, 
And  made  me  less  a  tyrant  than  a  friend ; 
Though  the  harsh  custom  of  our  youthful  band 
Bade  thee  obey,  and  gave  me  to  command ; ' 


1  At  every  public  school,  the  junior  boys  are  completely 
subservient  to  the  upper  forms,  till  they  attain  a  seat  in  the 
higher  classes.  From  this  state  of  probation,  very  properly, 
no  rank  is  exempt;  but  after  a  certain  period,  they  command 
in  turn,  those  who  succeed. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


Thee,  on  whose  head  a  few  short  years  will  shower 

The  gift  of  riches,  and  the  pride  of  power ; 

Even  naw  a  name  illustrious  is  thine  own, 

Renown'd  in  rank,  not  far  beneath  the  throne. 

Yet,  D — r — t,  let  not  this  seduce  thy  soul, 

To  shun  fair  science,  or  evade  control ; 

Though  passive  tutors,1  fearful  to  dispraise 

The  titled  child,  whose  future  breath  may  raise, 

View  ducal  errors  with  indulgent  eyes, 

And  wink  at  faults  they  tremble  to  chastise. 

When  youthful  parasites,  who  bend  the  knee 

To  wealth,  their  golden  idol, — not  to  thee ! 

And,  even  in  simple  boyhood's  opening  dawn, 

Some  slaves  are  found  to  flatter  and  to  fawn: 

When  these  declare,  "  tliat  ]>omp  alone  should  wait 

On  one  by  birth  predestined  to  be  great ; 

That  books  were  only  meant  for  drudging  fools ; 

That  gallant  spirits  scorn  the  common  rules;" 

Believe  them  not, — they  point  the  path  to  shame, 

And  seek  to  blast  the  honours  of  thy  name : 

Turn  to  the  few,  in  Ma's  early  throng, 

Who»e  souls  disdain  not  to  condemn  the  wrong ; 

Or  if,  amidst  the  comrades  of  thy  youth, 

None  dare  to  raise  the  sterner  voice  of  truth, 

Ask  thine  own  heait!  't  will  bid  thee,  boy,  forbear, 

For  welt  I  know  that  virtue  lingers  there. 

Yes  !  I  have  mark'd  thee  many  a  passing  day, 

But  now  new  scenes  invite  me  far  away; 

Yes  !  I  have  maik'd,  within  that  generous  mind, 

A  soul,  if  well  matured,  to  bless  mankind: 

Ah !  though  myself  by  nature  haughty,  wild, 

Whom  Indiscretion  hail'd  her  favourite  child, 

Though  every  error  stamps  me  for  her  own, 

And  dooms  my  fall,  I  fain  would  fall  alone ; 

Though  my  proud  heart  no  precept  now  can  tame, 

I  love  the  virtues  which  I  cannot  claim. 

'T  is  not  enough,  with  other  Sons  of  power, 

To  gleam  the  laml>ent  meteor  of  an  hour, 

To  swell  some  peerage  page  in  feeble  pride, 

With  long-drawn  names,  that  grace  no  page  beside ; 

Then  share  with  titled  crowds  the  common  lot, 

In  life  just  gazed  at,  in  the  grave  forgot; 

While  nought  divides  thee  from  the  vulgar  dead, 

Except  the  dull  cold  stone  that  hides  thy  head, 

The  mouldering  'scutcheon,  or  the  herald's  roll, 

That  well  cmblazon'd,  but  neglected  scroll, 

Whei  e  Lords,  unhonour'd,  in  the  tomb  may  find 

One  spot  to  leave  a  worthless  name  behind  ; — 

There  .sleep,  unnoticed  as  the  gloomy  vaults 

Tnut  veil  their  dust,  their  follies,  and  their  faults ; 

A  i  ace,  with  old  armorial  lists  o'erspread, 

In  records  destined  never  to  be  read. 

Fain  would  I  view  thee,  with  prophetic  eyes, 

Kvalted  more  among  the  good  and  wise ; 

A  glorious  and  a  long  career  pursue, 

\s  first  in  rank,  the  first  in  talent  too ; 

Spurn  every  vice,  each  little  meanness  shun, 

Not  Fortune's  minion,  but  her  noblest  son. 


1  Allow  me  to  disclaim  any  personal  allusions,  even  the 
roost  distant ;  I  merely  mention,  generally,  what  is  too  often 
the  weakness  of  preceptors. 

E  7 


Turn  to  the  annals  of  a  formei  aay, — 

Bright  are  the  deeds  thine  earlier  Sires  dispby; 

One,  though  a  Courtier,  lived  a  man  of  worth, 

And  call'd,  proud  boast!   the  British  Drama  forth. 

Another  view !  not  less  renown'd  for  Wit, 

Alike  for  courts,  and  camps,  or  senates  fit; 

Bold  in  the  field,  and  favour'd  by  the  Nine, 

In  every  splendid  part  ordain'd  to  shine  ; 

Far,  far  distinguish'd  from  the  glittering  throng, 

The  pride  of  princes,  and  the  boast  of  song.2 

Such  were  thy  Fathers  ;  thus  preserve  their  name, 

Not    heir  to  titles  only,  but  to  Fame. 

The  hour  draws  nigh,  a  few  brief  days  will  close, 

To  me,  this  little  scene  of  joys  and  woes ; 

Each  knell  of  Time  now  warns  me  to  resign 

Shades,  where  Hope,  Peace,  and  Friendship,  all  vrcr* 

•      mine ;        » 

Hope,  that  could  vary  like  the  rainbow's  hue, 
And  gild  their  pinions,  as  the  moments  flew ; 
Peace,  that  reflection  never  frown'd  away, 
By  dreams  of  ill,  to  cloud  some  future  day ; 
Friendship,  whose  truth  let  childhood  only  teH — 
Alas !  they  love  not  long,  who  love  so  well. 
To  these  adieu !  nor  let  me  linger  o'er 
Scenes  hail'd,  as  exiles  hail  their  native  shore, 
Receding  slowly  through  the  dark  blue  deep, 
Beheld  by  eyes  that  mourn,  yet  cannot  weep. 


!  farewell !  I  will  not  ask  one  part 
Of  sad  remembrance  in  so  young  a  heart ; 
The  coming  morrow  from  thy  youthful  mind 
Will  sweep  my  name,  nor  leave  a  trace  behind. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  in  some  maturer  year, 
Since  chance  has  thrown  us  in  the  self- same  sphere. 
Since  the  same  senate,  nay,  the  same  debate, 
May  one  day  claim  our  suffrage  for  the  state, 
We  hence  may  meet,  and  pass  each  other  by 
With  faint  regard,  or  cold  and  distant  eye. 
For  me,  in  future,  neither  friend  nor  foe, 
A  stranger  to  thyself,  thy  weal  or  \»  >e ; 
With  thee  no  more  again  1  hope  to  trace 
The  recollection  of  our  early  race  ; 
No  more,  as  once,  in  social  hours,  rejoice, 
Or  hear,  unless  in  crowds,  thy  well-known  voice. 
Still,  if  the  wishes  of  a  heart  untaught 
To  veil  those  feelings,  which,  perchance,  it  ought ; 
If  these, — but  let  me  cease  the  lengthen'd  strain, 
Oh !  if  these  wishes  are  not  breathed  in  vain, 
The  Guardian  Seraph,  who  directs  thy  fate, 
Will  leave  thee  glorious,  as  he  found  thee  great 


1  "Thomas  S — k— He,  Lord  B— k— st,  created   Eart  u! 
D by  James  the  First,  was  one  of  the  earliest  and  bright- 
est ornaments  to  the  poetry  of  his  country,  and  the  first  who 
produced  a  regular  drama." — Anderson's  British  Poets. 

2  Charles   S— k — lie,  Earl  of  D ,  esteemed  the  mon 

accomplished  man  of  his  day,  was  alike  distinguished  in  the 
voluptuous  court  of  Charles  II.  and  the  gloomy  one  of  Wi! 
Ham  III.    HP  behaved  with  great  gallantry  in  the  sea-fight 
with  the  Dutch,  in  1665,  on  the  day  previous  to  which  he 
composed  his  celebrated  song.  His  charactei  has  been  drawn 
in  the  highest  colours  by  Dryden,  Pope,  Prior,  and  Courier* 
Vide  Anderson's  British  Poets. 


10 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


KmitatCous. 


ADRIAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SOUL,  WHEN 
DYING. 

AUIMULA!   vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes,  comesque,  corporis, 
Quse  riunc  abibis  in  loca  ? 
Pallidula,  rigida,  nudula, 
Ncc,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos. 


TRANSLATION. 

An '  gentle,  fleeting,  wavering  Sprite, 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay ! 

To  what  unknown  region  borne, 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight? 
No  more,  with  wonted  humour  gay, 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 


LESBIAM." 


Eni'AL  to  Jove  that  youth  must  be, 

Greater  than  Jove  he  seems  to  me, 

Who,  free  from  Jealousy's  alarms, 

Securely  views  thy  matchless  charms ; 

Thcu  cheek,  which  ever  dimpling  glows, 

That  mouth  from  whence  such  music  flows, 

To  him,  alike,  are  always  known, 

Reserved  for  him,  and  him  alone. 

Ah !  Lesbia !  though  't  is  death  to  me, 

I  cannot  choose  but  look  on  thee ; 

But,  at  the  sight,  my  senses  fly ; 

I  needs  must  gaze,  but  gazing  die ; 

Whilst  trembling  with  a  thousand  fears, 

Parch'd  to  the  throat,  my  tongue  adheres, 

My  pulse  beats  quick,  my  breath  heaves  short, 

My  limbs  deny  their  slight  support ; 

Cold  dews  my  pallid  face  o'erspread, 

With  deadly  languor  droops  my  head, 

My  ears  with  tingling  echoes  ring, 

And  life  itself  is  on  the  wing  ; 

My  eyes  refuse  the  cheering  light, 

Their  orbs  are  veil'd  in  starless  night : 

Such  pangs  my  nature  sinks  beneath, 

And  feels  a  temporary  deoth. 


TRANSLATION 
1.-F   THE  EPITAPH  ON  VIRGIL  AND  TIBULLUS. 

BY    DOMITIUS    MARSUS. 

HE  who,  sublime,  in  Epic  numbers  roll'd, 
And  he  who  struck  the  softer  lyre  of  love, 

By  Death's  unequal  hand  '  alike  control'd, 
Fit  comrades  in  Elysian  regions  move. 


1  Th«  muni  of  Death  is  snid  to  bo  unjust,  or  unequal,  as 
wgi)  •»  a<  considerably  older  than  Ti  nillus,  at  his  decease. 


TRANSLATION  FROIS:  CATULJJ  ' 


"  LUCTUS     DE     MOKTE      PASSEK'V' 


YE  Cupids,  droop  each  little  head, 
Nor  let  your  wings  with  joy  be  spread  ; 
My  Lesbia's  favourite  bird  is  dead, 

Whom  dearer  than  her  eyes  she  loved  5 
For  he  was  gentle,  and  so  true, 
Obedient  to  her  call  he  flew, 
No  fear,  no  wild  alarm  he  knew, 

But  lightly  o'er  her  bosom  moved : 
And  softly  fluttering  here  and  there, 
He  never  sought  to  cleave  the  air ; 
But  chirrup'd  oft,  and,  free  from  care, 

Tuned  to  her  ear  his  grateful  strain. 
Now  having  pass'd  the  gloomy  bourn, 
From  whence  he  never  can  return, 
His  death,  and  Lesbia's  grief,  I  mourn, 

Who  sighs,  alas !  but  sighs  in  vain. 
Oh !  curst  be  thou,  devouring  grave ! 
Whose  jaws  eternal  victims  crave, 
From  whom  no  earthly  power  can  save, 

For  thf  a  hast  ta'en  the  bird  away : 
From  thee,  my  Lesbia's  eyes  o'erflow, 
Her  swollen  cheeks  with  weeping  glow, 
Thou  art  the  cause  of  all  her  woe, 

Receptacle  of  life's  decay. 


IMITATED  FROM  CATULLUS. 


TO     ELLEN. 


OH  !  might  I  kiss  those  eyes  of  fire, 
A  million  scarce  would  quench  desire ; 
Still  would  I  steep  my  lips  in  bliss, 
And  dwell  an  age  on  every  kiss  ; 
Nor  then  my  soul  should  sated  be, 
Still  would  I  kiss  and  cling  to  thee : 
Nought  should  my  kiss  from  thine  dissever_ 
Still  would  we  kiss,  and  kiss  for  ever ; 
E'en  though  the  number  did  exceed 
The  yellow  harvest's  countless  seed ; 
To  part  would  be  a  vain  endeavour, 
Could  I  desist  ? — ah  !  never — never. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  ANACREON 


TO    HIS    LYRE. 

I  WISH  to  tune  my  quivering  lyre, 
To' deeds  of  fame,  and  notes  of  fire ; 
To  echo  fron>  'is  rising  swell, 
How  heroes  tought,  and  nations  fell ; 
When  Atreus'  sons  advanced  to  war, 
Or  Tyrian  Cadmus  roved  afar; 
But,  still,  to  martial  ^strains  unknown, 
My  lyre  recurs  to  love  alone. 
Fired  with  the  hope  of  future  fame, 
I  seek  some  nobler  hero's  name ; 
The  dying  chords  are  strung  anew. 
To  war,  to  vvarxqu'  nal"P  >s  due  C 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


With  glowing  strings,  the  epic  strain 
To  Jove's  great  son  I  raise  a^ain ; 
Alcides  and  his  glorious  deeds, 
Beneath  whose  arm  the  Hydra  bleeds  ; 
All,  all  in  vain,  my  wayward  lyre 
Wakes  silver  notes  of  soft  desire. 
Adieu !  ye  chiefs  renown'd  in  arms ! 
Adieu !   the  clang  of  war's  alarms. 
To  other  deeds  my  soul  is  strung, 
And  sweeter  notes  shall  now  be  sung ; 
My  harp  shall  all  its  powers  reveal, 
To  tell  the  tale  my  heart  must  feel ; 
Love,  love  alone,  my  lyre  shall  claim, 
In  so"gs  of  bliss,  and  sighs  of  flame. 


ODE  III. 

•T  wj>  g  now  the  hour,  when  Night  had  driven 
Her  car  half  round  yon  sable  heaven; 
Bootes,  only,  seem'd  to  roll 
His  Arctic  charge  around  the  Pole ; 
While  mortals,  lost  in  gentle  sleep, 
Forgot  to  smile,  or  cease  to  weep  ; 
\t  this  lone  hour,  the  Paphian  boy, 
Descending  from  the  realms  of  joy, 
iuick  to  my  gate  directs  his  course, 
\nd  knocks  with  all  his  little  force : 
Vly  visions  fled,  alarm'd  I  rose  ; 
'  What  stranger  breaks  my  blest  repose  ?" 
'  Alas !"  replies  the  wily  child, 
n  faltering  accents,  sweetly  mild, 
"  A  hapless  infant  here  I  roam, 
Far  from  my  dear  maternal  home  ; 
Oh  !  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast, 
The  mighty  storm  is  pouring  fast ; 
No  prowling  robber  lingers  here, 
A  wandering  baby  who  can  fear  ?" 
I  heard  his  seeming  artless  tale, 
I  heard  his  sighs  upon  the  gale ; 
My  breast  was  never  pity's  foe, 
But  felt  for  all  the  baby's  woe  ; 
I  drew  the  bar,  and  by  the  light, 
Young  Love,  the  infant,  met  my  sight ; 
His  bow  across  his  shoulders  flung, 
And  thence  his  fatal  quiver  hung, 
(Ah !  little  did  I  think  the  dart 
Would  rankle  soon  within  my  heart;) 
With  care  I  tend  my  weary  guest, 
His  little  fingers  chill  my  breast ; 
His  glossy  curls,  his  azure  wing, 
VVhich  droop  with  nightly  showers,  I  wring. 
His  shivering  limbs  the  embers  warm, 
And  now,  reviving  from  the  storm, 
Scarce  had  he  felt  his  wonted  glow, 
Than  swift  he  seized  his  slender  bow : 
'  I  fain  would  know,  my  gentle  host," 
He  cried,  "  if  this  its  strength  has  lost ; 
1  fear,  relax'd  with  midnight  dews, 
The  strings  their  former  aid  refuse :" 
With  poison  tirrt,  his  arrow  flies, 
Deep  in  my  torturoil  heart  it  lies : 
Then  loud  'he  joyous  urchin  laugh'd, 
"  My  bow  can  »:•"  impel  the  shaft ; 
'Tis  firmly  fix'd,  thy  si-ho  reveal  it; 
Say,  courteous  host,  ranst  tnyu  not  feel  it?" 


FRAGMENTS   OF   SCHOOL   EXERCISES. 

FROM     THE     PROMETHEUS   OF    JESCHYLUS. 

GKEAT  Jove!  to  whose  Almighty  throne 

Both  gods  and  mortals  homage  pay. 
Ne'er  may  my  soul  thy  power  diso-vn, 

Thy  dread  behests  ne'er  disobey. 
Oft  shall  the  sacred  victim  fall 
In  sea-girt  Ocean's  mossy  hall ; 
My  voice  shall  raise  no  impious  strain 
'Gainst  him  who  rules  the  sky  and  azure  main. 

How  different  now  thy  joyless  fate, 

Since  first  Hesione  thy  bride, 
When  placed  aloft  in  godlike  state, 

The  blushing  beauty  by  thy  side, 
Thou  sat'st,  while  reverend  Ocean  smiled, 
And  mirthful  strains^the  hours  beguiled  ; 
The  Nymphs  and  Tritons  danced  around, 
Nor  yet  thy  doom  was  fix'd,  nor  Jove  relentless  frown'd 
Harrow,  Dec.  1,  1S04. 


THE  EPISODE  OF  NISUS  AND  EURYALUS. 

A    PARAPHRASE     FROM    THE    .ENEID,    LIB.    9. 

Nisus,  the  guardian  of  the  portal,  stood, 

Eager  to  gild  his  arms  with  hostile  blood ; 

Well  skill'd  in  fight,  the  quivering  lance  to  wield, 

Or  pour  his  arrows  through  th'  embattled  field 

From  Ida  torn,  he  left  his  sylvan  cave, 

And  sought  a  foreign  home,  a  distant  grave 

To  watch  the  movements  of  the  Daunian  host, 

With  him,  Euryalus  sustains  the  post ; 

No  lovelier  mien  adorn'd  the  ranks  of  Troy, 

And  beardless  bloom  yet  graced  the  gallant  boy  ; 

Though  few  the  seasons  of  his  youthful  life, 

As  yet  a  novice  in  the  martial  strife, 

'T  was  his,  with  beauty,  valour's  gift  to  share, 

A  soul  heroic,  as  his  form  was  fair  ; 

These  burn  with  one  pure  flarne  of  generous  love, 

In  peace,  in  war,  united  still  they  move ; 

Friendship  and  glory  form  their  joint  reward, 

And  now  combined,  they  hold  the  nightly  guard. 

"  What  god,"  exclaim'd  the  first,  "  instils  this  fire  1 
Or,  in  itself  a  god,  what  great  desire  ? 
My  labouring  soul,  with  anxious  thought  opprest, 
Abhors  this  station  of  inglorious  rest ; 
The  love  of  fame  with  this  can  ill  accord, — 
Be  't  mine  to  seek  for  glory  with  my  sword. 
See'st  thou  yon  camp,  with  torches  twinkling  dim, 
Where  drunken  slumbers  wrap  each  lazy  limb  ? 
Where  confidence  ard  ease  the  watch  disdain, 
And  drowsy  Silence  holds  her  sable  reign  ? 
Then  hear  my  thought : — In  deep  and  sullen  gi  icf. 
Our  troops  and  leaders  mourn  their  absent  chief; 
Now  could  the  gifts  and  promised  prize  be  thine 
(The  deed,  the  danger,  and  the  fame  be  mine); 
Were  this  decreed — beneath  yon  rising  mound, 
Methinks,  an  easy  path  perchance  were  four.d. 
Which  past,  I  speed  my  way  to  Pallas'  wall* 
And  lead  ^Eneas  from  Evander's  halls." 
With  equal  ardour  fired,  and  warlike  joy. 
His  glowing  friend  address'd  the  Dardan  bov 
"  These  deeds,  my  Nisus,  shall  thou  dare  a'one  ' 
Must  all  the  fame,  the  peril,  be  thine  own  ? 


12 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Am  I  by  thcc  despised,  and  left  afar, 
As  one  unfit  to  share  the  toils  of  war  ? 
Not  thus  his  son  the  great  Opheltes  taught, 
Not  thus  my  sire  in  Argive  combats  fought ; 
Not  thus,  when  Ilion  fell  by  heavenly  hate, 
I  track'd  .rEneas  tnrough  the  walks  of  fate  ; 
Thou  know'st  my  deeds,  my  breast  devoid  of  fear, 
And  hostile  life-drops  dim  my  gory  spear ; 
Here  is  a  soul  with  hope  immortal  burns, 
And  life,  ignoble  life,  for  Glory  spurns ; 
Fame,  fame  is  cheaply  earn'd  by  fleeting  breath, 
The  price  of  honour  is  the  sleep  of  death." 
Then  Nisus — "Calm  thy  bosom's  fond  alarms, 
Thy  heari  beats  fiercely  to  the  din  of  arms ; 
More  dear  thy  worth  and  valour  than  my  own, 
1  swear  by  him  who  fills  Olympus'  throne ! 
So  may  I  triumph,  as  I  speak  the  truth, 
And  clasp  again  the  comrade  of  my  youth. 
But  should  I  fall,  and  ho  who  dares  advance 
Through  hostile  legions  must  abide  by  chance ; 
If  some  Rutulian  arm,  with  adverse  blow, 
Should  lay  the  friend  who  ever  loved  fliee  low ; 
Live  thou,  such  beauties  I  would  fain  preserve, 
Thy  budding  years  a  lengthen'd  term  deserve : 
When  humbled  in  the  dust,  let  some  one  be, 
Whose  gentle  eyes  will  shed  one  tear  for  me  ; 
Whose  manly  arm  may  snatch  me  back  by  force, 
Or  wealth  redeem  from  foes  my  captive  corse : 
Or,  if  my  destiny  these  last  deny, 
If  in  the  spoiler's  power  my  ashes  lie, 
Thy  pious  care  may  raise  a  simple  tomb, 
To  mark  thy  love,  and  signalize  my  doom. 
Why  should  thy  dealing  wretched  mother  weep 
Her  only  boy,  reclined  in  endless  sleep  ? 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  the  tempest's  fury  dared, 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  war's  deadly  peril  shared  ; 
Who  braved  what  woman  never  braved  before, 
And  left,  her  native  for  the  Latian  shore." 
"  In  vain  you  damp  the  ardour  of  my  soul," 
Replied  Euryalus,  "  it  scorns  control ; 
Hence,  let  us  haste." — Their  brother  guards  arose, 
Roused  by  their  call,  nor  court  again  repose  ; 
The  pair,  buoy'd  up  on  Hope's  exulting  wing, 
Their  stations  leave,  and  speed  to  seek  the  king. 
Now,  o'er  the  earth  a  solemn  stillness  ran, 
A  ud  lull'd  alike  the  cares  of  brute  and  man  ; 
Save  where  the  Dardan  leaders  nightly  hold 
Alternate  converse,  and  their  plans  unfold ; 
On  one  great  point  the  council  are  agreed, 
An  instant  message  to  their  prince  decreed  ; 
Each  lean'd  upon  the  lance  he  well  could  wield, 
And  poised,  with  easy  arm,  his  ancient  shield ; 
When  Nisus  and  his  friend  their  leave  request 
To  offer  something  to  their  high  behest. 
With  anxious  tremors,  yet  unavved  by  fear, 
The  faithful  pair  before  the  throne  appear ; 
lulus  greets  them ;  at  his  kind  command, 
The  elder  first  addrcss'd  the  hoary  band. 

"  With  patience,"  thus  Hyrtacides  began, 
"  Attend,  nor  judge  from  youth  our  humble  plan  ; 
V\  here  yonder  beacons,  half-expiring,  beam, 
Our  slumbering  foes  of  future  conquest  dream, 
Ncr  need  that  we  a  secret  path  have  traced, 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  portal  placed: 
Beneath  the  covert  of  the  blackening  smoke, 
Whoso  shade  securely  our  design  will  cloak. 


If  you,  ye  chiefs,  and  Fortune  will  allow, 
We  '11  bend  our  course  to  yonder  mountain's  brow  , 
Where  Pallas'  walls,  at  distance,  meet  the  sight, 
Seen  o'er  the  glade,  when  not  obscured  by  night ; 
Then  shall  j£neas  in  his  pride  return, 
While  hostile  matrons  raise  their  offspring's  um, 
And  Latian  spoils,  and  purpled  heaps  of  dead, 
Shall  mark  the  havoc  of  our  hero's  tread  ; 
Such  is  our  purpose,  not  unknown  the  way, 
Where  yonder  torrent's  devious  waters  stray . 
Oft  have  we  seen,  when  hunting  by  the  stream, 
The  distant  spires  above  the  valleys  gleam." 

Mature  in  years,  for  sober  wisdom  famed, 
Moved  by  the  speech,  Alethes  here  exclaim'd : 
"  Ye  parent  gods  !  who  rule  the  fate  of  Troy, 
Still  dwells  the  Dardan  spirit  in  the  boy ; 
When  minds  like  these  in  striplings  thus  ye  laise, 
Yours  is  the  godlike  act,  be  yours  the  praise ; 
In  gallant  youth  my  fainting  hopes  revive, 
And  Ilion's  wonted  glories  still  survive." 
Then,  in  his  warm  embrace,  the  boys  he  press'd, 
And,  quivering,  strain'd  them  to  his  aged  breast ; 
With  tears  the  burning  cheek  of  each  bedew'd, 
And,  sobbing,  thus  his  first  discourse  renew'd  :— 
"  What  gift,  my  countrymen,  what  martial  prize 
Can  we  bestow,  which  you  may  not  despise? 
Our  deities  the  first,  best  boon  have  given, 
Internal  virtues  are  the  gift  of  Heaven. 
What  poor  rewards  can  bless  your  deeds  on  earth, 
Doubtless,  await  such  young  exalted  worth ; 
.(Eneas  and  Ascanius  shall  combine 
To  yield  applause  far,  far  surpassing  mine." 
lulus  then :  "  By  all  the  powers  above ! 
By  those  Penates*  who  my  country  love ; 
By  hoary  Vesta's  sacred  fane,  I  swear, 
My  hopes  are  all  in  you,  ye  generous  pair ! 
Restore  my  father  to  my  grateful  sight, 
And  all  my  sorrows  yield  to  one  delight. 
Nisus !  two  silver  goblets  are  thine  own, 
Saved  from  Arisba's  stately  domes  o'erthrown ; 
My  sire  secured  them  on  that  fatal  day, 
Nor  left  such  bowls  an  Argive  robber's  prey. 
Two  massy  tripods  also  shall  be  thine, 
Two  talents  polish'd  from  the  glittering  mine  ; 
An  ancient  cup  which  Tyrian  Dido  gave, 
While  yet  our  vessels  press'd  the  Punic  wave : 
But,  when  the  hostile  chiefs  at  length  bow  down, 
When  great  ./Eneas  wears  Hesperia's  crown, 
The  casque,  the  buckler,  ana  the  fiery  steed, 
Which  Turnus  guides  with  more  than  mortal  speed, 
Are  thine  ;  no  envious  lot  shall  then  be  cast, 
I  pledge  my  word,  irrevocably  pass'd ; 
Nay  more,  twelve  slaves  and  twice  six  captive  dames, 
To  soothe  thy  softer  hours  with  amorous  flames, 
And  all  the  realms  which  now  the  Latians  f»»y, 
The  labours  of  to-night  shall  well  repay. 
But  thou,  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender  years 
Are  near  my  own,  whose  worth  my  heart  reveres, 
Henceforth  affection,  sweetly  thus  begun, 
Shall  join  our  bosoms  and  our  souls  in  one ; 
Without  thy  aid  no  glory  shall  be  mine, 
Without  thy  dear  advice,  no  great  design ; 
Alike,  through  life  esteem'd,  thou  godlike  boy, 
In  war  my  bulwark,  and  in  peace  my  joy." 


Household  G<xU 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


13 


T>  him  Euryalus-   Ci  Ni.  u;iy  snail  shame 
The  rising  glories  which  from  this  I  claim. 
Fortune  may  favour  or  the  skies  may  frown, 
But  valour,  spite  of  fate,  obtains  renown. 
Yel,  ere  from  hence  our  eager  steps  depart, 
One  boon  I  beg,  the  nearest  to  my  heart : 
My  mother  sprung  from  Priam's  royal  line, 
Like  thine  ennobled,  hardly  less  divine ; 
Nor  Troy  nor  King  Acestes'  realms  restrain 
Her  feebled  age  from  dangers  of  the  main ; 
Alone  she  came,  all  selfish  fears  above, 
A  bright  example  of  maternal  love. 
Unknown,  the  secret  enterprise  I  brave, 
Lest  grief  should  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave  : 
From  this  alone  no  fond  adieus  I  seek, 
No  fainting  mother's  lips  have  press'd  my  cheek  j 
By  gloomy  Night,  and  thy  right  hand,  I  vow 
Her  parting  tears  would  shake  my  purpose  now : 
Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain, 
In  thee  her  much-loved  child  may  live  again; 
Her  dying  hours  with  pious  conduct  bless, 
Assist  her  wants,  relieve  her  fond  distress: 
So  dear  a  hope  must  all  my  soul  inflame, 
To  rise  in  glory,  or  to  fall  in  fame." 
Struck  with  a  filial  care,  so  deeply  felt, 
In  tears,  at  once,  the  Trojan  warriors  melt ; 
Faster  than  all,  lulus'  eyes  o'erflow  ; 
Such  love  was  his,  and  such  had  been  his  woe. 
"  All  thou  hast  ask'd,  receive,"  the  prince  replied, 
"  Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a  gift  beside  ; 
To  cheer  thy  mother's  years  shall  be  my  aim, 
Creusa's  '  style  but  wanting  to  the  dame  ; 
Fortune  an  adverse  wayward  course  may  run, 
But  bless'd  thy  mother  in  so  dear  a  son. 
Now,  by  my  life,  my  Sire's  most  sacred  oath, 
To  thee  I  pledge  my  full,  my  firmest  troth, 
All  the  rewards  which  once  to  thee  were  vow'd, 
If  thou  shouldst  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestow'd." 
Thus  spoke  the  weeping  prince,  then  forth  to  view 
A  gleaming  falchion  from  the  sheath  he  drew  ; 
Lycaon's  utmost  skill  had  graced  the  steel, 
For  friends  to  envy  and  for  foes  to  feel. 
A  tawny  hide,  the  Moorish  lion's  spoil, 
Slain  midst  the  forest,  in  the  hunter's  toil, 
Mnestheus,  to  guard  the  elder  youth,  bestows, 
And  old  Alethes'  casque  defends  his  brows  ; 
Arm'd,  thence  they  go,  while  all  the  assembled  train, 
To  aid  their  cause,  implore  the  gods  in  vain ; 
More  than  a  boy,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 
lulus  holds  amidst  the  chiefs  his  place ; 
His  prayers  he  sends,  but  what  can  prayers  avail, 
Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  gale  ? 

The  trench  is  past,  and,  favour'd  by  the  night, 
1  hrough  sleeping  foes  they  wheel  their  wary  flight. 
VVhen  shall  the  sleep  of  many  a  foe  be  o'er  ? 
Alas !   some  slumber  who  shall  wake  no  more ! 
Chariots,  and  bridles,  mix'd  with  arms,  are  seen, 
Ard  flowing  flasks,  and  scatter'd  troops  between ; 
JB;uvhus  and  Mars  to  ruie  the  camp  combine, 
\  mingled  chaos  this  of  war  and  wine. 
'•  Now,"  cries  the  first,  "  for  deeds  of  blood  prepare, 
Witu  me  the  conquest  and  the  labour  share ; 
Here  ries  our  ;>ath ;  lest  any  hand  arise, 
iValili  thou,  while  many  a  dreaming  chieftain  dies ; 


Th<.  mother  o\  n  "us,  lost  on  the  night  when  Troy  was  taken. 


I'll  carve  our  passage  through  the  heedless  foe, 

And  clear  thy  road,  with  many  a  deadlv  blow." 

His  whispering  accents  then  the  youth  represt, 

And  pierced  proud  Rharnnes  through  his  panting  breast 

Stretch'd  at  his  ease,  th'  incautious  king  reposed, 

Debauch,  and  not  fatigue,  his  eyes  had  closed ; 

To  Turnus  dear,  a  prophet  and  a  prince, 

His  omens  more  than  augur's  skill  evince ; 

But  he,  who  thus  foretold  the  fate  of  all, 

Could  not  avert  his  own  untimely  fall. 

Next  Remus'  armour-bearer,  hapless,  fell, 

And  three  unhappy  slaves  the  carnage  swell : 

The  charioteer  along  his  courser's  sides 

Expires,  the  steel  his  severed  neck  divides ; 

And,  last,  his  lord  is  number'd  with  the  dead, 

Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping  head  ; 

From  the  swollen  veins  the  blackening  torrents  pour, 

Stain'd  is  the  couch  and  earth  with  clotting  gore. 

Young  Lamyrus  and  Lamus  next  expire, 

And  gay  Serranus,  fill'd  with  youthful  fire ; 

Half  the  long  night  in  childish  games  was  past, 

Lull'd  by  the  potent  grape,  he  slept  at  last ; 

Ah !  happier  far,  had  he  the  mom  survey'd, 

And,  till  Aurora's  dawn,  his  skill  display'd. 

In  slaughter'd  folds,  the  keepers  lost  in  sleep, 
His  hungry  fangs  a  lion  thus  may  steep  ; 
Mid  the  sad  flock,  at  dead  of  night,  he  prowls, 
With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  rolls ; 
Insatiate  still,  through  teeming  herds  he  roams, 
[n  seas  of  gore  the  lordly  tyrant  foams. 

Nor  less  the  other's  deadly  vengeance  came, 
But  falls  on  feeble  crowds  without  a  name ; 
His  wound  unconscious  Fadus  scarce  can  fee), 

Yet  wakeful  Rhaesus  sees  the  threatening  stee 
rlis  coward  breast  behind  a  jar  he  hides, 

And,  vainly,  in  the  weak  defence  confides ; 
?"ull  in  his  heart,  the  falchion  search'd  his  veing, 

The  reeking  weapon  bears  alternate  stains  ; 

Through  wine  and  blood,  commingling  as  they  flow, 
The  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below, 
fow,  where  Messapus  dwelt  they  bend  their  way, 
Vhose  fires  emit  a  faint  and  trembling  ray ; 
There,  unconfined  behold  each  grazing  steed, 
Jnwatch'd,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  feed ; 
Jrave  Nisus  here  arrests  his  comrade's  arm, 
Too  flush'd  with  carnage,  and  with  conquest  warm ; 
'  Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  path  is  past, 
'ull  foes  enough,  to-night,  have  breathed  their  last ; 

Soon  will  the  day  those  eastern  clouds  adorn. 

Vow  let  us  speed,  nor  tempt  the  rising  morn." 

What  silver  arms,  with  various  arts  emboss'd, 
Vhat  bowls  and  mantles,  in  confusion  toss'd, 

y  leave  regardless !  yet,  one  glittering  prize 
Utracts  the  younger  hero's  wandering  eyes  ; 
lie  gilded  harness  Rhamnes'  coursers  fell, 
^he  gems  which  stud  the  monarch's  golden  belt: 
^his  from  the  pallid  corse  was  quickly  torn, 
)nce  by  a  line  of  former  chieftains  worn. 
'h'  exulting  boy  the  studded  girdle  wears, 
dessapus'  helm  his  head,  in  triumph,  bears , 
'hen  from  the  tents  their  cautious  steps  ihey  bena 
o  seek  the  vale,  where  safer  paths  extend. 
Just  at  this  hour,  a  band  of  Latian  horse 
o  Tu.-r.us'  camp  pursue  their  destined  co»  jw : 


14 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


VVhuc  the  slo  v  foot  Jn,u  'irdy  march  delay, 

The  knights,  impatient,  siur  along  the  way : 

Three  hundred  mail-clad  men,  by  Volscens  led, 

To  Turnus,  with  their  master's  promise  sped  : 

Now,  they  approach  the  trench,  and  view  the  walls, 

When,  on  the  left,  a  light  reflection  fall?; 

The  plunder'd  helmet,  through  the  waning  night, 

Sheds  forth  a  silver  radiance,  glancing  bright ; 

Volscens,  with  question  loud,  the  pair  alarms — 

"  Stand,  stragglers !   stand  !  why  early  thus  in  arms  1 

From  whence  1  to  whom  T"  He  meets  with  no  reply; 

Trusting  the  covert  of  the  night,  they  fly ; 

The  thicket's  depth,  with  hurried  pace,  they  tread, 

While  round  the  wood  the  hostile  squadron  spread. 

With  brakes  entangled,  scarce  a  path  between, 
Dreary  and  dark  appears  the  sylvan  scene ; 
EjUryalus  his  heavy  spoils  impede, 
The  boughs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mislead ; 
But  Nisus  scours  along  the  forest's  maze, 
To  where  Latinus'  steeds,  in  safety  graze, 
Then  backward  o'er  the  plain  his  eyes  extend, 
On  every  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 
"  O  God !  my  boy,"  he  cries,  "  of  me  bereft, 
In  what  impending  perils  art  thou  left  !" 
Listening  he  runs — above  the  waving  trees, 
Tumultuous  voices  swell  the  passing  brer'.e; 
The  war-cry  rises,  thundering  hoofs  around 
Wake  the  dark  echoes  of  the  trembling  ground  ; 
Again  he  turns — of  footsteps  hears  the  noise, 
The  sound  elates — the  sight  his  hope  destroys  ; 
The  hapless  boy  a  ruffian  train  surround, 
While  lengthening  shades  his  weary  way  confound ; 
Him,  with  loud  shouts,  the  furious  knights  pursue, 
Struggling  in  vain,  a  captive  to  the  crew. 
What  can  his  friend  'gainst  thronging  numbers  dare  1 
Ah  !  must  he  rush,  his  comrade's  fate  to  share  ! 
What  force,  what  aid,  what  stratagem  essay, 
Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoiler's  prey ! 
His  life  a  votive  ransom  nobly  give, 
Oi  die  with  him  for  whom  he  wish'*!  to  live ! 
Poising  with  strength  his  lifted  lance  on  high, 
On  Luna's  orb  he  cast  his  phrenzied  eye : 
"  Goddess  serene,  transcending  every  star ! 
Queen  of  the  sky !  whose  beams  are  seen  afar ; 
By  night,  Heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day,  the  grove, 
When,  as  chaste  Dian,  here  thou  deign'st  to  rove ; 
If  e'er  myself  or  sire  have  sought  to  grace 
Thine  altars  with  the  produce  of  the  chase ; 
Speed,  speed  my  dart  to  pierce  yon  vaunting  crowd, 
To  free  my  friend,  and  scatter  far  the  proud." 
Thus  having  said,  the  hissing  dart  he  flung ; 
Through  parted  shades  the  hurtling  weapon  sung ; 
The  thirsty  point  in  Sulmo's  entrails  lay, 
Transfix' d  his  heart,  and  stretch'd  him  on  the  clay: 
He  sobs,  he  dies, — the  troop,  in  wild  amaze, 
Uin'onscious  wneuce  the  deaih,  with  horror  gaze ; 
While  pale  they  stare,  through  Tagus'  temples  riven, 
A  •econd  shaft  with  equal  force  is  driven  ; 
Fierce  Volscens  rolls  around  his  lowering  eyes, 
VeiPd  ay  the  night,  secure  the  Trojan  lies. 
l!ui  [ling  with  wrath,  he  view'd  his  soldiers  fall ; 
'  Thou  youth  accurst !   thy  life  shall  pay  for  all." 
Quii'./c  from  the  sheath  his  flaming  glaive  he  drew, 
Ai.fi   raging  on  tne  ooy  defenceless  flew. 


STisus  no  more  the  blackening  shade  sonceals. 
Forth,  forth  he  starts,  and  all  his  love  reveals ; 
Aghast,  confused,  his  fears  to  madness  rise, 
And  pour  these  accents,  shrieking  as  he  flics : 

Me,  me, — your  vengeance  hurl  on  me  alone, 
Here  sheathe  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  your  own ; 
Ye  starry  Spheres !  thou  conscious  Heaven  attest! 
He  could  not — durst  not — lo !  the  guile  confest ! 
All,  all  was  mine — his  early  fate  suspend, 
He  only  loved  too  well  his  hapless  friend ; 
Spare,  spare,  ye  chiefs !  from  him  your  rage  remove 
His  fault  was  friendship,  all  his  crime  was  love." 
He  pray'd  in  vain,  the  dark  assassin's  sword 
Pierced  the  fair  side,  the  snowy  bosom  gored ; 
Lowly  to  earth  inclines  his  plume-clad  crest, 
And  sanguine  torrents  mantle  o'er  his  breast : 
As  some  young  rose,  whose  blossom  scents  the  air, 
Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  the  share ; 
Or  crimson  poppy,  sinking  with  the  shower, 
Declining  gently,  falls  a  fading  flower ; 
Thus,  sweetly  drooping,  bends  his  lovely  head, 
And  lingering  Beauty  hovers  round  the  dead. 

But  fiery  Nisus  stems  the  battle's  tide, 
Revenge  his  leader,  and  Despair  his  guide ; 
Volscens  he  seeks,  amidst  the  gathering  host, 
Volscens  must  soon  appease  his  comrade's  gnost ; 
Steel,  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  crowds  on  foe, 
Rage  nerves  his  arnij  Fate  gleams  in  every  blow ; 
In  vain,  beneath  unnumber'd  wounds  he  bleeds, 
Nor  wounds,  nor  death,  distracted  Nisus  heeds ; 
In  viewless  circles  wheel'd  his  falchion  flies, 
Nor  quits  the  Hero's  grasp  till  Volscens  dies  ; 
Deep  in  his  throat  its  end  the  weapon  found, 
The  tyrant's  soul  fled  groaning  through  the  wound. 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  fond  affection  proved, 
Dying,  revenged  the  fate  of  him  he  loved ; 
Then  on  his  bosom,  sought  his  wonted  place, 
And  death  was  heavenly  in  his  friend's  embrace . 

Celestial  pair !  if  aught  my  verse  can  claim, 
Wafted  on  Time's  broad  pinion,  yours  is  fame ! 
Ages  on  ages  shall  your  fate  admire  ; 
No  future  day  shall  see  your  names  expire  ; 
While  stands  the  Capitol,  immortal  dome  ! 
And  vanquish'd  millions  hail  their  Empress,  Rome 

TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  MEDEA  OP 

EURIPIDES. 
WHEN  fierce  conflicting  passions  urge 

The  breast  where  love  is  wont  to  glow, 
What  mind  can  stem  the  stormy  surge, 

Which  rolls  the  tide  of  human  woe  1 
The  hope  of  praise,  the  dread  of  r.hame, 

Can  rouse  the  tortured  breast  no  more  ; 
The  wild  desire,  the  guilty  flame, 

Absorbs  each  wish  it  felt  before. 

But,  if  affection  gently  thrills 

The  soul,  by  purer  dreams  possest, 
The  pleasing  balm  of  mortal  ills, 

In  love  can  soothe  the  aching  breast ; 
If  thus,  thou  comest  in  gentle  guist 

Fair  Venus !  from  thy  native  heaven, 
What  heart,  unfeeling,  would  despise 

The  sweetest  boon  the  gods  have  given  ' 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


But,  never  from  thy  golden  bow 

May  I  beneath  the  shaft  expire, 
Whose  creeping  venom,  sure  and  slow, 

Awakes  an  all-consuming  fire  ; 
Ye  racking  doubts !  ye  jealous  fears ! 

With  others  wage  eternal  war ; 
Repentance !  source  of  future  tears, 

From  me  be  ever  distant  far. 

May  no  distracting  thoughts  destroy 

The  holy  calm  of  sacred  love ! 
May  all  the  hours  be  wing'd  with  joy, 

Which  hover  faithful  hearts  above ' 
Fair  Venus  !  on  thy  myrtle  shrine, 

May  I  with  some  fnnd  lover  sigh ! 
Whose  heart  may  mingle  pure  with  mine, 

With  me  to  live,  with  me  to  die. 

My  native  soil !  beloved  before, 

Now  dearer,  as  my  peaceful  home, 
Ne'er  may  I  quit  thy  rocky  shore, 

A  hapless,  banish'd  wretch  to  roam  ; 
This  very  day,  this  very  hour, 

May  I  resign  this  fleeting  breath, 
Nor  quit  my  silent,  humble  bower — 

A  doom,  to  me,  far  worse  than  death. 

Have  I  not  heard  the  exile's  sigh, 

And  seen  the  exile's  silent  tear? 
Through  distant  climes  condemn'd  to  fly, 

A  pensive,  weary  wanderer  here  : 
Ah !  hapless  dame !  '  no  sire  bewails, 

No  friend  thy  wretched  fate  deplores, 
No  kindred  voice  with  rapture  hails 

Thy  steps,  within  a  stranger's  doors. 

Perish  the  fiend !  whose  iron  hea"t, 

To  fair  affection's  truth  unknown, 
Bids  her  he  fondly  loved  depart, 

Unpitied,  helpless,  and  alone  ; 
Who  ne'er  unlocks,  with  silver  *ey,  * 

The  milder  treasures  of  his  soul ; 
May  such  a  friend  be  far  from  me, 

And  Ocean's  storms  between  us  roll ! 


FUGITIVE   PIECES. 


THOUGHTS  SUGGESTED  BY  A  COLLEGE 

EXAMINATION. 3 

HIGH  in  the  midst,  surrounded  by  his  peers, 
MAGNUS  his  ample  front  sublime  uprears ; 
Placed  on  his  chair  of  state,  he  seems  a  god, 
While  Sophs  and  Freshmen  tremble  at  his  nod ; 


1  Medea,  who  accompanied  Jason  to  Corinth,  was  deserted 
by  him  for  the  daughter  of  Creon,  king  of  that  city.  The  Chorus 
from  which  this  is  taken,  here  address  Medea;  though  a  con- 
siderable liberty  is  taken  with  the  original,  by  expanding  the 
idea,  as  also  in  some  other  parts  of  the  translation. 

2  The  original  is  "  KuBapav  avoi^avrt  K.\ti$a  typtv&v  :" 
literally  "  Disclosing  the  bright  key  of  the  mind." 

3  No  reflection  is  here  intended  against  the  person  mentioned 
un^'er  the  name  of  Magnus.    He  is  merely  represented  as  per- 
forming an  unavoidable  function  of  his  office:  indeed  such  an 
attempt  could  only  recoil  upon  myself;  as  that  gentleman  is 
•tow  as  tnur-h  distinguished  by  his  eloquence,  and  the  dignified 
preprint?  with  which  he  fills  his  situation,  as  he  was,  in  his 
fuuiitfor  aays  for  wu  and  conviviality 


As  all  around  sit  wrapt  in  speechless  gloom, 
His  voice,  in  thunder,  shakes  the  sounding  dome, 
Denouncing  dire  reproach  to  luckless  foois, 
Unskill'd  to  plod  in  mathematic  rules. 

Happy  the  youth !  in  Euclid's  axioms  tried, 
Though  little  versed  in  any  art  beside  ; 
Who,  scarcely  skill'd  an  English  line  to  pen, 
Scans  Attic  metres  with  a  critic's  ken. 
What !   though  he  knows  not  how  his  fatheis  bled, 
When  civil  discord  piled  the  fields  with  dead  ; 
When  Edward  bade  his  conquering  bands  advance, 
Or  Henry  trampled  on  the  crest  of  France  ; 
Though,  marv'ling  at  the  name  of  Magna  Charta, 
Yet  well  he  recollects  the  laws  of  Sparta ; 
Can  tell  what  edicts  sage  Lycurgus  made, 
While  Blackstone  's  on  the  shelf  neglected  laid ; 
Of  Grecian  dramas  vaunts  the  deathless  fame, 
Of  Avon's  bard  remembering  scarce  the  name. 

Such  is  the  youth,  whose  scientific  pate, 
Class-honours,  medals,  fellowsnips,  await ; 
Or  even,  perhaps,  the  declamation  prize, 
If  to  such  glorious  height  he  lifts  his  eyes. 
But,  lo !  no  common  orator  can  hope 
The  envied  silver  cup  within  his  scope  : 
Not  that  our  Heads  much  eloquence  require, 
Th'  Athenian's  glowing  style,  or  Tully's  fire. 
A  manner  clear  or  warm  is  useless,  since 
We  do  not  try,  by  speaking,  to  convince : 
Be  other  orators  of  pleasing  proud, 
We  speak  to  please  ourselves,  not  move  the  crowd  ; 
Our  gravity  prefers  the  muttering  tone, 
A  proper  mixture  of  the  squeak  and  groan ; 
No  borrow'd  grace  of  action  must  be  seen, 
The  slightest  motion  would  displease  the  Dean ; 
Whilst  every  staring  Graduate  would  prate 
Against  what  he  could  never  imitate. 

The  man,  who  hopes  t'  obtain  the  promised  cup. 
Must  in  one  posture  stand,  and  ne'er  look  up ; 
Nor  stop,  but  rattle  over  every  word, 
No  matter  what,  so  it  can  not  be  heard — 
Thus  let  him  hurry  on,  nor  think  to  rest ! 
Who  speaks  the  fastest 's  sure  to  speak  the  best 
Who  utters  most  within  the  shortest  space, 
May  safely  hope  to  win  the  wordy  race. 

The  sons  of  science  these,  who,  thus  repaid, 
Linger  in  ease  in  Granta's  sluggish  shade ; 
Where,  on  Cam's  sedgy  banks,  supine  they  lie, 
Unknown,  unhonour'd  live, — unwept  for,  di« ; 
Dull  as  the  pictures  which  adorn  their  halls, 
They  think  all  learning  fix'd  within  their  walls ; 
In  manners  rude,  in  foolish  forms  precise, 
All  modern  arts  affecting  to  despise ; 
Yet  prizing  BENTLEY'S,  BRUNCH'S,  '  or  PORSON 

note, 

More  than  the  verse  on  which  the  critic  wrote , 
Vain  as  their  honours,  heavy  as  their  ale, 
Sad  as  their  wit,  and  tedious  as  their  tale, 
To  friendship  dead,  though  not  untaught  to  feel, 
When  Self  and  Church  demand  a  bigot  zeal. 
With  eager  haste  they  court  the  loM  of  power, 
Whether 't  is  PITT  or  P — TTY  rules  the  hour  •  3 


1  Celebrated  critics. 

ij  The  present  Greek   professor  at  Trinitv  College,  Ca 
bridge;  a  man  whose  powers  of  mind  und  w;'ings  may  ;». 
haps  justify  their  preference. 

3  Since  this  was  written  Lord  H.  P v  ha*  '••*>  Ha  Dln* 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


To  him,  with  suppliant  smiles,  they  bend  the  head, 
While  distant  mitres  to  their  eyes  are  spread ; 
Hut  should  a  storm  o'erwhelm  him  with  disgrace, 
They  'd  fly  to  seek  the  next  who  fill'd  his  place. 
Such  are  the  men  who  learning's  treasures  guard, 
Such  is  their  practice,  such  is  their  reward ; 
This  much,  at  least,  we  may  presume  to  say — 
The  premium  can't  exceed  the  prico  they  pay. 

1806. 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  *  *  *. 


"  tu  semper  amori* 
Sis  mcmor,  et  cari  comifis  ne  abscedat  imago." 

VALERIUS  FLACCUS. 


FRIEND  of  my  youth !  when  young  we  roved, 
Like  striplings  mutually  beloved, 

With  Friendship's  purest  glow ; 
The  bliss  which  wing'd  those  rosy  hours 
Was  such  as  pleasure  seldom  showers 

On  mortals  here  below. 

The  recollection  seems,  alone, 
Dearer  than  all  the  joys  I  've  known, 

When  distant  far  from  you  ; 
Though  pain,  't  is  still  a  pleasing  pain, 
To  trace  those  days  and  hours  again, 

And  sigh  again,  adieu ! 

My  pensive  memory  lingers  o'er 
Those  scenes  to  be  enjoy'd  no  more, 

Those  scenes  regretted  ever ; 
The  measure  of  our  youth  is  full, 
Life's  evening  dream  is  dark  and  dull, 

And  we  may  meet — ah !  never ! 

As  when  one  parent  spring  supplies 

Two  streams,  which  from  one  fount  ain  rise, 

Together  join'd  in  vain ; 
How  soon,  diverging  from  their  source, 
Each  murmuring  seeks  anothei  course, 

Till  mingled  in  the  main. 

Our  vital  streams  of  weal  or  woe, 
Though  near,  alas !  distinctly  Uow, 

Nor  mingle  as  before ; 
Now  swift  or  slow,  now  black  or  clear, 
Till  death's  unfathom'd  gulf  appear, 

And  both  shall  quit  the  shore. 

Our  souls,  my  Friend !  which  once  supplied 
One  wish,  nor  breathed  a  thought  beside, 

Now  flow  in  different  channels ; 
Disdaining  humbler  rural  sports, 
T  is  yours  to  mix  in  polish'd  courts, 

And  shine  in  Fashion's  annals. 

Tis  tnbe  to  waste  on  Love  my  time, 
Or  verre  my  reveries  in  rhyme, 

Without  the  aid  of  Reason ; 
Kor  Sense  and  Reason  (critics  know  it) 
Have  quitted  every  amorous  poet, 

Nor  left  a  thought  to  seize  on. 


\nn  subsequently  (I  had  nlmostsaid  consequently)  the  honour 
of  representing  the  University  ;  a  fact  so  glaring  requires  no 


Poor  LITTLE!  sweet,  melodious  bard. 
Ol  late  esteem'd  it  monstrous  hard, 

That  he,  who  sang  before  all ; 
He,  who  the  love  of  Love  expanded, 
Hy  dire  reviewers  should  be  branded, 

As  void  of  wit  and  moral. ' 

And  yet,  while  Beauty's  praise  is  thine, 
Harmonious  favourite  of  the  Nine ! 

Repine  not  at  thy  lot ; 
Thy  soothing  lays  may  still  be  read, 
When  Persecution's  arm  is  dead, 

And  critics  are  forgot. 

Still,  I  must  yield  those  worthies  merit, 
Who  chasten,  with  unsparing  spirit, 

Bad  rhymes,  and  those  who  write  them ; 
And  though  myself  may  be  the  next 
By  critic  sarcasm  to  be  vext, 

I  really  will  not  fight  them ;  * 

Perhaps  they  would  do  quite  as  well, 
To  break  the  rudely-sounding  shell 

Of  such  a  young  beginner ; 
He  who  offends  at  pert  nineteen, 
Ere  tr'\rty,  may  become,  I  ween, 

.'.  'ery  harden'd  sinner. 


-,  I  must  return  to  you, 


Now  • 

And  sure  apologies  are  due ; 

Accept  then  my  concession ; 

In  truth,  dear ,  in  fancy's  flight, 

I  soar  along  from  left  to  right ; 

My  muse  admires  digression. 

I  think  I  said  't  would  be  your  fate 
To  add  one  star  to  royal  state ; 

May  regal  smiles  attend  you ; 
And  should  a  noble  Monarch  reigr. 
You  will  not  seek  his  smiles  in  vain, 

If  worth  can  recommend  you. 

Yet,  since  in  danger  courts  abound, 
Where  specious  rivals  glitter  round, 

From  snares  may  saints  preserve  you ; 
And  grant  your  love  or  friendship  ne'er 
From  any  claim  a  kindred  care, 

But  those  who  best  deserves  you. 

Not  for  a  moment  may  you  stray 
From  Truth's  secure  unerring  way ; 

May  no  delights  decoy ; 
O'er  roses  may  your  footsteps  move, 
Your  smiles  be  ever  smiles  of  love, 

Your  tears  be  tears  of  joy. 

Oh!  if  you  wish  that  happiness 

Your  coming  days  and  years  may  bless, 

And  virtues  crown  your  brow  ; 
Be  still,  as  you  were  wont  to  be, 
Spotless  as  you  've  been  known  to  me, 

Be,  still,  as  you  are  now. 


1  These  Stanzas  were  written  soon  after  the  nppenionce  of 
a  severe  critique  in  a  Northern  review,  on  a  now  publication 
of  the  British  Anacreon 

2  A  Bard  (horresco  referens)  defied  his  reviewer  to  mom. 
combat.  If  this  example  become*  prevalent,  our  periodi-ul 
censors  must  be  dippod  in  the  river  Styx,  for  what  tlse  cat 
secure  them  from  the  numerous  host  of  theii  <  nragpd  as&t'i 
ants  ? 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


17 


And  though  some  trifling  share  of  praise, 
To  cheer  my  last  declining  days, 

To  me  were  doubly  dear ; 
Whilst  blessing  your  beloved  name, 
I  'd  waive  at  once  a  Poefs  fame, 

To  prove  a  Prophet  here. 

GRANTA,  A  MEDLEY. 


ov  icat  iravra  Kpar>;<rai;. 


OH!  could  LE  SAGE'S'  demon's  gift 

Be  realized  at  my  desire, 
This  night  my  trembling  form  he  'd  lift, 

To  place  it  on  St.  Mary's  spire. 
Then  would,  unroof  'd,  old  Granta's  halls 

Pedantic  inmates  full  display  ; 
Fellows  who  dream  on  lawn,  or  stalls, 

The  price  of  venal  votes  to  pay. 
Then  would  I  view  each  rival  wight, 

P  —  tty  and  P  —  1m  —  st  —  n  survey  ; 
Who  canvass  there  with  all  their  might, 

Against  the  next  elective  day. 
Lo  !  candidates  and  voters  lie, 

All  lull'd  in  sleep,  a  goodly  number  ! 
A  race  renown'd  for  piety, 

Whose  conscience  won't  disturb  their  slumber. 
Lord  H  -  ,  indeed,  may  not  demur, 

Fellows  are  sage,  reflecting  men  ! 
They  know  preferment  ca    occur 

But  very  seldom,  —  now  and  then. 
They  know  the  Chancellor  has  got 

Some  pretty  livings  in  disposal  ; 
Each  hopes  that  one  may  be  his  lot, 

And,  therefore,  smiles  on  his  proposal. 
Now,  from  the  soporific  scene 

I'll  turn  mine  eye,  as  night  grows  later, 
To  view,  unheeded  and  unseen, 

The  studious  sons  of  Alma  Mater. 

There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 

The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp, 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

He,  surely,  well  deserves  to  gain  them, 
With  all  the  honours  of  his  college, 

Who,  striving  hardly  to  obtain  them, 

Thus  seeks  unprofitable  knowledge  ; 

Who  sacrifices  hours  of  rest, 

To  scan,  precisely,  metres  Attic, 

Or  agitates  his  anxious  breast 

In  solving  problems  mathematic  ; 

Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Sele,2 
Or  puzzles  o'er  the  deep  triangle, 

Deprived  of  many  a  wholesome  meal, 

In  barbarous  Latin3  doom'd  to  wrangle  ; 


1  The  Diable  Boiteux  of  Le  Sage,  whore  Asmodeus,  the 
tfemon,  places  Don  Cleofas  on  an  elevated  situation  and  un- 
riHjfs  the  houses  for  his  inspection. 

1?  Sele's  publication  on  Greek  metres  displays  considerable 
tnlem  nnit  ingenuity,  but,  as  might  be  expected  in  so  difficult 
a  w>>rk,  is  not  remarkable  for  accurao 

3  The  Latin  of  the  schools  is  of  the  canine  species,  and  not 
rerj  :ntel!igibie. 

8 


Renouncing  every  pleasing  page 

From  authors  of  historic  use  ; 
Preferring  to  the  letter'd  sage 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse.1 
Still,  harmless  are  these  occupations, 

That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  student, 
Compared  with  other  recreations, 

Which  bring  together  the  imprudent ; 
Whose  daring  revels  shock  the  sight, 

When  vice  and  infamy  combine, 
When  drunkenness  end  dice  unite, 

And  every  sense  is  steep'd  in  wine. 
Not  so  the  methodistic  crew, 

Who  plans  of  reformation  lay : 
In  humble  attitude  they  sue, 

And  for  the  sins  of  others  pray. 
Forgetting  that  their  pride  of  spirit, 

Their  exultation  in  their  ti  ial, 
Detracts  most  largely  from  the  merit 

Of  all  their  boasted  self-denial. 
'Tis  morn, — from  these  I  turn  my  sight: 

What  scene  is  this  which  meo.ts  the  eye  1 
A  numerous  crowd,  array'd  in  while,  2 

Across  the  green  in  numbers  lly. 
Loud  rings,  in  air,  the  chapel  bell ; 

'T  is  hush'd :  What  sounds  are  these  I  hen  ( 
The  organ's  soft  celestial  swell 

Rolls  deeply  on  the  listening  ear. 
To  this  is  join'd  the  sacred  song, 

The  royal  minstrel's  hallow'd  strain ; 
Though  he  who  hears  the  music  long 

Will  never  wish  to  hear  again. 

Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused, 

Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners ; 
All  mercy,  now,  must  be  refused, 

To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinners. 
If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended, 

Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  him, 
To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended, 

In  furious  mood  he  would  have  torn  'em. 
The  luckless  Israelites,  when  taken, 

By  some  inhuman  tyrant's  order, 
Were  ask'd  to  sing,  by  joy  forsaken, 

On  Babylonian  river's  border. 

Oh  !  had  they  sung  in  notes  like  these, 

Inspired  by  stratagem  or  fear, 
They  might  have  set  their  hearts  at  ease — 

The  devil  a  soul  had  stay'd  to  hear. 

But,  if  I  scribble  longer  now, 

The  deuce  a  soul  will  stay  to  read , 

My  pen  is  blunt,  my  ink  is  low, 

'T  is  almost  time  to  stop  indeed. 

Therefore,  farewell,  old  GRANTA'S  spires, 

No  more,  like  Cleofas,  I  fly ; 
No  more  thy  theme  my  Muse  inspire* 

The  reader's  tired,  and  so  am  1. 

180b 


1  The  discovery  of  Pythagoras,  that   the  square  of  in* 
hypothenuse  is  equal  to  the  squares  of  the  other  two  side*  o* 
a  right-angled  triangle. 

2  On  a  Saint  day,  the  students  wear  surplices  in  ehane1 


JiYRON'S  WORKS. 


LACHIN  Y  GAIR. 


'.achinyOair,  or,  as  it  is  pronounced  in  the  Erse,  7,oeA  na 
Garr,  towers  proudly  pre-eminent  in  the  Northern  High- 
lands, near  Invercaufd.  One  of  our  modern  tourists  men 


eterna  snows:  near  acn  y  ar  spent  some  o  te 
early  part  of  my  life,  the  recollection  of  which  has  given 
birth  to  the  following  Stanzas. 


AWAY,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses ! 

In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove  ; 
Restore  me  the  rocks  where  the  snow-flake  reposes, 

Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and  love : 
Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are  thy  mountains, 

Round  their  white  summits  though  elements  war, 
Though  cataracts  foam,  'stead  of  smooth-flowing  foun- 
tains, 

I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 
Ah  !  there  my  young  footsteps  in  infancy  wander'd, 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid ; ' 
On  chieftains  long  perish'd  my  memory  ponder'd, 

As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine-cover'd  glade ; 
I  sought  not  my  home  till  the  day's  dying  glory 

Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  star ; 
For  Fancy  was  cheer'd  by  traditional  story 

Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 
"  Shades  of  the  dead !  have  I  not  heard  your  voices 

Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the  gale  ?" 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 

And  rides  on  the  wind  o'er  his  own  Highland  vale: 
Round  Loch  na  Garr,  while  the  stormy  mist  gathers, 

Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car ; 
Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  fathers — 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr: 
"  Ill-starr'd, 2  though  brave,  did  no  visions  forebodinc 

Tell  you  that  Fate  had  forsaken  your  cause?" 
Ah !  were  you  destined  to  die  at  Culloden, 3 

Victory  crown'd  not  your  fall  with  applause ; 
Still  were  you  happy,  in  death's  early  slumber 

You  rest  with  your  clan,  in  the  caves  of  Braemar,4 
The  Pibroch 6  resounds  to  the  piper's  loud  number 

Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 
Years  have  roll'd  on,  Loch  na  Garr,  since  I  left  you ; 

Years  must  elapse  ere  I  tread  you  again ; 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flowers  has  bereft  you, 

Yet,  still,  are  yoa  dearer  than  Albion's  plain  : 
England !  thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic 

To  one  who  has  roved  on  the  mountains  afar ; 
Oh !  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  majestic, 

Tne  steep-frowning  glories  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr ! 


1  This  word  is  erroneously  pronounced  plad ;  the  proper 
pronunciation  (according  to  the   Scotch)   is  shown  by  the 
orthography. 

2  1  allude  here  to  my  maternal  ancestors,  "the  Gordons," 
many  of  whom  fought  for  the  unfortunate  Prince  Charles, 
better  known  hy  the  name  of  the  Pretender.  This  branch  was 
nearly  allied  by  blood,  as  well  as  attachment,  to  the  Stewarts. 
George,  thb  second  Earl  of  Huntley,  married   the  Princess 
Annabella  Stewart,  daughter  of  James  the  First  of  Scotland; 
by  her  ho  .eft  four  sons:  the  third.  Sir  William  Gordon,  I 
nave  the  honour  to  claim  as  one  of  my  progenitors. 

3  Whether  any  perished  in  the  battle  of  Culloden  I  am  not 
wttain  ;  but  as  many  fell  in  the  insurrection,  I  have  used  the 
Hiimt!  of  the  principal  action,  "p«rs  pro  toto." 

4  A  tract  of  the  Highlands  so  called  ;  there  is  also  a  Castle 
vt  Braemar. 

5  The  l!.ii.'i))pe. 


TO  ROMANCE. 

PARENT  of  golden  dreams,  Romance! 

Auspicious  queen  of  childish  joys ! 
Who  lead'st  along,  in  airy  dance, 

Thy  votive  train  of  girls  and  boys ; 
At  length,  in  spells  no  longer  bound, 

I  break  the  fetters  of  my  youth  ; 
No  more  I  tread  thy  mystic  i  ound, 

But  leave  thy  realms  for  those  of  Truth 

And  yet,  't  is  hard  to  quit  the  dreams 

Which  haunt  the  unsuspicious  soul, 
Where  every  nymph  a  goddess  seems, 

Whose  eyes  'hrough  rays  immortal  roll ; 
While  E^.ncy  holds  her  boundless  reign, 

And  all  assume  a  varied  hue, 
When  virgins  seem  no  longer  vain, 

And  even  woman's  smiles  are  true. 
And  must  we  own  the*  but  a  name, 

And  from  thy  hall  of  clouds  descend ; 
Nor  find  a  sylph  in  every  dame, 

A  Pylades '  in  every  friend  ? 
But  leave,  at  once,  thy  realms  of  air, 

To  mingling  bands  of  fairy  elves : 
Confess  that  woman's  false  as  fair, 

And  friends  have  feelings  for — themselves. 

With  shame,  I  own  I  've  felt  thy  sway, 

Repentant,  now  thy  reign  is  o'er ; 
No  more  thy  precepts  I  obey, 

No  more  on  fancied  pinions  soar : 
Fond  fool !  to  love  a  sparkling  eye, 

And  think  that  eye  to  Truth  was  dear, 
To  trust  a  passing  wanton's  sigh, 

And  melt  beneath  a  wanton's  tear. 
Romance !  disgusted  with  deceit, 

Far  from  thy  motley  court  I  fly, 
Where  Affectation  holds  her  seat, 

And  sickly  Sensibility ; 
Whose  silly  tears  can  never  flow 

For  any  pangs  excepting  thine ; 
Who  turns  aside  from  real  woe. 

To  steep  in  dew  thy  gaudy  shrine : 

Now  join  with  sable  Sympathy, 

\Vith  cypress  crown'd,  array'd  in  w;edl 
Who  heaves  with  thee  her  simple  si^h, 

Whose  breast  for  every  bosom  bleeds ; 
And  call  thy  sylvan  female  quire, 

To  mourn  a  swain  for  ever  s;one, 
Who  once  could  glow  with  equal  fire, 

But  bends  not  w>\\  before  thy  throne. 

Ye  genial  nymphs,  whose  ready  tears, 

On  all  occasions,  swifily  flow; 
Whose  bosoms  heave  with  fancied  tears, 

With  fancied  names  and  phrenzy  glow; 
Say,  will  you  mourn  my  absent  name. 

Apostate  from  your  gentle  tram  I 
An  infant  Baril,  at  least,  may  claim 

From  you  a  sympathetic  .strain 


1  It  is  hardly  necessary  lo  add.  that  Pylades  was  the  comparion  at 
Orestes,  and  a  partner  in  nne  of  those  frien  Iships  which,  wilh  It  »  .f 
Achilles  and  Patrocles,  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  Damon  and  Pythiis,  hivi 
been  handed  down  to  posterity  as  remark.il.lj  instances  of  »tt,irim«JI 
which,  in  all  pn.bab.lily,  never  existed,  beyond  the  /maginatiol  of  « 
poet,  the  page  of  a  historian,  or  modern  novelist. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


Adieu !  fond  race,  a  long  adieu ! 

The  hour  of  fate  is  hovering  nigh ; 
Even  now  the  gulf  appears  in  view, 

Where  unlamented  you  must  lie : 
Oblivion's  blackening  hike  is  seen 

Convulsed  by  galos  you  cannot  weather, 
Where  you,  and  eke  your  gentle  queen, 

Alas  !  must  perish  altogether. 


ELEGY  ON  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY.1 


It  is  the  voice  of  years  that  are  gone !  they  roll  before  me 
vith  all  tlieir  deeds.  OSSIAN. 


NEWSTEAD  !  fast  falling,  once  resplendent  dome ! 

Religion's  shrine !   repentant  HENRY'S  2  pride! 
Of  warriors,  monks,  and  dames  the  cloister'd  tomb, 

Whose  pensive  shades  around  thy  ruins  glide : 

Hail  to  thy  pile  !  more  honour'd  in  thy  fall, 
Than  modern  mansions  in  tlieir  pillar'd  state ; 

Proudly  majestic  frowns  thy  vaulted  hall, 
Scowling  defiance  on  the  blast  of  fate. 

No  mail-clad  serfs,  3  obedient  to  their  lord, 
In  grim  array,  the  crimson  cross4  demand: 

Or  gay  assemble  round  the  festive  board, 
Their  chief's  retainers,  an  immortal  band. 

Else  might  inspiring  Fancy's  magic  eye 

Retrace  their  progress,  through  the  lapse  of  time ; 

Marking  each  ardent  youth,  ordain'd  to  die, 
A  votive  pilgrim,  in  Judea's  clime. 

But  not  from  thee,  dark  pile!  departs  the  Chiefj 

His  feudal  realm  in  other  regions  lay  ; 
In  thee,  the  wounded  conscience  courts  relief, 

Retiring  from  die  garish  blaze  of  day. 

Yes,  in  thy  gloomy  cells  and  shades  profound, 
The  monk  abjured  a  world  he  ne'er  could  view; 

Or  blood- stain'd  Guilt  repenting  solace  found, 
Or  innocence  from  stern  Oppression  flew. 

A  monarch  bade  thee  from  that  wild  arise, 

Where  Sherwood's  outlaws  once  were  wont  to  prowl; 

And  Superstition's  crimes,  of  various  dyes, 
Sought  shelter  in  the  priest's  protecting  cowl. 

Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew, 

The  humid  pall  of  life-extinguish'd  clay, 
In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 

Nor  raised  their  pious  voices,  but  to  pray. 
Where  now  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend, 

Soon  as  the  gloaming  s  spreads  her  waning  shade, 
The  choir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend, 

Or  matin  orisons  to  Mary 6  paid. 


1  As  one  poem  on  this  subject  is  printed  in  the  beginning, 
the  author  had  orisinally  no  intention  of  inserting  the  follow- 
ina :  it  is  now  iidited  at  the  particular  request  of  some  friends. 

i!  Henry  II.  founded  Newstead  soon  after  the  murder  of 
riiomiH-a-Becket. 

This  word  is  used  by  Walter  Scott,  in  his  poem,  "  The 
W'ld  Huntsman,"  as  synonymous  with  Vassal. 

4  The  Red  Cross  was  the  badge  of  the  Crusaders. 

5  As  "Gloaming."   tic  Scottish  word  for  Twilight,  ia  far 
more  poetical,  and  hai,  oven  recommended  by  many  eminent 
literary  men,  particularly  Dr.  Moore,  in  his  Letters  to  Burns. 
I  have  ventured  to  use  it  on  account  of  its  harmony. 

6  The  Priory  was  dedicated  to  the  Virgin 


Years  roll  on  years — to  ages,  ages  yield- 
Abbots  to  abbots  in  a  line  succeed, 
Religion's  charter  their  protecting  shield, 

Till  royal  sacrilege  their  doom  decreed. 
One  holy  HENRY  rear'd  the  Gothic  walls, 

And  bade  the  pious  inmates  rest  in  peace 
Another  HENRY  '  the  kind  gift  recalls, 

And  bids  devotion's  hallow'd  echoes  cease. 
Vain  is  each  threat,  or  supplicating  prayer, 

He  drives  them  exiles  from  their  blest  abode, 
To  roam  a  dreary  world,  in  deep  despair, 

No  friend,  no  home,  no  refuge  but  their  God. 
Hark !  how  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain, 

Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din ! 
The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign, 

High-crested  banners,  wave  thy  walls  within. 
Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 

The  mirth  offcasts,  the  clang  of  burnish'd  arm* 
The  braying  trumpet,  and  the  hoarser  drum, 

Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms. 
An  abbey  once,  a  «-egal  fortress2  now, 

Encircled  by  insulting  rebel  powers  ; 
War's  dread  machines  o'erhang  thy  threatening  brow 

And  dart  destruction  in  sulphureous  showers. 
Ah !  vain  defence  !  the  hostile  traitor's  siege, 

Though  oft  repulsed,  by  guile  o'ercomes  the  brave 
His  thronging  foes  oppress  the  faithful  liege, 

RebelUon's  reeking  standards  o'er  him  wave. 
Not  unavenged,  the  raging  baron  yields, 

The  blood  of  traitors  smears  the  purple  plain ; 
Unconquer'd  still  his  falchion  there  he  wields, 

And  days  of  glory  yet  for  him  remain. 
Still,  in  that  hour  the  warrior  wish'd  to  strew 

Self-gather'd  laurels  on  a  self-sought  grave  ; 
But  Charles'  protecting  genius  hither  flew, 

The  monarch's  friend,  the  monarch's  hope,  to  save. 
Trembling  she  snatch'd  him  3  from  the  unequal  strife, 

In  other  fields  the  torrent  to  repel, 
For  nobler  combats  here  reserved  his  life, 

To  lead  the  band  where  godlike  FALKLAND  4  feD. 
From  thee,  poor  pile  !  to  lawless  plunder  given, 

While  dying  groans  their  painful  requiem  sound, 
Far  different  incense  now  ascends  to  heaven — 

Such  victims  wallow  on  the  gory  ground. 
There,  many  a  pale  and  ruthless  robber's  corse, 

Noisome  and  ghast,  defiles  thy  sacred  sod ; 
O'er  mingling  man,  and  horse  commix'd  with  horse, 

Corruption's  heap,  the  savage  spoilers  trod. 
Graves,  long  with  rank  and  sighing  weeds  o'erspread, 

Ransack'd,  resign  perforce  their  mortal  mould ; 
From  ruffian  fangs  escape  not  e'en  the  dead, 

Raked  from  repose,  in  search  of  buried  gold. 


1  At  the  dissolution  of  the  Monasteries.  Henry  VIII.  be 
stowed  Newstead  Abbey  on  Sir  John  Byron. 

2  Newstead  sustained  a  considerable  siege  in  the  war  b» 
tween  Charles  1.  and  his  Parliament. 

3  Lord  Byron  and  his  brother  Sir  William  held  hiph  cum 
mnnds  in  the  royal  arm)  ;  the  former  was  General  in  Chief  ii 
Ireland,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and  Governor  to  Jame* 
Duke  of  York,  afterwards  the  unhappy  James  II.  The  latlw 
had  a  principal  share  in  many  actions,    fide  Clarendon 
Hume,  etc. 

4  Lucius  Cnry,  Lord  Viscount  Falkland,  the  most  accom 
plished  man  of  nig  age,  wag  killed  ut  the  hattlo  of  Ncwherrr 
charging  in  the  ranks  of  Lord  Byron's  regiment  «f  <  «va.r» 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


Hush'd  is  the  harp,  unstrung  the  warlike  lyre, 

The  minstrel's  palsied  hand  reclines  in  death ; 
No  more  he  strikes  the  quivering  chords  with  fire, 

Or  sings  the  giories  of  the  martial  wreath. 
At  length,  the  sated  murderers,  gorged  with  prey, 

Retire — the  clamour  of  the  fight  is  o'er; 
Silence  again  resumes  her  awful  sway, 

And  sable  Horror  guards  the  massy  door. 
Here  Desolation  holds  her  dreary  court ; 

What  satellites  declare  her  dismal  rejgn ! 
Shrieking  their  dirge,  ill-omen'd  birds  resort 

To  flit  their  vigils  in  the  hoary  fane. 
Soon  a  new  morn's  restoring  beams  dispel 

The  clouds  of  anarchy  from  Britain's  skies ; 
The  fierce  usurper  seeks  his  native  hell, 

And  Nature  triumphs  as  the  tyrant  dies. 
With  storms  she  welcomes  his  expiring  groans, 

Whirlwinds  responsive  greet  his  labouring  breath ; 
Earth  shudders  as  her  cave  receives  his  bones, 

Loathing  '  the  offering  of  so  dark  a  death. 
The  legal  Ruler  a  now  resumes  the  helm, 

He  guides  through  gentle  seas  the  prow  of  state : 
Hope  cheers  with  wonted  smiles  the  peaceful  realm, 

And  heals  the  bleeding  wounds  of  wearied  Hate. 

The  gioomy  tenants,  Newstead,  of  thy  cells, 

Howling  resign  their  violated  nest ; 
Again  the  master  on  his  tenure  dwells, 

Enjoy'd,  from  absence,  with  enraptured  zest. 

Vassals  within  thy  hospitable  pale, 

Loudly  carousing,  bless  their  lord's  return  ; 
Culture  again  adorns  the  gladdening  vale, 

And  matrons,  once  lamenting,  cease  to  mourn. 
A  thousand  songs  on  tuneful  echo  float, 

Unwonted  foliage  mantles  o'er  the  trees ; 
And,  hark !  the  horns  proclaim  a  mellow  note, 

The  hunter's  cry  hangs  lengthening  on  the  breeze. 
Beneath  their  coursers'  hoofs  the  valleys  shake : 

What  fears,  what  anxious  hopes  attend  the  chase ! 
The  dying  stag  seeks  refuge  in  the  lake, 

Exulting  shouts  announce  the  finish'd  race. 
Ah !  happy  days !  too  happy  to  endure  ! 

Such  simple  sports  our  plain  forefathers  knew : 
No  splendid  vices  glitter'd  to  allure — 

Their  joys  were  many,  as  their  cares  were  few. 
From  these  descending,  sons  to  sires  succeed, 

Time  steals  along,  and  Death  uprears  his  dart ; 
Another  chief  impels  the  foaming  steed, 

Another  crowd  pursue  the  panting  hart. 

Newstead !  what  saddening  change  of  scene  is  thine ! 

Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  slow  decay ; 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  sway. 
Deserted  now,  ho  scans  thy  gray-worn  towers — 

Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep — 


1  This  is  a  historical  fact.  A  viojent  tempest  occurred  im- 
mediately subsequent  to  the  death,  or  interment,  of  Cromwell, 
which  occasioned  many  disputes  between  his  partisans  and 
•he  rava:>,rs;  both  interpreted  the  circumstance  into  divine 
nierposmon,  hut  whether  as  approbation  or  condemnation, 
we  lea»o  M  the  c  'lists  of  that  age  to  decide.  I  have  made 
rach  use  </f  tiicioccurrence  ai  suited  the  subject  of  my  poem. 

9<;harle*ll. 


Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers — 
These,  these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to  weep 

Yet  are  his  tears  no  emblem  of  regret, 
Cherish'd  affection  only  bids  them  flow  ; 

Pride,  Hope,  and  Love  forbid  him  to  forget, 
But  warm  his  bosom  with  impassion'd  glow. 

Yet,  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes, 
Or  gewgaw  grottos  of  the  vainly  grc  at ; 

Yet  lingers  'mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  .ombs, 
Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gainst  the  vull  of  fate 

Haply  thy  sun  emerging  yet  may  shine, 

Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray ; 
Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine. 

And  bless  thy  future  as  thy  former  day. 


TO  E.  N.  L.  ESQ 


Nil  ego  contulerim  jucundo  sanus  amico. 

HOR.  E 

DEAR  L ,  in  this  sequester'd  pcene, 

While  all  around  in  slumber  lie, 
The  joyous  days  which  ours  have  been 

Come  rolling  fresh  on  Fancy's  eye : 
Thus,  if  amidst  the  gathering  storm, 
While  clouds  the  darken'd  noon  deform, 
Yon  heaven  assumes  a  varied  glow, 
I  hail  the  sky's  celestial  bow, 
Which  spreads  the  sign  of  future  peace, 
And  bids  the  war  of  tempests  cease. 
Ah !  though  the  present  brings  but  pain, 
I  think  those  days  may  come  again ; 
Or  if,  in  melancholy  moo;!, 
Some  lurking  envious  fear  intrude, 
To  check  my  bosom's  fondest  thought, 

And  interrupt  the  golden  dream ; 
I  crush  the  fiend  with  malice  fraught, 

And  still  indulge  my  wonted  theme  ; 
Although  we  ne'er  again  can  trace, 

In  Granta's  vale,  the  pedant's  lore, 
Nor,  through  the  groves  of  IDA,  chase 

Our  raptured  visions  as  before  ; 
Though  Youth  has  flown  on  rosy  pinioN, 
And  Manhood  claims  his  stern  dominion, 
Age  will  not  every  hope  destroy, 
But  yield  some  hours  of  sober  joy. 
Yes,  I  will  hope  that  Time's  broad  wing 
Will  shed  around  some  dews  of  spring ; 
But,  if  his  scythe  must  sweep  the  flower* 
Which  bloom  among  the  fairy  bowers, 
Where  smiling  Youth  delights  to  dwell, 
And  hearts  with  early  rapture  swell ; 
If  frowning  Age,  with  cold  control, 
Confines  the  current  of  the  soul, 
Congeals  the  tear  of  Pity's  eye, 
Or  checks  the  sympathetic  sigh, 
Or  hears  unmoved  Misfortune's  groan. 
And  bids  me  feel  for  self  atone  ; 
Oh  !  may  my  bosom  never  learn, 

To  sooth  its  wonted  heedless  flow, 
Still,  stHl,  despise  the  censor  stern, 

But  ne'er  forget  another's  woe. 
Yes,  as  you  knew  me  in  the  days 
O'er  which  Remembrance  yet  delays. 


ilOURS  OF  IDLENESS 


Still  may  I  rove  untutor'd,  wild, 
And  even  in  age  at  heart  a  child. 
Though  now  on  airy  visions  borne, 

To  you  my  soul  is  still  the  same, 
Oft  has  it  been  my  fate  to  mourn, 

And  all  my  former  joys  are  tame. 
But,  hence  !  ye  hours  of  sable  hue, 

Your  frowns  are  gone,  my  sorrow 's  o'er ; 
By  every  bliss  my  childhood  knew, 

I  '11  think  upon  your  shade  no  more. 
Thus,  when  the  whirlwind's  rage  is  past, 

And  caves  their  sullen  roar  enclose, 
We  heed  no  more  the  wintry  blast, 

When  lull'd  by  zephyr  to  repose. 
Full  often  has  my  infant  Muse 

Attuned  to  love  her  languid  lyre ; 
But  now,  without  a  theme  to  choose, 

The  strains  in  stolen  sighs  expire ; 
My  youthful  nymphs,  alas  !  are  flown ; 

E is  a  wife,  and  C a  mother, 

And  Carolina  sighs  alone, 

And  Mary  's  given  to  another ; 
And  Cora's  eye,  which  roll'd  on  me, 

Can  now  no  more  my  love  recall ; 
In  truth,  dear  L ,  't  was  time  to  flee, 

For  Cora's  eye  will  shine  on  all. 
And  though  the  sun,  with  genial  rays, 
His  beams  alike  to  all  displays, 
And  every  lady's  eye's  a  sun, 
These  last  should  be  confined  to  one. 
The  soul's  meridian  don't  become  her 
Whose  sun  displays  a  general  summer. 
Thus  faint  is  every  former  flame, 
And  Passion's  self  is  now  a  name  : 
As,  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low, 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light, 
And  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow, 

Now  quenches  all  their  sparks  in  night ; 
Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires, 

As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers, 
While  all  the  force  of  love  expires, 

Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

But  now,  dear  L ,  't  is  midnight's  noon, 

And  clouds  obscure  the  watery  moon, 
Whose  beauties  I  shall  not  rehearse, 
Described  in  every  stripling's  verse  ; 
For  why  should  I  the  path  go  o'er, 
W  hich  every  bard  has  trod  before  ? 
Yet,  ere  yon  silver  lamp  of  night 

Has  thrice  perform'd  her  stated  round, 
Has  thrice  retraced  her  path  of  light, 

And  chased  away  the  gloom  profound, 
I  trust  that  we,  my  gentle  friend, 
Shall  see  her  rolling  orbit  wend 
Above  the  dear^loved  peaceful  seat 
Which  once  contain'd  our  youth's  retreat ; 
And  then,  with  those  our  childhood  knew, 
We  '11  mingle  with  the  festive  crew  ; 
While  many  a  tale  of  former  day 
Shall  wing  the  laughing  hours  away ; 
And  all  the  flow  of  soul  shall  pour 
The  sacred  intellectual  shower, 
Nor  cease,  till  Luna's  waning  hom 
Scarce  glimmers  through  the  mist  of  Morn. 


TO  . 

OH  :  had  my  fate  been  jom'd  with  thine, 

As  once  this  pledge  appear'd  a  token, 
These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine, 

For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken. 
To  thee  these  early  faults  I  owe, 

To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving ; 
They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 

'T  was  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving. 
For  once  my  soul,  like  thine,  was  pure, 

And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smother ; 
But  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 

Bestow'd  by  thee  upon  another. 
Perhaps  his  peace  I  could  destroy, 

And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  him ; 
Yet,  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy, " 

For  thy  dear  sake  I  cannot  hate  him. 
Ah !  since  thy  angel  form  is  gone, 

My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any ; 
But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone, 

Attempts,  alas !  to  find  in  many. 
Then  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid, 

'T  were  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee ; 
Nor  hope  nor  memory  yield  their  aid, 

But  pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 
Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years, 

This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures. 
These  varied  loves,  these  matron's  fears, 

These  thoughtless  strains  to  passion's  measure* 
If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hush'd  ; 

This  cheek,  now  pale  from  early  riot, 
With  Passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  flush'd, 

But  bloom'd  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 
Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet, 

For  Nature  seem'd  to  smile  before  thee  ; 
And  once  my  breast  abhorr'd  deceit, 

For  then  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee. 
But  now  I  seek  for  other  joys  ; 

To  think  would  drive  my  soul  to  madness  • 
In  thoughtless  throngs  and  empty  noise, 

I  conquer  half  my  bosom's  sadness. 
Yet,  even  in  these  a  thought  will  steal, 

In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavour ; 
And  fiends  might  pity  what  I  feel, 

To  know  that  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 

STANZAS. 
I  WOULD  I  were  a  careless  child, 

Still  dwelling  in  my  highland  cave, 
Or  roaming  through  the  dusky  wild, 

Or  hounding  o'er  the  dark-blue  wave. 
The  cumbrous  pomp  of  Saxon  '  pride 

Acoords  not  with  the  frce-'ocrn  soul, 
Which  loves  the  mountain's  craggy  side. 

And  seeks  the  rocks  where  billows  rol 
Fortune !  take  back  these  cultured  lands. 

Take  back  this  name  of  splendid  souni 
I  hate  the  touch  of  servile  hands — 

I  hate  the  slaves  that  cringe  around : 


1  Sasaenah,  or  Saxon,  a  Gaelic  word  signifying  rkl  t«  't 
land  or  English. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Place  me  along  die  rocks  I  love, 

\Vhich  sound  to  ocean's  wildest  roar ; 
I  ask  but  this — again  to  rove 

Through  scenes  my  youth  hath  known  before. 
Few  are  my  years,  and  yet  I  feel 

The  world  was  ne'er  design'd  for  me  ; 
Ah !  why  do  dark'ning  shades  conceal 

The  hour  when  man  must  cease  to  be  ? 
Once  I  beheld  a  splendid  dream, 

A  visionary  scene  of  bliss ; 
Truth !  wherefore  did  thy  hated  beam 

Awake  me  to  a  wor  d  like  this  ? 
I  loved — but  those  1  loved  are  gone  ; 

Had  friends — my  ear.y  friends  are  fled ; 
How  cheerless  feels  the  heart  alone 

When  all  its  former  hopes  are  dead ! 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill, 
Though  Pleasure  stirs  the  maddening  soul, 

The  heart — the  heart  is  lonely  still. 
How  dull  to  bear  the  voice  of  those 

Whom  Rank  or  Chance,  whom  Wealth  or  Power, 
Have  made,  though  neither  friends  nor  foes, 

Associates  of  the  festive  hour. 
Give  me  again  a  faithful  few, 

In  years  and  feelings  stili  the  same, 
And  I  will  fly  the  midnight  crew, 

Where  boist'rous  Joy  is  but  a  name. 
And  Woman !  lovely  Woman,  thou, 

My  hope,  my  comforter,  my  all ! 
How  cold  must  be  my  bosom  now, 

When  e'en  thy  smiles  begin  to  pall ! 
Without  a  sigh  would  I  resign 

This  busy  scene  of  splendid  woe, 
To  make  that  calm  contentment  mine 

Which  Virtue  knows,  or  seoms  to  know. 
Fain  would  I  fly  the  haunts  of  men — 

I  seek  to  shun,  not  hate  mankind  ; 
My  breast  requires  the  sullen  glen, 

Whose  glx>m  may  suit  a  darken'd  mind. 
Oh !  that  to  me  the  wings  were  given 

Which  bear  the  turtle  to  her  nest ! 
Then  would  I  cleave  the  vault  of  Heaven, 

To  flee  away  and  be  at  rest. ' 

LINES 

WRITTEN    BENEATH  AN  ELM  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD 

OF    HARROW    ON    THE    HILL. 

SEPT.  2,   1807. 

JSPOT  of  my  youth !  whose  hoary  branches  sigh, 
Swept  by  the  breeze  that  fans  thy  cloudless  sky ; 
Where  now  alone  I  muse,  who  oft  have  trod, 
With  those  I  loved,  thy  soft  and  verdant  sod  ; 
With  those  who,  scatter'd  far,  perchance  deplore, 
Like  me,  the  happy  scenes  they  knew  before : 
Oh !  as  I  trace  again  thy  winding  hill, 
Mine  eyes  admire,  my  heart  adores  thee  still, 
Thou  drooping  Elm !  beneath  whose  boughs  I  lay, 
And  frequent  niwed  the  twilight  hours  away  ; 
Where,  as  they  once  were  wont,  my  limbs  recline, 
But  ah1  without  the  thoughts  which  then  were  mine : 


I  Psalm  Iv.  v.  6.—"  And  I  said.  Oh  !  thut  I  had  wings  like 
a  Hove,  ihon  would  1  fly  away  and  be  at  rest."  ThU  verse 
HMJ  cotwtitmes  a  nart  of  the  must  beautiful  anthem  in  our 
•neunee 


How  do  thy  branches,  moaning  to  the  blast, 
Invite  the  bosom  to  recall  the  past ; 
And  seem  to  whisper,  as  they  gently  swell, 
"Take,  while  thou  can'st,  a  lingering  last  farewell '  ' 
When  Fate  shall  chill  at  length  this  fever'd  breast, 
And  calm  its  cares  and  passions  into  rest, 
Oft  have  I  thought 't  would  soothe  my  dying  hour, 
If  aught  may  soothe  when  life  resigns  her  power, 
To  know  some  humbler  grave,  some  narrow  cell, 
Would  hide  my  bosom  where  it  loved  to  dwell : 
With  this  fond  dream  methinks  't  were  sweet  to  die— 
And  here  it  linger'd,  here  my  heart  might  lie ; 
Here  might  I  sleep,  where  all  my  hopes  arose, 
Scene  of  my  youth,  and  couch  of  my  repose : 
For  ever  stretch'd  beneath  this  mantling  shade, 
Prest  by  the  turf  where  once  my  childhood  play'd, 
Wrapt  by  the  soil  that  veils  the  spot  I  loved, 
Mix'd  with  the  earth  o'er  which  my  footsteps  moved ; 
Blest  by  the  tongues  that  charm'd  my  youthful  ear, 
Mourn'd  by  the  few  my  soul  acknowledged  here, 
Deplored  by  those  in  early  days  allied, 
And  unremember'd  by  the  world  beside. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CALMAR  AND  ORLA. 

An  imitation  of  Macpherson's  Ossian.1 

DEAR  are  the  days  of  youth!  Age  dwells  on  their  re- 
membrance through  the  mist  of  time.  In  the  twilight 
he.  recalls  the  sunny  hours  of  morn.  He  lifts  his  spear 
with  trembling  hand.  "  Not  thus  feebly  did  I  raise  tha 
steel  before  my  fathers!"  Past  is  the  race  of  heroes! 
but  their  fame  rises  on  the  harp ;  their  souls  ride  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind !  they  hear  the  sound  through 
the  sighs  of  the  storm,  and  rejoice  in  their  hall  ot 
clouds !  Such  is  Calmar.  The  gray  stone  marks  his 
narrow  house.  He  looks  down  from  eddying  tempests, 
he  rolls  his  form  in  the  whirlwind ;  and  hovers  on  the 
blast  of  the  mountain. 

In  Morven  dwelt  the  chief;  a  beam  of  war  to  Fingai. 
His  steps  in  the  field  were  marked  in  blood  ;  Lochlm's 
sons  had  fled  before  his  angry  spear  :  but  mild  was  the 
eye  of  Calmar  ;  soft  was  the  flow  of  his  yellow  locks — 
they  stream'd  like  the  meteor  of  the  night.  No  maid 
was  the  sigh  of  his  soul ;  his  thoughts  were  given  to 
friendship,  to  dark-haired  Orla,  destroyer  of  heroes ! 
Equal  were  their  swords  in  battle  ;  but  fierce  was  the 
pride  of  Orla,  gentle  alone  to  Calmar.  Together  they 
dwelt  in  the  cave  of  Oithona. 

From  Lochlin,  Swaran  bounded  o'er  the  blue  waves. 
Erin's  sons  fell  beneath  his  might.  Fingai  roused  his 
chiefs  to  combat.  Their  ships  cover  the  ocean  !  Their 
hosts  throng  on  the  green  hills.  They  come  to  the  aid 
of  Erin. 

Night  rose  in  clouds.  Darkness  veils  the  armies , 
but  the  blazing  oaks  gleam  through  the  valley.  Tho 
sons  of  Lochlin  slept:  their  dreams  were  of  blood.  They 
lift  the  spear  in  thought,  and  Fingai  flies.  Not  so  the 
host  of  Morven.  To  watch  was  the  post  of  Orla.  Cal- 
mar stood  by  his  side.  Their  spears  were  in  their  hands. 
Fingai  called  his  chiefs.  They  stood  aroum1.  The  king 
was  in  the  midst.  Gray  were  his  locks,  but  strong  was 
the  arm  of  the  king.  Age  withered  not  his  power* 


1  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that  the  story,  though 
considerably  varied  in  the  catastrophe,  >«  taken  from  "  Nisui 
and  Euryalus."  of  which  episode  a  translation  !.ta  bee*  * 
ready  civen 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


23 


"  Sons  of  Morven,"  said  the  hero,  "  to-morrow  we  meet 
the  foe;  but  where  is  Cuthullin,  the  shield  of  Erin? 
He  rests  in  the  halls  of  Tura ;  he  knows  not  of  our 
coming.  Whp  win  speed  through  Lochlin  to  the  hero, 
and  call  the  chief  to  arms  ?  The  path  is  by  the  swords 
of  foes,  but  many  are  my  heroes.  They  are  thunderbolts 
of  war.  Speak,  ye  chiefs  !  who  will  arise  ?" 

"  Son  of  Trenmor  !  mine  be  the  deed,"  said  dark- 
haired  Orla,  "  and  mine  alone.  What  is  death  to  me  ? 
I  love  the  sleep  of  the  mighty,  but  little  is  the  danger. 
The  sons  of  Lochlin  dream.  I  will  seek  car-borne 
Cuthullin.  If  I  fall,  raise  the  song  of  bards,  and  lay 
me  by  the  stream  of  Lubar." — "And  shall  thou  fall 
alone  ?"  said  fair-haired  Calmar.  "  Wilt  thou  leave  thy 
friend  afar,  Chief  of  Oithona?  not  feeble  is  my  arm  in 
fight.  Could  I  see  thee  die,  and  not  lift  the  spear?  No, 
Orla !  ours  has  been  the  chase  of  the  roebuck,  and  the 
feast  of  shells  ;  ours  be  the  path  of  danger :  ours  has 
been  the  cave  of  Oithona  ;  ours  be  the  narrow  dwelling 
on  the  banks  of  Lubar." — "  Calmar !"  said  the  chief  of 
Oithona,  "  why  should  t'ny  yellow  locks  be  darkened 
in  the  dust  of  Erin  ?  Let  me  fall  alone.  My  father 
dwells  in  his  hall  of  air :  he  will  rejoice  in  his  boy :  but 
the  blue-eyed  Mora  spreads  the  feast  for  her  son  in 
Morven.  She  listens  to  the  steps  of  the  hunter  on  the 
heath,  and  thinks  it  is  the  tread  of  Calmar.  Let  him 
not  say,  '  Calmar  is  fallen  by  the  Eteel  of  Lochlin ;  he 
died  with  gloomy  Orla,  the  chief  of  the  dark  brow.' 
Why  should  tears  dim  the  azure  eye  of  Mora  ?  Why 
should  her  voice  curse  Orla,  the  destroyer  of  Calmar? 
Live,  Calmar  !  live  to  raise  my  stone  of  moss ;  live  to 
revenge  me  in  the  blood  of  Lochlin  !  Join  the  song  of 
Dards  above  my  grave.  Sweet  will  be  the  song  of  death 
to  Orla,  from  the  voice  of  Calmar.  My  ghost  shall  smile 
on  the  notes  of  praise." — "Orla!"  said  the  son  of 
Mora,  "  could  I  raise  the  song  of  death  to  my  friend  ? 
Could  I  give  his  fame  to  the  winds?  No;  my  heart 
would  speak  in  sighs  ;  faint  and  broken  are  the  sounds 
of  sorrow.  Orla !  our  souls  shall  hear  the  song  together. 
One  cloud  shall  be  ours  on  high  ;  the  bards  will  mingle 
the  names  of  Orla  and  Calmar." 

They  quit  the  circle  of  the  chiefs.  Their  steps  are 
to  the  host  of  Lochlin.  The  -dying  blaze  of  oak  dim 
twinkles  through  the  night.  The  northern  star  points 
the  path  to  Tura.  Swaran,  the  king,  rests  on  his 
lonely  hill.  Here  the  troops  are  mixed  :  they  frown  in 
sleep,  their  shields  beneath  their  heads.  Their  swords 
gleam,  at  distance,  in  heaps.  The  fires  are  faint ;  their 
embers  fail  in  smoke.  All  is  hushed  ;  but  the  gale 
sighs  on  the  rocks  above.  Lightly  wheel  the  heroes 
through  the  slumbering  band.  Half  the  journey  is 
past,  when  Mathon,  resting  on  his  shield,  meets  the 
eye  of  Orla.  It  rolls  in  flame,  and  glistens  through  the 
shade  :  his  spear  is  raised  on  high.  "  Why  dost  thou 
bend  thy  brow,  Chief  of  Oithona?"  said  fair-haired 
Calmar.  "We  are  in  the  midst  of  foes.  Is  this  a  time 
br  delay  ?" — "  It  is  a  time  for  vengeance,"  said  Orla, 
of  the  c'ootny  brow.  "  Mathon  of  Lochlin  sleeps  :  seest 
thou  his  s|>ear  /  Its  point  is  dim  with  the  gore  of  my 
fitther.  The  blood  of  Mathon  shall  reek  on  mine  ;  but 
shall  I  slay  him  sleeping,  son  of  Mora  ?  No !  he  shall 
fee!  his  wound ;  my  fame  shall  not  soar  on  the  blood 
of  slumber.  Rise,  Mathon !  rise  !  the  son  of  Connal  calls; 
thr  life  is  his  :  rise  to  combat."  Mathon  starts  from 
ileep,  but  did  he  rise  alone?  No:  the  gathering  chiefs 
bound  on  the  plain.  "Fly,  Calmar,  fly  '''  said  dark- 


haired  Orla :  "  Mathon  is  mine  ;  I  shall  die  in  joy  ;  bu* 
Lochlin  crowds  around ;  fly  through  the  shade  of  night." 
Orla  turns ;  the  helm  of  Mathon  is  cleft :  his  shield 
falls  from  his  arm :  he  shudders  in  his  blood.  He  rolls 
by  the  side  of  the  blazing  oak.  Strumon  sees  him  falL 
His  wrath  rises ;  his  weapon  gutters  on  the  head  of 
Orla ;  but  a  spear  pierced  his  eye.  His  brain  gushes 
through  the  wound,  and  foams  on  the  spear  of  Calmar. 
As  roll  the  waves  of  Ocean  on  two  mighty  barks  of  the 
north,  so  pour  the  men  of  Lochlin  on  the  chiefs.  As, 
breaking  the  surge  in  foam,  proudly  steer  the  barks  ol 
the  north,  so  rise  the  chiefs  of  Morven  on  the  scattered 
crests  of  Loclilin.  The  din  of  arms  came  to  the  ear  ol 
Fingal.  He  strikes  his  shield  :  his  sons  throng  around ; 
the  people  pour  along  the  heath.  Ryno  bounds  in  joy. 
Ossian  stalks  in  his  arms.  Oscar  shakes  the  spear.  The 
eagle  wing  of  Fillan  floats  on  the  wind.  Dreadful  is 
the  clang  of  death  !  many  are  the  widows  of  Lochlin. 
Morven  prevails  in  his  strength. 

Morn  glimmers  on  the  hills :  no  living  foe  is  seen  j 
but  the  sleepers  are  many :  grim  they  lie  on  Erin.  The 
breeze  of  ocean  lifts  their  locks  :  yet  they  do  not  awake. 
The  hawks  scream  above  their  prey. 

Whose  yellow  locks  wave  o'er  the  breast  of  p.  chief? 
bright  as  the  gold  of  the  stranger,  they  mingle  with  the 
dark  hair  of  his  friend.  'Tis  Calmar — he  lies  on  the 
bosom  of  Orla.  Theirs  is  one  stream  of  blood.  Fierce 
is  the  look  of  the  gloomy  Orla.  He  breathes  not ;  but 
his  eye  is  still  a  flame :  it  glares  in  death  unclosed. 
His  hand  is  grasped  in  Calmar's  ;  but  Calmar  lives :  he 
lives,  though  low.  "Rise,"  said  the  king,  "rise,  son  ol 
Mora,  'tis  mine  to  heal  the  wounds  of  heroes.  Calmar 
may  yet  bound  on  the  hills  of  Morven." 

"Never  more  shall  Calmar  chase  the  deer  of  Morven 
with  Orla;"  said  the  hero,  "what  were  the  chase  to 
me,  alone  ?  Who  would  share  the  spoils  of  battle  with 
Calmar?  Orla  is  at  rest!  Rough  was  thy  soul,  Orla! 
yet  soft  to  me  as  the  dew  of  morn.  It  glared  on  others  in 
lightning  ;  to  me  a  silver  beam  of  night.  Bear  my  swoid 
to  blue-eyed  Mora :  let  it  hang  in  my  empty  hall.  It  ia 
not  pure  from  blood :  but  it  could  not  save  Orla.  Lay 
me  with  my  friend :  raise  the  song  when  I  am  dark." 

They  are  laid  by  the  stream  of  Lubar.  Four  gray 
stones  mark  the  dwelling  of  Orla  and  Calmar. 

When  Swaran  was  bound,  our  sails  rose  on  the  blue 
waves.  The  winds  gave  our  barks  to  Morven.  The 
Bards  raised  the  song. 

"What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of  clouds!  whose  dark 
ghost  gleams  on  the  red  streams  of  tempests?  his  voice 
rolls  on  the  thunder.  'T  is  Orla  ;  the  brown  chief  of 
Oithona.  He  was  unmatched  in  war.  Peace  to  thy  soul, 
Orla!  thy  fame  will  not  perish.  Nor  thine,  Calmar!  lovely 
wast  thou,  son  of  blue-eyed  Mora ;  but  not  harmless 
was  jhy  sword.  It  hangs  in  thy  cave.  The  ghosts  of 
Lochlin  shriek  around  its  steel.  Hear  thy  praise,  Calma>! 
it  dwells  on  the  voice  of  the  mighty.  Thy  name  shakes 
on  the  echoes  of  Morven.  Then  raise  thy  fair  locks,  son 
of  Mora  ;  spread  them  on  the  arch  of  the  rainbow,  and 
smile  through  the  tears  of  the  storm."  ' 


1 1  fear  Lain"  's  late  edition  has  completely  overthrown  ererr 
hope  thatMacphereon's  Ossian  might  prove  the  Translation  of 
a  reries  of  Poems,  complete  in  themselves;  hut,  while  the  im 
posture  is  discoverer!,  the  merit  of  the  work  remains  undisputed, 
thouen  not  without  fault*,  particularly,  in  gome  parts.  turgKl  and 
bomhastic  diction. — The  present  humble  imitation  will  be  i  at- 
doned  by  the  admirers  of  the  original,  as  an  attempt.  nowe»ai 
inferior,  which  evince*  an  attachment  'o  th«si'  favourite  autho* 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CRITIQUE 

EXTRACTED  FROM  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW,  NO.  22,  FOR  JANUARY  1808. 


Hours  of  Idleness ;  a  Series  of  Poems,  original  and 
translated.  By  GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON, 
a  Minor.  8vo.  pp.  200.— Newark,  1807. 

THE  poesy  of  this  young  Lord  belongs  to  the  class 
which  neither  gods  nor  men  are  said  to  permit.  Indeed, 
we  do  not  recollect  to  have  seen  a  quantity  of  verse 
with  so  few  deviations  in  either  direction  from  that 
exact  standard.  His  effusions  are  spread  over  a  dead 
flat,  and  can  no  more  get  above  or  below  the  level,  than 
if  they  were  so  much  stagnant  water.  As  an  extenuation 
of  this  offence,  the  noble  author  is  peculiarly  forward 
in  pleading  minority.  We  have  it  in  the  title-page, 
and  on  the  very  back  of  the  volume ;  it  follows  his 
name  like  a  favourite  part  of  his  style.  Much  stress  is 
laid  upon  it  in  the  preface,  and  the  poems  are  connected 
with  this  general  statement  of  his  case,  by  particular 
dates,  substantiating  the  age  at  which  each  was  written. 
Now,  the  law  upon  the  point  of  minority  we  hold  to  be 
perfectly  clear.  It  is  a  plea  available  only  to  the  de- 
fendant ;  no  plaintiff  can  offer  it  as  a  supplementary 
ground  of  action.  Thus,  if  any  suit  could  be  brought 
against  Lord  Byron,  for  the  purpose  of  compelling  him 
to  put  into  court  a  certain  quantity  of  poetry,  and  if 
judgment  were  given  against  him,  it  is  highly  probable 
that  an  exception  would  be  taken  were  he  to  deliver 
for  poetry  the  contents  of  this  volume.  To  this  he 
might  plead  minority ;  but,  as  he  now  makes  voluntary 
tender  of  the  article,  he  hath  no  right  to  sue,  on  that 
ground,  for  the  price  in  good  current  praise,  should 
the  goods  be  unmarketable.  This  is  our  view  of  the 
law  on  the  point,  and,  we  dare  to  say,  so  will  it  be  ruled. 
Perhaps  however,  in  reality,  all  that  he  tells  us  about 
his  youth  is  rather  with  a  view  to  increase  our  wonder, 
than  to  soften  our  censures.  He  possibly  means  to  say, 
"  See  how  a  minor  can  write !  This  poem  was  actually 
composed  by  a  young  man  of  eighteen,  and  this  by  one 
of  only  sixteen ! " — But,  alas !  we  all  remember  the  poetry 
of  Cowley  at  ten,  and  Pope  at  twelve  ;  and  so  far  from 
hearing,  with  any  degree  of  surprise,  that  very  poor 
verses  were  written  by  a  youth  from  his  leaving  school 
to  his  leaving  college,  inclusive,  we  really  believe  this 
to  be  the  most  common  of  all  occurrences ;  that  it  hap- 
pens in  the  life  of  nine  men  in  ten  who  are  educated  in 
England  ;  and  that  the  tenth  man  writes  better  verse 
than  Lord  Byron. 

His  other  plea  of  privilege  our  author  rather  brings 
forward  in  order  to  waive  it.  He  certainly,  however, 
does  allude  frequently  to  his  family  and  ancestors — 
sometimes  in  poetry,  sometimes  in  notes  ;  and  while 
giving  up  his  ciaim  on  the  score  of  rank,  he  takes  care 
to  rememDer  us  of  Dr.  Johnson's  saying,  that  when  a 
nobleman  appears  as  an  author,  his  merit  should  be 
handsomely  acknowledged.  In  truth,  it  is  this  consid- 
eration only,  that  induces  us  to  give  Lord  Byron's  poems 
a  place  in  our  review,  beside  our  desire  to  counsel  him, 
that  he  do  forthwith  abandon  poetry,  and  turn  his  talents, 
which  are  considerable,  and  his  opportunities,  which  are 
treat,  to  better  account. 


With  this  view,  we  must  beg  leave  seriously  to  assura 
him,  that  the  mere  rhyming  of  the  final  syllable,  even 
when  accompanied  by  the  presence  of  a  certain  number 
of  feet;  nay,  although  (which  does  not  always  happen) 
those  feet  should  scan  regularly,  and  have  been  all 
counted  accurately  upon  the  fingers, — it  is  not  tha 
whole  art  of  poetry.  We  would  entreat  him  to  believe, 
that  a  certain  portion  of  liveliness,  somewhat  of  fancy, 
is  necessary  to  constitute  a  poem,  and  that  a  poem  in 
the  present  day,  to  be  read,  must  contain  at  least  one 
thought,  either  in  a  little  degree  different  from  the  ideas 
of  former  writers,  or  differently  expressed.  We  put  it 
to  his  candour,  whether  there  is  any  thing  so  deserving 
the  name  of  poetry  in  verses  like  the  following,  written 
in  1806  ;  and  whether,  if  a  youth  of  eighteen  could  say 
any  thing  so  uninteresting  to  his  ancestors,  a  youth  of 
nineteen  should  publish  it: 

"  Shades  of  heroes,  farewell !  your  descendant,  departing 
From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu! 

Abroad  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  imparting 
New  courage,  he  '11  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

"  Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 
'T  is  nature,  not  fear,  thai  excitta  bis  regret: 

Far  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation ; 
The  fame  of  his  fathers  he  ne'er  can  forget. 

"  That  fame,  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish, 
He  vows  that  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown ; 

Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you  will  he  perish ; 
When  decay'd,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your  own." 

Now  we  positively  do  assert,  that  there  is  nothing  bet 
ter  than  those  stanzas  in  the  whole  compass  of  the  nobli 
minor's  volume. 

Lord  Byron  should  also  have  a  care  of  attempting 
what  the  greatest  poets  have  done  before  him,  for 
comparisons  (as  he  must  have  had  occasion  to  see  at 
his  writing-master's,)  are  odious. — Gray's  Ode  on  Eton 
College  should  really  have  kept  out  the  ten  hobbling 
stanzas  "  On  a  distant  view  of  the  village  and  school  of 
Harrow." 

"  Where  fancy  yet  joys  to  retrace  the  resemblance 
Of  comrades,  in  friendship  and  mischief  allied  ; 

How  welcome  to  me  your  ne'er-fading  remembrance. 
Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is  denied." 

In  like  manner,  the  exquisite  lines  of  Mr  Rogers  "  On 
a  Tear,1''  might  have  warned  the  notle  author  off  those 
premises,  and  spared  us  a  whole  dozen  such  stanzas  as 
the  following : 

"  Mild  Charity's  glow. 

To  us  mortals  below 
Shows  the  sou!  from  burbaiit.f  di&i 

Compassion  will  melt, 

Where  this  virtue  is  Ml, 
And  its  dew  is  diffused  in  a  Toar. 

"  The  man  doom'd  to  sail 

With  the  biut  of  the  itata, 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer. 

As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave. 

Which  may  soon  bo  hii  grave. 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a     eai 


CRITIQUE  ON  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


And  so  of  instances  in  which  former  poets  had  failed. 
I'huf,  we  do  not  think  Lord  Byron  was  made  for  trans- 
lating, during  his  non-age,  Adnan's  Address  to  his 
Sou',  when  Pope  succeeded  so  indifferently  in  the  at- 
tempt. If  our  readers,  however,  arc  of  another  opinion, 
»hey  may  look  at  it. 

"  Ah  !  gentle,  fleeting,  wavering  sprite. 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay ! 

To  what  unknown  region  home. 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight  ? 
No  more  with  wonted  humour  eay. 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  ami  forlorn." 

However,  be  this  as  it  may,  we  fear  his  translations 
and  imitations  are  great  favourites  vvitli  Lord  Byron. 
We  have  them  of  all  kinds,  from  Anacreon  to  Ossian  ; 
and,  viewing  them  as  school  exercises,  they  may  pass. 
Only,  why  print  them  after  they  have  had  their  day 
and  served  their  turn  ?  And  why  call  the  thing  in  p.  79, ' 
a  translation,  where  two  words  (6t\w  \tytiv)  of  the 
original  are  expanded  into  four  lines,  and  the  other 
thing  in  p.  81, 2  where  [ttaovvxriats  To0'  'opais,  is  ren- 
dered by  means  of  six  hobbling  verses  ?  As  to  his  Os- 
sianic  poesy,  we  are  not  very  good  judges,  being,  in 
truth,  so  moderately  skilled  in  that  species  of  compo- 
sition, that  we  should,  in  all  probability,  be  criticising 
some  bit  of  the  genuine  Macpherson  itself,  were  we  to 
express  our  opinion  of  Lord  Byron's  rhapsodies.  If, 
then,  the  following  beginning  of  a  "  Song  of  Bards  "  is 
ay  his  Lordship,  we  venture  to  object  to  it,  as  far  as  we 
can  comprehend  it.  "  What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of 
clouds,  whose  dark  ghost  gleams  on  the  red  stream  of 
tempests  ?  His  voice  rolls  on  the  thunder ;  't  is  Orla,  the 
brown  chief  of  Oithona.  He  was,"  etc.  After  detaining 
this  "  brown  chieP'  some  time,  the  bards  conclude  by 
giving  him  their  advice  to  "  raise  his  fair  locks  ;"  then 
to  "  spread  them  on  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  ;"  and  "  to 
smile  through  the  tears  of  the  storm."  Of  this  kind  of 
thing  there  are  no  less  than  nine  pages  ;  and  we  can  so 
far  venture  an  opinion  in  their  favour,  that  they  look 
very  like  Macpherson ;  and  we  are  positive  they  are 
pretty  nearly  as  stupid  and  tiresome. 

It  is  a  sort  of  privilege  of  poets  to  be  egotists ;  but 
they  should  "  use  it  as  not  abusing  it ;"  and  particu- 
larly one  who  piques  himself  (though  indeed  at  the 
ripe  age  of  nineteen)  of  being  "  an  infant  bard," — 
("The  artless  Helicon  I  boast  is  youth;") — should  either 
not  know,  or  should  seem  not  to  know,  so  much  about 
nis  own  ancestry.  Besides  a  poem  above  cited,  on  the 
family  seat  of  the  Byrons,  we  have  anothr-.r  of  eleven 
pages,  on  the  selfsame  subject,  introduced  with  an 
apology,  "  he  certainly  had  no  intention  of  insertinc 
it,"  but  really  "  the  particular  request  of  some  friends,' 
»tc.,  etc.  It  concludes  with  five  stanzas  on  himself,  "  the 


1  See  page  1C 
i  2 


2  Page  11. 


last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line."  There  is  a  goo» 
deal  also  about  his  maternal  ancestors,  in  a  poem  on 
Lachin  y  Gair,  a  mountain  where  he  spent  part  of  hi« 
youth,  and  might  have  learnt  that  pibroch  is  not  > 
bagpipe,  any  more  than  duet  means  a  fiddle. 

As  the  author  has  dedicated  so  large  a  part  of  hit 
volume  to  immortalize  his  employments  at  school  ano 
college,  we  cannot  possibly  dismiss  it  without  present 
ing  the  reader  with  a  specimen  of  these  ingenious  effu 
sions.  In  an  ode  with  a  Greek  motto,  called  Granta, 
we  have  the  following  magnificent  stanzas : 

"  There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp. 

The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp. 

Goes  la'.e  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

"  Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Sele 
Or  puzzles  o'er  the  deep  triangle. 

Deprived  of  many  a  wholesome  meal, 

In  barbarous  Latin  doom'd  to  wrangle : 

"  Renouncing  every  pleasing  page, 
From  authors  of  historic  use, 
Preferring  to  the  letter'd  sage 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse. 

"  Still  harmless  are  these  occupations, 
That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  student, 

Compared  with  other  recreations. 

Which  bring  together  the  imprudent." 

We  are  sorry  to  hear  so  bad  an  account  of  the  col- 
lege psalmody  as  is  contained  in  the  following  Attie 
stanzas : 

"  Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused 

Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners; 
All  mercy  now  must  be  refused 

To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinners. 

"  If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended, 

Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  him, 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended  : 

In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em  !' 

But  whatever  judgment  may  be  passed  on  the  poema 
of  this  noble  minor,  it  seems  we  must  take  them  as  we 
find  them,  and  be  content;  for  they  are  the  last  we 
shall  ever  have  from  him.  He  is,  at  best,  he  says,  but 
an  intruder  into  the  groves  of  Parnassus  ;  he  never  lived 
in  a  garret,  like  thorough-bred  poets ;  and  "  though  h« 
once  roved  a  careless  mountaineer  in  the  Highlands  of 
Scotland,"  he  has  not  of  late  enjoyed  this  advantage. 
Moreover,  he  expects  no  profit  from  his  publication ; 
and,  whether  it  succeeds  or  not,  "  it  is  highly  improba- 
ble, from  his  situation  and  pursuits  hereafter,"  *that  he 
should  again  condescend  to  become  an  author.  There- 
fore, let  us  take  what  we  get,  and  be  thankful.  What 
right  have  we  poor  devils  to  be  nice  ?  We  are  well  off 
to  have  got  so  much  from  a  man  of  this  Lord's  station, 
who  does  not  live  in  a  garret,  but,  "  has  the  sway  "  o( 
Newstead  Abbey.  Again,  we  say,  let  us  be  thankful ; 
and,  with  honest  Sancho,  bid  God  bless  the  girer,  nw 
look  the  gift  horse  in  the  mouth. 


(  26  ) 


antr  Scotcft 

SATIRE. 


1  had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry  mew  ! 

Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Such  shameiesa  Bards  we  have ;  and  yet,  't  ia  true, 
There  are  as  mad,  abandon'd  Critics  too. 


PREFACE.' 

ALL  my  friends,  learned  and  unlearned,  have  urged 
me  not  10  publish  this  Satire  with  my  name.  If  I  were  to 
be  "  turned  from  the  career  of  my  humour  by  quibbles 
quick,  and  paper  bullets  of  the  brain,"  I  should  have 
complied  with  their  counsel.  Bu;  I  am  not  to  be  ter- 
rified by  abuse,  or  bullied  by  reviewers,  with  or  with- 
out arms.  I  can  safely  say  that  I  have  attacked  none 
personally  who  did  not  commence  on  the  offensive. 
An  author's  works  are  public  property :  he  who  pur- 
chases may  judge,  and  publish  his  opinion  if  he  pleases; 
and  the  authors  I  have  endeavoured  to  commemorate 
may  do  by  me  as  I  have  done  by  them  :  I  dare  say  they 
will  succeed  better  in  condemning  my  scribblings  than 
in  mending  their  own.  But  my  object  is  not  to  prove 
that  I  can  write  well,  but,  if  possible,  to  make  others 
write  better. 

As  the  Poem  has  met  with  far  more  success  than  I 
expected,  I  have  endeavoured  in  this  edition  to  make 
some  additions  and  alterations,  to  render  it  more  worthy 
of  public  perusal. 

In  the  first  edition  of  this  Satire,  published  anony- 
mously, fourteen  lines  on  the  subject  of  Bowles's  Pope 
were  written  and  inserted  at  the  request  of  an  inge- 
nious friend  of  mine,  who  has  now  in  the  press  a  vol- 
ume of  poetry.  In  the  present  edition  they  are  erased, 
and  some  of  my  own  substituted  in  their  stead  ;  my 
only  reason  for  this  being  that  which  I  conceive  would 
operate  with  any  other  person  in  the  same  manner — a 
determination  not  to  publish  with  my  name  any  pro- 
duction which  was  not  entirely  and  exclusively  my  own 
composition. 

With  regard  to  the  real  talents  of  many  of  the  poet- 
ical persons  whose  performances  are  mentioned  or 
alluded  to  in  the  following  pages,  it  is  presumed  by  the 
author  that  there  can  be  little  difference  of  opinion  in 
ine  public  at  large  ;  though,  like  other  sectaries,  each 
has  his  separate  tabernacle  of  proselytes,  by  whom  his 
abilities  are  overrated,  his  faults  overlooked,  and  his 
metrical  canons  received  without  scruple  and  without 
consideration.  But  the  unquestionable  possession  of 
considerable  genius  by  several  of  the  writers  here 
censured,  renders  their  mental  prostitution  more  to  be 
regretted.  Imbecility  may  be  pitied,  or,  at  worst, 
laughed  at  and  forgotten  ;  perverted  powers  demand 
the  most  decided  reprehension.  No  one  can  wish  more 


1  This  Preface  was  written  fur  the  second  edition  of  this 
Cnem.  and  printed  with  it 


than  the  author,  that  some  known  and  able  writer  hac 
undertaken  their  exposure;  but  Mr.  GIFFORD  has  de- 
voted himself  to  Massinger,  and,  in  the  absence  of  the 
regular  physician,  a  country  practitioner  may,  in  cases 
of  absolute  necessity,  be  allowed  to  prescnbe  his  nos- 
trum, to  prevent-  the  extension  of. so  deplorable  an 
epidemic,  provided  there  be  no  quackery  in  his  treat- 
ment of  the  malady.  A  caustic  is  here  offered,  as  it  is 
to  be  feared  nothing  short  of  actual  cautery  can  re- 
cover the  numerous  patients  afflicted  with  the  present 
prevalent  and  distressing  rallies  for  rhyming. — As  to 
the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  it  would  indeed  require  a 
Hercules  to  crush  the  Hydra ;  but  if  the  author  succeeds 
n  merely  "  bruising  one  of  the  heads  of  the  serpent," 
though  his  own  hand  should  suffer  in  the  encounter. 
he  will  be  amply  satisfied. 


ENGLISH  BARDS, 

etc.  etc. 


STILL  must  I  hear? — shall  hoarse  FITZGERALD'  baw 
His  creaking  couplets  in  a  tavern  hall, 
And  1  not  sing,  lest,  haply,  Scotch  Reviews 
Should  dub  me  scribbler,  and  denounce  my  Muse? 
Prepare  for  rhyme — I  '11  publish,  right  or  wrong : 
Fools  are  my  theme,  let  Satire  be  my  song. 

Oh  !  Nature's  noblest  gift — my  gray  goose-quill ! 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my  will, 
Torn  from  thy  parent  bird  to  form  a  pen, 
That  rm'hty  instrument  of  little  men  ! 
The  pen !  •bredoom'd  to  aid  the  mental  throes 
Of  brains  that  labour,  big  with  verse  or  prose, 
Though  nymphs  forsake,  and  critics  may  deride, 
The  lover's  solace,  and  the  author's  pride : 
What  wits,  what  poets  dost  thou  daily  raise ! 
How  frepuent  is  thy  use,  how  small  thy  praise ! 
Condemned  at  length  to  be  forgotten  quite, 
With  all  the  pages  which  't  was  thine  to  write. 
But  thou,  at  least,  mine  own  especial  pen ! 
Once  laid  aside,  but  now  assumed  again. 


1  IMITATION. 

"  Semper  ego  auditor  tantum  1  nunquamne  reponan.. 
Vcxatus  tolies  rauci  Thnscide  Codri  V— Juvenal,  tat.  1 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  facetiously  termed  by  Cobbett  the  '  Smart- 
Beer  Poet,"  inflicts  his  annual  tribute  of  verse  on  the  "Li:- 
crary  Fund ;"  not  content  with  wr'.ting,  he  sriutc  in  person, 
after  the  company  have  imbibed  a  reasonable  ^uai*»iti  of  bad 
port,  to  enable  them  to  sustaii  ihe  operation 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


27 


Ou>  task  complete,  like  Harriet's  '  shall  be  free ; 
Though  spurn'd  by  others,  yet  beloved  by  me : 
Then  let  us  soar  to-day  ;  no  common  theme, 
No  eastern  vision,  no  distemper'd  dream 
Inspires — our  path,  though  full  of  thorns,  is  plain ; 
Smooth  be  the  verse,  and  easy  be  the  strain. 

When  vice  triumphant  holds  her  sovereign  sway, 
And  men,  through  life  her  willing  slaves,  obey ; 
When  Folly,  frequent  harbinger  of  crime, 
Unfolds  her  motley  store  to  suit  the  time  ; 
When  knaves  and  fools  combined  o'er  all  prevail, 
When  Justice  halts,  and  Right  begins  to  fail, 
E'en  then  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers, 
Afraid  of  shame,  unknown  to  other  fears, 
More  darkly  sin,  by  Satire  kept  in  awe, 
And  shrink  from  ridicule,  though  not  from  law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  Wit !  but  not  belong 
To  me  the  arrows  of  satiric  song ; 
The  royal  vices  of  our  age  demand 
A  keener  weapon,  and  a  mightier  hand. 
Still  there  are  tollies  e'en  for  me  to  chase, 
And  yield  at  least  amusement  in  the  race  : 
Laugh  when  I  laugh,  I  seek  no  other  fame — 
The  cry  is  up,  and  Scribblers  are  my  game ; 
Speed,  Pegasus ! — ye  strains  of  great  and  small, 
Ode,  Epic,  Elegy,  have  at  you  all ! 
I  too  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a  time 
I  pour'd  along  the  town  a  flood  of  rhyme — 
A  school-boy  freak,  unworthy  praise  or  blame : 
I  printed— older  children  do  the  same. 
T  is  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name  in  print ; 
A  book 's  a  book,  although  there 's  nothing  in  'U 
Not  that  a  tide's  sounding  charm  can  save 
Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave  : 
This  LAMBE  must  own,  since  his  patrician  name 
Fail'd  to  preserve  the  spurious  farce  from  shame.  3 
No  matter,  GEORGE  continues  still  to  write,3 
Though  now  the  name  is  veil'd  from  public  sight. 
Moved  by  the  great  example,  I  pursue 
The  selfsame  road,  but  make  my  own  review: 
Not  seek  great  JEFFREY'S — yet,  like  him,  will  be 
Self-constituted  judge  of  poesy. 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade, 
Save  censure — critics  all  are  ready  made, 
fake  hackney'd  jokes  from  MILLER,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote ; 
A  mind  well  skill'd  to  find  or  forgo  a  fault ; 
A  turn  for  punning,  call  it  Attic  salt ; 
To  JEFFREY  go,  be  silent  and  discreet, 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet: 
Fear  not  to  lie,  't  will  seem  a  lucky  hit ; 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  't  will  pass  for  wit ; 
Care  not  for  feeling — pass  your  proper  jest,     . 
And  stand  a  critic,  hated  yet  caress'd. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment  ?  no — as  soon 
Seek  roses  in  December,  ice  in  June  ; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chaff; 
Belu'*«  a  woman,  or  an  epitaph ; 


I  "rl  /fimet  Benengrli  promises  repose  to  his  pen  in  the  last 
thaptr  ivf  n«n  Qujziitr.  Oh '.  that  our  voluminous  gentry 
would  follow  the  example  of  Cid  Hamet  Benengelit 

i  Tl  is  ingenious  youih  is  mcutioni-d  more  particularly,  with 
nu  produfimi  in  another  place. 

j  In  the  F.<li«6urs'i  Remcic. 


Or  any  other  thing  that 's  false,  before 

You  trust  in  critics  who  themselves  are  sort ; 

Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled 

By  JEFFREY'S  heart,  or  LAMBE  s  Boeotian  head.  ' 

To  these  young  tyrants,  2  by  themselves  misplaccu 
Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  Taste ; 
To  these,  when  authors  bend  in  humble  awe, 
And  hail  their  voice  as  truth,  their  word  as  law ; 
While  these  are  censors,  't  would  be  sin  to  spare ; 
While  such  are  critics,  why  should  I  forbear '! 
But  yet,  so  near  all  modern  worthies  run, 
'T  is  doubtful  whom  to  seek,  or  whom  to  shun ; 
Nor  know  we  when  to  spare,  or  where  to  strike, 
Our  bards  and  censors  are  so  much  alike. 

1  Then  should  you  ask  me,  why  I  venture  o'er 
The  path  which  POPE  and  GIFFORD  trod  before, 
If  not  yet  sicken'd,  you  can  still  proceed : 
Go  on ;  my  rhyme  will  tell  you  as  you  read. 

Time  was,  ere  yet  in  these  degenerate  days 
Ignoble  themes  obtain'd  mistaken  praise, 
When  Sense  and  Wit  with  poesy  allied, 
No  fabled  Graces,  flourish'd  side  by  side, 
From  the  same  fount  their  inspiration  drew, 
And,  rear'd  by  Taste,  bloom'd  fairer  as  they  grew. 
Then,  in  this  happy  isle,  a  POPE'S  pure  strain 
Sought  the  rapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  in  vain  ; 
A  polish'd  nation's  praise  aspired  to  claim, 
And  raised  the  people's,  as  the  poet's  fame. 
Like  him  great  DRYDEN  pour'd  the  tide  of  song, 
In  stream  less  smooth,  indeed,  yet  doubly  strong. 
Then  CONGREVE'S  scenes  could  cheer,  orOrwAV  i 

melt — 

For  Nature  then  an  English  audience  felt. 
But  why  these  names,  or  greater  still,  retrace, 
When  all  to  feebler  bards  resign  their  place  ? 
Yet  to  such  times  our  lingering  looks  are  cast, 
When  taste  and  reason  with  those  times  are  past. 
Now  look  around,  and  turn  each  trifling  page, 
Survey  the  precious  works  that  please  the  age ; 
This  truth  at  least  let  Satire's  self  allow, 
No  dearth  of  bards  can  be  complain'd  of  now : 
The  loaded  press  beneath  her  labour  groans, 
And  printers'  devils  shake  their  weary  bones ; 
While  SOUTHEY'S  epics  cram  the  creaking  shelves, 
And  LITTLE'S  lyrics  shuic  in  hot-press'd  twelves. 

Thus  saith  the  preacher,  *  "  nought  beneath  the  sun 
Is  new ;"  yet  still  from  change  to  change  we  run : 
VVhat  varied  wonders  tempt  us  as  they  pass ! 
The  cow-pox,  tractors,  galvanism,  and  gas, 
In  turns  appear,  to  make  the  vulgar  stare, 
Till  the  swoln  bubble  bursts — and  all  is  air ' 
Nor  less  new  schools  of  poetry  arise, 
Where  dull  pretenders  grapple  for  the  prize : 
O'er  Taste  awhile  these  pseudo-bards  prevail ; 
Each  country  book-club  bows  the  knee  to  Baal, 


1  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Lambe  are  the  Alpha  and  Omega.  lh* 
first  and  last,  of  Ihe  Edinburgh  Review :  the  others  are  men 
tioned  hereafter. 

2  "stulta  est  dementia,  cum  tot  unique 

occurrasperiturrEparcereclmrUe." — Juvenal.  Sat,  i 

3  IMITATION. 

"Cur  tamen  hoc  potius  libeat  decurrere  campo 
Per  quern  magnus  eques  Auruncaj  rjeAit  Blmmrat  • 
Si  vacat,  et  placidi  ratiouem  adinittitis,  edam." — 

.fucntoJ.  .<?•!  r 
4  Ecc!esia»U:s.  Chao.  1. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


And,  hit  (l.rg  la  vf  il  genius  from  the  throne, 
Erects  a  shrine  and  idol  of  its  own  ; 
Some  leadon  c;Jf — but  whom  it  matters  not, 
From  soaring  SOUTHEV  down  to  groveling  STOTT. 

Behold !  in  various  throngs  the  scribbling  crew, 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review : 
Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace, 
And  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  an  equal  race  ; 
Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode ; 
And  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road ; 
Immeasurable  measures  move  along ; 
For  simpering  Folly  loves  a  varied  song, 
To  strange  mysterious  Dulness  still  the  friend, 
Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 
Thus  Lays  of  Minstrels  2 — may  they  be  the  last ! 
On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the  blast. 
While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites, 
That  dames  may  listen  to  their  sound  at  nights ; 
And  goblin  brats,  of  Gilpin  Homer's  3  brood, 
Decoy  young  border-nobles  through  the  wood. 
And  skip  at  every  step,  Lord  knows  how  high, 
And  frighten  foolish  babes,  the  Lord  knows  why ; 
While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  cell, 
Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell, 
Despatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave, 
And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 

Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his  roan, 
The  golden-crested  haughty  Marmion, 
Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight, 
Not  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight, 


1  St*tt,  better  known  in  the  "  Morning  Post"  by  the  name 
of  Haji'..  This  personage  is  at  present  the  most  profound  ex- 
plorer of  the  bathos.    I  remember,  to  the  reigning  family  of 
Portugal,  a  special  ode  of  Master  Stntt's,  beginning  thus 

(Stott  loquitur  quoad  Hibernia.) 
"Princely  offspring  of  Brnganza, 
Erin  greets  thee  with  a  stanza."  etc.  etc. 

Also  a  sonnet  to  Rats,  well  worthy  of  the  subject,  and  a  most 

thundering  ode  commencing  as  follows: 

"  Oh !  for  a  lay !  loud  as  the  surge 
That  lashea  Lapland's  sounding  shore." 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us!  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel" 

was  nothing  to  this. 

2  See  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  passim.   Never  was 
any  plan  so  Incongruous  and  absurd  as  the  groundwork  of 
this  production.  The  entrance  of  Thunder  and  Lightning  pro- 
loguising  to  Bayes'  tragedy,  unfortunately  takes   away  the 
merit  of  originality  from  the  dialogue  between  Messieurs  the 
Sp:riU  of  Flood  and  Fell,  in  the  first  canto.    Then  we  have 
the  f.miahle  William  of  Deloraine,  "a  stark  moss-trooper," 
vide'iicit,  a  happy  compound  of  poacher,  sheep-stealer,  and 
highwayman.  The  propriety  of  his  magical  lady's  injunction 
not  to  read  can  only  be  equalled  by  his  candid  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  independence  of  the  trammels  of  spelling,  al- 
though, to  use  his  own  elegant  phrase,  "  "t  was  his  neck-verse 
at  Hairibee,"  i.  e.  the  gallows. 

3  The  Biography  of  Gilpin  Homer,  and  the  marvellous  pe- 
destrian page,  who  travelled  twice  as  fast  as  his  master's  horse, 
without  the  aid  of  seven-leagued  boots,  are  chefs-d' centre  in 
the  improvement  of  taste.    For  incident  we  have  the  invisible, 
but  by  no  means  sparing,  box  on  the  ear  bestowed  on  the 
page,  and  the  entrance  of  a  Knight  and  Charger  into  the 
castle,  under  thn  very  natural  disguise  of  a  wain  of  hay.  Mar- 
mion, the  hero  of  the  latter  romance,  is  exactly  what  William 
«if  Deloraine  would  have  been,  had  he  been  able  to  read  or 
write.    The  Poem  was  manufactured  for  Messrs.  Constable, 
Murray,  and  Miller,  worshipful  Booksellers,  in  consideration 
of  the  receipt  of  a  sum  of  money ;  and,  truly,  considering  the 
inspiration,  it  is  a  very  creditable  production.  If  Mr.  Scott  will 
write  for  hire,  let  him  do  his  best  for  his  paymasters,  but  not 
ili«grace  his  genius,  which  is  undoubtedly  great,  by  a  repeti- 
ii.  m  of  black  letter  imitations 


The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace— 

A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 

And  think'st  thou,  SCOTT  !  by  vain  conceit  perchance, 

On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance, 

Though  MURRAY  with  his  MILLER  may  combine 

To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line  ? 

No  !   when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade, 

Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade, 

Let  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name, 

Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  fame : 

Low  may  they  sink  to  merited  contempt, 

And  scorn  remunerate  the  mean  attempt ! 

Such  be  their  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 

Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard  ! 

For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son, 

And  bid  a  long  "  good  night  to  Marmion." ' 

These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits  now ; 
These  are  the  bards  to  whom  the  muse  must  bow : 
While  MILTON,  DRYDEN,  POPE,  alike  forgot, 
Resign  their  hallow'd  bays  to  *  VALTER  SCOTT. 

The  time  has  been  when  yet  the  muse  was  young, 
When  HOMER  swept  the  lyre,  and  MARO  sung, 
An  epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim, 
While  awe-struck  nations  hail'd  the  magic  name : 
The  work  of  each  immortal  bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years. a 
Empires  have  moulder'd  from  the  face  of  earth, 
Tongues  have  expired  with  those  who  gave  them  birth, 
Without  the  glory  such  a  strain  can  give, 
As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 
Not  so  with  us,  though  minor  bards,  content, 
On  one  great  work  a  life  of  labour  spent : 
With  eagle  pinions  soaring  to  the  skies, 
Behold  the  ballad-monger,  SOUTHEY,  rise ! 
To  him  let  CAMOENS,  MILTON,  TASSO,  yield, 
Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies,  take  the  field, 
First  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance, 
The  scourge  of  England,  and  the  boast  of  France ' 
Though  burnt  by  wicked  BEDFORD  for  a  witch, 
Behold  her  statue  placed  in  glory's  niche  ; 
Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 
A  virgin  Phcenix  from  her  ashes  risen. 
Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on,  * 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wondrous  son ; 
Domdaniel's  dread  destroyer,  who  o'erthrew 
More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  e'er  knew 
Immortal  hero !  all  th)'  foes  o'ercome, 
For  ever  reign — the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb ! 
Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face, 
Well  wert  thou  doom'd  the  last  of  all  thy  race ! 
Well  might  triumphant  Genii  bear  thee  hence, 
Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense ! 


1  "  Good  night  to  Marmion" — the  pathetic  and  also  pio- 
phetic  exclamation  of  Henry  Blount,  Esquire,  on  the  death 
of  honest  Marmion. 

2  As  the  Odyssey  is  so  closely  connected  with  the  story  of* 
the  Iliad,  they  may  almost  be  classed  as  one  grand  historical 
poem.    In  alluding  to  Milton  and  Tasso,  we  consider  the 
"Paradise  Lost,"  and  " Gierusalemme  Liberata,"  as  thei> 
standard  efforts,  since  neither  the  "Jerusalem  Conquered"  of 
the  Italian,  nor  the  "Paradise  Regained"  of  the  English  Bard, 
obtained   a  proportionate  celebrity  to  their  former  poems 
Query :  Which  of  Mr.  Southey's  will  survive  ? 

3  Thalaba,  Mr  Southey's  second  poem,  is  written  in  open 
defiance  of  precedent  and  poetry.   Mr.  S.  wished  to  produce 
something  novel,  and  succeeded  to  a  miracle.    Joan  of  An? 
was  marvellous  enough,  but  Thalaba  was  one  of  those  poem* 

which  (in  the  words  of  Parson)  will  he  read  when  Horn* 
and  Virgil  are  forgotten,  but — not  till  then." 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Now,  last  and  greatest,  Ma  Joe  spreads  his  sails, 

Cacique  in  Mexico,  and  Prince  in  Wales  ; 

Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do, 

More  old  than  Mandeville's,  and  not  so  true. 

Oh  !  SOUTHEY,  SOUTHEY  ! '  cease  thy  varied  song  ! 

A  Bard  may  chaunt  too  often  and  too  long : 

As  thou  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy  spare ! 

&  fourth,  alas  !  were  more  than  we  could  bear. 

But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  say, 

Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  weary  way ; 

[f  still  in  Berkley  ballads,  most  uncivil, 

Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil,  a 

The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue ; 

"  God  help  thee,"  SOUTHEV,  and  thy  readers  loo.  * 

Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school, 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule, 
The  simple  WORDSWORTH,  framer  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favourite  May ; 
Who  warns  his  friend  "  to  shake  off  toil  and  trouble  ; 
And  quit  his  books,  for  fear  of  growing  double  ;"* 
Who,  both  by  precept  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose, 
Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain, 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane  ; 
And  Christmas  stories,  tortured  into  rhyme, 
Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  sublime: 
Thus  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 
The  idiot  mother  of  "  an  idiot  Boy;" 
A  moon-struck  silly  lad  who  lost  his  way, 
And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day ;  * 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 
And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 
That  all  who  view  the  "  idiot  in  his  glory," 
Conceive  the  Bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  COLERIDGE  pass  unnoticed  here, 
To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear  ? 
Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 
Yet  still  obscurity's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  Pixy  for  a  Muse, 6 


1  We  beg  Mr.  Southe.v's  pardon:  "  Madoc  disdains  the  de- 
graded title  of  epic."  See  his  preface.  Why  is  epic  degraded  ? 
and  by  whom  7  Certainly  the  late  Romauntsof  Masters  Cattle, 
Laureat  Pye,  Ogilvy.  Hoyle,  and  gentle  Mistress  Coiclsy, 
nave  not  exalted  the  Epic  Muse :  but  as  Mr.  Suuthey's  poem 
"  disdains  the  appellation,"  allow  us  to  ask — has  he  substituted 
any  thing  better  in  its  stead  ?  or  must  he  be  content  to  rival  Sir 
Richard  Blackmorc,  in  the  quantity  as  well  as  quality  of  his 
verse. 

2  See  The  Old  Woman  of  Berkhy,  a  Ballad  by  Mr.  Southey, 
wherein  an  aged  gentlewoman  is  carried  away  by  Beelzebub, 
on  a  "high-trotting  horse." 

3  The  last  line,  "  God  help  thee,"  is  an  evident  plagiarism 
from  the  Anti-jacobin  to  Mr.  Soutkey,  on  his  Dactylics: 

'  God  help  then,  silly  one.' ' — Poetry  of  the  Anti-jacobin,  p.  23. 

4  Lyrical  Ballads,  page  4. — "The  tables  turned."  Stanza  1. 

"  UD,  up.  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks — 

Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  7 
Up,  up,  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books, 

Or  surely  you  'II  grow  double." 

5  Mr.  W.,  in  his  preface,  labours  hard   to  prove  that  prose 
Mid  verse  are  much  the  same,  and  certainly  his  precepts  and 
jructice  are  strictly  conformable : 

"  And  thus  to  Betty's  questions  he 
Made  answer,  like  a  traveller  bo'd, 
The  cock  did  crow  to- who,  lo-who. 
And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold,"  etc.,  etc. 

Lyrical  Ballads,  page  129. 

Coleridge's  Poems,  page  11.  Songs  of  the  Pixies,  f.  e. 
•evonshire  Fairies.  Page  42,  we  have,  "  Lines  to  a  young 
&ady,"  and  page  52,  "  Lines  to  a  Young  Ass." 


Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass. 
How  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind  ! 
"A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind  !" 

Oh!  wonder-working  LEWIS !   Monk,  or  Bard, 
Who  fain  wouldst  make  Parnassus  a  church-yard! 
Lo  !  wreaths  of  yew,  not  laurel,  bind  thy  brow, 
Thy  Muse  a  sprite,  Apollo's  sexton  thou ! 
Whether  on  ancient  tombs  thou  tak'st  thy  stand, 
By  gibbering  spectres  hail'd,  thy  kindred  band  j 
Or  tracest  chaste  description  on  thy  page, 
To  please  the  females  of  our  modest  age, 
All  hail,  M.  P. !  '  from  whose  infernal  brain 
Thin-sheeted  phantoms  glide,  a  grisly  train ; 
At  whose  command,  "  grim  women"  throng  in  crowds, 
And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds, 
With  "small  gray  men," — "  wild  yagers,"  and  what  not, 
To  crown  with  honour  thee  and  WALTER  .SCOTT: 
Again,  all  hail !  If  tales  like  thine  may  please, 
St.  Luke  alone  can  vanquish  the  disease ; 
E'en  Satan's  self  with  thee  might  dread  to  dwell, 
And  in  thy  skull  discern  a  deeper  hell. 

Who  in  soft  guise,  surrounded  by  a  choir 
Of  virgins  melting,  not  to  Vesta's  fire, 
With  sparkling  eyes,  and  cheek  by  passion  flush'd, 
Strikes  his  wild  lyre,  whilst  listening  dames  are  hushM  ? 
'T  is  LITTLE  !  young  Catullus  of  his  day, 
As  sweet,  but  as  immoral  in  his  lay ! 
Grieved  to  condemn,  the  Muse  must  still  be  jusx, 
Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust. 
Pure  is  the  flame  which  o'er  the  altar  burns  ; 
From  grosser  incense  with  disgust  she  turns  • 
Yet,  kind  to  youth,  this  expiation  o'er, 
She  bids  thee  "  mend  thy  line  and  sin  no  more." 

For  thee,  translator  of  the  tinsel  song, 
To  whom  such  glittering  ornaments  belong, 
Hibernian  STRAXGFORD!  with  thine  eyes  of  blue,2 
And  boasted  locks  of  red,  or  auburn  hue, 
Whose  plaintive  strain  each  love-sick  Miss  admires, 
And  o'er  harmonious  fustian  half  expires, 
Learn,  if  thou  canst,  to  yield  thine  author's  sense, 
Nor  vend  thy  sonnets  on  a  false  pretence. 
Think'st  thou  to  gain  thy  verse  a  higher  place 
By  dressing  Camoens  in  a  suit  of  lace  ? 
Mend,  STRANGFORD  !  mend  thy  morals  and  thy  tasto 
Be  warm,  but  pure  ;  be  amorous,  but  be  chaste : 
Cease  to  deceive  ;   thy  pilfer'd  harp  restore, 
Nor  teach  the  Lusian  Bard  to  copy  MOORE 

In  many  marble-cover'd  volumes  view 
HAYLEY,  in  vain  attempting  something  new: 
Whether  he  spin  his  comedies  in  rhyme, 
Or  scrawl,  as  WOOD  and  BARCLAY  walk,  'gainst  time. 
His  style  in  youth  or  age  is  still  the  same. 
For  ever  feeble  and  for  ever  tame. 
Triumphant  first  see  "Temper's  Triumphs"  shine  ' 
At  least,  I  'm  sure,  they  triumph'd  over  mine. 


1  "  For  every  one  knows  little  Matt's  an  M.  P." — S«-<> 
Poem  to  Mr.  Leitis,  in  Tlie  Statesman,  supposed  to  be  writ 
ten  by  Mr.  Jekyll. 

2  The  reader,  who  may  wish  for  an  explanation  of  this,  may 
refer  to  "  StrangforcTs  Camoens,"  page  127,  note  to  page  ftli, 
or  TO  the  last  page  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  of  Strangforil  i 
Camoens.    It  is  also  to  be  remarked,  that  the  things  given  l» 
the  public  as  Poems  of  Camoens,  are  no  more  to  be  fcunii  •» 
the  original  Portuguese  than  in  the  Song  of  Solomon 


30 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Of  "  M  xnc  's  Triumphs"  all  who  read  may  swear 
That  .u  -.kleis  Music  nevtr  triumph'd  there.  ' 

Moravian-.,  rise!  bestow  some  meet  reward 
On  dull  Devi.tior  — lo!   the  Sabbath- Bard, 
Sepulchra.  GKAHAME,  pours  his  notes  sublime 
In  mangled  prose,  nor  e'en  aspires  to  rhyme, 
Breaks  into  blank  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke, 
And  boldly  pilfers  from  the  Pentateuch ; 
And,  undisturb'd  by  conscientious  qualms, 
Perverts  the  Prophets,  and  purloins  the  Psalms.  2 

Hail,  Sympathy  !  thy  soft  idea  brings 
A  thousand  visions  of  a  thousand  things, 
And  shows,  dissolve  1  in  thine  own  melting  tears, 
The  maudlin  prince  of  mournful  sonneteers. 
And  art  thou  not  th'jir  prince,  harmonious  Bowies  ? 
Thou  first  great  orp,cle  of  tender  souls? 
Whether  in  sighing  winds  thou  seck'st  relief, 
Or  consolation  in  a  yellow  leaf; 
Whether  thy  musf  most  lamentably  tells 
What  merry  sounds  proceed  from  Oxford  bells, J 
Or,  still  in  bells  delighting,  finds  a  friend, 
In  every  chime  that  jingled  from  Ostend  ? 
Ah!   how  much  juster  were  thy  Muse's  hap, 
If  to  thy  bells  thou  wouldst  but  add  a  cap  ! 
Delightful  BOWLES  !  still  blessing  and  still  blest, 
A 11  love  thy  strain,  but  children  like  it  best. 
'Tis  thine,  with  gentle  LITTLE'S  moral  song, 
To  soothe  the  mania  of  the  amorous  throng ! 
With  thee  our  nursery  damsels  shed  their  tears, 
Ere  Miss  as  yet  completes  her  infant  years : 
But  in  her  teens  thy  whining  powers  are  vain: 
She  quits  poor  BOWLES  for  LITTLE'S  purer  strain. 
Now  to  soft  themes  thou  scornest  to  confine 
The  lofty  numbers  of  a  harp  like  thine : 
"  Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain,"  * 
Such  as  none  heard  before,  or  will  again ; 
Where  all  discoveries  jumbled  from  the  flood, 
Since  first  the  leaky  ark  reposed  in  mud, 
By  more  or  less,  are  sung  in  every  book, 
From  Captain  NOAH  down  to  Captain  COOK. 
N  >r  this  alone,  but  pausing  on  the  road, 
The  bard  sighs  forth  a  gentle  episode  ;s 
And  gravely  tells — attend  each  beauteous  Miss ! — 
When  first  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss. 
BOWLES  !  in  thy  memory  let  this  precept  dwell, 
Stick  to  thy  Sonnets,  man !  at  least  they  sell. 


1  Hay  lev's  two  most  notorious  verse  productions,  are  "  Tri- 
jinplis  of  Temper,"  and  "Triumphs  of  Music."   He  has  also 
written  much  comeiiy  in  rhyme,  Epistles,  etc.  etc.    As  he  is 
rather  an  elegant  writer  of  notes  and  biography,  let  us  recom- 
mend Pope's  Advice  to  Wiichfrley  to  Mr.  H.'s  consideration  ; 
viz.  "to  convert  his  poetry  into  prose,"  which  may  be  easily 
done  by  taking  away  the  final  syllable  of  each  couplet. 

2  Mr.  Grahamch&s  poured  forth  two  vclumes  of  cant,  under 
the  name  of  "  Sabbeih  Walks,"  and  "  Biblical  Pictures." 

3  See  Bowlff's  Sonnets,  etc. — "Sonnet  to  Oxford,"  and 
'  Stanzas  on  hearing  tho  Bells  of  Ostend." 

4  "  Awake  a  louder,"  etc.  etc.  is  the  first  line  in  Bowlfs's 
Spirit  of  Discovery  ;"  a  very  spirited  and  pretty  Dwarf  Epic. 

Among  other  exquisite  lines  we  have  the  following  : — 

Stole  on  the  list'nins  silence,  never  yet 
Here  heard ;  they  trembled  even  as  if  the  power, "  etc.  etc. 
-That  is,  the  woods  ,>t~  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss,  very  much 
astonished,  as  well  they  might  be,  at  such  a  phenomenon. 

R  The  episode  above  alluded  to  is  the  story  of  "  Robert  a 
Machin,"  and  "  Anna  d'Arfet,"  a  pair  of  constant  lovers, 
*ho  performed  the  kiss  above-mentioned,  that  startled  the 
•  o-ids  of  Madeira 


But  if  some  new-born  whim,  or  larger  bribe, 

Prompt  thy  crude  brain,  and  claim  thec  for  a  scribe , 

If  chance  some  bard,  though  once  by  dunces  fear'd 

Now,  prone  in  dust,  can  only  be  revered : 

If  POPE,  whose  fame  and  genius  from  the  firM 

Have  foil'd  the  best  of  critics,  needs  the  worst, 

Do  thou  essay  ;  each  fault,  each  failing  scan 

The  first  of  poets  was,  alas !  but  man ! 

Rake  from  each  ancient  dunghill  every  pearl, 

Consult  Lord  Fanny,  and  confide  in  CURLL  ; ' 

Let  all  the  scandals  of  a  former  -age 

Perch  on  thy  pen  and  flutter  o'er  thy  page  ; 

Affect  a  candour  which  thou  canst  not  feel, 

Clothe  envy  in  the  garb  of  honest  zeal ; 

Write  as  if  St.  John's  soul  could  still  inspire, 

And  do  from  nate  what  MALLET  2  did  for  hire. 

Oh  !   hadst  thou  lived  in  that  congenial  time, 

To  rave  with  DENNIS,  and  with  RALPH  to  rhyme,' 

Throng'd  with  the  rest  around  his  living  head, 

Not  raised  thy  hoof  against  the  lion  dead, 

A  meet  reward  had  crown'd  thy  glorious  gains, 

And  link'd  thee  to  the  Dunciad  for  thy  pains.  * 

Another  Epic  !  who  inflicts  again 
More  books  of  blank  upon  the  sons  of  men  ? 
Boeotian  COTTLE,  rich  Bristowa's  boast, 
Imports  old  stories  from  the  Cambrian  coast, 
And  sends  his  goods  to  market — all  alive  ! 
Lines  forty  thousand,  Cantos  twenty-five  ! 
Fresh  fish  from  Helicon !  who  '11  buy  ?  who  '11  buy  7 
The  precious  bargain 's  cheap — in  faith  not  I. 
Too  much  in  turtle  Bristol's  sons  delight, 
Too  much  o'er  bowls  of 'rack  prolong  the  night: 
If  commerce  fills  the  purse,  she  clogs  the  brain, 
And  AMOS  COTTLE  strikes  the  Lyre  in  vain. 
In  him  an  author's  luckless  lot  behold! 
Condemn'd  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold. 
Oh  !  AMOS  COTTLE  ! — Phoebus !  what  a  name 
To  fill  the  speaking-trump  of  future  fame  ! — 
Oh !   AMOS  COTTLE  !  for  a  moment  think 
What  meagre  profits  spread  from  pen  and  ink! 
When  thus  devoted  to  poetic  dreams, 
Who  will  peruse  thy  prostituted  reams  ? 
Oh !   pen  perverted  !   paper  misapplied ! 
Had  COTTLE  b  still  adorn'd  the  counter's  side, 
Bent  o'er  the  desk,  or,  born  to  useful  toils, 
Been  taught  to  make  the  paper  which  he  soils, 
Plough'd,  delved,  or  plied  the  oar  with  lusty  limb, 
He  had  not  sung  of  Wales,  nor  I  of  him. 

As  Sisyphus  against  the  infernal  steep 
Rolls  the  huge  rock,  whose  motions  ne'er  may  sleep, 


1  Curllis  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad,  and  was  a  book 
seller.    Lord  Fanny  is  the  poetical  name  of  Lord  Hercey 
author  of  "  Lines  to  the  imitator  of  Horace." 

2  Lord  Bolingbroke  hired  Mallet  to  traduce  Pope  after  his 
decease,  because  the  poet  had  retained  some  copies  of  a  work 
by  Lord  Bolinsbroke  (the  Patriot  King),  which  that  splendid, 
but  malignant  genius,  had  i-dered  to  be  destroyed. 

3  Dennis  the  critic,  and  Ralph  the  rhymester. 
"Silence,  ye  wolves!  while  Ralph  to  Cynthia  howls. 
Making  night  hideous — answer  turn,  ye  owls  !'' — Dunciad. 

4  See  Bowles's  late  edition  of  Pope's  works,  for  which  he 
received  304 1.  •  thus  Mr.  B.  has  experienced  how  much  easier 
it  is  to  profit  by  the  reputation  of  another,  than  to  elevate  hij 
own. 

5  Mr.  Cnttle,JImos  or  Joseph,  I  don't  know  which,  but  ons 
or  both,  once  sellers  of  books  they  did  not  write,  and  now 
writers  of  books  that  do  not  sell,  have  puMihed  a  pair  ol 
Epics.    "Alfred"  (poor  Alfred!  Pye  has  teei   8    him  too  • 
and  the  Fall  of  "  Cambria." 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Sv  up  thy  hill,  ambrosial  Richmond !   heaves 

Du,l  MAURICE  '  all  his  granite  weight  of  leaves: 

Smooth,  solid  monuments  of  mental  pain! 

The  petrifactions  of  a  plodding  brain, 

That  ere  they  reach  the  top  fall  lumbering  back  again. 

With  broken  lyre  and  cheek  serenely  pale, 

Lo  !  sad  ALC^EUS  wanders  down  the  vale ! 

Though  fair  they  rose,  and  might  have  bloom'd  at  last, 

Ris  hopes  have  perish'd  by  the  northern  blast : 

Nipp'd  in  the  bud  by.  Caledonian  gales, 

His  blossoms  wither  as  the  blast  prevails  ! 

O'er  his  lost  works  let  classic  SHEFFIELD  weep ; 

May  no  rude  hand  disturb  their  early  sleep !  2 

Yet  say !  why  should  the  Bard  at  once  resign 
His  claim  to  favour  from  the  sacred  Nine? 
For  ever  startled  by  the  mingled  howl 
Of  northern  wolves,  that  still  in  darkness  prowl: 
A  coward  brood,  which  mangle  as  they  prey, 
By  hellish  instinct,  all  that  cross  their  way ; 
Aged  or  young,  the  living  or  the  dead, 
No  mercy  find — these  harpies  must  be  fed. 
Why  do  the  injured  unresisting  yield 
The  calm  possession  of  their  native  field? 
Why  tamely  thus  before  their  fangs  retreat, 
Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  back  to  ARTHUR'S  Seat?  3 

Health  to  immortal  JEFFREY  !  once,  in  name., 
England  could  boast  a  judge  almost  the  same : 
In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  yet  just, 
Some  think  that  Satan  lias  resigned  his  trust, 
And  given  the  Spirit  to  the  world  again, 
To  sentence  letters  as  he  sentenced  men  ; 
With  hand  less  mighty,  but  with  heart  as  black, 
With  voice  as  willing  to  decree  the  rack  ; 
Bred  in  the  courts  betimes,  though  all  that  law 
As  yet  hath  taught  him  is  to  find  a  flaw. 
Since  well  instructed  in  the  patriot  school 
To  rail  at  party,  though  a  party  tool, 
Who  knows,  if  chance  his  patrons  should  restore 
Back  to  the  sway  they  forfeited  before, 
His  scribbling  toils  some  recompense  may  meet, 
And  raise  this  Daniel  to  the  Judgment  Seat. 
Let  JEFFRIES'  shade  indulge  the  pious  hope, 
And  greeting  thus,  present  him  with  a  rope : 
"  Heir  to  my  virtues !  man  of  equal  mind ! 
Skill'd  to  condemn  as  to  traduce  mankind, 
This  cord  receive — for  thee  reserved  with  care, 
To  yield  in  judgment,  and  at  length  to  wear." 

Health  to  great  JEFFREY  !  Heaven  preserve  his  life, 
lo  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 
And  guard  it  sacred  in  his  future  wars, 
Since  authors  sometimes  seek  the  field  of  Mars! 
Can  none  remember  that  eventful  day, 
That  ever  glorious,  almost  fatal  fray, 


1  Mr.  Jlnttrice  hath  manufactured  the  component  parts  of  a 
ponderous  quarto,  upon  the  beauticsof  "Richmond  Hill,"  and 
the  like — it  also  takes  in  a  charming  view  of  Turnham 
Green,  Hammersmith,  Brentford,  Old  and  New.  and  the  parts 
«dj>rent. 

1  Poor  Mnntsomerti !  though  praised  by  every  English  Re- 
view, has  hern  bitterly  reviled  by  the  Edinburgh.  After  all. 
l\w  Bard  of  Sheffield  is  a  man  of  considerable  genius :  his 
"Wanderer  of  Switzerland"  is  worth  a  thousand  "Lyrical 
Dallarls."  and  a',  least  fifty  "  degraded  Epics." 

3  Amur  «  Seat,  the  hill  which  overhangs  Edinburgh. 


When  LITTLE'S  Wdless  nistol  met  his  eye, 

And  Bow-streer  myrmidons  stood  laughing  by '{  ' 

Oh  day  disastrous !  on  her  firm-set  rock, 

Dunedin's  castle  felt  a  secret  shock  ; 

Dark  roll'd  the  sympathetic  waves  of  Forth, 

Low  groan'd  the  startled  whirlwinds  of  the  north 

TWEED  ruffled  half  his  wave  to  form  a  tear, 

The  other  half  pursued  its  calm  career ;  * 

ARTHUR'S  steep  summit  nodded  to  its  base, 

The  surly  Tolbooth  scarcely  kept  her  place  ; 

The  Tolbooth  felt — for  marble  sometimes  can, 

On  such  occasions,  feel  as  much  as  man — 

The  Tolbooth  felt  defrauded  of  his  charms 

If  JEFFREY  died,  except  within  her  arms  :  3 

Nay,  last,  not  least,  on  that  portentous  morn, 

The  sixteenth  storey,  where  himself  was  born, 

His  patrimonial  garret  fell  to  ground, 

And  pale  Edina  shudder'd  at  the  sound : 

Strew'd  were  the  streets  around  with  milk-white  ream* 

Flow'd  all  the  Canongate  with  inky  streams  ; 

This  of  his  candour  seem'd  the  sable  dew, 

That  of  his  valour  show'd  the  bloodless  hue, 

And  all  with  justice  deem'd  the  two  combined 

The  mingled  emblems  of  his  mighty  mind. 

But  Caledonia's  Goddess  hover'd  o'er 

The  field,  and  saved  him  from  the  wrath  of  MOOBE, 

From  either  pistol  snatch'd  the  vengeful  lead, 

And  straight  restored  it  to  her  favourite's  head  : 

That  head,  with  greater  than  magnetic  power, 

Caught  it,  as  Danae  the  golden  shower; 

And,  though  the  thickening  dross  will  scarce  refine, 

Augments  its  ore,  and  is  itself  a  mine. 

"  My  son,"  she  cried,  "ne'er  thirst  for  gore  again, 

Resign  the  pistol,  and  resume  the  pen  ; 

O'er  politics  and  poesy  preside, 

Boast  of  thy  country,  and  Britannia's  guide ! 

For,  long  as  Albion's  heedless  sons  submit, 

Or  Scottish  taste  decides  on  English  wit, 

So  long  shall  last  thine  unmolested  reign, 

Nor  any  dare  to  take  thy  name  in  vain. 

Behold  a  chosen  band  shall  aid  thy  plan, 

And  own  thee  chieftain  of  the  critic  clan. 

First  in  the  ranks  illustrious  shall  be  seen 

The  Ira  veil' d  Thane !  Athenian  Aberdeen.  4 

HERBERT  shall  wield  THOR'S  hammer,5  and  soii.etimeSj 

In  gratitude,  thou  'It  praise  his  rugged  rhymes. 

1  In  180fi,  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Mourt  met  at  Chalk-Farm. 
The  duel  was  prevented  by  the  interference  of  the  magistracy; 
and,  on  examination,  the  balls  of  the  pistols,  like  the  courage 
of  the  combatants,  were  found  to  have  evaporated    This  inci- 
dent gave  occasion  to  much  waggery  in  the  daily  prints. 

2  The  Tweed  here  behaved  wiih  proper  decorum  ;  it  would 
have  been  highly  reprehensible  in  the  English  half  of  the  rivet 
to  have  shown  the  smallest  symptom  of  apprehension. 

3  This  display  of  sympathy  on  the  part  of  the  Tolbonth  (th* 
principal  prison  in  Edinburgh),  which  truly  wins  to  have  been 
most  affected  on  this  occasion,  is  much  to  be  commended.  U 
was  to  be  apprehended,  that  the  many  unhappy  criminalscxn- 
cuted  in  the  front,  might  have  rendered  the  edifice  more  cut 
lous.  She  is  said  to  be  of  the  softer  sex,  because  her  delicacy 
of  feeling  on  this  day  was  truly  feminine,  though,  like  nio^t 
feminine  impulses,  perhaps  a  little  selfish. 

4  His  lordship  lias  been  much  abroad,  is  a  member  ot  the 
Athenian  Society,  and  reviewer  of  Gcll's  Topography  of  Troy. 

5  Mi.  Herbert  is  a  translator  of  Icelandic  and  other  poetry. 
One  of  the  principal  pieces  is  a  "  Song  on  the  recovery  of  T/mr't 
Hammer'"  the  translation  is  a  pleasant  daunt  in  the  Tulga« 
tongue,  and  ended  thus  : — 

"  Itisteart  of  money  and  rings,  I  wot. 
The  hammer's  bruises  weie  her  lot: 
Thus  Odin's  son  his  hammer,  got  ' 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


Smu2  SYDNEY  '  too  thy  bitter  page  shall  seek, 
-ind  classic  Hxr.LAM,2  much  renown'd  for  Greek. 
SCOTT  may  perchance  his  name  and  influence  lend, 
And  paltry  PILLANS'  shall  traduce  his  friend: 
Whi's  gay  Thalia's  luckless  votary,  LAMBE,* 
As  he  himself  was  damn'd,  shall  try  to  damn. 
•  Known  be  thy  name,  unbounded  be  thy  sway ! 
Thy  HOLLAND'S  banquets  shall  each  toil  repay ; 
While  grateful  Britain  yields  the  praise  she  owes 
To  HOLLAND'S  hirelings,  and  to  Learning's  foes. 
Yet  mark  one  caution,  ere  thy  next  Review 
Spread  its  light  wings  of  saffron  and  of  blue, 
Beware  lest  blundering  BROUGHAM*  destroy  the  sale, 
Turn  beef  to  bannocks,  cauliflowers  to  kail." 
Thus  having  said,  the  kilted  goddess  kist 
Her  son,  and  vanish'd  in  a  Scottish  mist.6 
Illustrious  HOLLAND  !   hard  would  be  his  lot, 
His  hirelings  mention'd,  and  himself  forgot ! 
HOLLAND,  with  HENRY  PETTY  at  his  back, 
The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  the  pack. 
Blest  be  the  banquets  spread  at  Holland  House, 
Where  Scotchmen  feed,  and  critics  may  carouse  ! 
Long,  long  beneath  that  hospitable  roof, 
Shall  Grub-street  dine,  while  duns  are  kept  aloof. 
See  honest  HALLAM  lay  aside  his  fork, 
Resume  his  pen,  review  his  lordship's  work, 
And,  grateful  to  the  founder  of  the  feast, 
Declare  his  landlord  can  translate,  at  least !  * 
Dunedin !  view  thy  children  with  delight, 
They  write  for  food,  and  feed  because  they  write : 
And  lest,  when  heated  with  th'  unusual  grape, 
Some  glowing  thoughts  should  to  the  press  escape, 


1  The  Rev.  Sidney  Smith,  the  reputed  author  of  Peter 
Plymley's  Letters,  and  sundry  criticisms. 

2  Mr.  Hallam  reviewed  Payne  Knight's  Taste,  and  was  ex- 
ceedingly severe  on  some  Greek  verses  therein :  it  was  not  dis- 
covered that  the  lines  were  Pindar's,  till  the  press  rendered  it 
impossible  to  cancel  the  critique,  which  still  stands  an  everlast- 
ing monument  of  Hallam's  ingenuity. 

The  sa'ulHallam  is  incensed,  because  he  is  falsely  accused, 
seeing  that  he  never  dineth  at  Holland  House.  It"  this  be  true, 
I  am  sorry — not  for  having  said  so,  but  on  his  account,  as  I 
understand  his  lordship's  feasts  are  preferable  to  his  composi- 
tions. If  he  did  not  review  Lord  Holland's  performance,  I  am 
glad,  because  it  must  have  been  painful  to  read,  and  irksome 
to  ptaise  it.  If  Mr.  Hallam  will  tell  me  who  did  review  it,  the 
real  name  shall  find  a  place  in  the  text,  provided  nevertheless 
the  said  name  be  of  two  orthodox  musical  syllables,  and  will 
come  into  the  verse ;  till  then,  Hallam  must  stand  for  want  of 
a  better. 

3  I'illans  is  a  tutor  at  Eton. 

4  The  Hon.  f}.  Lnmbe  reviewed  "  Beresford's  Miseries," 
and  is  moreover  author  of  a  farce  enacted  with  much  ap- 
pjause  at  the  Priory.  Stanmore,  and  damned  with  great  expe- 
dition at  the  late  Theatre  Covenl-Garden.    It  was  entitled 
"  Whistle  for  it." 

5  Mr.  Brougham,  in  No.  XXV.  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
throughout  the  article  concerning  Don  Pedro  de  Cavallos, 
has  displayed  rnqre  politics  than  policy  ;  many  of  the  worthy 
burgesses  of  Edinburgh  being  so  incensed  at  the  infamous 
principles  it  evinces,  as  to  have  withdrawn  their  subscriptions. 
It  seems  that  Mr.  Brougham  is  not  a  Pict.  as  I  supposed,  but 
a  borderer,  and  his  name  is  pronounced  Broom,  from  Trent 
to  Tay.    So  be  it. 

6  I  ought  to  apologize  to  the  worthy  Deities  for  introducing 
a  new  Goddess  with  short  petlicoats  to  their  notice ;  but  alas ! 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  I  could  not  say  Caledonia's  Genius,  it 
lieing  well  known  there  is  no  Genius  to  be  found  from  Clack- 
mannan to  Caithness:  yet,  without  supernatural  agency,  how 
was  Jeffrey  to  be  saved?    The  "  national  Kelpies,"  etc.  are 
too   unpolitical,  and   the   "Brownies"    and  "Gude   Neigh- 
kcuis"    (Spirits  of  a  pood  disposition),  refused  to  extricate 
kiln.   A  Goddess  therefore  has  been  called  for  the  purpose,  and 
(treat  ouisht  to  be  the  gratitude  of  Jeffrey,  seeing  it  is  the  only 
communication  tie  ever  held,  or  is  likely  to  hold,  with  any 
thing  heavenly. 

7  Lord  H.  has  translated  some  specimens  of  Lope  de  Vega 
Liaerted  in  hie  life  of  die  Author-  both  are  bepraised  by  ha 
iuinteresteti  «i><«i. 


And  tinge  with  red  the  female  reader's  cheek, 
My  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  critique ; 
Breathes  o'er  the  page  her  purity  of  soul, 
Reforms  each  error,  and  refines  the  whole. ' 

Now  to  the  drama  turn  :  Oh  motley  sight ! 
What  precious  scenes  the  wondering  eye  invite  ! 
Puns,  and  a  prince  within  a  barrel  pent,2 
And  DIBDIN'S  nonsense,  yield  complete  content. 
Though  now,  thank  Heaven !  the  Roscio  mania's  o'er, 
And  full-grown  actors  are  endured  once  more; 
Yet  what  avail  their  vain  attempts  to  please, 
While  British  critics  suffer  scenes  like  these  ? 
While  REYNOLDS  vents  his  "dammes,"  "  poohs,"  and 

"zounds,"3 

And  common-place,  and  common  sense  confounds  ? 
While  KENNY'S  World,  just  suffer'd  to  proceed, 
Proclaims  the  audience  very  kind  indeed  ? 
And  BEAUMONT'S  pilfer'd  Caratach  affords 
A  tragedy  complete  in  all  but  words?* 
Who  but  must  mourn  while  these  are  all  the  rage, 
The  degradation  of  our  vaunted  stage  ? 
Heavens !   is  all  sense  of  shame  and  talent  gone  ? 
Have  we  no  living  bard  of  merit  ? — none  ! 
Awake,  GEORGE  COLMAN,  CUMBERLAND,  awake 
Ring  the  alarum-bell,  let  folly  quake ! 
Oh  SHERIDAN!  if  aught  can  move  thy  pen, 
Let  comedy  resume  her  throne  again, 
Abjure  the  mummery  of  German  schools, 
Leave  new  Pizarros  to  translating  fools ; 
Give,  as  thy  last  memorial  to  the  age, 
One  classic  Drama,  and  reform  the  stage. 
Gods !   o'er  those  boards  shall  Folly  rear  her  head 
Where  GARRICK  trod,  and  KEMBLE  lives  to  tread? 
On  those  shall  Farce  display  Buffoonery's  mask, 
And  HOOKE  conceal  his  heroes  in  a  cask? 
Shall  sapient  managers  new  scenes  produce 
From  CHERRY,  SKEFFINGTON,  and  MOTHER  GOOSE? 
While  SHAKSPEARE,  OTWAY,  MASSINGER,  forgot, 
On  stalls  must  moulder,  or  in  closets  rot? 
Lo !   with  what  pomp  the  daily  prints  proclaim 
The  rival  candidates  for  Attic  fame ! 
In  grim  array  though  LEWIS'  spectres  rise, 
Still  SKEVFINGTON  and  GOOSE  divide  the  prize. 
And  sure  great  SKEFFINGTON  must  claim  our  praise, 
For  skirtless  coats  and  skeletons  of  plays 
Renown'd  alike  ;  whose  genius  ne'er  confines 
Her  flight  to  garnish  GREENWOOD'S  gay  designs ;  * 
Nor  sleeps  with  "  Sleeping  Beauties,"  but  ar  « 
In  five  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on, 6 
While  poor  John  Bull,  bewilder'd  with  the  scene, 
Stares,  wondering  what  the  devil  it  can  mean  ; 


1  Certain  itis.  her  ladyship  is  suspected  of  having  displayed 
her  matchless  wit  in  the  Edinburgh  Review:  however  that 
may  be,  we  know  from  good  authority  that  the  manuscript! 
are  submitted  to  her  perusal — no  doubt  for  correction. 

2  In  the  melo-drame  of  Tekeli,  that  heroic  prince  is  clapt 
into  a  barrel  on  the  stagt — a  new  asylum  for  dislrcssed  heroes. 

3  All  these  are  favourite  expressions  of  Mr.  R.  and  pronji" 
inent  in  his  Comedies,  living  and  defunct. 

4  Mr.  T.  Sheridan,  the  new  Manager  of  Drury-laneTheatrn, 
stripped  the  Tragedy  of Bonduca  of  the  dialogue,  and  exhib- 
ited the  scenes  as   the  spectacles  of  Caractaous.  Was  tbi« 
worthy  of  his  sire,  or  of  himself? 

5  Mr.  Greenwood  is,  we  believe,  Sccne-Painter  to  Dniir 
Lane  Theatre:  as  such  Mr.  S  is  much  indebted  to  him. 

6  Mr.  S.  is  the  illustrious  author  of  the  "  Slrep'-ig  BofU'tf 
and  eome  Comedies,  particularly  "  M'..ds  nnu 
Huccalaurei  baculo  magis  quam  lauro  di^ni. 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


B'rt  as  some  hands  applaud,  a  venal  few ! 
kather  than  sleep,  why  John  applauds  it  too. 

Such  are  we  now,  ah !  wherefore  should  we  turn 
To  what  our  fathers  were,  unless  to  mourn  ? 
Degenerate  Britons !  are  ye  dead  to  shame, 
Or,  kind  to  dulness,  do  ye  fear  to  blame  ? 
Well  may  the  nobles  of  our  present  race 
Watch  each  distortion  of  a  Naldi's  face ; 
Well  may  they  smile  on  Italy's  buffoons, 
And  worship  Catalani's  pantaloons, ' 
Since  their  own  drama  yields  no  fairer  trace 
Of  wit  than  puns,  of  humour  than  grimace. 

Then  let  AUSONIA,  skill'd  in  every  art, 
To  soften  manners,  but  corrupt  the  heart, 
Pour  her  exotic  follies  o'er  the  town, 
To  sanction  vice  and  hunt  decorum  down : 
Let  wedded  strumpets  languish  o'er  Deshayes, 
And  bless  the  promise  which  his  form  displays  ; 
While  Gayton  bounds  before  the  enraptured  looks 
Of  hoary  marquisses  and  stripling  dukes  : 
Let  high-born  lechers  eye  the  lively  Presle 
Twirl  her  light  limbs  that  spurn  the  needless  veil  : 
Let  Angiolini  bare  her  breast  of  snow, 
Wave  the  white  arm  and  point  the  pliant  toe : 
Collini  trill  her  love-inspiring  song, 
Strain  her  fair  neck  and  charm  the  listening  throng! 
Raise  not  your  scythe,  suppressors  of  our  vice ! 
Reforming  saints,  too  delicately  nipe ! 
By  whose  decrees,  our  sinful  souls  to  save, 
No  Sunday  tankards  foam,  no  barbers  shave, 
And  beer  undrawn  and  beards  unmown  display 
Your  holy  reverence  for  the  sabbath-day. 

Or  hail  at  once  the  patron  and  the  pile 
Of  vice  and  folly,  Greville  and  Argyle !  2 
Where  yon  proud  palace,  Fashion's  hallow'd  fane, 
Spreads  wide  her  portals  for  the  motley  train, 
Behold  the  new  Pctronius 3  of  the  day, 
The  arbiter  of  pleasure  and  of  play ! 
""here  the  hired  eunuch,  the  Hesperian  choir, 
The  melting  lute,  the  soft  lascivious  lyre, 
The  song  fiom  Italy,  the  step  from  France, 
The  midnight  orgy,  and  the  mazy  dance, 
The  smile  of  beauty,  and  the  flush  of  wine, 
For  fops,  fools,  gamesters,  knaves,  and  lords  combine : 
Each  to  his  humour, — Comus  all  allows  ; 
L  hampaign,  dice,  music,  or  your  neighbour's  spouse. 


1  JYaldi  and  Catalani  require  little  notice,  for  the  visage  of 
(he  one,  and  the  salary  of  the  other,  will  enable  us  long  to  re- 
collect these  amusing  vagjbonds;  besides,  we  are  still  black 
ind  blue  from  the  squeeze  on  the  first  night  of  the  lady's  ap 
pcarance  in  trowsers. 

2  To  prevent  any  blunder,  such  as  mistaking  a  street  for  a 
man,  I  beg  leave  to  state,  that  it  is  the  Institution,  and  not  the 
Duke  of  that  name,  which  is  here  alluded  to. 

A  gentleman  with  whom  1  am  slightly  acquainted,  lost  in  the 
Argyle  Rooms  several  thousand  pounds  at  backgammon.  It  is 
»»  but  justice  to  the  manager  in  this  instance  to  Bay,  that  some 
legree  of  disapprobation  was  manifested.  But  why  are  the 
Implements  of  gaming  allowed  in  a  place  devoted  to  the  society 
•>{  both  genet  1  A  pleasant  thing  for  the  wives  and  daughters 
if  those  who  are  blest  or  cursed  with  such  connexions,  to  hear 
rhe  billiard-tables  rattling  in  one  room,  and  the  dice  in  an- 
other! This  is  the  cast:  I  myself  can  testify,  as  a  late  unworthy 
•uember  of  an  institution  which  materially  affects  the  mo'als 
i,f  the  higher  orders,  while  the  lower  may  not  even  move  to  the 
K>unJ  of  a  tabor  and  fiddle,  without  a  chance  of  indictment  for 
r-otous  behaviour. 

3  Petronius,  "  arbiter  elegnntiarum'1  to  Nero,  "  and  a  very 
wetty  fellow  in  his  day,"  as  Mr.  Congreve's  old  Bachelor  saith. 

10 


Talk  not  to  us,  ye  starving  sons  of  trade  ! 
Of  piteous  ruin,  which  ourselves  have  made : 
[n  Plenty's  sunshine  Fortune's  minions  bask, 
Nor  think  of  Poverty,  except  "  en  masque." 
When  for  the  night  some  lately  titled  ass 
Appears  the  beggar  which  his  grandsire  was. 
The  curtain  dropp'd,  the  gay  burletta  o'er, 
The  audience  take  their  turn  upon  the  floor ; 
Now  round  the  room  the  circling  dow'gers  sweep, 
Now  in  loose  waltz  the  thin-clad  daughters  leap : 
The  first  in  lengthened  line  majestic  swim, 
The  last  display  the  free,  unfetter'd  limb : 
Those  for  Hibernia's  lusty  sons  repair 
With  art  the  charms  which  Nature  could  not  spare; 
These  after  husbands  wing  their  eager  flight, 
Nor  leave  much  mystery  for  the  nuptial  night. 

Oh !  blest  retreats  of  infamy  and  ease ! 
Where,  all  forgotten,  but  the  power  to  please, 
Each  maid  may  give  a  loose  to  genial  thought, 
Each  swain  may  teach  new  systems,  or  be  taught : 
There  the  blithe  youngster,  just  return'd  from  Spain, 
Cuts  the  light  pack,  or  calls  the  rattling  main ; 
The  jovial  caster's  set,  and  seven 's  the  nick, 
Or— done ! — a  thousand  on  the  coming  trick  ! 
If  mad  with  loss,  existence  'gins  to  tire, 
And  all  your  hope  or  wish  is  to  expire, 
Here  's  POWELL'S  pistol  ready  for  your  life, 
And,  kinder  still,  a  PAGET  for  your  wife. 
Fit  consummation  of  an  earthly  race 
Begun  in  folly,  ended  in  disgrace, 
While  none  but  menials  o'er  the  bed  of  death, 
Wash  thy  red  wounds,  or  watch  thy  wavering  breath  • 
Traduced  by  liars,  and  forgot  by  all, 
The  mangled  victim  of  a  drunken  brawl, 
To  live  like  CLODITJS,  '  and  like  FALKLAND  a  fall. 
Truth !  rouse  some  genuine  bard  and  guide  his  hand, 
To  drive  this  pestilence  from  out  the  land. 
Even  I — least  thinking  of  a  thoughtless  throng, 
Just  skill'd  to  know  the  right  and  choose  the  wrong, 
Freed  at  that  age  when  Reason's  shield  is  lost, 
To  fight  my  course  through  Passion's  countless  host, 
Whom  every  path  of  pleasure's  flowery  way 
Has  lured  in  turn,  and  all  have  led  astray — 
E'en  I  must  raise  my  voice,  e'en  I  must  feel 
Such  scenes,  such  men.  destroy  the  public  weal ; 
Altho'  some  kind,  censorious  friend  will  say, 
"  What  art  thou  better,  meddling  fool,  than  they  ?" 
And  every  brother  rake  will  smile  to  see 
That  miracle,  a  moralist,  in  me. 
No  matter — when  some  bard,  in  virtue  strong, 
GIFFORD  perchance,  shall  raise  the  chastening  song, 
Then  sleep  my  pen  for  ever  !  and  my  voice 
Be  only  heard  to  hail  him  and  rejoice  ; 
Rejoice,  and  yield  my  feeble  praise  ;  though  I 
May  feel  the  lash  that  virtue  must  apply. 


1  Mutato  nomine  de  te 

Fabula  narratur. 

2  I  knew  the  late  Lord  Falkland  well.  On  Sunday  night  i 
beheld  him  presiding  at  his  own  table,  in  all  the  honest  pride 
of  hospitality  ;  on  Wednesday  morning  at  three  o'clock,  I  saw, 
stretched  before  me,  all  that  remained  of  courage,  feeling,  and 
a  host  of  passions.  He  was  a  gallant  and  successful  officer! 
his  faults  were  the  faults  of  a  sailor  -as  such,  Britons  will  for- 
eivo  them.  He  died  like  a  brave  man  in  a  better  cause,  for  had 
he.  fallen  in  like  manner  on  the  deck  of  the  frig  ate  \r  whii'h  lie 
was  just  appointed,  his  last  momentr  would  have  been  held 
up  by  his  countr/men  as  an  exampiw  U>  succeeding  herinn 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


As  f  )r  tlir.  s  nailer  fry,  who  swarm  in  shoals, 
From  sil  y  HA  FIZ  '  up  to  simple  BOWLES, 
Why  should  we  call  them  from  their  dark  abode, 
tn  broad  St.  Giles's  or  in  Tottenham  road  ? 
Or  (since  some  men  of  fashion  nobly  dare 
To  scrawl  in  verse)  from  Bond-street,  or  the  Square  ? 
If  things  of  ton  their  harmless  lays  indite, 
Most  wisely  doom'd  to  shun  the  public  sight, 
What  harm  ?  in  spite  of  every  critic  elf, 
Sir  T.  may  read  his  stanzas  to  himself; 
MILES  ANDREWS  still  his  strength  in  couplets  try, 
And  live  in  prologues,  though  his  dramas  die. 
Lords  too  are  bards  :  such  things  at  times  befall, 
And  't  is  some  praise  in  peers  to  write  at  all. 
Yet,  did  or  taste  or  reason  sway  the  times, 
Ah  !  who  would  take  their  titles  with  their  rhymes  ? 
ROSCOMMON!  SHEFFIELD!  with  your  spirits  fled, 
No  fulure  laurels  deck  a  noble  head ; 
No  muse  will  cheer,  with  renovating  smile, 
The  paralytic  puling  of  CARLISLE: 
The  puny  school-boy  and  his  early  lay 
Men  pardon,  if  his  follies  pass  away ; 
But  who  forgives  the  senior's  ceaseless  verse, 
Whose  hairs  grow  hoary  as  his  rhymes  grow  worse? 
What  heterogeneous  honours  deck  the  peer ! 
Lord,  rhymester,  petit-maitre,  pamphleteer !  a 
So  dull  in  youth,  so  drivelling  in  his  age, 
His  scenes  alone  had  damn'd  our  sinking  stage : 
But  managers  for  once  cried  "hold,  enough  !" 
Nor  drugg'd  their  audience  with  the  tragic  stuff. 
Yet  at  their  judgment  let  his  lordship  laugh, 
And  case  his  volumes  in  congenial  calf: 
Yes !  doff  that  covering  where  morocco  shines, 
Ana  hang  a  calf-skin 3  on  those  recreant  lines. 

With  you,  ye  Druids  !  rich  in  native  lead, 
Who  daily  scribble  for  your  daily  bread, 
With  you  I  war  not:  GIFFORD'S  heavy  hand 
Has  crush'd,  without  remorse,  your  numerous  band. 
On  "  all  the  talents"  vent  your  venal  spleen, 
Want,  your  defence,  let  pity  be  your  screen 
Let  monodies  on  Fox  regale  your  crew, 
And  Melville's  Mantle*  prove  a  blanket  too! 
One  common  Lethe  waits  each  hapless  bard, 
And  peace  be  with  you  !  't  is  your  best  reward. 
Such  damning  fame  as  Dunciads  only  give, 
Could  bid  your  lines  beyond  a  monang  live ; 
But  now  at  once  your  fleeting  labours  close, 
With  names  of  greater  note  in  blest  repose. 
Far  be 't  from  me  unkindly  to  upbraid 
The  lovely  ROSA'S  prose  in  masquerade, 


1  What  would  be  thfe  sentiments  of  the  Persian  Anacreon, 
ffafiz.  could  he  rise  from  his  splendid  sepulchre  at  Sheeraz, 
where  he  reposes  wi'.h  PVrrfoi/si  and  Sadi,ti\e  Oriental  Homer 
and  Catullus,  and  behold  his  name  assumed  by  one  Stott  of 
Dromare,  the  most  impudent  and  execrable  of  literary  poach- 
ers for  the  daily  prints  ? 

2  The  Earl  of  Carlisle  has  lately  published  an  eighteen-penny 
pamphlet  on  the  state  of  the  stage,  and  offers  his  plan  for 
building  a  new  theatre:  it  is  to  be  hoped  his  lordship  will  be 
permuted  to  bring  forward  any  thing  for  the  stage,  except  his 
own  tragedies. 

3   'Doff  that  lion's  hide, 
And  h.ing  a  calf-skin  on  those  recreant  iimbs." 

Skaks.    King  John. 

Uoid  C.  s  works,  miwt  resplfii.'lently  bound,  form  a  conspicu- 
OU  ornament  to  his  book-shelves: 

"The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunella." 
4  Melville's  Mantle,  a  parody  on  "  Elijah's  Mantle,"  a  poem. 


Whose  strains,  the  faithful  echoes  of  her  mind, 
Leave  wandering  comprehension  far  behind,1 
Though  CRUSCA'S  bards  no  more  our  journals  fill, 
Some  stragglers  skirmish  round  their  columns  still. 
Last-of  the  howling  host  which  once  was  BELL'S. 
MATILDA  snivels  yet,  and  HAFIZ  yells; 
And  MERRY'S  metaphors  appear  anew, 
Chain'd  to  the  signature  of  O.  P.  Q.a 

When  some  brisk  youth,  the  tenant  of  a  stall, 
Employs  a  pen  less  pointed  than  his  awl, 
Leaves  his  snug  shop,  forsakes  his  store  of  shoes, 
St.  Crispin  quits,  and  cobbles  for  the  Muse, 
Heavens!  how  the  vulgar  stare!  how  crowds  applaud  ! 
How  ladies  read,  and  literati  laud ! 
If  chance  some  wicked  wag  should  pass  his  jes,,, 
'T  is  sheer  ill-nature,  don't  the  world  know  best  ? 
Genius  must  guide  when  wits  admire  the  rhyme, 
And  CAPEL  Lorrx3  declares  'tis  quite  sublime. 
Hear,  then,  ye  happy  sons  of  needless  trade ! 
Swains !  quit  the  plough,  resign  the  useless  spade : 
Lo!  BURNS  and  BLOOMFIELD,*  no.y,  a  greater  far, 
GIFFORD  was  born  beneath  an  adverse  star, 
Forsook  the  labours  of  a  servile  state, 
Stemm'd  the  rude  storm,  and  triumph'd  over  Fate. 
Then  why  no  more  ?  if  Phoebus  smiled  on  you, 
BLOOMFIELD  !  why  not  on  brother  Nathan  too? 
Him  too  the  Mania,  not  the  Muse,  has  seized ; 
Not  inspiration,  but  a  mind  diseased: 
And  now  no  boor  can  seek  his  last  abode, 
No  common  be  inclosed,  without  an  ode. 
Oh!  since  increased  refinement  deigns  to  smile 
On  Britain's  sons,  and  bless  our  genial  isle, 
Let  Poesy  go  forth,  pervade  the  whole 
Alike  the  rustic  and  mechanic  soul : 
Ye  tuneful  cobblers !  still  your  notes  prolong, 
Compose  at  once  a  slipper  and  a  song ; 
So  shall  the  fair  your  handiwork  peruse  ; 
Your  sonnets  sure  shall  please — pernaps  your  sho'« 
May  Moorland  *  weavers  boast  Pindaric  skill, 
And  tailors'  lays  be  longer  than  their  bill ! 
While  punctual  beaux  reward  the  grateful  notes, 
And  pay  for  poems — when  they  pay  for  coats. 

To  the  famed  throng  now  paid  the  tribute  due, 
Neglected  Genius !  let  me  turn  to  you. 
Come  forth,  Oh  CAMPBELL  ! 6  give  thy  talents  scope 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope  ? 
And  thou,  melodious  ROGERS!  rise  at  last, 
Recall  the  pleasing  memory  of  the  past ; 


1  This  lovely  little  Jessica,  the  daughter  of  the  noted  Jew 

K ,  seems  to  be  a  follower  01  the  Dulla  Crusca  School. 

and  has  published  two  volumes  of  very  respectable  absurdities 
in  rhyme,  as  times  go  ;  besides  sundry  novels  in  the  style  of  lha 
first  edition  of  the  Monk. 

2  These  are  the  signatures  of  various  worthies  who  figure 
in  the  poetical  departments  of  the  newspapprs. 

3  Ctipel  Lofft,  Esq.,   the    Maecenas  of  jhocmakers,   and 
Preface-writer  general  to  distress'd  versemen:  a  kind  of  gratia 
accoucheur  to  those  who  wish  to  be  delivered  of  rhyme,  but 
do  not  know  how  to  bring  it  forth. 

4  See  Nathanirl  Blaamfeld's  ode,  clocy,  or  whatever  he  or 
any  one  else  chocses  to  call  it,  on  the  inclosure  of  "  Honing- 
ton  Green." 

5  Vide  "Recollections  of  a  Weaver  in  the  Moorlands  01 
Staffordshire." 

6  It  would  be  superfluous  to  recall  to  the  miml  of  tbn  rondel 
the  author  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory,"  and  "The  Pleas- 
ures of  Hope,"  the  most  beautiful  didactic  poems  in  our  lan- 
guage, if  we  except  Pope's  Essay  on   Man:    but  so  many 
xjetasters  have  started  up,  that  even  Hie  name*  of  Camp"<-U 

and  Rogers  are  become  strange 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Aiise !  let  blest  remembrance  still  inspire, 

And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  hallow'd  lyre  ! 

Restore  Apollo  to  his  vacant  throne, 

Assert  thy  country's  honour  and  thine  own. 

Whit !   must  deserted  Poesy  still  weep 

Where  her  last  hopes  with  pious  COWPER  sleep? 

Unless,  perchance,  from  his  colt   bier  she  turns, 

To  deck  the  turf  that  wraps  her  minstrel,  BURNS  ! 

No  !  though  contempt  hath  mark'd  the  spurious  brood, 

The  race  who  rhyme  from  folly,  or  for  food  ; 

Yet  still  some  genuine  sons,  't  is  her's  to  boast, 

Who,  least  affecting,  still  effect  the  most ; 

Feel  as  they  write,  and  write  but  as  they  feel — 

Bear  witness,  GIFFOKD,  SOTHEBY,  MACNEIL.' 

"  Why  slumbers  GIFFORD?"  once  was  ask'd  in  vain:2 
Why  slumbers  GIFFORD?  let  us  ask  again: 
Are  there  no  follies  for  his  pen  to  purge  ? 
Are  there  no  fools  whose  backs  demand  the  scourge  ? 
Are  there  no  sins  for  Satire's  Bard  to  greet  ? 
Stalks  not  gigantic  V  ice  in  every  street  ? 
Shall  peers  or  princes  tread  Pollution's  path, 
And  'scape  alike  the  law's  and  Muse's  wrath  ? 
Nor  blaze  with  guilty  glare  through  future  time, 
Eternal  beacons  of  consummate  crime  ? 
Arouse  thee,  GIFFORD!  be  thy  promise  claim'd, 
Make  bad  men  better,  or  at  least  ashamed. 

Unhappy  WHITE  !  3  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoilor  came,  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  for  ever  there. 
Oh !  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  Science'  self  destroy'd  her  favourite  son ! 
Yes !  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit, 
She  sow'd  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reap'd  the  fruit. 
T  was  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thce  low : 
So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
View'd  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  wing'd  the  shaft  that  quiver'd  in  his  heart : 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel 
He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impell'd  tne  steel, 
While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm'd  his  nest 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast. 
There  be  who  say  in  these  enlighten'd  days 
That  splendid  lies  are  all  the  poet's  praise ; 
That  strain'd  invention,  ever  on  the'  wing, 
Alone  impels  the  modern  bard  to  sing  : 
'T  is  true  that  all  who  rhyme,  nay,  all  who  write, 
Shrink  from  that  fatal  word  to  genius — trite ; 


1  Giffiird,  author  of  the  Baviad  andMieviad,  the  first  satires 
of  the  day,  and  translator  ot"  Juvenal. 

Sulhebv,  translator  of  Wteland's  Oberon  and  Virgil  8 
Georgics,  and  author  of  Saul,  an  epic  poem. 

Jllacneil,  whose  poems  are  deservedly  popular :  particularly 
"  Scotland's  Scailh,  or  the  Wiies  of  War,"  of  which  ten 
thousand  copies  were  sold  in  one  month. 

2  Mr.  Giffurd  promised  publicly  that  the  Baviad  and  Msviad 
ihouM  not  be  his  last  original  works:  let  him  remember, 

mox  in  reluctantes  dracones." 

3  Henry  Kirke  White  died  at  Cambridge,  in  October  1P06, 
in  consequence  of  too  much  cxeition  in  the  pursuit  of  studies, 
that  would  have  matured  a  mind  which  disease  and  poverty 
rould  not  impair,  and  which  Death  itself  destroyed  rather  than 
suodued.  His  poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must  impress 
the  reader  with  the  liveliest  regret  that  so  short  a  period  wa« 
allotted  to  talents  wliicn  would  have  dignified  even  the  sacred 
functions  he  wag  iestmed  to  assume. 


Yet  truth  sometimes  will  Iqnd  her  noblest  fires, 
And  decorate  the  verse  herself  inspires : 
This  fact  in  virtue's  name  let  CRAEEE  attest — 
Though  Nature's  sternest  painter,  yet  the  be»u 

And  here  let  SHEE  '  and  genius  find  a  place 
Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace ; 
To  guide  whoso  hand  the  sister  arts  combine, 
And  trace  the  poet's  or  the  painter's  line ; 
kVhose  magic  touch  can  bid  the  canvas  glow. 
3r  pour  the  easy  rhyme's  harmonious  flow, 
PVhile  honours  doubly  merited  attend 
The  poet's  rival,  but  the  painter's  friend. 

Blest  is  the  man  who  dares  approach  the  bower 
Where  dwelt  the  Muses  at  their  natal  hour ; 
Whose  steps  have  press'd,  whose  eye  has  marked  ala 
The  clime  that  nursed  the  sons  of  song  and  war, 
The  scenes  which  glory  still  must  hover  o'er, 
Her  place  of  birth,  her  own  Achaian  shore : 
But  doubly  blest  is  he  whose  heart  expands 
With  hallow'd  feelings  for  those  classic  lands ; 
Who  rends  the  veil  of  ages  long  gone  by, 
And  views  the  remnants  with  a  poet's  eye ! 
WRIGHT  !  2  't  was  thy  happy  lot  at  once  to  view 
Those  shores  of  glory,  and  to  sing  them  too ; 
And  sure  no  common  muse  inspired  thy  pen 
To  hail  the  land  of  gods  and  godlike  men. 

And  you,  associate  Bards !  3  who  snatch'd  to  light 
Those  gems  too  long  withheld  from  modem  sight ; 
Whose  mingling  taste  combined  to  cull  the  wreath 
Where  Attic  flowers  Aonian  odours  breathe, 
And  all  their  renovated  fragrance  flung, 
To  grace  the  beauties  of  your  native  tongue, 
Now  let  those  minds  that  nobly  could  transfuse 
The  glorious  spirit  of  the  Grecian  muse, 
Though  soft  the  echo,  scorn  a  borrow'd  tone, 
Resign  Achaia's  lyre,  and  strike  your  own. 

Let  these,  or  such  as  these,  with  just  applause, 
Restore  the  Muse's  violated  laws  : 
But  not  in  flimsy  Darwin's  pompous  chime, 
That  mighty  master  ol  unmeaning  rhyme ; 
Whose  gilded  cymbals,  more  adorn'd  than  clear, 
The  eye  delighted,  but  fatigued  the  ear, 
In  show  the  simple  lyre  could  once  surpass, 
But  now  worn  down,  appear  in  native  brass ; 
While  all  his  train  of  hovering  sylphs  around, 
Evaporate  in  similies  and  sound : 
Him  let  them  shun,  with  him  let  tinsel  die  • 
False  glare  attracts,  but  more  offends  th«j  eye. 4 

Yet  let  them  not  to  vulgar  WORDSWORTH  stoop, 
The  meanest  object  of  the  lowly  group, 
Whose  verse,  of  all  but  childish  prattle  void, 
Seems  blessed  harmony  to  LAMBE  and  LLOVD  :  * 
Let  them — but  hold,  my  muse,  nor  dare  to  teach 
A  strain  far,  far  beyond  thy  humble  reach : 


1  Mr.  SAe«,  author  of  "  Rhymes  on  Art,"  and  "  Element 
of  Art." 

2  Mr.  Wriffht,  late  Consul  General  for  the  Seven  Islands,* 
author  of  a  very  beautiful  poem  just  published  :  it  is  entitle* 
"  Hora?  lonica-,"  and  is  descriptive  of  the  Isles  and  the  adja- 
cent coast  of  Greece. 

3  The  translators  of  the  Anthology  have  since  published 
separate  poems,  which  evince  genius  that  only  requires  opoor 
tunity  to  attain  eminence. 

4  The  neglect  of  the  ''  Botanic  Garden'    is  some  proof  ol 
returning  taste  .  the  scenery  is  its  cole  recommendation. 

5  Messrs.  Lamle  and  Lloyd,  irt  mos   jtnohle  followu*  o 
Souther  and  Co. 


36 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  native  genius  with  their  feeling  given 

Will  point  the  path,  and  peal  their  notes  to  heaven. 

And  thou,  too,  SCOTT  ! '  resign  to  minstrels  rude 
Tho  wilder  slogan  of  a  Border  feud : 
Let  ethers  spin  their  meagre  lines  for  hire- 
Enough  for  genius  if  itself  inspire  ! 
Let  Southey  sing,  although  his  teeming  muse, 
Prolific  every  string,  be  too  profuse  ; 
Let  simple  WORDSWORTH  chime  his  childish  verse, 
And  brother  COLERIUGE  lull  the  babe  at  nurse; 
Let  spectre-mongering  LEWIS  aim  at  most 
To  rouse  the  galleries,  or  to  raise  a  ghost ; 
Let  MOORE  be  lewd ;  let  STRANGFORD  steal  from 

MOORE, 

And  swear  that  CAMOENS  sang  such  notes  of  yore: 
Let  HAYLEV  hobble  on,  MONTGOMERY  rave, 
And  godly  GRAHAME  chaunt  the  stupid  stave  ; 
Let  sonnetteering  BOWLES  his  strains  refine, 
And  whine  and  whimper  to  the  fourteenth  line  ; 
Let  STOTT,  CARLISLE, 2  MATILDA,  and  the  rest 
Of  Grub-street,  and  of  Grosvenor-Place  the  best, 
Scrawl  on,  till  death  release  us  from  the  strain, 
Or  common  sense  assert  her  rights  again  ; 
But  thou,  with  powers  that  mock  the  aid  of  praise, 
Should'st  leave  to  humbler  bards  ignoble  lays : 
Thy  country's  voice,  the  voice  of  all  the  Nine, 
Demand  a  hallow'd  harp — that  harp  is  thine. 
Say!   will  not  Caledonia's  annals  yield 
The  glorious  record  of  some  nobler  field, 
Than  the  vile  foray  of  a  plundering  clan, 
Whose  proudest  deeds  disgrace  the  name  of  man  ? 
Or  Marmion's  acts  of  darkness,  titter  food 
For  outlaw'd  Sherwood's  tales  of  Robin  Hood  ? 
Scotland !  still  proudly  claim  thy  native  bard, 
And  be  thy  praise  his  first,  his  best  reward ! 
Vet  not  with  thee  alone  his  name  should  live, 
But  own  the  vast  renown  a  world  can  give ; 
Be  known,  perchance,  when  Albion  is  no  more, 
And  tell  the  tale  of  what  she  was  before ; 
To  future  times  her  faded  fame  recall, 
And  save  her  glory,  though  his  country  fall. 


1  By  the  bye,  I  hope  that  in  Mr.  Scott's  next  poem  his  hero 
or  heroine  will  be  less  addicted  to  "gramarye.     and  more  to 
grammar,  than  the  Lady  of  the  Lay,  and  her  bravo,  William 
of  Deloraine. 

2  It  may  be  asked  why  1  have  censured  the  Earl  of  Carlisle, 
my  guardian  and  relative,  to  whom  I  dedicated  a  volume  of 
puerile  poems  a  few  years  ago.  The  guardianship  was  nomi- 
nal, at  least  as  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover;  the  rela- 
tionship I  cannot  help,  and  am  very  sorry  for  it;  bat  as  his 
lordahip  seemed  to  forget  it  on  a  very  essential  occasion  to  me, 
I  shall  not  burthen  my  memory  with  the  recollection.  I  do  not 
think  that  personal  differences  sanction  the  unjust  condemna- 
tion of  a  brother  scribbler ;  but  I  gee  no  reason  why  they  should 
act  as  a  preventive,  when  the  author,  noble  or  ignoble,  has 
for  n  series  of  years  beguiled  a  "discerning  public"   (as  the 
advertisements  have  it)  with  divers  reams  of  most  orthodox, 
imperial  nonsense.   Besides,  I  do  not  step  eside  to  vituperate 
the  Earl ;  no — his  works  come  fairly  in  review  with  {hose  of 
other  patrician  literati.     If,  before  I  escaped  from  my  teens,  1 
paid  any  thing  in  faimir  of  his  lordship's  paper  books,  it  was  in 
tlto  way  of  dutiful  dedication,  and   more  from  ihe  advice  of 
others  than  my  own  judgment,  and  I  seize  the  first  opportunity 
of  pronouncing  my  sincere  recantation.   I  have  heard  that  some 
persons  conceive  me  to  be  under  obligations  to  Lord  Carlisle: 
if  so    I  sha-'l  be  most  particularly  happy  to  lei-.rn  what  they 
Hre.  anil  when  conferred,  that  they  may  be  duly  appreciated 
and  publicly  acknowledged.    What  I  have  humbly  advanced 
KB  an  opinion  on  his  printed  things.  I  nm  prepared  to  support, 
if  neoissary,  by  quotations  from  elegies,  eulogies,  odes,  epis- 
odes, and  certain  facetious  and  dainty  tragedies,  bearing  his 
name  and  mark : 

"  What  can  bnnoble  knaves,  or  fools,  or  cowards  7 
Alas!  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards!" 
So  ra.ya  I'aie     Amen 


Yet  what  avails  the  sanguine  poet's  hope 
To  conquer  ages,  and  wtih  time  to  cope  ? 
New  eras  spread  their  wings,  new  nations  rise, 
And  other  victors '  fill  the  applauding  skies : 
A  few  brief  generations  fleet  along, 
Whose  sons  forget  the  poet  and  his  song : 
E'en  now  what  once-laved  minstrels  scarce  may  claim 
The  transient  mention  of  a  dubious  name ! 
When  Fame's  loud  trump  hath  blown  its  noblr  »t  blast, 
Though  long  the  sound,  the  echo  sleeps  at  last, 
And  glory,  like  the  phrenix  midst  her  fires, 
Exhales  her  odours,  blazes,  and  expires. 

Shall  hoary  Granta  call  her  sable  sons, 
Expert  in  science,  more  expert  at  puns? 
Shall  these  approach  the  muse?  ah,  no!  she  flics, 
And  even  spurns  the  great  Seatonian  prize, 
Though  printers  condescend  the  press  to  soil 
With  rhyme  by  HOARE,  and  epic  blank  by  HOYLE  I 
Not  him  whose  page,  if  still  upheld  by  whist, 
Requires  no  sacred  theme  to  bid  us  list.2 
Ye,  who  in  Granta's  honours  would  surpass, 
Must  mount  her  Pegasus,  a  full-grown  ass — 
A  foal  well  worthy  of  her  ancient  dam, 
Whose  Helicon  is  duller  than  her  Cam. 
There  CLARKE,  still  striving  piteously  "  to  pleaso," 
Forgetting  doggrel  leads  not  to  degrees, 
A  would-be  satirist,  a  hired  buffoon, 
A  monthly  scribbler  of  some  low  lampoon, 
Condemn'd  to  drudge  the  meanest  of  the  mean, 
And  furnish  falsehoods  for  a  magazine, 
Devotes  to  scandal  his  congenial  mind — 
Himself  a  living  libel  on  mankind.3 
Oh,  dark  asylum  of  a  Vandal  race !  * 
At  once  the  boast  of  learning,  and  disgrace ; 
So  sunk  in  dulness  and  so  lost  in  shame, 
That  SMYTHE  and  HODGSON  *  scarce  redeem  thy  faint/ 
But  where  fair  Isis  rolls  her  purer  wave, 
The  partial  muse  delighted  loves  to  lave  ; 
On  her  green  banks  a  greener  wreath  is  wove, 
To  crown  the  bards  that  haunt  her  classic  grove, 
Where  RICHARDS  wakes  a  genuine  poet's  fires, 
And  modern  Britons  justly  praise  their  sires.* 

For  me,  who  thus  unask'd  have  dared  to  tell 
My  country  what  her  sons  should  know  too  well, 
Zeal  for  her  honour  bade  me  here  engage 
The  host  of  idiots  that  infest  her  age. 


1  "  Tollere  humo,  victorque  virum  volitare  per  ora.  *- 
Virgil. 

2  The  "Games  of  Hoyle,"  well  known  to  the  votaiira  01 
whist,  chess,  etc.,  are  not  to  be  superseded  by  the  vagiirii-s  o( 
his  poetical  namesake,  whose  poem  comprised,  :is  ..Mur^ly 
stated  in  the  advertisement,  all  the  "Plagues  of  Egypt. 

3  This  person,  who  has  lately  betrayed  the  most  rapid  symp- 
toms of  confirmed  authorship,  is  writer  of  a  poem  denominated 
the  "  Art  of  Pleasing,"  as  "  Incus  a  non  lucendo  . '  containing 
little  pleasantry,  and  less  poetry.    He  also   acts  as   monthly 
stipendiary  and  collector  of  calumnies  for  the  Satirist,    il  this 
unfortunate  young  man  would  exchange  the  magazines  for  the 
mathematics,  and  endeavour  to  take  a  decent  deirree  in  his 
university,  it  might  eventually  prove  more  lervicealila  than 
his  present  salary. 

4  "  Into  Cambridgeshire  the  Emperor  Prohus  transported  a 
considerable  body  of  Vandal*." — Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall, 
pa^'e  K»,  vol.  2.  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  truth  of  this 
assertion — the  breed  is  still  in  high  perfection. 

5  This  gentleman's  name  requires  no  praise:  the  man  wno 
in  translation  displays  unquestionable  genius,   may  well   lie 
expected  to  excel  in  original  composition,  of  which  u  m  to  tie 
hoped  we  shall  soon  see  a  splendid  specimen. 

fi  The  "Aboriginal  Britons,"  an  excellent  poem    «y  rV-  * 
ards. 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


37 


Vo  just  applause  her  honour'd  name  shall  lose, 
As  first  in  freedom,  dearest  to  the  muse. 
Oil,  would  thy  bards  but  emulate  thy  fame, 
And  rise  more  worthy,  Albion,  of  thy  name  ! 
What  Athens  was  in  science,  Rojne  in  power, 
\Vhat  Tyre  appear'd  in  her  meridian  hour, 
'T  is  thine  at  once,  fair  Albion,  to  have  been, 
Earth's  chief  dictatress,  Ocean's  mighty  queen: 
But  Rome  decay'd,  and  Athens  strew'd  the  plain, 
And  Tyre's  proud  piers  lie  shatter'd  in  the  main: 
Like  these  thy  strength  may  sink  in  ruin  hurl'd, 
And  Britain  fall,  the  bulwark  of  the  world. 
But  let  me  cease,  and  dread  Cassandra's  late, 
With  warning  ever  scoff'd  at,  'till  too  late, 
To  themes  less  lofty  still  my  lay  confine, 
AnJ  urge  thy  bards  to  gain  a  name  like  thine. 

Then,  hapless  Britain !  be  thy  rulers  blest, 
The  senate's  oracles,  the  people's  jest !  ' 
Still  hear  thy  motley  orators  dispense 
The  flowers  of  rhetoric,  though  not  of  sense, 
While  CANNING'S  colleagues  hate  him  for  his  wit, 
And  old  dame  PORTLAND  '  fills  the  place  of  PITT. 

Yet  once  again  adieu !  ere  this  the  sail 
That  wafts  me  hence  is  shivering  in  the  gale : 
And  Afric's  coast  and  Calpe's2  adverse  height, 
And  Stamboul's  3  minarets  must  greet  my  sight : 
Thence  shall  I  stray  through  beauty's  4  native  clime, 
Where  Kaff5  is  clad  in  rocks,  and  crown'd  with  snows 

sublime. 

But  should  1  back  return,  no  letter'd  rage 
Shall  drag  my  commonplace  book  on  the  stage : 
Let  vain  VALENTIAS  rival  luckless  CARR, 
\nd  equal  him  whose  work  he  sought  to  mar; 
Let  ABERDEEN  and  ELGIN*  still  pursue 
The  shade  of  fame  through  regions  of  virtu ; 
Waste  useless  thousands  on  their  Phidian  freaks, 
Misshapen  monuments  and  maim'd  antiques ; 
A  nd  make  their  grand  saloons  a  general  mart 
For  all  the  mutilated  b'.ocks  of  art : 
Of  Dardan  tours  let  dilettanti  tell, 
I  leave  topography  to  classic  CELL  ;  * 
And,  quite  content,  no  more  shall  interpose 
To  stun  mankind  with  poesy  or  prose. 

Thus  far  I  've  held  my  undisturb'd  career, 
Prepared  for  rancour,  steel'd  'gainst  selfish  fear : 
This  thing  of  rhyme  I  ne'er  disdain'd  to  own — 
Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown : 


1  A  friend  of  mine  being  asked  why  his  Grace  of  P.  was 
likened  to  an  old  woman?  replied,  "  he  supposed  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  past  bearing." 

2  Calpe  is  the  ancient  name  of  Gibraltar. 

)  Stjinbou!  is  the  Turkish  word  for  Constantinople. 

4  Georgia,  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  its  inhabitants. 

5  Mount  Caucasus. 

ti  Lord  Valentia  (whose  tremendous  travels  are  forthcom- 
ing, with  due  decorations,  graphical,  topographical,  and  typo- 
graphical) deposed,  on  Sir  John  Carr's  unlucky  suit,  that 
/)«.'•«!>'  sutire  prevented  his  purchase  of  the  "Stranger  in 
Ireland." — Oh  nV,  my  Lord  !  has  your  lordship  no  more  feel- 
ing lor  a  fellow-tourist  1  but  "  two  of  a  trade,"  they  say,  etc. 

7  Lord  Elgin  would  fain  persuade  us  '.hat  all  the  figures, 
*ith  and  without  noses,  in  his  stone-shop,  are  the  work  of 
Phidias  !    "  Credat  Judaeus." 

8  Mr.  Gell's  Topography  of  Troy  and  Ithaca  cannot  fail 
(o  ensure  the  approbation  of  every  man  possessed  of  classical 
Mste,  as  well  for  the  information  Mr.  G.  conveys  to  the  mind 
•f  the  reader,  as  for  the  at-Uity  and  research  Jin  respective 
works  display 


My  voice  was  heard  again,  though  not  so  loud  ; 
My  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavow'd, 
And  now  at  once  I  tear  the  veil  away : 
Cheer  on  the  pack!  the  quarry  stands  at  bay, 
Unscared  by  all  the  din  of  MELBounKE-house, 
By  LAMBE'S  resentment,  or  by  HOLLAND'S  sponj* 
By  JEFFREY'S  harmless  pistol,  HALLAM'S  rage, 
EDINA'S  brawny  sons  and  brimstone  page. 
Our  men  in  buckram  shall  have  blows  enough, 
And  feel  they  too  are  "  penetrable  stuff:" 
And  though  I  hope  not  hence  unscathed  to  go( 
Who  conquers  me  shall  find  a  stubborn  foe. 
The  time  hath  been,  when  no  harsh  sound  would  fal 
From  lips  that  now  may  seem  imbued  with  gall, 
Nor  fools  nor  follies  tempt  me  to  despise 
The  meanest  thing  that  crawl'd  beneath  my  eyes : 
But  now,  so  callous  grown,  so  changed  since  youth, 
I  've  learn'd  to  think  and  sternly  speak  the  truth ; 
Learn'd  to  deride  the  critic's  starch  decree, 
And  break  him  on  the  wheel  he  meant  for  me ; 
To  spurn  the  rod  a  scribbler  bids  me  kiss, 
Nor  care  if  courts  and  crowds  applaud  or  hiss ; 
Nay,  more,  though  all  my  rival  rhymesters  frowii, 
I  too  can  hunt  a  poetaster  down  ; 
And,  arm'd  in  proof,  the  gauntlet  cast  at  once 
To  Scotch  marauder,  and  to  Southern  dunce. 
Thus  much  I  've  dared  to  do ;  how  far  my  lay 
Hath  wrong'd  these  righteous  times,  let  others  say ; 
This  let  the  world,  which  knows  not  how  to  spare, 
Yet  rarely  blames  unjustly,  now  declare. 


POSTSCRIPT.1 


I  HAVE  been  informed,  since  the  present  edition  wem 
to  the  press,  that  my  trusty  and  well-beloved  cousins 
the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  are  preparing  a  most  vehe- 
ment critique  on  my  poor,  gentle,  unresisting  muse, 
whom  they  have  already  so  bedeviled  with  their  ungodlj 
ribaldry : 

"  Tantane  animis  coelestibus  iras !" 
I  suppose  I  must  say  of  JEFFREY  as  Sir  ANDREW 
AGUECHEEK  saith,  "  an  I  had  known  he  was  so  cun- 
ning offence,  I  had  seen  him  damned  ere  I  had  fought 
him."  What  a  pity  it  is  that  I  shall  be  beyond  the  Bos- 
phorus  before  the  next  number  has  passed  the  Tweed. 
But  yet  I  hope  to  light  my  pipe  with  it  in  Persia. 

My  northern  friends  have  accused  me,  with  justice,  Oi 
personality  towards  their  great  literary  Anthropophagus, 
JEFFREY  :  but  what  else  was  to  be  done  with  him  and 
his  dirty  pack,  who  feed  "  by  lying  and  slandering,"  and 
slake  their  thirst  by  "evil-speaking?"  I  have  adduced 
facts  already  well  known,  and  of  Jeffrey's  mind  I  have 
stated  my  free  opinion ;  nor  has  he  thence  sustained 
any  injury :  what  scavenger  was  ever  soiled  by  being 
pelted  with  mud?  It  may  be  said  that  I  quit  England 
because  I  have  censured  there  "  persons  of  honour  and 
wit  about  town;"  but  I  am  coming  back  again,  and 
their  vengeance  will  keep  hot  till  my  return.  Those 
who  know  me  can  testify  that  my  motives  for  leaving 
England  are  very  different  from  fears,  literary  or  pei- 
sonal ;  those  who  do  not,  may  one  day  be  convinced. 


1  Published  to  the  Second  Edition. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Sim  <;  the  nublication  of  this  thing,  my  name  has  not 
been  concealed ;  I  have  been  mostly  in  London,  ready 
to  answer  for  my  transgressions,  and  in  daily  expecta- 
tion of  sundry  cartels  ;  hut,  alas !  "  The  age  of  chiv- 
alry is  over ;"  or,  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  there  is  no 
spirit  now-a-days. 

There  is  a  youth  yclept  Hewson  Clarke  (subaudi, 
Esq.),  a  sizer  of  Emanuel  College,  and  I  believe  a  den- 
izen of  Bcrwick-upon-Tweed,  whom  I  have  introduced 
in  these  pages  to  much  better  company  than  he  has  been 
accustomed  to  meet :  he  is,  notwithstanding,  a  very  sad 
dog,  and,  for  no  reason  that  I  can  discover,  except  a 
personal  quarrel  with  a  bear,  kept  by  me  at  Cambridge 
to  sit  for  a  fellowship,  and  whom  the  jealousy  of  his 
Trinity  contemporaries  prevented  from  success,  has  been 
abusing  me,  and,  what  is  worse,  the  defenceless  innocent 
above  mentioned,  in  the  Satirist,  for  one  year  and  some 
months.  I  am  utterly  unconscious  of  having  given  him 
any  provocation  ;  indeed  I  am  guiltless  of  having  heard 
his  name,  till  it  was  coupled  with  the  Satirist.  He  has, 
therefore,  no  reason  to  complain,  and  I  dare  say  that, 
like  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  he  is  rather  pleased  than  other- 
wise. I  have  now  mentioned  all  who  have  done  me  the 
honour  to  notice  me  and  mine,  that  is,  my  bear  and  my 
book,  except  the  editor  of  the  Satirist,  who,  it  seems, 
is  a  gentleman.  God  wot !  I  wish  he  could  impart  a  lit- 
tle of  his  gentility  to  his  subordinate  scribblers.  I  hear 
that  Mr.  JERNINGHAM  is  about  to  take  up  the  cudgels 
for  his  Maecenas,  Lord  Carlisle :  I  hope  not ;  he  was  one 
of  the  few  who,  in  the  very  short  intercourse  I  had 


with  him,  treated  me  with  kindness  when  a  boy,  and 
whatever  he  may  say  or  do,  "  pour  on,  I  will  endure." 
I  have  nothing  further  to  add,  save  a  general  note  d 
thanksgiving  to  readers,  purchasers,  and  publisher;  and, 
in  the  words  of  SCOTT,  I  wish 

"  To  a.  and  each  a  fair  good  night. 
And  rosy  dreams  and  slumbers  light." 


TTiefollowing  Lmeswere  writtenby  Mr.  FITZGERALD, 
in  a  Copy  of  ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  RE 
VIEWERS: — 

I  find  Lord  Byron  scorns  my  muse — 

Our  fates  are  ill  agreed ! 
His  verse  is  safe — I  can't  abuse 
Those  lines  I  never  read. 

W.  F.  F. 


His  Lordship  accidentally  met  with  the  Copy,  and  tub 

joined,  the  following  pungent  Reply  : — 
What 's  writ  on  me,  cried  Fitz,  I  never  read ; — 
What's  wrote  by  thee,  dear  Fitz,  none  will  indeed. 
The  case  stands  simply  thus,  then,  honest  Fitz . — 
Thou  and  thine  enemies  are  fairly  quits, 
Or  rather  would  be,  if,  for  time  to  come, 
They  luckily  were  deaf,  or  thou  wert  dumb — 
But,  to  their  pens,  while  scribblers  add  their  tongues,* 
The  waiter  only  can  escape  their  lungs. 


1  Mr.  Fitzgerald  is  in  the  habit  of  reciting  nis  own  poetry 
—See  note  to  English  Bards,  p.  26. 


CHiltre 


A  ROMAUNT. 


L'univen  est  une  cspOco  de  livre,  dont  on  n'a  lu  que  la  premiere  page,  quand  on  n'a  vu  quo  «ons  pays 
J'en  ai  feuillet6  un  assez  grand  nombre,  que  j'ai  trouvees  egalement  mauvaises.  Cet  examen  ne  m'a 
point  etc  infructueux.  Je  haissais  ma  patrie.  Toutes  les  impertinences  des  peoples  divers,  parrni 
lesqueli  j'ai  vecu,  m'ont  reconoilie  avec  elle.  Quaiul  je  n'aurais  tire  d'autre  benelice  de  mes  voy 
ages  que  cclui-li,  je  n'en  regretterais  ni  lea  frais  ni  les  fatigues.  LE  COSMOPOLITE. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  poem  was  written,  for  the  most  part, 
amidst  the  scenes  which  it  attempts  to  describe.  It 
was  begun  in  Albania ;  and  the  parts  relative  to  Spain 
and  Portugal  were  composed  from  the  author's  obser- 
vations in  those  countries.  Thus  much  it  may  be  ne- 
cessary to  state  for  the  correctness  of  the  descriptions. 
The  scenes  attempted  to  be  sketched  are  in  Spain, 
Portugal,  Epirus,  Acarnania,  and  Greece.  There 
for  the  present  the  poem  stops :  its  reception  will 
determine  whether  the  author  may  venture  to  conduct 
his  readers  to  the  capital  of  the  East,  through  Ionia  and 
Phrygia :  these  two  cantos  are  merely  experimental. 

A  fictitious  character  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of 
giving  some  connexion  to  the  piece ;  which,  however, 
makes  no  pretension  to  regularity.  It  has  been  sug- 
gested to  me  hy  friends,  on  whose  opinions  I  set  a  hign 
/alue,  that  in  this  fictitious  character,  "  Childe  Harold," 
I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  intended  some  real 
iK'-rsonage :  this  I  beg  leave,  once  for  all,  to  disclaim — 


Harold  is  the  child  of  imagination,  for  the  purposi  I 
have  stated.  In  some  very  trivial  particulars,  and  thtje 
merely  local,  there  might  be  grounds  for  such  a  notii  i : 
but  in  the  main  points,  I  should  hope,  none  whatever . 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  mention  that  the  appeF.a- 
tion  "Childe,"  as  "Childe  Waters,"  "Childe  Chil 
ders,"  etc.,  is  used  as  more  consonant  with  the  old  struc 
ture  of  versification  which  I  have  adopted.  The  "  Good 
Night,"  in  the  beginning  of  the  first  canto,  was  sug- 
gested by  "  Lord  Maxwell's  Good  Night,"  in  the  Bor- 
der Minstrelsy,  edited  by  Mr.  Scott. 

With  the  different  poems  which  have  been  published 
on  Spanish  subjects,  there  may  be  found  some  slight 
coincidence  in  the  first  part,  which  treats  of  the  Penin- 
sula, but  it  can  only  be  casual ;  as,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  concluding  stanzas,  the  whole  of  this  poem 
was  written  in  the  Levant, 

The  stanza  of  Spenser,  according  to  one  of  our  most 
successful  poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr.  B»<ittie 
makes  the  following  observation :  "  Not  long  ago  1 
began  a  poem  in  the  style  and  stanza  of  Spenser  ii 
which  I  propose  to  give  full  scope  to  ny  ii.chna'ion 


PREFACE  TO  CHILDll  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


a«id  be  either  droll  or  pathetic,  descriptive  or  senti- 
mental, tender  or  satirical,  as  the  humour  stnues  me  ; 
for,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  measure  which  I  have  adopted, 
admits  equally  of  all  these  kinds  of  composition."1 — 
Strengthened  in  my  opinion  by  such  authority,  and  by 
the  example  of  some  in  the  highest  order  of  Italian 
poets,  I  shall  make  no  apology  for  attempts  at  similar 
v.iriations  in  the  following  composition  ;  satisfied  that, 
if  they  are  unsuccessful,  their  failure  must  be  in  the 
execution,  rather  than  in  the  design  sanctioned  by  the 
practice  of  Ariosto,  Thomson,  and  Beattie. 

ADDITION  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

I  have  now  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical  jour- 
nals have  distributed  their  usual  portion  of  criticism. 
To  the  justice  of  the  generality  of  their  criticisms  I 
have  nothing  to  object ;  it  would  ill  become  me  to 
quarrel  with  their  very  slight  degree  of  censure,  when 
perhaps,  if  they  had  been  less  kind,  they  had  been  more 
candid.  Returning,  therefore,  to  all  and  each  my  best 
thanks  for  their  liberality,  on  one  point  alone  shall  I 
venture  an  observation.  Amongst  the  many  objections 
justly  urged  to  the  very  indifferent  character  of  the 
"vagrant  Childe"  (whom,  notwithstanding  many  hints 
to  the  contrary,  I  still  maintain  to  be  a  fictitious  per- 
sonage), it  has  been  stated  that,  besides  the  anachron- 
ism, he  is  very  unknightly,  as  the  times  of  the  knights 
were  times  of  love,  honour,  and  so  forth.  Now,  it  so 
happens,  that  the  good  old  times,  when  "1'amour  du 
bon  vieux  temps,  1'amour  antique"  flourished,  were  the 
most  profligate  of  all  possible  centuries.  Those  who 
have  any  doubts  on  this  subject,  may  consult  St.  Palaye, 
passim,  and  more  particularly  vol.  ii.  page  69.  The 
vows  of  chivalry  were  no  better  kept  than  any  other 
vows  whatsoever,  and  the  songs  of  the  Troubadours 
were  not  more  decent,  and  certainly  were  much  less 

refined,  than  those  of  Ovid The  "Cours  d'amour 

parlements  d'amour  ou  de  courtoisie  et  de  gcntilesse," 
had  much  more  of  love  than  of  courtesy  or  gentleness. — 
See  Roland  m  the  same  subject  with  St.  Palaye — 
Whatever  other  objection  may  be  urged  to  that  most 
unamiable  personage,  Chikle  Harold,  he  was  so  far 
perfectly  knightly  in  his  attributes — "  No  waiter,  but  a 
knight  templar."2 — By  the  bye,  I  fear  that  Sir  Tristram 
and  Sir  Lancelot  were  no  better  than  they  should  be, 
although  very  poetical  personages  and  true  knights 
"  sans  peur,"  though  not  "  sans  reproche." — If  the 
story  of  the  institution  of  the  "  G  arter"  be  not  a  fable, 
the  knights  of  that  order  have  for  several  centuries  borne 
the  badge  of  a  Countess  of  Salisbury,  of  indifferent 
memory.  So  much  for  chivalry.  Burke  need  not  have 
regretted  that  its  days  are  over,  though  Marie  Antoinette 
was  quite  as  chaste  as  most  of  those  in  whose  honours 
lances  were  shivered,  and  knights  unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of  Sir 
Joseph  Banks  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated  of  an- 
cient and  modern  times),  few  exceptions  will  be  found 
to  this  statement,  and  I  fear  a  little  investigation  will 
teach  us  not  to  regret  those  monstrous  mummeries  of 
•he  middle  ages. 

I  now  leave  "  Childe  Harold"  to  live  h:s  day,  such 
is  he  is ,  it  had  been  more  agreeable,  and  certainly 
norc  easy,  to  have  drawn  an  amiable  character.  It  had 
been  easy  to  varnish  over  his  faults,  to  make  him  do 

I  Beanie's  Letter*.          2  The  Boverg. — *1nti-iac<>liH. 


more  and  express  less,  bux  he  never  was  intended  as  an 
example,  further  than  to  snow  that  early  perversion  of 
mind  and  morals  leads  to  satiety  of  past  pleasures  and 
disappointment  in  new  ones,  and  that  even  the  beauties 
of  nature,  and  the  stimulus  of  travel  (except  ambition, 
the  most  powerful  of  all  excitements),  are  lost  on  a  sold 
so  constituted,  or  rather  misdirected.  Had  I  proceeded 
with  the  poem,  this  character  would  have  deepened  as 
he  drew  to  the  close ;  for  the  outline  which  I  or.ce 
meant  to  fill  up  for  him,  was,  with  some  exceptions, 
the  sketch  of  a  modem  Timon,  perhaps  a  poei  cal 
Zeluco. 


TO  IANTHE. 

NOT  in  those  climes  where  I  have  late  been  straying 
Tho'  beauty  long  hath  there  been  matchless  deem'd , 
Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dream'd, 
Hath  aught  like  thee,  in  truth  or  fancy  seem'd  : 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they  beam'd — 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak  ; 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could  they 
speak  ? 

Ah !  may'st  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art, 
Nor  unbeseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring, 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart, 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing, 
And  guileless  beyond  hope's  imagining ! 
And  surely  she  who  DOW  so  Ibndly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening, 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 
Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disappears. 

Young  Peri  of  the  West! — 'tis  well  for  me 
My  years  already  doubly  number  thine  ; 
My  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee, 
And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine ; 
Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline, 
Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall  bleed, 
Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  assign 
To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed, 
But  mix'd  with  pangs  to  love's  even  loveliest  hours  de- 
creed. 

Oh !  let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  gazelle's, 
Now  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy, 
Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells, 
Glance  o'er  this  page,  nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  for  which  my  breast  might  vainly  sigh, 
Could  I  to  thee  be  ever  more  than  friend: 
This  much,  dear  maid,  accord  ;  nor  question  why 
To  one  so  young,  my  strain  I  would  commend, 
But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily  blend. 

Such  is  thy  name  with  this  my  verse  entwined , 
And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a  look  shall  cast 
On  Harold's  page,  lanthe's  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  he  first  beheld,  forgotten  last : 
My  days  once  number'd,  should  this  homage  past 
Attract  thy  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
Of  him  who  hail'd  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast, 
Such  is  the  most  my  .Memory  may  desire  ; 
Though  more  than  hope  cin  cla-m.  could  frmndshr" 
.ess  require  ? 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S 
PILGRIMAGE. 


A  ROMAUNT. 


CANTO  I. 


OH,  thou !  in  Hellas  deem'd  of  heavenly  birth, 
Muse !  form'd  or  fabled  at  the  minstrel's  will ! 
Since  shamed  full  oft  by  later  lyres  on  earth, 
Mine  Jares  not  call  thee  from  thy  sacred  hill : 
Vet  there  I  've  wander'd  by  thy  vaunted  rill ; 
Yes!  sigh'd  o'er  Delphi's  long-deserted  shrine,1 
Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still ; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine, 
I  o  grace  so  plain  a  tale — this  lowly  lay  of  mine. 

II. 

Whi\ome  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  a  youth, 
Who  ne  in  virtue's  ways  did  take  delight ; 
But  spent  his  days  in  riot  most  uncouth, 
A  nd  vex'd  with  mirth  the  drowsy  ear  of  night. 
Ah,  me !  in  sooth  he  was  a  shameless  wight, 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee ; 
Few  earthly  things  found  favour  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie, 
And  flaunting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  degree. 

III. 

Childe  Harold  was  he  hight : — but  whence  his  name 
And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say  j 
Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame, 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day  : 
But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  for  aye, 
However  mighty  in  the  olden  time ; 
Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffin'd  clay, 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honied  lies  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 

IV. 

Cnilde  Harold  bask'd  him  in  the  noontide  sun, 
Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly  ; 
Nor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done, 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 
Worse  than  adversity  the  Childe  befell ; 
He  felt  the  fulness  of  satiety : 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell, 
»Ybich  seem'd  to  him  more  lone  than  eremite's  sad  cell. 

V. 

For  he  through  sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run, 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss, 
Had  sigh'd  to  many,  though  he  loved  but  one, 
And  that  .oved  one,  alas !  could  ne'er  be  his. 
Ah,  happy  she!  to  'scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste ; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss, 
And  spoil'd  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  waste, 
**•  calm  domestic  oe^oe  twui  fffnt  dcign'd  to  taste. 


VI. 

And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at  heart, 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee  ; 
'T  is  said,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 
But  pride  congeal'd  the  drop  within  his  ee  : 
Apart  he  stalk'd  in  joyless  reverie, 
And  from  his  native  land  resolv'd  to  go, 
And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea ; 
With  pleasure  drugg'd  he  almost  long'd  for  won. 

And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  sha  ie» 
below. 

VII. 

The  Childe  departed  from  his  father's  hall : 
It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile : 
So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fall, 
Yet  strength  was  pillar'd  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome !  condemn'd  to  uses  vile ! 
Where  Superstition  once  had  made  her  den 
Now  Paphian  girls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile , 
And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come  agen, 

If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 

VIII. 

Yet  oft-times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood, 
Strange  pangs  would  flash  along  C  hilde  Harold's  brow, 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk'd  below : 
But  this  none  knew,  nor  haply  cared  to  know ; 
For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul, 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow, 
Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Whate'er  his  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could  not  control 

IX. 

And  none  did  love  him — though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gather'd  revellers  from  far  and  near, 
He  knew  them  flatterers  of  the  festal  hour ; 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Yea,  none  did  love  him — not  his  lemans  dear — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  wo'rnan's  care, 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  fere  ; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare, 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  seraphs  might  despair. 

X. 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother — not  forgot, 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun ; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun  : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 
Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel ; 
Ye  who  have  known  what 't  is  to  dote  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal. 

XI. 

His. house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands, 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight, 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  handa, 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 
And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite  • 
His  goblets  brimm'd  with  every  costly  wine, 
And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 
Without  a  sigh  he  left,  to  cross  the  brine, 
And  traverse  Paynim  shorci,  1.3 1  pass  eirth's  cer* 
linx 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE 


xn. 

The  sails  were  fill'd,  and  fair  the  light  winds  blew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home ; 
And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view, 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam : 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  sate  and  wept, 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept. 

xra. 

But  when  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea, 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could  string, 
And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody, 
When  deem'd  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening : 
And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling, 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight. 
While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing, 
And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sight, 
Thus  to  the  elements  he  pour'd  his  last  "  Good  Night.' 

1. 

"  ADIEC,  adieu !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue ; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  High. ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  land — Good  Night ! 


A  few  short  hours  and  he  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth  ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate  ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wafl  ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

3. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page! 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billows'  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye  ; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong : 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along." 


'  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind ; 
Yet  marvel  not,  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind  ; 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friend,  save  these  alone, 

But  thee — and  one  above. 
11 


'  My  father  bless'd  me  fervently, 

Yet  did  not  much  complain  ; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  again.' — 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad  ) 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye ; 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  drv. 


6. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  staunch  yeoman. 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foetnan  ? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?" — 
'  Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life  ? 

Sir  Childe,  I'm  not  so  weak ; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

Will  blanch  a  faitliful  cheek. 


7. 

'  My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall. 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 
And  when  they  on  their  father  call, 

What  answer  shall  she  make  ?' — 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 

Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay  ; 
But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 

Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 


8. 

"  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Of  wife  or  paramour  ? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyef 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perils  gathering  near ; 
My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leave 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 


9. 

"  And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea : 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me  ? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands  ; 
But  long  ere  I  come  back  again, 

He  'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 


10. 

"  With  thee,  my  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine ; 
Nor  care  what  land  Ihou  bear'st  me  10, 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark-blue  wave*1 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  caves ! 

My  native  land— Good  Night !" 


12 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XIV. 

( »n,  on  the  vessel  flies,  the  land  is  gone, 
And  winds  are  rude  in  Biscay's  sleepless  bay. 
Four  days  are  sped,  but  with  the  fifth,  anon, 
New  shores  descried  make  every  bosom  gay ; 
And  Cintra's  mountain  greets  them  on  their  way, 
And  Tagus  uashing  onward  to  the  deep, 
His  fabled  golden  tribute  bent  to  pay ; 
And  soon  on  board  the  Lusian  pilots  leap, 
And  steer 'twixt  fertile  shores  where  yet  few  rustics  reap. 

XV. 

Oh !  Christ !  it  is  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
What  Heaven  hath  done  for  this  delicious  land ! 
What  fruits  of  fragrance  blush  on  every  tree ! 
What  goodly  prospects  o'er  the  hills  expand ! 
But  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious  hand : 
And  when  the.Aj[ughty  lifts  his  fiercest  scourge 
'Gainst  those  who  most  transgress  his  high  command, 
With  treble  vengeance  will  his  hot  shafts  urge 
Gaul's  locust  host,  and  earth  from  fellest  foemen  purge. 

XVI. 

What  beauties  doth  Lisboa  first  unfold  ? 
Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide, 
Which  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold, 
But  now  whereon  a  thousand  keels  did  ride 
Of  mighty  strength,  since  Albion  was  allied, 
And  to  the  Lusians  did  her  aid  afford : 
A  nation  swoln  with  ignorance  and  pride, 
Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  hand  that  waves  the  sword 
To  save  them  from  the  wrath  of  Gaul's  unsparing  lord. 

/  XVII. 

But  whoso  entereth  within  this  town, 
That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be, 
Disconsolate  will  war.der  up  and  down, 
'Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  ee ; 
For  hut  and  palace  show  like  filthily : 
The  dingy  denizens  are  reared  in  dirt ; 
Ne  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surtout  or  shirt, 
Though  shent  with  Egypt's  plague,  unkempt,  unwash'd, 
unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor,  paltry  slaves !  yet  born  'midst  noblest  scenes — 
Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such  men  ? 
Lo  !  Cintra's  glorious  Eden  intervenes 
In  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 

••  Ah,  me  !  what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen, 
To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates, 
Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mor»al  ken 
Than  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard  relates, 

Who  to  the  awe-struck  world  unlock'd  Elysium's  gates  ? 

XIX. 

The  horrid  crags,  by  toppling  convent  c-own'd, 
The  cork-trees  hoar  that  clothe  the  shaggy  steep, 
The  mountain-moss  by  scorching  skies  imbrown'd 
The  sunken  glen,  whose  sunless  shrubs  must  wee». 
The  tende*  azure  of  the  unruffled  deep, 
The  orange  lints  (hat  gild  the  greenest  bough, 
The  torrents  that  from  cliff  to  valley  leap, 
The  vine  on  high,  the  willow  branch  below, 
Mix'd  in  one  mighty  scene,  with  varied  beauty  glow. 


XX. 

Then  slowly  climb  the  many-winding  way, 
And  frequent  turn  to  linger  as  you  go, 
From  loftier  rocks  new  loveliness  survey, 
And  rest  ye  at  "  our  Lady's  house  of  woe  ;"* 
Where  frugal  monks  their  b'ttle  relics  show, 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  tell : 
Here  impious  men  have  punished  been,  and  lo ! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  Honorius  long  did  dwell, 
In  hope  to  merit  heaven  by  making  earth  a  hell. 

XXI. 

And  here  and  there,  as  up  the  crags  you  spring, 
Mark  many  rude-carved  crosses  near  the  path  : 
Yet  deem  not  these  devotion's  offering — 
These  are  memorials  frail  of  murderous  wrath: 
For  wheresoe'er  the  shrieking  victim  hath 
Pour'd  forth  his  blood  beneath  the  assassin's  knife, 
Some  hand  erects  a  cross  of  mouldering  lath ; 
And  grove  and  glen  with  thousand  such  are  rife 
Throughout  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not  life  ' 

XXII. 

On  sloping  mounds,  or  in  the  vale  beneath, 
Are  domes  where  whilome  kings  did  make  repair ; 
But  now  the  wild  Powers  round  them  only  breathe ; 
Yet  ruin'd  splendour  still  is  lingering  there. 
And  yonder  towers  the  prince's  palace  fair  : 
There  thou  too,  Vathek  !   England's  wealthiest  son, 
Once  form'd  thy  paradise,  as  not  aware 
When  wanton  wealth  her  mightiest  deerls  hath  done, 
Meek  peace  voluptuous  lures  was  ever  wont  to  slum. 

XXIII. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure  pls.a, 
Beneath  yon  mountain's  ever-beauteous  brow : 
But  now,  as  if  a  thing  unblest  by  rnr.n, 
Thy  fairy  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou ! 
Here  giant  weeds  a  passage  scarce  allow 
To  halls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide  > 
Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunces  on  earth  supplied  ; 
Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  time's  ungentle  tide ! 

XXIV. 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened !  * 
Oh  !  dome  displeasing  unto  British  eye ! 
With  diadem  night  foolscap,  !o  !  a  fiend, 
A  little  fiend  that  scoffs  incessantly, 
There  sits  in  parchment  robe  array'd,  and  by       « 
His  side  is  hung  a  seal  and  sable  scroll, 
Where  blazon'd  glare  names  known  to  chivalry, 
And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll, 
Whereat  the  urchin  points  and  laugns  with  all  his  souL 

XXV. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foil'd  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome : 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  turned  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
Here  folly  dash'd  to  earth  the  victor's  plume. 
And  policy  regain'd  what  arms  had  lo:it : 
For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  Uurels  bloom ! 
Woe  to  the  conquering,  not  the  conquer'd  host, 
Since  baffL»d  tri'im;  B  droops  m  J  usitania's  »x.*st' 


B  MA2:: 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


XXVI. 

And  ever  since  that  martial  synod  met, 
Britannia  sickens,  Cintra  !  at  thy  name ; 
And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret, 
And  fain  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could,  for  shame. 
How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim ! 
Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nations  sneer, 
To  view  these  champions  cheated  of  their  fame, 
By  foes  in  fight  o'erthrown,  yet  victors  here, 
Where  Scorn  her  finger  points  through  many  a  coming 
year? 

XXVII. 

So  deem'd  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  mountains  he 
Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise : 
Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee, 
More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies : 
Though  here  awhile  he  learn'd  to  moralize, 
For  meditation  fix'd  at  times  on  him ; 
And  conscious  reason  whisper'd  to  despise 
His  early  youth,  mispent  in  maddest  whim ; 
But  as  he  gazed  on  truth,  his  aching  eyes  grew  dim. 

XXVIH. 

To  horse !   to  horse !   he  quits,  for  ever  quits 
A  scene  of  peace,  though  soothing  to  his  soul : 
Again  he  rouses  from  his  moping  fits, 
But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowL 
Onward  he  flies,  nor  fix'd  as  yet  the  goal 
Where  he  shall  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage ; 
And  o'er  him  many  changing  scenes  must  roll 
Ere  toil  his  thirst  for  travel  can  assuage, 
)r  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay,* 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusian's  luckless  queen ; 
And  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  array, 
And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  seen ; 
Lordlings  and  freeres — ill-sorted  fry  I  ween ! 
But  here  the  Babylonian  whore  hath  built 
A  dome,  where  flaunts  she  in  such  glorious  sheen, 
That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath  spilt, 
\nd  bow  the  knee  to  pomp  that  loves  to  varnish  guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er  vales  that  teem  with  fruits,  romantic  hills, 
(Oh,  that  such  hills  upheld  a  freebom  race ! ) 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 
Childe  Harold  wends  through  many  a  pleasant  place. 
Though  sluggards  deem  it  but  a  foolish  chase, 
And  marvel  men  should  quit  their  easy  chair, 
The  toilsome  way,  and  long,  long  league  to  trace, 
Oh !  there  is  sweetness  in  the  mountain  air, 
ind  life,  that  bloated  ease  can  never  hope  to  share. 

XXXI. 

More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede, 
And,  less  luxuriant,  smoother  vales  extend : 
Immense  horizon-bounded  plains  succeed  ! 
Far  as  the  eye  discerns,  withouten  end, 
Soai>."«  realms  appear  whereon  her  shepherds  tend 
Flocks,  whose  rich  fieece  right  well  the  trader  knows — 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  defend : 
For  Spain  is  cotnpass'd  by  unyielding  foes, 
A  nd  a.i  must  shie'.J  their  all,  or  share  subjection's  woe*. 


XXXII. 

Where  Lusitama  and  her  sister  meet, 
Deem  ye  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide  ? 
Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  greet, 
Doth  Tayo  interpose  his  mighty  tide  7 
Or  dark  Sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride '/ 
Or  fence  of  art,  like  China's  vasty  wall? — 
Ne  barrier  wall,  ne  river  deep  and  wide, 
Ne  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall, 
Rise  like  the  rocks  that  part  Hispania's  land  fromGaitl* 

XXXIII. 

But  these  between  a  silver  streamlet  glides, 
And  scarce  a  name  distinguished  the  brook, 
Though  rival  kingdoms  press  its  verdant  sides. 
Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd  on  his  crook, 
And  vacant  on  the  rippling  waves  doth  look, 
That  peaceful  still  'twist  bitterest  foemen  flow ; 
For  proud  each  peasant  as  the  noblest  duke : 
Well  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the  difference  know 
'Twixt  him  and  Lusian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low.' 

XXXIV. 

But,  ere  the  mingling  bounds  have  far  been  pass'd, 
Dark  Guadiana  rolls  his  power  along 
In  sullen  billows,  murmuring  and  vast, 
So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among. 
Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 
Of  Moor  and  knight,  in  mailed  splendour  drest : 
Here  ceased  the  swift  their  race,  here  sunk  the  strong, 
The  Paynim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 
Mix'd  on  the  bleeding  stream,  by  floating  hosts  oppress'd , 

XXXV. 

Oh !  lovely  Spain !  renown'd,  romantic  land ! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore, 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  call'd  the  band 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gothic  gore  7 
Where  are  those  bloody  banners  which  of  yore 
Waved  o'er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale, 
And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  their  shore  ? 
Red  gleam'd  the  cross,  and  waned  the  crescent  pale. 
While  Afric's  echoes  thrill'd  with  Moorish  matrons'  wail 

XXXVI. 

Teems  not  each  ditty  with  the  glorious  tale  7 
Ah !  such,  alas  !  the  hero's  amplest  fate ! 
When  granite  moulders  and  when  records  fail, 
A  peasant's  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride !  bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  estato, 
See  how  the  mighty  shrink  into  a  song ! 
Can  volume,  pillar,  pile,  preserve  thee  great  7 
Or  must  thou  trust  tradition's  simple  tongue, 
When  flattery  sleeps  with  thee,  and  history  does  U.ue 
wrong  ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake !  ye  sons  of  Spain  !  awake  !  advance ! 
Lo!  Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddess,  cries, 
But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lance, 
Nor  shakes  her  crimson  plumage  in  the  skies . 
Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies. 
And  speak?  \n  thunder  through  yon  engine's  roai 
In  every  peal  sne  ca..s — "Awake!  arise!" 
Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yore, 
When  her  war-song  wos  heard  on  Ar  alusia's  shcr*  ' 


H 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XXXVIII. 

HarK  ! — heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note? 
Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath  ? 
Saw  y»  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote  ; 
Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  they  sank  beneath 
Tyrants  and  tyrants'  slaves  ? — the  fires  of  death, 
The  bale-fires  flash  on  high : — from  rock  to  rock 
Each  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe ; 
Dead,  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 
Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo  !  where  the  giant  on  the  mountain  stands, 
His  blood-red  tresses  deep'ning  in  the  sun, 
With  de».th-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 
And  eye  that  scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  now  fix'd,  and  now  anon 
Flashing  afar, — and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done ; 
For  on  this  morn  three  potent  nations  meet, 
To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most  sweet. 

XL. 

By  Heaven !  it  is  a  splendid  sight  to  see 
(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother  there) 
Their  rival  scarfs  of  mix'd  embroidery, 
Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air ! 
What  gallant  war-hounds  rouse  them  from  their  lair, 
And  gnash  their  fangs,  loud  yelling  for  th^  prey ! 
All  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share ; 
The  grave  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prize  away, 
And  havoc  scarce  for  joy  can  number  their  array. 

XLI. 

Three  hosts  combine  to  ofier  sacrifice  ; 
Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high ; 
Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies ; 
The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  Victory ! 
The  foe,  the  victim,  and  the  fond  ally 
That  fights  for  all,  but  ever  fights  in  vain, 
Are  met — as  if  at  home  they  could  not  die — 
To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera's  plain, 
And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain. 

XLH. 

There  shall  they  rot  —ambition's  honour'd  fools ! 
Yes,  honour  decks  tie  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ! 
Vain  sophistry !  in  these  behold  the  tools, 
The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
By  myriads,  when  they  dare  to  pave  their  way 
With  human  hearts — to  what  ? — a  dream  alone. 
Can  despots  compass  aught  that  hails  their  sway  ? 
Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own, 
have  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone  ? 

X1JII. 

Oh,  Aibuera !  glorious  field  of  grief! 
As  o'er  thy  plain  the  pilgrim  prick'd  his  steed, 
Who  could  foresee  thee,  in  a  space  so  brief, 
A  scene  where  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed ! 
Peace  to  the  perish'd !  may  the  warrior's  meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolong ! 
Till  others  fall  where  other  chieftains  lead, 
Thv  name  shall  circle  round  the  gaping  throng, 
\nd  shine  in  worthless  lays,  the  theme  of  transient  sor  £ ! 


XLIV. 

Enough  of  battle's  minions !  let  them  play 
Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for  fame . 
Fame  that  will  scarce  reanimate  their  clay, 
Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single  name. 
In  sooth 't  were  sad  to  thwart  their  noble  aim 
Who  strike,  blest  hirelings !  for  their  country's  gooo 
And  die,  that  living  might  have  proved  her  shame ; 
Perisb'd,  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud, 
Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild  rapine's  path  pursued. 

XLV. 

Full  swiftly  Harold  wends  his  lonely  way 
Where  proud  Sevilla  triumphs  unsubdued : 
Yet  is  she  free — the  spoiler's  wish'd-for  prey ! 
Soon,  soon  shall  conquest's  fiery  foot  intrude, 
Blackening  her  lovely  domes  with  traces  rude. 
Inevitable  hour !  'gainst  fate  to  strive 
Where  desolation  plants  her  famished  brood 
Is  vain,  or  Ilion,  Tyre  might  yet  survive, 
And  virtue  vanquish  all,  and  murder  cease  to  thrive. 

XLVI. 

But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  doom, 
The  feast,  the  song,  the  revel  here  abounds ; 
Strange  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  consume, 
Nor  bleed  these  patriots  with  their  country's  wounds 
Not  here  war's  clarion,  but  loves  rebeck  sounds ; 
Here  folly  still  hia  votaries  enthralls  ; 
And  young-eyed  lewdness  walks  her  midnight  rounds: 
Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  capitals, 
Still  to  the  last  kind  vice  clings  to  the  tott'ring  walls. 

XLVH. 

Not  so  the  rustic — with  his  trembling  mate 
He  lurks,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar, 
Lest  he  should  view  his  vineyard  desolate, 
Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  breath  of  war. 
No  more  beneath  soft  eve's  consenting  star 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  castanet : 
Ah,  monarchs !  could  ye  taste  the  mirth  ye  mar, 
Not  in  the  toils  of  glory  would  ye  fret ; 
The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  man  be  hajn/7  yet 

xLvra. 

How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer  ? 
Of  love,  romance,  devotion,  is  his  lay, 
As  whilome  he  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheer, 
His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way  ? 
No !  as  he  speeds,  he  chaunts : — "  Viva  el  Bey !"  ' 
And  checks  his  song  to  execrate  Godoy, 
The  royal  \vittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
When  first  Spain's  queen  beheld  the  black-eyed  boy 
And  gore-faced  treason  sprung  from  her  adulterate  joy 

XLIX. 

On  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crown'd 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets  rest, 
Wide-scatter'd  hoof-marks  dint  the  wounded  ground  ( 
And,  scathed  by  fire,  the  green  sward's  darKen'd  vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest : 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host, 
Here  the  bold  peasant  storm'd  the  dragon's  nest : 
Still  does  he  mark  it  with  triumphant  boast, 
And  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were  won  and  lost. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


And  whomsoe'er  along  the  path  you  meet 

Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue, 

Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet : 9 

Woe  to  the  man  that  walks  in  public  view 

Without  of  loyalty  this  token  true: 

Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  stroke ; 

And  sorely  would  the  Gallic  foeman  rue, 

If  subtle  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloak, 

Could  blunt  the  sabre's  edge,  or  clear  the  cannon's 
smoke. 

LI. 

At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load  ; 
And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight, 
The  mountain-howitzer,  the  broken  road, 
The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o'crflow'd, 
The  station'd  bands,  the  never-vacant  watch, 
The  magazine  in  rocky  durance  stow'd, 
The  holster'd  steed  beneath  the  shed  of  thatch, 

The  ball-piled  pyramid,  the  ever-blazing  match,10 

LII. 

Portend  the  deeds  to  come : — but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway, 
A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod ; 
A  little  moment  deigneth  to  delay  : 
Soon  will  his  legions  sweep  through  these  their  way ; 
The  West  must  own  the  scourger  of  the  world. 
Ah,  Spain !   how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day, 
When  soars  Gaul's  vulture,  with  his  wings  unfurl'd, 
Andthou  shall  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hades  hurl'd ! 

Lin. 

And  must  they  fall  ?  the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave, 
To  swell  one  bloated  chief's  unwholesome  reign  ? 
No  step  between  submission  and  a  grave  ? 
The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain  ? 
And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  suppliant's  appeal  ? 
Is  all  that  desperate  valour  acts  in  vain  ? 
And  counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  zeal, 

The  veteran's  skill,  youth's  fire,  and  manhood's  heart  of 
steel  ? 

LIV. 

Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused, 
Hangs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar, 
And,  all  unsex'd,  the  anlace  hath  espoused, 
Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of  war  ? 
And  she,  whom  once  the  semblance  of  a  scar 
Appall'd,  and  owlet's  larum  chill'd  with  dread, 
Now  views  the  column-scattering  bay'net  jar, 
The  falchion  flash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm  dead 

"s'-alks  with  Minerva's  step  where  Mars  might  quake 
to  tread. 

LV. 

Te  who  shall  marvel  when  you  hear  her  tale, 
Oh !  had  you  known  her  in  her  softer  hour, 
Mark'd  her  black  eye  that  mocks  her  coal-black  veil, 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  lady's  bower, 
Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  the  painter's  power, 
Her  fairy  form,  with  more  than  female  grace, 
Scarce  would  you  deem  that  Saragoza's  fewer 
Beheld  her  smile  in  danger's  Gorgon  face, 

e  closed  ranks,  and  lead  in  glory's  fearful  chase. 

H 


LVI. 

Her  lover  sinks — she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear ; 
Her  chief  is  slain — she  fills  his  fatal  post ; 
Her  fellows  flee — she  checks  their  base  cai  ecr ; 
The  foe  retires — she  heads  the  sallying  host : 
Who  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost '/ 
Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fall  ? 
What  maid  retrieve  when  man's  flush'd  hope  is  lost '" 
Who  hang  so  fiercely  on  the  flying  Gaul, 
Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  batter'd  wall  ? ' ' 

Lvn. 

Yet  are  Spain's  maids  no  race  of  Amazon:., 
But  form'd  for  all  the  witching  arts  of  love 
Though  thus  in  arms  they  emulate  her  sons, 
And  in  the  horrid  phalanx  dare  to  move, 
T  is  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  the  dove, 
Pecking  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  her  mate : 
In  softness  as  in  firmness  far  above 
Remoter  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate ; 
Her  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  charms  perchance  as  great. 

LVIII. 

The  seal  love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impress'd 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his  toucti    ' 
Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest, 
Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  such : 
Her  glance  how  wildly  beautiful !  how  much 
Hath  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  to  spoil  her  cheek, 
Which  glows  yet  smoother  from  his  amorous  clutch  ! 
Who  round  the  north  for  paler  dames  would  seek  ? 

How  poor  their  forms  appear !  how  languid,  wan,  nivl 
weak! 

LIX. 

Match  me,  ye  climes  !  which  poets  love  to  laud  ; 
Match  me,  ye  harams  of  the  land !  where  now 
I  strike  my  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  ev'n  a  cynic  must  avow ; 
Match  me  those  houries,  whom  ye  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  love  should  ride  the  wind, 
With  Spain's  dark-glancing  daughters — deign  to  know 
There  your  wise  prophet's  paradise  we  find, 

His  black-eyed  maids  of  heaven,  angelically  kind. 

LX. 

Oh,  thou  Parnassus!13  whom  I  now  survey. 
Not  in  the  phrensy  of  \  dreamer's  eye, 
Not  in  the  fabled  landscape  of  a  lay, 
But  soaring  snow-clad  through  thy  native  sky, 
In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain  majesty ! 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing ! 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thine  echoes  with  his  string, 

Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  muse  wilj  WIT* 
her  wing. 

LXI. 

Oft  have  I  dream'd  of  thee !  whose  glorious  nam» 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore : 
And  now  I  view  thee,  't  is,  alas !  with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  must  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  vore 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee  ; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar. 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 

In  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  I  look  or  the* ' 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LXIL 

Ha  >pier  in  this  tl.an  mightiest  bards  have  been, 
Whos«  fate  to  dig  tnt  homes  confined  their  lot, 
Shall  I  unmoved  behold  the  hallow'd  scene, 
Which  others  rave  of,  though  they  know  it  not? 
Though  here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  his  grot, 
And  thov    the  muses'  seat,  art  now  their  grave, 
S>  we  genile  spirit  still  pervades  the  spot. 
Sighs  in  the  pile,  keeps  silence  in  ihe  cave, 
And  glides  with  glassy  foot  o'er  yon  melodious  wave. 

LXIII. 

Of  thee  hereafter. — Even  amidst  my  strain 
I  turn'd  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here ; 
Forgot  the  land,  the  sons,  the  maids  of  Spain ; 
Her  fate,  to  every  freeborn  bosom  dear, 
And  hail'd  thee,  not  perchance  without  a  tear. 
Now  to  my  theme — but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Let  me  some  remnant,  some  memorial  bear ; 
Yield  me  one  leaf  of  Daphne's  deathless  plant, 
Nor  let  thy  votary's  hope  be  deem'd  an  idle  vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But  ne'er  didst  thou,  fair  mount !  when  Greece  was 

young, 

See  round  thy  giant  base  a  brighter  choir, 
Nor  e'er  did  Delphi,  when  her  priestess  sung 
The  Pythian  hymn  with  more  than  mortal  fire, 
Behold  a  train  more  fitting  to  inspire 
The  song  of  love,  than  Andalusia's  maids, 
Nurst  in  the  glowing  lap  of  soft  desire  : 
Ah !  that  to  these  were  given  such  peaceful  shades 
As  Greece  can  still  bestow,  though  glory  fly  her  glades. 

LXV. 

Fair  is  proud  Seville  ;  let  her  country  boast 
Her  strength,  her  weal'h,  her  site  of  ancient  days;14 
But  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast, 
Calls  forth  a  sweeter,  though  ignoble  praise. 
Ah,  vice  !  how  soft  are  thy  voluptuous  ways ! 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling  who  can  'scape 
The  fascination  o~  thy  magic  gaze, 
A  cherub-hydra  round  us  dost  thou  gape, 
And  mould  to  every  taste  thy  dear  delusive  shape. 

LXVI. 

When  Paphos  fell  by  time — accursed  time ! 
The  queen  who  conquers  all  must  yield  to  thee — 
The  Pleasures  fled,  but  sought  as  warm  a  clime ; 
And  Venus,  constant  to  her  native  sea, 
To  nought  else  constant,  hither  deign'd  to  flee  ; 
And  fix'-l  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of  white : 
Tho-igh  not  to  one  dome  circumscribeth  she 
Hei  worship,  but,  devoted  to  her  rite, 
A  thousand  altars  rise,  for  ever  blazing  bright. 

LXVII. 

From  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  startled  morn 
Peeps  blushing  on  the  revel's  laughing  crew, 
The  song  is  heard,  the  rosy  garland  worn, 
Devices  quaint,  and  frolics  ever  new, 
Tread  on  each  other's  kibes.     A  long  adieu 
lie  bids  to  sober  joy  that  here  sojourns: 
Nought  interrupts  the  riot,  though  in  lieti 
Of  true  devotion  monkish  incense  burns, 
And  'ove  and  prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour  by  turns. 


LXVIII. 

The  sabbath  comes,  a  day  of  blessed  rest ; 
What  hallows  it  upon  this  Christian  shore? 
Lo !  it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  feast : 
Hark !  heard  you  not  the  forest-monarch's  roar  ? 
Crashing  the  lance,  he  snufls  the  spouting  gore 
Of  man  and  steed,  o'erthrown  beneath  his  horn ; 
The  throng'd  arena  shakes  with  shouts  for  more ; 
Yells  the  mad  crowd  o'er  entrails  freshly  torn, 
Nor  shrinks  the  female  eye,  nor  even  affects  to  mourn 

LXIX. 

The  seventh  day  this ;   the  jubilee  of  man. 
London !  right  well  thou  know'st  the  day  of  prayer 
Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  wash'd  artisan, 
And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air : 
Thy  coach  of  Hackney,  whiskey,  one-horse  chair, 
And  humblest  gig  through  sundry  suburbs  whirl, 
To  Hampstead,  Brentford,  Harrow,  make  repair ; 
Till  the  tired  jade  the  wheel  forgets  to  hurl, 
Provoking  envious  gibe  from  each  pedestrian  churl. 

LXX. 

Some  o'er  thy  Thamis  row  the  ribbon'd  fair, 

Others  along  the  safer  turnpike  fly ; 

Some  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  Ware, 

And  many  to  the  steep  of  Highgate  hie. 

Ask  ye,  Boeotian  shades!  the  reason  why?" 

'T  is  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  horn, 

Grasp'd  in  the  holy  hand  of  mystery, 

In  whose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids  are  sworn, 
And  consecrate  the  oath  with  draught  and  dance  tifl 
mom. 

LXXI. 

All  have  their  fooleries — not  alike  are  thine, 

Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea! 

Soon  as  the  matin»bell  proclaimeth  nine, 

Thy  saint-adorers  count  the  rosary : 

Much  is  the  VIRGIN  teased  to  shrive  them  free 

(Well  do  I  ween  the  only  virgin  there) 

From  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  beadsmen  be  ; 

Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare, 
Young,  old,  high,  low,  at  once  the  same  diversion  share 

LXXII.      , 

The  lists  are  oped,  the  spacious  area  clear'd, 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated  round; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  trumpet's  note  is  heard, 
Ne  vacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  found : 
Here  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  dames  abound, 
Skill'd  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye, 
Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound  ; 
None  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doom'd  to  die, 
As  moon-struck  bards  complain,  by  love's  sad  archery 

LXXIII. 

Hush'd  is  the  din  of  tongues — on  gallant  steeds, 
With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light-poised 

lance, 

Four  cavaliers  prepare  for  venturous  deeds, 
And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance  ; 
Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  featly  prance : 
If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day, 
The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely  glance, 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away, 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  grin  their  toils  repav. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


LXX1V. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  array'd, 
But  all  a-foot,  the  light-limb'd  Matadore 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds  ;   but  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er, 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed: 
His  arm 's  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  achieve  without  the  friendly  steed, 
Alas !  too  oft  condemn'd  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice  sounds  the  clarion ;  lo !  the  signal  falls, 
The  den  expands,  and  expectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peopled  walls. 
Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty  brute, 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  foot, 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe : 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front,  to  suit 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  fro 
His  angry  tail ;  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden  he  stops  ;  His  eye  is  fix'd  :  away, 
Away,  thou  heedless  boy !  prepare  the  spear : 
Now  is  thy  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 
With  well-timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers  veer; 
On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  he  goes  ; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  clear ; 
He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes ; 

Dart  folbws  dart;  lance,  lance  ;  loud  bellowings  speak 
his  woes. 

LXXVII. 

Again  he  comes ;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail, 
Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  horse ; 
Though  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail, 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
One  gallant  steed  is  stretch'd  a  mangled  corse ; 
Another,  hideous  sight !  unseam'd  appears, 
His  «ory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source, 
Though  death-struck  still  his  feeble  frame  he  rears, 

Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharm'd  he  bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the  last, 
Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 
'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast, 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray  : 
And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play, 
Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand : 
Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  thundering  way- 
Vain  rage  !  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand, 
Wraps  his  fierce  eye — 't  w  past — he  sinks  upon  the  sand 

LXXIX. 

Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine, 
Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies. 
He  stops — he  starts — disdaining  to  decline ; 
Slowly  he  falls,  amidst  triumphing  cries, 
Without  a  groan,  without  a  struggle,  dies. 
The  decorated  car  appears — on  high 
The  corse  is  piled — sweet  sight  for  vulgar  eyes- 
Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy, 
Hurl  the  dark  bulk  along,  scarce  seen  in  dashing  by. 


LXXX. 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 
The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Spanish  swauv 
Nurtured  in  blood  betimes,  his  heart  delights 
In  vengeance,  gloating  on  another's  pain. 
What  private  feuds  the  troubled  village  stain  ! 
Though  now  one  phalanx' d  host  should  meet  the  fo*     , 
Enough,  alas  !  in  humble  homes  remain, 
To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blow, 
For  some  slight  cause  of  wrath,  whence  Life's  wai*o 
stream  must  flow. 

LXXXI. 

But  jealousy  has  fled  ;  his  bars,  his  bolts, 
His  withered  sentinel,  duenna  sage ! 
And  all  whereat  the  generous  soul  revolts, 
Which  the  stern  dotard  deem'd  he  could  engage, 
Have  pass'd  to  darkness  with  the  vanish'd  age. 
Who  late  so  free  as  Spanish  girls  were  seen 
(Ere  war  uprose  in  his  volcanic  rage,) 
With  braided  tresses  bounding  o'er  the  green, 
tVhile  on  the  gay  dance  shone  night's  lover-loving  queeu ' 

LXXXII. 

Oh !  many  a  time,  and  oft,  had  Harold  loved, 
Or  dream'd  he  loved,  since  rapture  is  a  dream ; 
But  now  his  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved, 
For  not  yet  had  he  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream  ; 
And  lately  had  he  learn'd  with  truth  to  deem 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings : 
How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft  soe'er  he  seem, 
Full  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs 
Some  bitter  o'er  the  flowers  its  bubbling  venom  flings. !t 

LXXXIII. 

Tet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blind, 
Though  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the  wise ; 
Not  that  philosophy  on  such  a  mind 
E'er  deign'd  to  bend  her  chastely-awful  eyes ; 
But  passion  raves  herself  to  rest,  or  flies  ; 
And  vice,  that  digs  her  own  voluptuous  tomb, 
Had  buried  long  his  hopes,  no  more  to  rise : 
Pleasure's  pall'd  victim !   life-abhorring  gloom 
Wrote  on  his  faded  brow  curst  Cain's  unresting  doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled-with  the  throng ; 
But  view'd  them  not  with  misanthropic  hate : 
Fain  would  he  now  have  join'd  the  dance,  the  sonj 
But  who  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate  ? 
Nought  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate : 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  the  demon's  sway, 
And  as  in  beauty's  bower  he  pensive  sate, 
Pour'd  forth  his  unpremeditated  lay, 
To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  soothed  his  happier  o*y 


TO    INEZ. 
1. 

NAY,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow. 

Alas !  I  cannot  smile  again , 
Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Should' st  weep,  and  haply  weep  iu  va 


48 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


2. 
\nd  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 

I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 
And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 

A  pang,  ev'n  thou  must  fail  to  soothe  ? 

3. 
1:  •s  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 

Nor  low  ambition's  honours  lost, 
That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state, 

And  fly  from  all  I  prized  the  most ; 

4. 
It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 

From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see : 
To  me  no  pleasure  beauty  brings ; 

Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me. 

5. 
It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 

The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore ; 
That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 

Bui  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 

6. 
What  exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 

To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote, 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be, 

The  blight  of  life — the  demon  thought. 

7. 
Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake ; 
Oh !  may  they  still  of  transport  dream, 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake ! 

8. 
Through  many  a  clime  't  is  mine  to  go, 

With  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 
And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

What  e'er  betides,  I  've  known  the  worst. 

9. 
What  is  that  worst  ?  Nay,  do  not  ask — 

In  pity  from  the  search  forbear : 
Smile  on — nor  venture  to  unmask 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  hell  that 's  there. 

LXXXV. 

Adieu,  fair  Cadiz !  yea,  a  long  adieu! 

Who  may  forget  how  well  thy  walls  have  stood ! 

When  all  were  changing  thou  alone  wert  true, 

First  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued : 

And  if  amidst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude, 

Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to  dye ; 

A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud :  " 

Here  all  were  noble,  save  nobility ; 
Kone  hugg'd  a  conqueror's  chain,  save  fallen  chivalry ! 
LXXXVI. 

Sucu  he  the  sons  of  Spain,  and,  strange  her  fate ! 

'I hey  fight  for  freedom  who  were  never  free ; 

A  kingless  people  for  a  nerveless  state, 

Her  vassals  combat  when  their  chieftains  flee, 

True  to  the  veriest  slave  of  treachery ; 

Fond  of  a  land  which  gave  them  nought  but  life, 

Pride  [K>ints  the  path  that  leads  to  liberty ; 

Back  to  I  he  struggle,  baffled  in  the  strife, 
\Var  war  is  still  the  cry,  "war  even  to  the  knife '"  " 


LXXXVH. 

Ye,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know 
Go,  read  whate'er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife : 
Whate'er  keen  vengaance  urged  on  foreign  foe 
Can  act,  is  acting  there  against  man's  life : 
From  flashing  scimitar  to  secret  knife, 
War  mouldeth  there  each  weapon  to  his  need — 
So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife, 
So  may  he  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed, 
So  may  such  foes  deserve  the  most  remorseless  deed . 

LXXXVIII. 

Flows  there  a  tear  of  pity  for  the  dead  7 
Look  o'er  the  ravage  of  the  reeking  plain ; 
Look  on  the  hands  with  female  slaughter  red ; 
Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain, 
Then  to  the  vulture  let  each  corse  remain ; 
Albeit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird's  maw, 
Let  their  bleach'd  bones,  and  blood's  unbleaching  slam, 
Long  mark  the  battle-field  with  hideous  awe : 
Thus  only  may  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes  we  saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor  yet,  alas !  the  dreadful  work  is  done, 
Fresh  legions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees  ; 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun, 
Nor  mortal  eye  the  distant  end  foresees. 
Fall'n  nations  gaze  on  -Spain  ;  if  freed,  she  frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pizarros  once  enchain'd : 
Strange  retribution!  now  Columbia's  ease 
Repairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  sustain'd, 
While  o'er  the  parent  clime  prowls  murder  unrestrain'd. 

xc. 

Not  all  the  blood  at  Talavera  shed, 
Not  all  the  marvels  of  Barossa's  fight, 
Not  Albuera,  lavish  of  the  dead, 
Have  won  for  Spain  her  well-asserted  right. 
When  shall  her  olive-branch  be  free  from  blight  7 
When  shall  she  breathe  her  from  the  blushing  toil  'l 
How  many  a  doubtful  day  shall  sink  in  night, 
Ere  the  Frank  robber  turn  him  from  his  spoil, 
And  freedom's  stranger-tree  grow  native  of  the  soil ! 

XCI. 

And  thou,  my  friend !" — since  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the  strain- 
Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  k>w, 
Pride  might  forbid  ev'n  friendship  to  complain : 
But  thus  unlaurel'd  to  descend  in  vain, 
By  all  forgotten,  save  the  lonely  breasi, 
And  mix  unbleeding  with  the  boasted  slain, 
While  glory  crowns  so  many  a  meaner  crest! 
What  hadst  thou  done  to  sink  so  peaceably  to  rust  7 

XCII. 

Oh !  known  the  earliest,  and  esteem'd  the  most ! 
Dear  to  a  heart  where  nought  was  left  so  'leaf! 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  Jos 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here ! 
And  mom  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 
Of  consciousness  awaking  to  her  WOPS, 
And  fancy  hover  o'er  thy  bloodies    oier, 
Till  my  frail  frame  return  to  whence  it  roue, 
And  mourn'd  and  mourner  lie  united  >n  reposo 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


49 


XCIII. 

Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pilgrimage : 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know, 
Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a  future  page, 
If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribble  moe. 
Is  this  too  much  ?  stern  critic !  say  not  so : 
Patience !  and  yc  shall  hear  what  he  beheld 
In  other  lands,  where  he  was  doom'd  to  go : 
Lands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld, 
Ere  Greece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands  were 
quell'd. 


CANTO  II 


COME,  blue-eyed  maid  of  heaven! — but  thou,  alas! 
Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire — 
Goddess  of  wisdom !  here  thy  temple  was, 
And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, ' 
And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire : 
But  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  ages  slow, 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polish'd  breasts 
bestow.  2 

II. 

\ncient  of  days !  august  Athena !  where, 
Where  are  thy  men  of  might  ?  thy  grand  in  soul  ? 
Gone,  glimmering  thro'  the  dream  of  things  that  were: 
First  in  the  ra.cz  that  led  to  glory's  goal, 
They  won,  and  pass'd  away — is  this  the  whole  ? 
\  school-boy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour? 
The  warrior's  weapon  and  the  sophist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  mouldering  tower, 
Own  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of  power. 

Hi. 

Son  of  the  morning,  rise !  approach  you  here ! 
Come — but  molest  not  yon  defenceless  um ; 
Look  on  this  spoi — a  nation's  sepulchre ! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn. 
Even  gods  must  yield — religions  take  their  turn : 
'T  was  Jove's — 't  is  Mahomet's — and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds ; 
Poor  child  of  doubt  and  death,  whose  hope  is  built  on 
reeds. 

IV. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven- 
Is  't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing !  to  know 
Thou  art  ?    Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given, 
That  being,  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  go, 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies  ? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe  ? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies : 
TTiat  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homilies. 
12 


V. 

Or  burst  the  vanish'd  hero's  lofty  mound ; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps :  3 
He  fell,  and  falling  nations  mourn'd  around: 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weeps, 
Nor  warlike  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appear'd,  as  records  tell. 
Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scatter'd  heaps : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  god  may  dwell '/ 
Why  ev'n  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shattcr'd  cell 

VI. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruinV  wall, 
Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 
Yes,  this  was  once  ambition's  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  thought,  the  palace  of  the  soul : 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre,  eyeless  hole, 
The  gay  recess  of  wisdom  and  of  wit, 
And  passion's  host,  that  never  brook'd  control : 
Can  all,  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit? 

VII. 

Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son ! 
"  All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known." 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot  shun  * 
Each  has  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pursue  what  chance  or  fate  proclaimeth  best ; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron  : 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever-welcome  rest. 

VIII. 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deem'd,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore  ; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labours  light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fear'd  to  hear  no  more ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveal'd  to  sight, 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  Ju1 
right! 

IX. 

There,  thou ! — whose  love  and  life  together  fled, 
Have  left  me  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain — 
Twined  with  my  heart,  and  can  I  deem  thee  dead, 
When  busy  memory  flashes  on  my  brain  ? 
Well — I  will  dream  that  we  may  meet  again, 
And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  breast: 
If  aught  of  young  remembrance  then  remain, 
Be  as  it  may  futurity's  behest, 
For  me  't  were  bliss  enough  to  Vnow  thy  spirit  blt-st ! 

X. 

Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone. 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base  ; 
Here,  son  of  Saturn  !   was  thy  fav'rite  throne  •* 
Mightiest  of  many  such  !  Hence  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling  place. 
It  may  not  be :  nor  ev'n  cap  fancy's  eye 
Restore  what  time  hath  labour'd  to  deface 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing  sign- 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  ligb*  \i  etk  carols  b». 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XI. 

Buf.  who,  c/  all  th*1  plunderers  of  yon  fane 
On  high,  w.iere  Pallas  linger'd,  loth  to  flee, 
The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign  ; 
The  last,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  who  was  he  ? 
Blush,  Ckledonia!  such  thy  son  could  be! 
England '  I  joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine  : 
Thy  freebom  men  should  spare  what  once  was  free ; 
Yet  they  could  violate  each  saddening  shrine, 
And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  long-reluctant  brine.' 

XII. 

But  most  the  modern  Pict's  ignoble  boast, 
To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  time  hath  spared:6 
Cold  a.*  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast, 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard, 
»s  ne  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hand  prepared, 
Aught  tc  displace  Athena's  poor  remains: 
Her  sonj  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard, 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains,' 
And  never  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  despots'  chains. 

XIII. 

What!  shall  it  e'er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 
Albion  was  happy  in  Athena's  tears? 
Though  in  thy  name  the  slaves  her  bosom  wrung, 
Tell  iiut  the  deed  to  blushing  Europe's  ears ; 
The  ocean  queen,  the  free  Britannia  bears 
The  last  poor  plunder  from  a  bleeding  land : 
Yes,  she,  whose  gen'rous  aid  her  name  endears, 
Tore  down  tnose  remnants  with  a  harpy's  hand, 
Which  envious  Eld  forbore,  and  tyrants  left  to  stand. 

XIV. 

Where  was  thine  segis,  Pallas !  that  appall'd 
Stern  Alaric  and  havoc  or.  their  way  ?8 
Where  Peleus'  son  ?  whom  hell  in  vain  enthrall'd, 
His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day, 
Bursting  to  light  in  terrible  array  ! 
What !  could  not  Pluto  spare  the  chief  once  more, 
To  scare  a  second  robber  from  his  prey  ? 
Idly  he  -wander'd  on  the  Stygian  shore, 
Nor  now  preserved  the  walls  he  loved  to  shield  before. 

XV. 

Cold  is  the  heart,  fair  Greece  !  that  looks  on  thee, 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  dust  they  loved  ; 
Dull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see 
Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behoved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Curst  be  the  hour  when  from  their  isle  they  roved, 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored, 

Aiui  suatch'd  thy  shrinking  gods  to  northern  climes  ab- 
horr'd ! 

XVI. 

Rut  where  is  Harold  ?  shall  I  then  forget 
To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o'er  the  wave  ? 
LitUe  reck'd  he  of  all  that  men  regret ; 
No  lovea-one  now  in  feign'd  lament  could  rave ; 
No  friond  the  parting  hand  extended  gave, 
Kte  tne  cold  stranger  pass'd  to  other  climes : 
Hard  is  his  head  whom  charms  may  not  enslave ; 
But  Harold  fell  not  as  in  other  times, 

Aoi1  ip.n  witnoiu  a  sigh  the  land  of  war  and  crimes. 


XVII. 

He  that  has  sail'd  upon  the  dark-blue  sea 
Has  view'd  at  times,  I  ween,  a  full  fair  sighi ; 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may  be, 
The  white  sail  set,  the  gallant  frigate  tight ; 
Masts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right, 
The  glorious  main  expanding  o'er  the  bow, 
The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  in  their  fligW 
The  dullest  sailer  wearing  bravely  now, 
So  gaily  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing  prow. 

XVIII. 

And  oh,  the  little  warlike  world  within ! 
The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy,* 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  dm, 
When,  at  a  word,  the  tops  are  mann'd  on  high : 
Hark  to  the  boatswain's  call,  the  cheering  cry  ! 
While  through  the  seaman's  hand  the  tackle  glid«    . 
Or  school-boy  midshipman,  that,  standing  by, 
Strains  his  shrill  pipe  as  good  or  ill  betides, 
And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilful  urchin  guides. 

XIX. 

White  is  the  glassy  deck,  without  a  stain, 
Where  on  the  watch  the  staid  lieutenant  walks : 
Look  on  that  part  which  sacred  doth  remain 
For  the  lone  chieftain,  who  majestic  stalks 
Silent  and  fear'd  by  all — not.  oft  he  talks 
With  aught  beneath  him,  if  he  would  preserve 
That  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  balks 
Conquest  and  fame :   but  Britons  rarely  swerve 

From  law,  however  stem,  which  tends  thoir  strength  t« 
nerve. 

XX. 

Blow  !  swiftly  blow,  thou  keel-compelling  gale ! 
Till  the  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray  ; 
Then  must  the  pennant-bearer  slacken  sail, 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazv  way. 
Ah !  grievance  sore,  and  listless  dull  delay, 
To  waste  on  sluggish  huUs  the  sweetest  breeze! 
What  leagues  are  lost  before  the  dawn  of  day, 
Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas, 

The  flapping  sail  haul'd  down  to  halt  for  logs  like  thesel 

XXL 

The  moon  is  up  ;  by  Heaven,  a  lovely  eve  ! 
Long  streams  of  light  o'er  dancing  waves  expand  , 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids  believe : 
Such  be  our  fate  when  we  return  to  land  ! 
Meantime  some  rude  Arion's  restless  hand 
Wakes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love ; 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand, 
Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move- 
Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  vere  free  to  rove« 

XXII. 

Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  sleepy  shore  > 
Europe  and  Afric  on  each  other  gaze ! 
Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze  : 
How  softly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays, 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown, 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  phase  ; 
But  Mauritania's  giant-shadows  frov.n, 
From  moiintain-cliflf  to  coast  descending  sombre  dovm 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


XXIII. 

'Tis  night,  when  meditation  bids  us  feel 
Wo  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end: 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffled  zeal, 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a  friend. 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend, 
*Vhen  youth  itself  survives  young  love  and  joy? 
Alas !   when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend, 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy ! 
Ah!  happy  years  !  once  more  who  would  not  be  a  boy? 

XXIV. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere ; 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  hope  and  pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possess'd 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear ; 
A  flashing  pang !  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 

XXV. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er,  or  rarely  been ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold ; 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean  ; 
This  is  not  solitude  ;   't  is  but  to  hold 

Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores 
unroli'd. 

XXVI. 

But  'midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men, 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen, 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless ; 
Minions  of  splendour  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flattcr'd,  foilow'd,  sought,  and  sued ; 

This  is  to  be  alone  ;   this,  this  is  solitude  ! 

XXVII. 

More  blest  the  life  of  godly  eremite, 
Such  as  on  lovely  Athos  may  be  seen, 
Watching  at  eve  upon  tin;  giant  height, 
Which  looks  o'er  waves  so  L>me,  skies  so  serene, 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  hath  been 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  hallow'd  spot ; 
Then  slowly  tear  him  from  the  'witching  scene, 
Sigh  forth  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot, 
Then  turn  to  hate  a  world  he  had  almost  forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass  we  the  long,  unvarying  course,  the  track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a  trace  behind  ; 
Pass  we  the  calm,  the  gale,  the  *hange,  the  tack, 
And  each  well-known  canrice  of  wave  and  wind  ; 
Pass  we  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find, 
Coop'd  in  their  winged  sea-girt  citadel ; 
The  foul,  the  fair,  the  contrary,  the  kind, 
As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swell, 
Till  on  some  jocund  morn — lo,  land !  and  all  is  well. 


XXIX. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  is.e>,  " 
The  sister  tenants  of  the  middle  deep  , 
There  for  the  weary  still  a  haven  smiles, 
Though  the  fair  goddess  long  hath  ceased  lo  weep. 
And  o'er  her  cliffs  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  mortal  bride  : 
Here,  too,  his  boy  essay'd  the  dreadful  leap 
Stern  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonder  tide; 

While  thus  of  both  bereft,  the  nymph-queen  douV 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 

Her  reign  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone  : 
But  trust  not  this  ;  too  easy  youth,  beware ! 
A  mortal  sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne, 
And  thou  may'st  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 
Sweet  Florence  !  could  another  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  thine. 
But  check'd  by  every  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
To  cast  a  worthless  offering  at  thy  shrine, 

Nor  ask  so  dear  a  breast  to  feel  one  pang  for  mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus  Harold  deem'd,  as  on  that  lady's  eve 
He  look'd,  and  met  its  beam  without  a  thought, 
Save  admiration  glancing  harmless  by: 
Love  kept  aloof,  albeit  not  far  remote, 
Who  knew  his  votary  often  lost  and  caugh*, 
But  knew  him  as  his  worshipper  no  more, 
And  ne'er  again  the  boy  his  bosom  sought : 
Since  now  he  vainly  urged  him  to  adore, 
Well  deem'd  the  little  god  his  ancient  sway  was  o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair  Florence  found,  in  sooth  with  some  ama^ 
One  who,  'twas  said,  still  sigh'd  to  all  he  saw, 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze, 
Which  others  hail'd  with  real,  or  mimic  awe, 
Their  hope,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  their  law  , 
All  that  gay  beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims  r 
And  much  she  marvell'd  that  a  youth  so  raw 
Nor  felt,  nor  feign'd  at  least,  the  oft-told  flames, 

Which,  though  sometimes  they  frown,  yet  rarely  aag « 
dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble-heart, 
Now  mask'd  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pri<!c, 
Was  not  unskilful  in  the  spoiler's  art, 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  wide  ; 
Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  turn'd  aside, 
As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue  : 
But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied  ; 
And  had  he  doated  on  those  eyes  so  Uue, 

Yet  never  would  he  join  the  lovers  whining  crew. 

XXXTV. 

Not  much  he  kens,  I  ween,  of  woman's  breast, 
Who  thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by  sighs  ; 
What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  possess'U  1 
Do  proper  homage  to  thine  idol's  eyes  ; 
But  not  too  hrmbly,  or  she  will  despise 
Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes ; 
Disguise  ev'n  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wiso  , 
Brisk  confidence  still  best  with  women  copes  , 
Pique  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon  passion  crcwiw  i«' 
hopes. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XXXV. 

•Tis  an  old  lesson;  time  approves  it  true, 
And  those  who  know  it  best,  deplore  it  most; 
\V  hen  all  is  won  that  all  desire^to  woo, 
The  paltry  prize  is  hardly  worth  the  cost : 
Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honour  lost, 
These  are  thy  fruits,  successful  passion !  these ! 
If,  kindly  cruel,  early  hope  is  crost, 
Still  to  the  last  it  rankles,  a  disease, 
Not  to  be  cured  when  love  itself  forgets  to  please. 

XXXVI. 

Away  !  nor  let  me  loiter  in  my  song, 
For  we  have  many  a  mountain-path  to  tread. 
And  many  a  varied  shore  to  sail  along, 
By  pensive  sadness,  not  by  fiction,  led — 
Climes,  fair  withal  as  ever  mortal  head 
Imagined  in  its  little  schemes  of  thought ; 
Or  e'er  in  new  Utopias  were  read, 
To   each  man  what  he  might  be,  or  he  ought ; 
If  that  corrupted  thing  could  ever  such  be  taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  mother  still, 
Though  always  changing,  in  her  aspect  mild ; 
From  her  bare  bosom  let  me  take  tny  till, 
Her  never-wean'd,  though  not  her  favour'd  child. 
Oh !  she  is  fairest  in  her  features  wild, 
Where  nothing  polish'd  dares  pollute  her  path : 
To  me  by  day  or  night  she  ever  smiled, 
Though  I  have  mark'd  her  when  none  other  hath, 

And  sought  her  more  and  more,  and  loved  her  best  in 
wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land  of  Albania  !  where  Iskander  rose, 
Theme  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the  wise, 
And  he,  his  name-sake,  whose  oft-baffled  foes 
Shruilk  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  emprize: 
Land  of  Albania ! ' '  let  me  bend  mine  eyea 
Or.  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men  ! 
f  he  cross  descends,  thy  minarets  arise, 
And  the  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 

Through  many  a  cypress-grove  within  each  city's  ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe  Harold  sail'd,  and  pass'd  the  barren  spot12 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlook'd  the  wave  ; 
And  onward  view'd  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot, 
The  lover's  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 
Dark  Sappho !  could  not  verse  immortal  save 
That  breast  imbued  with  such  immortal  fire? 
Could  she  not  I'.ve  who  life  eternal  gave  ? 
If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyre, 
That  only  heaven  to  which  earth's  children  may  aspire. 

XL. 

T  was  on  a  Grecian  autumn's  gentle  eve 
Childe  Harold  h.nl'd  Lencadia's  cape  afar: 
A  spot  ne  long'd  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave: 
Oft  did  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vamsh'd  war, 
Actium,  Liepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar;13 
Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
UWn  bencatl.  some  remote    nglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight, 
bii'  loathed  tut,  oravo's  trade,  and  laugh'd  at  martial 
wight. 


XLI. 

But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  woe, 
And  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love,14 
He  felt,  or  decm'd  he  felt,  no  common  glow  : 
And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount, 
He  watch'd  the  billows'  melancholy  flow, 
And,  sunk  albeit  in  thought  as  he  was  wont, 
More  placid  seem'd  his  eye,  and  smooth  liis  pallid  front. 

XLH. 

Morn  dawns  ;  and  with  it  stern  Albania's  hills, 
Dark  Suli's  rocks,  and  Pindus'  inland  peak, 
Robed  half  in  mist,  bedew'd  with  snowy  rills, 
Array'd  in  many  a  dun  and  purple  streak, 
Arise  ;  and,  as  the  clouds  along  them  break, 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer  : 
Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  eagle  whets  his  beak, 
Birds,  beasts  of  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear, 
And  gathering  storms  around  convulse  the  closing  year. 

XLin. 

Now  Harold  felt  himself  at  length  alone, 
And  bade,  to  Christian  tongues  a  long  adieu; 
Now  he  adventured  on  a  shore  unknown, 
Which  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view  ; 
His  breast  was  arm'd  'gainst  fa'.e,  his  wants  were  few; 
Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet, 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  *cene  was  re-.v  f 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet, 
Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  si'n»rvr'i 
heat. 

XLIV. 

Here  the  red  cross,  for  still  the  cross  is  here, 
Though  sadly  scoff'd  at  by  the  circumcised, 
Forgets  that  pride  to  pamper'd  priesthood  dear , 
Churchman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foul  superstition !  howsoe'er  disguised, 
Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross, 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized, 
Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  loss  ! 
Who  from  true  worship's  gold  can  separate  thy  droi    ' 

XLV. 

Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing  ! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king14 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring : 
Look  where  the  second  Caesar's  trophies  rose!1' 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  rear'd  them,  withering : 
Imperial  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes  ! 
GOD!  was  thy  globe  ordain'd  for  such  to  win  and  lose 

XLVI. 

From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Ev'n  to  the  centre  of  Illyria's  vales, 
Childe  Harold  pass'd  o'er  many  a  mount  sublime, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales ; 
Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  love'.y  dales 
Are  rarely  seen  ;  nor  can  fair  J  tripe  boast 
A  charm  they  know  not ;  lo-fed  Parnassus  lam. 
Though  classic  ground  and  consecrated  mos» 
To  match  some  spots  that  lurk  within  this  .owcrmg  -.vast 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


XLVII. 

He  pass'd  bleak  Pindus,  Acherusia's  lake,1* 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land, 
And  onwards  did  his  further  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania's  chief,18  whose  dread  command 
Is  lawless  law  ;  for  with  a  bloody  hand 
He  sways  a  nation,  turbulent  and  bold : 
Vet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold." 

XLVIII. 

Monastic  Zitza ! 20  from  thy  shady  brow, 
Thou  small,  but  favour'd  spot  of  holy  ground ! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below, 
What  rainbow  tints,  what  magic  charms  are  found ! 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound, 
And  bluest  skies  that  harmonize  the  whole : 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll 
Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet  please  the 
soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill, 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still, 
Might  well  itself  be  deem'd  of  dignity, 
The  convent's  white  walls  glisten  fair  on  high : 
Here  dwells  the  caloyer,21  nor  rude  is  he, 
Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer ;  the  passer-by 
Is  welcome  still ;  nor  heedless  will  he  flee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  nature's  sheen  to  see. 

L. 

Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest, 
Fresh  is  the  green  beneath  those  aged  trees ; 
Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his  breast, 
From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze : 
The  plain  is  far  beneath — oh !  let  him  seize 
Pure  pleasure  while  he  can  ;  the  scorching  ray 
Here  pierccth  not,  impregnate  with  disease : 
Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay, 
And  gaze,  untired,  the  morn,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 

LI. 

Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight, 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre,2* 
Chimaera's  Alps  extend  from  left  to  right : 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir ; 
Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  mountain  fir 
Nodding  above :  behold  black  Acheron !  23 
Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchre. 
Pluto !  if  this  be  hell  I  look  upon, 
Close  shamed  Elysium's  gates,  my  shade  shall  seek  for 
none! 

LIT. 

Ne  city's  towers  pollute  the  lovely  view  ; 
Unseen  is  Yanina,  though  not  remote, 
Veil'd  by  the  screen  of  hills  !  here  men  are  few, 
Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  cot ; 
But,  peering  down  each  precipice,  the  goat 
Browseth :   and,  pensive  o'er  his  scatter'd  flock, 
The  little  shepherd  in  his  white  capote  a4 
Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  along  the  rock, 
Or  in  his-cave  awaits  the  tempest's  short-lived  shock. 


LIII. 

Oh !   where,  Dodona !  is  thine  aged  grove, 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine  ? 
What  valley  echoed  the  response  of  Jove  1 
What  trace  remaineth  of  the  Thunderer's  shrinisl 
All,  all  forgotten — and  shall  man  repine 
That  his  frail  bonds  to  fleeting  life  are  broke  ? 
Cease,  fool !  the  fate  of  gods  may  well  be  thine  • 
Wouldst  thou  survive  the  marble  or  the  oak  ? 

When  nations,  tongues,  and  worlds  must  sink  beneaik 
the  stroke ! 

LIV. 

Epirus1  bounds  recede,  and  mountains  fail ; 
Tired  of  up-gazing  still,  the  wearied  eye 
Reposes  gladly  on  as  smooth  a  vale 
As  ever  spring  yclad  in  grassy  dye : 
Even  on  a  plain  no  humble  beauties  lie, 
Where  some  bold  river  breaks  the  long  expanse, 
And  woods  along  the  banks  are  waving  high, 
Whose  shadows  in  the  glassy  waters  dance, 

Or  with  the  moon-beams  sleep  in  midnight's  so  ema 
trance. 

LV. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit,** 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by ;  * 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet, 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  winding  warily, 
Childe  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky, 
The  glittering  mirarets  of  Tepalen, 
Whose  walls  o'erlook  the  stream ;  and  drawing  nigh 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior-men 

Swelling  the  breeze  that  sigh'd  along  the  length'ning  glen 

LVI. 

He  pass'd  the  sacred  haram's  silent  tower, 
And,  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gate, 
Survey'd  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  powet, 
Where  all  around  proclaim'd  his  high  estate. 
Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sate, 
While  busy  preparations  shook  the  court, 
Slaves,  eunuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  santons  wai    . 
Within,  a  palace,  and  without,  a  fort : 
Here  men  of  every  ciime  appear  to  make  resort. 

Lvn. 

Richly  caparison'd,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store 
Circled  the  wide-extending  court  below  : 
Above,  strange  groups  adorn'd  the  corridor ; 
And  oft-times  through  the  Area's  echoing  J\x>r 
Some  high-capp'd  Tartar  spurr'd  his  stetd  t,«v*f  • 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  auj  tho  Mt/u, 
Here  mingled  in  their  many-hued  arra/, 
While  the  deep  war-drum's  sound  announced  the  C!OM 
of  day. 

Lvni. 

The  wild  Albanian  kirtled  to  his  ki*,j, 
With  shawl-girt  head  and  ornamuiited  gun, 
And  gold-embroider'd  garments,  ('air  to  see ; 
The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedon ; 
The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  teiror  on, 
And  crooked  glaive  ;  the  lively,  supple  Green  , 
And  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son  ; 
The  bearded  Turk  .hat  rarely  deigns  to  speak. 
Master  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LJX. 

Are  mix'd  conspicuous :  some  recline  in  groups, 
Scanning  the  motley  scene  that  varies  round  ; 
There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  stoops, 
And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  found ; 
Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground ; 
Half  whispering  there  the  Greek  is  heard  to  prate ; 
Hark !  from  the  mosque  the  nightly  solemn  sound, 
The  Muezza's  call  doth  shake  the  minaret, 
"There  is  no  god  but  God! — to  prayer — lo!  God  is  great!" 

LX. 

Just  at  this  season  Ramazani's  fast 
Through  the  long  day  its  penance  did  maintain : 
But  when  the  lingering  twilight  hour  was  past, 
Revel  and  feast  assumed  the  rule  again : 
Now  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board  within ; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seem'd  made  in  vain, 
But  from  the  chambers  came  the  mingling  din, 
As  page  and  slave  anon  were  passing  out  and  in. 

LXI. 

Here  woman's  voice  is  never  heard :  apart, 
And  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  veil'd,  to  move, 
She  yields  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart, 
Tamed  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  rove : 
For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master's  love, 
And  joyful  in  a  mother's  gentlest  cares, 
Blest  cares !  all  other  feelings  far  above ! 
Herself  more  sweetly  rears  the  babe  she  bears, 
*Vho  never  quits  the  breast  no  meaner  passion  shares. 

LXII. 

In  marble-paved  pavilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  living  water  from  the  centre  rose, 
Whose  bubbling  did  a  genial  freshness  fling, 
And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose, 
ALI  reclined,  a  man  of  war  and  woes  ; 
Vet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace, 
While  gentleness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Along  that  aged  venerable  face, 
1'he  deeds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him  with  disgrace. 

LXIII. 

It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
111  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth ; 
Love  conquers  age — so  Hafiz  hath  averr'd, 
So  sings  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth — 
But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  Ruth, 
Beseeming  all  men  ill,  but  most  the  man 
In  years,  have  mark'd  him  with  a  tiger's  tooth ; 
Blood  follows  blood,  and,  through  their  mortal  span, 
In  Moodier  acts  conclude  those  who  with  blood  began. 

LXIV. 

'Mid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  and  eye 
The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet, 
And  gazed  around  on  Moslem  luxury, 
TiR  .(uickly  wearied  with  that  spacious  seat 
Of  wealth  and  wantonness,  the  choice  retreat 
Of  oated  grandeur  from  the  city's  noise : 
A.nd  were  it  humbler  it  in  sooth  were  sweet ; 
Bui  peace  abhorreth  artificial  joys, 
AHI  pleasure,  leagued  with  pomp,  the  zest  of  both 
destroys. 


LXV. 

Fierce  are  Albania's  children,  yet  they  lack 
Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  mature. 
Where  is  the  foe  that  ever  saw  their  back  ? 
Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure  ? 
Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure 
Than  they  in  doubtful  time  of  troublous  need : 
Their  wrath  how  deadly !  but  their  friendship  sur* 
When  gratitude  or  valour  bids  them  bleed, 
UnshaKen  rushing  on  where'er  their  chief  may  lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain's  tower 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendour  and  success  ; 
And  'after  view'd  them,  when,  within  their  poi  er, 
Himself  awhile  the  victim  of  distress ; 
That  saddening  hour  when  bad  men  hotlier  press 
But  these  did  shelter  him  beneath  their  roof, 
When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheer3  d  him  less, 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof — 2' 
In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstand  the  proof. 

LXVII. 

It  chanced  that  adverse  winds  once  drove  his  bark 
Full  on  the  coast  of  Suli's  shaggy  shore, 
When  all  around  was  deso'.ate  and  dark ; 
To  land  was  perilous,  to  sojourn  more  ; 
Yet  for  a  while  the  mariners  forbore, 
Dubious  to  trust  where  treachery  might  lurk : 
At  length  they  ventured  forth,  though  doubting  sor* 
That  those  who  loathe  alike  the  Frank  and  Turk 
Might  once  agt.n  renew  their  ancient  butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain  fear !  the  Suhotea  stretch'd  the  welcome  hiyid, 
Led  them  o'er  rocks  and  past  the  dangerous  swamp, 
Kinder  than  polish'd  slaves  though  not  so  bland. 
And  piled  the  hearth,  and  wrung  their  garments  damp, 
And  fill'd  the  bowl,  and  trimm'd  the  cheerful  lamp. 
And  spread  their  fare ;  though  home'y,  all  they  h;id  . 
Such  conduct  bears  philanthropy's  rare  stamp — 
To  rest  the  weary  and  to  soothe  the  sad, 
Doth  lesson  happier  men,  and  shames  at  least  the  bad. 

LXIX. 

It  came  to  pass,  that  when  he  did  address 

Himself  to  quit  at  length  this  mountain-land, 

Combined  marauders  half-way  barr'd  egress, 

And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand  ; 

And  therefore  did  he  take  a  trusty  oand 

To  traverse  Acarnania's  forest  wide, 

In  war  well  season'd,  and  with  labours  tann'd, 

Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide, 

And  from  his  further  bank  ^Etolia's  worlds  espied. 

LXX. 

Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove, 
And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest, 
How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hill's  grovp, 
Nodding  at  midnight  o'er  the  calm  bay's  breast, 
As  winds  come  lightly  whispering  from  the  west. 
Kissing,  not  ruffling,  the  blue  deep's  serene.- 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest, 
Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene, 
For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  night's  soft  presence  glean 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


LXXI. 

On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-fires  brightly  blazed, 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast, a* 
And  he  that  unawares  had  there  ygazed 
With  gaping  wonderment  had  stared  aghast ; 
For  ere  night's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past, 
The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began ; 
Each  palikar29  his  sabre  from  him  cast, 
And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  link'd  to  man, 
Veiling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  danced  the  kirtled  clan. 

LXXII. 

Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood 
And  view'ti,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie, 
Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  however  rude : 
In  sooth,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  barbarous,  yet  their  not  indecent,  glee, 
And,  as  the  flames  along  their  faces  gleam'd, 
Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing  free, 
The  long  wild  locks  that  vO  their  girdles  stre^am'd, 
While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sung,  half 
scream'd :  3° 

1. 

11  TAMBOURGI  !  Tambourgi !  'thy  'larum  afar 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war ; 
All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 
Chimariot,  Illyrian,  and  dark  Suliote ! 

Z. 

Oh !  who  is  more  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 
In  his  snowy  camese  and  his  shaggy  capote  ? 
fo  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild  flock, 
And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from  the  rock, 

S. 

Shall  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a  friend,  bid  an  enemy  live? 
Let  those  guns  ?o  unerring  such  vengeance  forego  ? 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breast  of  a  foe  ? 

4. 

Macedonia  sends  forth  her  invincible  race ; 
For  a  time  they  abandon  the  cave  and  the  chase : 
But  those  scarfs  of  blood-red  shall  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheathed  and  the  battle  is  o'er. 


Then  the  pirates  of  Parga  that  dwell  by  the  waves, 
And  teach  the  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves, 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  long  galley  and  oar, 
And  track  to  his  covert  the  captive  on  shore. 

G. 

I  ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supply, 
Mj  sabre  shall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy  ; 
Shall  win  the  young  bride  with  her  long-flowing  hair, 
And  many  a  maid  from  her  mother  shall  tear. 

7. 

I  love  the  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth, 
Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  her  music  shall  soothe ; 
Let  her  bring  from  the  chamber  her  many-toned  lyre, 
And  snin  us  a  song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 


Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell," 
The  shrieks  of  the  conquer'd,  the  conquerors'  yell ; 
The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared. 
The  wealthy  we  slaughter'd,  the  lovely  we  spared. 

9. 

[  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  talk  not  of  fear ; 
He  neither  must  know  who  would  serve  the  vizier  : 
Since  the  days  of  our  prophet  the  crescent  ne'er  saw 
A  chief  ever  glorious  like  All  Pashaw. 

10. 

Dark  Muchtar  his  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped, 
Let  the  yellow-hair'd '  Giaours 2  view  his  horse-tail * 

with  dread ; 

When  his  Delhis*  come  dashing  in  blood  o'er  the  baiiw 
How  few  shall  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks ! 

11. 

Selictar !  *  unsheathe  then  our  chief's  scimitar : 
Tambourgi !  thy  'larum  gives  promise  of  war. 
Ye  mountains,  that  see  us  descend  to  the  shore, 
Shall  view  us  as  victors,  or  view  us  no  more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair  Greece !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth !  M 
Immortal,  though  no  more  ;  though  fallen,  great ! 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scatter'd  children  forth, 
And  long-accustom'd  bondage  uncreate  ? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await, 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait — 
Oh !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb 

LXXIV. 

Spirit  of  freedom !  when  on  Phyle's  brow34 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Couldst  thou  forebode  the  dismal  hour  which  no* 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain, 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 
Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand, 
From  birth  till  death  enslaved;  in  word,  in  deed  unmann'd. 

LXXV. 

In  all,  save  form  alone,  how  changed !  <md  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye, 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burn'd  anew 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  liberty  ? 
And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  back  their  fathers'  heritage : 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage, 
Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  slavery's  mournful  paj ft 


1  Yellow  is  the  epithet  given  to  the  Russian* 

2  Infidels. 

3  Horse-tails  are  the  insignia  of  n  pacha. 

4  Horsemen,  answering  to  our  forlorn  hou» 

5  Sword-bearer. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LXXVI. 

Hereditary  bondsmen!  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye  ?  no ! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low, 
But  not  for  you  will  freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots  !  triumph  o'er  your  foe ! 
Greece !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same ; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 

LXXVH. 

The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 
The  Giaour  from  Othman's  race  again  may  wrest ; 
And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 
Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest ;" 
Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood,  who  dared  divest 
The  prophet's  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 38 
May  wind  their  path  of  blood  along  the  West ; 
But  ne'er  will  freedom  seek  this  fated  soil, 
hut  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless  toil. 

LXXVHI. 

Yet  mark  their  mirth — ere  lenten  days  begin, 
That  penance  which  their  holy  rites  prepare 
To  shrive  from  man  his  weight  of  mortal  sin, 
By  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer ; 
But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  repentance  wear, 
Some  days  of  joyaunce  are  decreed  to  all, 
To  take  of  pleasaunce  each  his  secret  share, 
In  motley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  ball, 
And  join  the  mimic  train  of  merry  Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  that  thine, 
Oh  Stamboul !  once  the  empress  of  their  reign? 
Though  turbans  now  pollute  Sophia's  shrine, 
And  Greece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain : 
(Alas !  her  woes  will  still  pervade  my  strain ! ) 
Gay  were  her  minstrels  once,  for  free  her  throng, 
All  felt  the  common  joy  they  now  must  feign, 
Nor  oft  I  've  seen  such  sight  nor  heard  such  song, 
\.s  woo'd  the  eye,  and  thrill'd  the  Bosphorus  along. 

LXXX. 

Loud  was  the  lightsome  tumult  of  the  shore, 
Oft  music  changed,  but  never  ceased  her  tone, 
And  timely  echoed  back  the  measured  oar, 
And  rippling  waters  made  a  pleasant  moan : 
The  queen  of  tides  on  high  consenting  shone, 
And  when  a  transient  breeze  swept  o'er  the  wave, 
'T  was,  as  if  darting  from  her  heavenly  throne, 
A  brighter  glance  her  form  reflected  gave, 
Till  sparkling  billows  seem'd  to  light  the  banks  they  lave. 

LXXXI. 

•Glanced  many  a  light  caique  along  the  foam, 
Danced  on  the  shore  the  daughters  of  the  land, 
Ne  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home, 
While  many  a  languid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 
Exchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand, 
Or  gently  prest,  return'd  the  pressure  still : 
Oh  love !  young  love !  bound  in  thy  rosy  band, 
Let  sage  or  cynic  prattle  as  he  will, 
1  tieso  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  life's  years  of  ill ! 


LXXXII. 

But,  'midst  the  throng  in  merry  masquerade, 
Lurk  there  no  hearts  that  throb  with  secret  pain, 
Ev'n  through  the  closest  searment  half  belray'd? 
To  such  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  main 
Seem  to  re-echo  all  they  moum  in  vain ; 
To  such  the  gladness  ot  the  gamesome  crowd 
Is  source  of  wayward  thought  and  stern  di&dain : 
How  do  they  loathe  the  laughter  idly  loud, 
And  long  to  change  the  robe  of  revel  for  the  sh.-oudV 

Lxxxni. 

This  must  he  feel,  the  true-born  son  of  Greece, 
If  Greece  one  true-born  patriot  still  can  boast  r 
Not  such  as  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace, 
The  bondman's  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  lot*, 
Yet  with  smooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  accost, 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword : 
Ah!  Greece!  they  love  thee  least  who  owe  thus  most 
Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  re.  jrd 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  lorde! 

Lxxrv. 

When  riseth  Lacedemon's  hardihood, 
When  Thebes  Epaminondas  rears  again, 
When  Athens'  children  are  with  hearts  endued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men, 
Then  may'st  thou  be  restored ;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  form  a  state , 
An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust ;  and  when 
Can  man  its  shatter'd  splendour  renovate, 
Recall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  time  and  fate  1 

LXXXV. 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men,  art  thou ! 
Thy  vales  of  ever-green,  thy  hills  of  snow37 
Proclaim  thee  nature's  varied  favourite  now : 
Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  surface  bow, 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth, 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough : 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth, 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  worth ; 

LXXX  VI. 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave ;" 
Save  where  Tntonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
Colonna's  cliff,  and  gleams  along  the  wave  ; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-forgotten  grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave, 
While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass, 
Lingering  like  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,  and  sigh  "Ala* " 

LXXXVII. 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild  : 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled, 
And  still  his  honied  wealth  Hymettus  yields ; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air ; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds, 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare ; 
Art,  glory,  freedom  fail,  but  nature  still  is  fair. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


LXXXVIII. 

Where'er  we  tread  't  is  haunted,  holy  ground ; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould, 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 
And  all  the  muse's  tales  seem  truly  told. 
FiU  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon : 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deep'ning  glen  and  wold 
Defies  the  power  which  crush'd  thy  temples  gone : 
\ge  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same ; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord — 
Preserves  alike*its  bounds  and  boundless  fame 
The  battle-field,  where  Persia's  victim  horde 
First  bow'd  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas'  sword, 
As  on  the  morn  to  distant  glory  dear, 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word  ;39 
Which  utter'd,  to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  conqueror's  career. 

xc. 

The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow ; 

The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear ; 

Mountains  above,  earth's,  ocean's  plain  below ; 

Death  in  the  front,  destruction  in  the  rear ! 

Such  was  the  scene — what  now  remaineth  here  ? 

What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallow'd  ground, 

Recording  freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear? 

The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound, 
The  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger !  spurns 
around. 

XCI. 

Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendour  past 

Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng  ; 

Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  the  Ionian  blast, 

Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song ; 

Long  shall  thine  annals  and  immortal  tongue 

Fill  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a  shore  ; 

Boast  of  the  aged  !  lesson  of  the  young ! 

Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore, 
As  Pallas  and  the  muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 

XCII. 

The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home, 
If  aught  that's  kindred  cheer  the  welcome  hearth  ; 
He  that  is  lonely  hither  let  him  roam, 
And  gaze  complacent  on  congenial  earth. 
Greece  is  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth  ; 
But  he  whom  sadness  sootheth  may  abide, 
And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth, 
When  wandering  slow  by  Delphi's  sacred  side, 
Ir  gazing  o'er  the  plains  where  Greek  and  Persian  died. 

XCIII. 

Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land, 
And  pass  in  peace  along  the  magic  waste : 
But  spare  its  relics — let  no  busy  hand 
Oefa-;e  the  scenes,  already  how  defaced ! 


Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  placed : 
Revere  the  remnants  nations  once  revered  : 
So  may  our  country's  name  be  undisgraced, 
So  may'st  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth  was  re&r"<) 
By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endear'd ! 

XCIV. 

For  thee,  who  thus  in  too  protracted  song 
Hast  soothed  thine  idlesse  with  inglorious  lays, 
Soon  shall  thy  voice  b'e  lost  amid  the  throng 
Of  louder  minstrels  in  these  later  days  : 
To  such  resign  the  strife  for  fading  bays — 
111  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  move 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  partial  praise , 
Since  cold  each  kfrider  heart  that  might  approve, 
And  none  are  left  to  please  when  none  are  left  to  lo-o. 

xcv. 

Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one ! 
.Whom  youth  and  youth's  affection  bound  to  me , 
Who  did  for  me  what  none  beside  have  done, 
Nor  shrank  from  one  albeit  unworthy  thee. 
What  is  my  being  ?  thou  hast  ceased  to  be  ! 
Nor  staid  to  welcome  here  thy  wanderer  home, 
Who  mourns  o'er  hours  which  we  no  more  shall  see — 
Would  they  had  never  been,  or  were  to  ~ome  ! 
Would  he  had  ne'er  return'd  to  find  fresn  cause  to  room' 

XCVI. 

Oh !  ever  loving,  lovely,  and  beloved ! 
How  selfish  sorrow  ponders  on  the  past, 
And  clings  to  thoughts  now  better  far  removed ! 
But  time  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me  last. 
All  thou  couldst  have  of  mine,  stern  Death  !  thou  hasi 
The  parent,  friend,  and  now  the  more  than  friend  • 
Ne'er  yet  fpr  one  thine  arrows  flew  so  fast, 
And  grief  with  grief  continuing  stiil  to  blend, 
Hath  snatch'd  the  little  joy  that  life  had  yet  to  lend. 

XCVH. 

Then  must  I  plunge  again  into  the  crowd, 
And  follow  all  that  peace  disdains  to  seek '/ 
Where  revel  calls,  and  laughter,  vainly  loud, 
False  to  the  heart,  distorts  the  hollow  cheek, 
To  leave  the  flagging  spirit  doubly  weak ; 
Still  o'er  the  features,  which  perforce  they  cheer, 
To  feign  the  pleasure  or  conceal  the  pique  ; 
Smiles  form  the  channel  of  a  future  tear, 
Or  raise  the  writhing  lip  with  ill-dissembled  sncei. 

xcvm. 

What  is  the  worst  of  woes  that  wait  on  age  ? 
What  stamps  the  wrinkle  deeper  on  the  brow  ? 
To  view  each  loved  one  blotted  from  life's  page, 
And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  I  am  now. 
Before  the  Chastener  humbly  let  me  bow, 
O'er  hearts  divided,  and  o'er  hopes  destroy'd  • 
Roll  on,  vain  days  !  full  reckless  may  ye  flow. 
Since  time  hath  reft  whate'er  my  soul  enjoy'a, 
And  with  the  ills  of  Eld  mine  earlier  years  alloy?d 


13 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  III. 


"  Afin  qne  cotte  application  vous  forcat  lie  penscr  a  autre 
nhr*e.  il  n'y  a  en  v6rite  de  remede  que  celui-la  et  le  temps." 
J.ettre  du.  Roi  de  Prvssc  a  Daltmberl,  Sep.  7  1776. 


I. 

Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child ! 
Ada  !  sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart  ? 
When  last  I  saw  thy  young  blue  eyes  they  smiled, 
And  then  we  parted, — not  as  now  we  pait, 
But  with  a  hope. — 

,  Awaking  with  a  start, 

The  waters  heave  around  me  ;   and  on  high 
The  winds  lift  up  their  voices :   I  depart, 
vVhither  I  know  not ;  but  the  hour's  gone  by, 
When  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad 
mine  eve. 

n. 

Once  more  upon  the  waters !  yet  once  more ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome  to  their  roar ! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoc'er  it  lead ! 
Though  the  strain'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed, 
And  the  rent  canvas  fluttering  strew  the  gale, 
Still  must  I  on  ;  for  I  am  as  a  weed, 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  ocean's  foam,  to  sail 

Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath 
prevail. 

III. 

In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  one, 
Tim  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind ; 
Again  I  seize  the  theme  then  but  begun, 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards :  in  that  tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 

Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a  flower  appears. 

V. 

bmce  my  young  days  of  passion — joy,  or  pain, 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string, 
And  both  may  jar  :  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Yet,  though  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling ; 
So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  «r  gladness — so  it  fling 
Forgetfulness  around  me — it  shall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme. 


He,  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  woe, 
In  deeds,  r.ot  years,  piercing  the  depths  of  life, 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him  ;  nor  below 
Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife, 
Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  the  keen  knife 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance :  le  can  tell 
Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  tone  caves,  yet  rife 
With  airy  images,  and  snapes  which  dwell 
sstill  ummpiur'd.  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  cell. 


VI. 

'T  is  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 
A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endo"? 
With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  givf 
The  life  we  image,  ev'n  as  I  do  now. 
What  am  I  ?  Nothing  ;  but  not  so  ar*.  t'.ou, 
Soul  of  my  thought !  with  whom  I  traverse  earth, 
Invisible  but  gazing,  as  I  glow 
Mix'd  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth. 
And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crush'd  feelings'  deartu 

VII. 

Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly : — I  have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwtought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame : 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 
My  springs  of  life  were  poison'd.     'T  is  too  late ! 
Yet  am  I  changed  ;  though  still  enough  the  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  cannot  abate, 

And  fe»d  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  fate. 

VIII. 

Something  too  mach  of  this: — but  now  'tis  past, 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal. 
Long-absent  HAROLD  re-appears  at  last  ; 
He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would  feel, 
Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not  but  ne'er  hca!; 
Yet  time,  who  changes  all,  had  alter'd  him 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age :  years  steal 
Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigour  from  the  limb  ; 

And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 

IX. 

His  had  been  quaflT'd  too  quickly,  and  he  found 
The  dregs  were  wormwood  ;  but  he  fill'd  again, 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  on  holier  ground, 
And  deem'd  its  spring  perpetual ;   but  in  vain ! 
Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a  chain 
Which  gall'd  for  ever,  fettering  though  unseen, 
And  heavy  though  it  clank'd  not ;  worn  with  pa**, 
Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  ke«n, 
Entering  with  every  step  he  took,  through  man)  u.  scene. 

X. 

Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mix'd 
Again  in  fancied  safety  with  his  kind, 
And  deem'd  his  spirit  now  so  firmly  fix'd 
And  sheathea  with  an  invulnerable  mind, 
That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurk'd  behind  ; 
And  he,  as  one,  might  'midst  the  many  stand 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd  to  find 
Fit  speculation  !  such  as  in  strange  land 
He  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature's  hand. 

XI. 

But  who  can  view  the  ripen'd  rose,  nor  seek 

To  wear  it  ?  who  can  curiously  behold 

The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's  cherk. 

Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old  ? 

Who  can  contemplate  fame  through  clouds  unfoid 

The  star  which  rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor  climb? 

Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  roll'd 

On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  time, 

Ye'  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  yvith's  fonrt  prrrt« 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


XII. 

But  soon  lie  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  man  ;  with  whom  he  held 
Little  in  common  -,  untaught  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was  quell'd 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts  ;  still  uncompell'd 
He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebell'd ; 
Proud  though  in  desolation ;  which  could  find 
\  life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

XIII. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were  friends; 
Where  roll'd  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home ; 
Where  a  blue  sky  and  glowing  clime  extends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam ; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam, 
Were  unto  him  companionship  ;  they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forsake 
For  nature's  pages,  glass'd  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 

XIV. 

Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars, 

Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 

As  their  own  beams  ;  and  earth,  and  earth-born  jars, 

And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite : 

Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 

He  had  been  happy ;  but  this  clay  will  sink 

Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 

To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 

Dial  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos  us  to  its 
brink. 

XV. 

But  in  man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-born  falcon  with  dipt  wing, 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home  : 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 

Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat. 

XVI. 

Seif-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again, 

With  nought  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom ; 

The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain, 

That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb, 

Had  made  despair  a  smilingness  assume, 

Which,  though  't  were  wild, — as  on  the  plunder'd 

wreck 

When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their  doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  deck, — 
Old  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore  to  check. 

XVII. 

Stop ! — for  thy  tread  is  on  an  empire's  dust ! 
An  earthquake's  spoil  is  sepulchred  below ! 
Is  the  spot  mark'd  with  no  colossal  bust? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show? 
Von<!  •  hut  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler  so, 
A.S  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be ; — 
Flow  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow ! 
Vnd  is  this  all  the  world  has  gain'd  by  thee, 
1  Uou  firs',  and  List  of  fields  !   king-making  victory  7 


xvm. 

And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls, 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo ! 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave  annuls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fame  as  fleeting  too ! 
In  "pride  of  place"  '  here  last  the  eaglo  flew, 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain, 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through ; 
Ambition's  life  and  labours  all  were  vain ; 
He  wears  the  shatter'd  links  of  the  world's  broken  chain, 

XIX. 

Fit  retribution !  Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fetters ; — but  is  earth  more  free? 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  submit ; 
Or  league  to  teach  all  kings  true  sovereignty  ? 
What !  shall  reviving  thraldom  again  be 
The  patch'd-up  idol  of  enlightened  days? 
Shall  we,  who  struck  the  lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  wolf  homage  ?  proffering  lowly  gaze 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones  V  No ;  prove  before  ye  prais"»l 

XX. 

If  not,  o'er  one  fallen  despot  boast  no  more ! 
In  vain  fair  cheeks  were  furrow'd  with  hot  tears 

.    For  Europe's  flowers  long  rooted  up  before 
The  tranipler  of  her  vineyards ;  in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  bondage,  fears, 
Have  all  men  borne,  and  broken  by  the  accord 
Of  roused-up  millions :   all  that  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  the  myrtle  wreathes  the  sword 

Such  as  Harmodius  2  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord. 

XXI. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ;  3 
But  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  kncfl 

XXII. 

Did  ye  not  hear  it? — No;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance !  let  joy  be  unconfined , 
No  sleep  till  morn  when  youth  and  pleasure  moev, 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet — 
But,  hark! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  ium« 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  man  before  ! 
Arm !  arm !  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roai 

XXIII. 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  heai 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  death's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  ncai. 
His  heart  more  truly  Knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  qu«>P 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  *oremost  hgrumg,  fcB. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XXIV. 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  :  nd  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 

Since  upon  nights  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  ? 

XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 

Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "  The  foe !  They  come! 
they  come !" 

XXVI. 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering"  rose ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes : — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill !  But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 

And  Evan's,*  Donald's b  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's 
ears ! 

XXVII. 

And  Ardennes 6  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  gnw 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  ccld  ?nd 
low. 

XXVIII. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strfe, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  daj 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent, 

B  ider  and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial  blent ! 

XXIX. 

Their  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  than  mine ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong, 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song  ,• 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower'd 
J'he  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn'd  files  along. 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd, 

n.nv  fach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  younjj,  gallant 
Howard 


XXX 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give  ; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live, 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  turn'd  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not  bring 

XXXI. 

I  turn'd  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  leach 
Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake ; 
The  archangel's  trump,  not  glory's,  must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for ;  though  the  sound  of  fame 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honour'd  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

xxxn. 

They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length ;  and,  smiling,  mourru 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ; 
The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn ; 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness  ;  the  ruin'd  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  arc  gone ; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthral, 
The  day  drags  through  though  storms  keep  out  the  SUB 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on : 

XXXIII. 

Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies ;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  break* 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 
Living  in  shatter'd  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 
And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches, 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 
Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  snch  things  are  untold 

XXXIV. 

There  is  a  very  life  in  our  despair, 
Vitality  of  poison, — a  quick  root 
Which  feeds  these  deadly  branches ;  for  it  were 
As  nothing  did  we  die  ;  but  life  will  suit 
Itself  to  sorrow's  most  detested  fruit, 
Like  to  the  apples  on  the  Dead  Sea's  '  shorr, 
All  ashes  to  the  taste ;  did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o'er 
Such  hours  'gainst  years  of  life, — say,  would  he  imiin 
three-score  ? 

XXXV. 

The  Psalmist  number'd  out  the  years  of  man : 
They  are  enough  ;  and  if  thy  tale  be  true, 
Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  ev'n  that  fleeting  spar 
More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Waterloo ! 
Millions  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 
Their  children's  lips  shall  echo  them,  and  say — 
"  Hire,  where  the  sword  united  nations  drew, 
Our  countrymen  were  warring  on  that  day !" 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  awaj. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


XXXVI. 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men, 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mixt 
One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fixt, 
Extreme  in  all  things !   hadst  thou  been  betwixt, 
Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never  been  ; 
For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall :  thou  seek'st 
Even  now  to  re-assume  the  imperial  mien, 
And  shake  again  ''ie  world,  the  thunderer  of  the  scene! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou ! 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's  minds  than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of  fame, 
Who  woo'd  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A  god  unto  thyself;  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  all  inert, 
Who  deem'd  thee  for  a  time  whate'er  thou  didst  assert. 

XXXVIH. 

Oh,  more  or  less  than  man — in  high  or  low, 
Battling  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field ; 
Now  making  monarchs'  necks  thy  footstool,  now 
More  than  thy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield ; 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild, 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor, 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skill'd, 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of  war, 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  fate  will  leave  the  loftiest  star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  hala  brook'd  the  turning  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy, 
Which;  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by, 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast  smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ; — 
When  fortune  fled  her  spoil'd  and  favourite  child, 
He  stood  unbow'd  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  piled. 

XL. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes  ;  for  in  them 
Ambition  steel'd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts  ;  't  was  wise  to  feel,  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow, 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  turn'd  unto  thine  overthrow  : 
'T  is  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose  ; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  wl.o  choose. 

XLI. 

If,  like  a  tower  upon  a  headlong  rock, 
Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  full  alone, 
Such  scorn  of  man  had  help'd  to  brave  the  shock ; 
But  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which  puved  (hy 

throne, 

Their  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone ; 
Tho  part  of  Philip's  son  was  thine,  not  then 
(Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 
Like  stc-i  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men  ; 
t'  a  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den.' 
I  2 


XLII. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell, 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane ;  there  is  a  fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core, 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

XLIII. 

This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made  men  mad 
By  their  contagion  ;  conquerors  and  kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  bards,  statesmen,  all  unquiet  tilings, 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs, 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable  !  what  stings 
Are  their's !  One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 
Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  or  rule. 

XLIV. 

Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  life 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last, 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigoted  to  strife, 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past, 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineness,  and  so  die  ; 
Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by 
Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  mgloriously. 

XLV. 

He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow  ; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those-below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow, 
And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head, 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led. 

XLVI. 

Away  with  these !  true  wisdom's  world  will  bo 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine, 
Maternal  nature !  for  who  teems  like  thee, 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhine  ? 
There  Harold  gazes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all  beauties  ;  streams  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  corn-field,  mountain,  vuit, 
And  chiefless  castles  breathing  stern  farewells 
From  gray  but  leafy  walls,  where  ruin  greenly  dwells. 

XLV  II. 

And  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty  mind, 
Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd, 
All  tenantless,  save  to  the  crannying  wind, 
Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 
There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young  and  ;>rou<l 
Banners  on  high,  and  battles  pass'd  below, 
But  they  who  fought  are  in  a  bloody  shroud. 
And  those  which  waved  are  shredless  dust  ere  n-w* 
And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  bk«v> 


ti'2 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XLvm. 

Beneath  those  battlements,  within  those  walls, 
Powei  dwelt  amidst  her  passions ;  in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  hails, 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What  want  these  outlaws10  conquerors  should  have, 
But  history's  purchased  page  to  call  them  great  ? 
A  wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  1 

Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full 
as  brave. 

XLIX. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields, 
What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died ! 
And  love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields, 
With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride, 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would  glide ; 
But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction  near  allied, 
And  many  a  tower  for  some  fair  mischief  won, 

Saw  the  discolour'd  Rhine  beneath  its  ruin  run. 

L. 

Butlnou,  exulting  and  abounding  river! 
Making  thy  waves  a  blessing  as  they  flow 
Through  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  for  ever, 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creation  so, 
Nor  its  fair  promise  from  the  surface  mow 
With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conflict, — then  to  see 
Thy  valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth  paved  like  heaven ;  and  to  seem  such  to  me 

Rven  now  what  wants  thy  stream? — that  it  should 
Lethe  be. 

LI. 

V  thousand  battles  have  assail'd  thy  banks, 
But  these  and  half  their  fame  have  pass'd  away, 
And  slaughter  heap'd  on  high  his  weltering  ranks — 
Their  *ery  graves  are  gone,  and  what  are  they? 
The  tide  wash'd  down  the  blood  of  yesterday, 
And  all  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
Glass'd  with  its  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray, 
But  o'er  the  blacken'd  memory's  blighting  dream 

Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweeping  as  they  seem. 

LII. 

Thus  Harold  inly  said,  and  pass'd  along, 

Yet  not  insensibly  to  all  which  here 

Awoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song 

In  glens  which  might  have  made  even  exile  dear ; 

Though  on  his  brow  were  graven  lines  austere, 

And  tranquil  sternness  which  had  ta'en  the  place 

Of  feelings  fierier  far  but  less  severe, 

Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  his  face, 

**ut  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  would  steal  with  transient 
trace. 

LIII. 

Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  though  his  days 
Of  passion  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 
On  such  as  smile  upon  us  ;   the  heart  must 
Leap  kindly  back  10  Kindness,  though  disgust 
Hath  weaird  it  from  all  worldlings :  thus  he  felt, 
For  there  was  soft  remembrance,  and  sweet  trust 
In  one  fond  breast,  to  which  his  own  would  melt, 

%ud  in  itf  tenderer  hour  on  that  his  bosom  dwelt. 


LIV. 

And  he  had  learn'd  to  love — I  know  not  why, 
For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  strange  of  mood,— 
The  helpless  looks  of  blooming  infancy, 
Even  in  its  earliest  nurture  ;  what  subdued 
To  change  like  this,  a  mind -so  far  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to  know  ; 
But  thus  it  was ;  and  though  in  solitude 
Small  power  the  nipp'd  affections  have  to  grow, 

In  him  this  glow'd  when  all  beside  had  ceased  to  glow, 

LV. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said, 
Which  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
Than  the  church  links  withal ;   and,  though  unwed, 
That  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  disguise, 
Had  stood  the  test  of  mortal  enmities 
Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 
By  peril,  dreaded  most  in  female  eyes , 
But  this  was  firm,  and  from  a  foreign  shore 

Well  to  that  heart  might  his  these  absent  greetings  pour 

1. 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels  " 

Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these, 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  vvert  thou  with  me ! 

2 
And  peasant  girls,  with  deep-blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise  ; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lours 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine, — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine  ! 

3. 
I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me ; 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 
I  know  that  they  must  wither'd  be, 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such ; 
For  I  have  cherish'd  them  as  dear, 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 

When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh, 
And  know'st  them  gather'J  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offer'd  from  my  heart  to  thine  ! 

4. 
The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  ; 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here  ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  Nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  ! 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


LVI. 

By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground, 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramid, 
Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound  ; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid, 
Our  enemy's  — but  let  not  that  forbid  . 
Honour  to  Marceau !  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  rough  soldier's  lid, 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom, 
Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 

LVII. 

Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career, — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  foes ; 
And  fitly  may  the  stranger  lingering  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose  ; 
For  he  was  Freedom's  champion,  one  of  those, 
The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstept 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept.12 

.LVIIJ. 

Here  Ehrenbreitstein, 13  with  her  shatter'd  wall, 
Black  with  the  miner's  blast,  upon  her  height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and  ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  strength  did  light ; 
A  tower  of  victory !  from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baffled  foes  was  watch'd  along  the  plain: 
But   peace  destroy'd  what  war  could  never  blight, 
And  laid  those  proud  roofs  bare  to  summer's  rain — 
On  which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had  pour'd  in  vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine !  How  long  delighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way  ! 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  contemplation  thus  might  stray ; 
And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  self-condemning  bosoms,  it  were  here, 
Where  nature,  nor  too  sombre  nor  too  gay, 
Wild  but  not  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere, 
Is  to  the  mellow  earth  as  autumn  to  the  year. 

LX. 

Adieu  to  thee  again !  a  vain  adieu ! 
There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thine ; 
The  mind  is  colour'd  by  thy  every  hue ; 
And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign 
Their  cherish'd  gaze  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine ! 
'T  is  with  the  .thankful  glance  of  parting  praise; 
More  mighty  spots  may  rise — more  glaring  shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft, — the  glories  of  old  days. 

LXI. 

The  negligently  grand,  the  fruitful  bloom 
Of  coining  ripeness,  the  white  city's  sheen, 
The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice's  gloom, 
The  forest's  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  between, 
The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 
In  mockery  of  man's  art;  and  these  withal 
A  race  effaces  happy  as  the  scene, 
Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all, 
Still  springing  o'er  thy  banks,  though  empires  near 
them  fall. 


LXIl. 

But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the  \lj». 
The  palaces  of  nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps. 
And  throned  eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche — the  thundeVbolt  of  snow ! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals, 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  earth  may  pierce  lo  heaven,  yet  leave  vain  nvifl 
below. 

Lxm. 

But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dare  to  scan, 
There  is  a  spot  should  not  be  pass'd  in  vain, — 
Moral!  the  proud,  the  patriot  field  !  where  man 
May  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slain, 
Nor  blush  for  those  who  conquor'd  on  that  plain ; 
Here  Burgundy  bequeath'd  his  tombless  host, 
A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain, 
Themselves  their  monument ; — the  Stygian  coast 

Unsepulchred  they  roam'd,  and  shriek'd  each  waiuk-r  mk 
ghost. 

LXIV. 

While  Waterloo  with  C  annaj's  carnage  vies, 
Moral  and  Marathon  twin  names  shall  stand  ; 
They  were  true  glory's  stainless  victories, 
Won  by  the  unambitious  heart  and  hand 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  band, 
All  unbought  champions  in  no  princely  cause 
Of  vice-ental'.'d  corruption ;  they  no  land 
Doom'd  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 

Making  kings'  rights  divine,  by  some  Draconic  clause 

LXV. 

By  a  lone  wall  a  lonelier  column  rears 
A  gray  and  grief-worn  aspect  of  old  days  ; 
'T  is  the  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  years, 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild  bewilder'd  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze, 
Yet  still  with  consciousness  ;  and  there  it  stands 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 
Levell'd  Aventicum,15  hath  strew'd  her  subject  lands. 

LXVI. 

And  there — oh !  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name  I—- 
Julia— the  daughter,  the  devoted — gave 
Her  youth  to  Heaven  ;  her  heart,  beneath  a  claim 
Nearest  to  heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's  grave. 
Justice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers  would  crave 
The  life  she  lived  in  ;  but  the  judge  was  just, 
And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 
Their  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust, 
And  held  within  their  um  one  mind,  one  neart,  one 
dust.16 

LXVII. 

But  these  are  deeds  which  should  noi  pass  away, 
And  names  that  must  not  wither,  though  the  eariji 
Forgets  her  empires  with  ajusidecay, 
The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  tneir  deaih  and  birlti , 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,  '* 
[mpenshably  pure  beyond  all  things  below 


64 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LXVIII. 

Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face, 
The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect,  in  each  trace 
Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  fair  height  and  hue : 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through 
With  a  fit  mind  the  might  which  I  behold ; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  loneliness  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherish'd  than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penn'd  me  in  their  fold. 

LXIX. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind ; 

All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 

Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 

Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 

In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the  spoil 

Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 

We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil, 

In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong, 

'Midst  a  contentious  world,  striving  where  none  are 
strong. 

LXX. 

There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our  years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul,  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears, 
And  colour  things  to  come  with  hues  of  night ; 
The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness :  on  the  sea, 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite, 
But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  eternity, 

Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd  ne'er  shall  be. 

LXXI. 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake  ? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone," 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care, 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake ; — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear, 
Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom'd  to  inflict  or  bear? 

LXXH. 

I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me ;  and  to  me, 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  torture :  I  can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshy  chain, 
Class'd  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

LXXIII. 

And  thus  1  am  absorb'd,  and  this  is  life : 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife, 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  so-row  was  I  cast, 
To  act  ami  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion ;  which  I  feel  to  spring, 
Though  youug,  yet  waxing  vigorous  as  the  blast 
Which  if  would  cope  with,  on  delighted  wing, 

<i*e  c&y-cold  bonds  which  round  our  being 


LXX  IV. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all  free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm, — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform, 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm  ? 
The  bodiless  thought  ?  the  spirit  of  each  spot, 
Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  immortal  lotJ 

LXXV. 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  SKICS,  a  part 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion  ?  should  I  not  contemn 
All  objects,  if  compared  with  these?  and  stem 
A  tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 
Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worldly  phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turn'd  below, 

Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  which  dare  not 
glow? 

LXXVL 

But  this  is  not  my  theme ;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn, 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  fire, 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while — a  passing  guest, 
Where  he  became  a  being, — whose  desire 
Was  to  be  glorious  ;  't  was  a  foolish  quest, 

The  which  to  gam  and  keep,  lie  sacrificed  all  rest. 

LXXVH. 

Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rousseau, 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched ;  yet  he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful,  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heavenly  hue 
Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  past 
The  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and  fast. 

LXXVIII. 

His  love  was  passion's  essence — as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning ;  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted  ;  for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamour'd,  were  in  him  the  same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distemper'd  though  it  seems. 

LXXIX. 

This  breathed  itself  to  life  in  Julie,  this 
Invested  her  with  all  that's  wild  and  sweet , 
This  hallow'd,  too,  the  memorable  kiss 
Which  every  morn  his  fever'd  lip  would  greet, 
From  hers,  who  Dut  with  friendship  his  would  meet  , 
But  to  that  gentle  touch,  through  brain  ?nd  breast 
FUsn'd  the  thrill'd  spirit's  love-devouring  heat ; 
In  that  absorbing  sigh  perchance  more  blesl. 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  thr  v  sef  n  i>o<wei* 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


LXXX. 

His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought  foes, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banish'd ;  for  his  mind 
Had  grown  suspicion's  sanctuary,  and  chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice,  the  kind, 
'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange  and  blind. 
But  he  W3J  phrenzied, — wherefore,  who  may  know? 
Since  catue  might  be  which  skill  could  never  find ; 
But  he  was  phrenzied  by  disease  or  woe, 
fo  that  worst  pitch  of  all  which  wears  a  reasoning  show. 

LXXXI. 

For  then  he  was  inspired,  and  from  him  came, 
As  from  the  Pythian's  mystic  cave  of  yore, 
Those  oracles  which  set  the  world  in  flame, 
Nor  ceased  to  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no  more : 
Did  he  not  this  for  France  ?  which  lay  before 
Bow'd  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years  ? 
Broken  and  trembling,  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 
Til1  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers, 

Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath  which  follows  o'ergrown 
fears? 

LXXXII. 

They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monument ! 
The  wreck  of  old  opinions — things  which  grew 
Breathed  from  the  birth  of  time :  the  veil  they  rent, 
And  what  behind  it  lay,  all  earth  shall  view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  also  overthrew, 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 
Upon  the  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  ani  thrones,  which  the  same  hour  re-fill'd, 

As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-will'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured ! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made  it  felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigour,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another ;  pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  once  natural  charities.     But  they, 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had  dwelt, 
They  were  not  eagles,  nourish'd  with  the  day ; 
What  marvel  then,  at  times,  if  they  mistook  their  prey? 

LXXXIV. 

What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar? 
The  hearts  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it ;   and  they  who  war 
With  their  own' hopes,  and  have  been  vanquish'd,  bear 
Silence,  but  not  submission :   in  his  lair 
Fix'd  passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  years  ;  none  need  despair : 
It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will  come, — the  power 
f  o  punish  or  forgive — in  one  we  shall  be  slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leman !  thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once  I  loved 
Tom  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
l?at  I  with  stem  delight*  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 
14 


LXXXVI. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  ;   and,  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more  , 

LXXXVII. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  and  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill ; 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye  stars  !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven ! 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, — 't  is  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you  ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 

That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themseleet 
a  star. 

LXXXIX. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — tnough  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep : — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :  from  the  high  hos< 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain-coast, 
All  is  concenter'd  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 

Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

xc. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone  ; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt, 
And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone, 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  know  n 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty ; — 't  would  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm 

XCJ. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,20  and  thus  taxe 
A  fit  and  unwall'd  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  spirit,  in  whose  honour  shrines  are  weak, 
Unrear'd  of  human  hands.     Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-avrellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  nature's  realms  oi  worship,  earth  and  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  praye- 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XCII. 

The  sky  is  c  anged! — and  such  a  change !  Oh  night,11 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  d->rk  eye  in  woman !  Far  along, 
From  ,,eak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !  Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
i'ack  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud ! 

XCIII. 

And  this  is  in  the  night: — most  glorious  night! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 
And  now  again  't  is  black, — and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

XCIV. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appoar  as  lovers  «ho  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted ; 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted, 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  departed  j 
It  self  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

xcv. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  has  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand : 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around :  of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fork'd 
His  lightnings, — as  if  he  did  understand, 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  worit'd, 
1  here  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  !  ye ! 
With  night,  and  cl<  ads,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  rolf 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests  !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  hu.nan  breast  ? 
Jr  do  ve  find,  at  leng'h,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 

XCVII. 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe — into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak; 
Hut.  as  it  is,  1  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  &  iword. 


XCVIII. 

The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  mom, 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  blom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  sco;  n, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contain'd  no  tomb, — 
And  glowing  into  day :   we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence  :  and  thus  I, 
Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman !  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder  d  fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens !  sweet  Clarens,  birth-place  of  deep  love ! 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate  thought 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  love  ;  the  snows  above 
The  very  glaciers  have  his  colours  caught, 
And  sunset  into  rose-hues  si es  them  wrought47 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  1-  vingly :  the  rocks, 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  h  tre  of  love,  who  sought 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks, 

Which  stir  and  sting  the- soul  with  hope  that  woos,  the* 
mocks. 

C. 

Clarens !  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod, — 
Undying  love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains  ;  where  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  to  light, — so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest ;  o'er  the  flower 
His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown, 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender  power 

Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate  how 

CI. 

All  things  are  here  of  Aim  ;  from  the  black  pines,   • 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the  shoie 
Where  the  bow'd  waters  meet  him  and  adore, 
Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs  ;  and  the  wood, 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar, 
B1;'  '!„'.!  'eaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood, 
Offering  to  him,  and  his,  a  populous  solitude. 

cn. 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds, 
And  fairy-form'd  and  many-colour'd  things, 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  rrore  sweet  than  words, 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings, 
Fearless  and  full  of  life :   the  gush  of  springs, 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
Mingling,  and  made  by  love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 

cm. 

He  who  hath  loved  not,  here  would  learn  that  lore, 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit ;  he  who  knows 
That  tender  mystery,  will  love  the  more, 
For  this  is  love's  recess,  where  vain  men's  woes, 
And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  him  far  from  those, 
For  't  is  his  nature  to  advance  or  die ; 
He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity ' 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


C7 


CIV. 

T  was  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot, 
Peopling  it  with  affections  ;  but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind's  purified  beings  ;  'twas  the  ground 
Where  early  love  his  Psyche's  zone  unbound, 
And  hallow'd  it  with  loveliness :   't  is  lone, 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound, 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness  ;  here  the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have  rear'd  a 
throne. 

cv. 

Lausanne !  and  Ferney !  ye  have  been  the  abodes23 
Of  names  which  unto  you  bequeath'd  a  name ; 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads, 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame : 
They  were  gigantic  minds,  and  their  steep  aim 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thunder  and  the 

flame 
Of  Heaven,  again  assail'd,  if  Heaven  the  while 

On  man  and  man's  research  could  deign  do  more  than 
smile. 

CVI. 

The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child, 
Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  in  mind 
A  wit  as  various, — gay,  grave,  sage,  or  wild, — 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher  combined  ; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind, 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents  :  but  his  own 
Breathed  most  in  ridicule, — which,  as  the  wind, 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone, — 

Now  to  o'erthrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake  a  throne. 

cvn. 

The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thought, 
And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year, 
In  meditation  dwelt,  with  learning  wrought, 
And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe, 
Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer : 
The  lord  of  irony, — that  master-spell, 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from  fear, 
And  doom'd  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  hell, 
Which  answers  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  well. 

CVIII. 

Yet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes, — for  by  them, 
If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid  ; 
It  is  not  ours  to  judge, — far  less  condemn  ; 
The  hour  must  come  when  sucli  things  shall  be  made 
Known  unto  all, — or  hope  and  dread  allay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow, — in  the  dust, 
Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  decay'd ; 
And  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
T  will  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is  just. 

CIX. 

But  let  me  quit  man's  works,  again  to  read 
His  Maker's  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 
And  I  must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whate'er 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region,  where 
The  earth  to  her  embrace  compels  the  power  of  air. 


CX. 

Italia  !  too, — Italia !  looking  on  thee, 
Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  age->, 
Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  the<> 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages, 
Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages  ; 
Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires ;  stiL, 
The  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quaffing  there  her  fill, 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  imperial  hit. 

CXI. 

Thus  far  I  have  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'd  with  no  kind  auspices  : — to  feel 
We  sre  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be, — and  to  steel 
The  heart  against  itself;  and  to  conceal, 
With  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught,-  - 
Passion  or  feeling,  purpose,  grief  or  zeal, — 
Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought ; 
Is  a  stern  task  of  soul : — No  matter, — it  is  taught. 

CXII. 

And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song, 
It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile, — 
The  colouring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along, 
Which  I  would  seize,  in  passing,  to  beguile 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth, — but  I  am  no* 
So  young  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or  smile, 
As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot ; 
I  stood  and  stand  alone, — remember'd  or  forgot. 

CXIII. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me ; 
I  have  not  flatter'd  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles, — nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo  ;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such  ;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them  ;   in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  ana  stiJ 

could, 
Had  I  not  filed  2*  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

CXIV. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me,— 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes  ;  I  do  believe 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things, — hopes  which  will  not  Of 

ceive, 

And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing :  I  would  also  deem 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve ;  *• 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem, — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream. 

cxv. 

My  daughter !  with  thy  name  this  song  begun — 
My  daughter !  with  thy  name  thus  much  shall  end 
I  see  thee  not, — I  hear  thee  not, — but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee  ;  thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  extend 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  shouldst  behold, 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blencl. 
And  reach  into  thy  heart, — when  mine  is  co.u, 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's  nicuid. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CXVI. 

To  aid  thy  mind's  developement, — to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  joys, — to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth, — to  view  thee  catch 
Knowledge  of  objects, — wonders  yet  to  thee  ! 
To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 
And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's  kiss, — 
This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  me  ; 
Yet  this  was  in  my  nature : — as  it  is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something  like  to  this. 

CXVII. 

Yet,  though  dull  hate  as  duty  should  be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me ;  though  my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell  still  fraught 
With  desolation, — and  a  broken  claim : 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  us,  't  were  the 

same — 

1  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me ;  though  to  drain 
My  blood  from  out  thy  being,  were  an  aim, 
And  an  attainment, — all  would  be  in  vain, — 
Still  thou  wouldst  love  me,  still  that  more  than  life  retain. 

CXVIII. 

The  child  of  love, — though  born  in  bitterness, 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.     Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements, — and  thine  no  less. 
As  yet  such  are  around  thee, — but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more  temper'd,  and  thy  hope  far  higher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers !  O'er  the  sea, 
And  from  the  mountains  where  I  now  respire, 
Fain  would  I  waft  such  blessing  upon  thee, 
As,  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou  might' st  have  been  to  me! 


CANTO  IV. 


Visto  ho  Toscana,  Lombardia,  Romagna, 
liuel  monte  chc  divide,  c  quel  die  scrra 
Italia,  e  un  mare  e  1'  altro,  che  la  bagna. 

AEIOSTO,  Satira  \u. 


TO 

JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ.  A.M.  F.R.S. 
etc.  etc.  etc. 

MY    DEAR   HOBHOCSE, 

AFTER  an -interval  of  eight  years  between  the  com- 
position of  the  first  and  last  cantos  of  Childe  Harold, 
the  conclusion  of  the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitted  to 
the  public.  In  parting  with  so  old  a  friend,  it  is  not  ex- 
traordinary that  I  should  recur  to  one  still  older  and 
better, — to  one  who  has  beheld  the  birth  and  death  of 
the  other,  and  to  whom  I  am  far  more  indebted  for  the 
social  advantages  of  an  enlightened  friendship,  thai 
though  not  ungrateful — I  can,  or  could  be,  to  Childe 
Harold,  for  any  public  favour  reflected  through  the 
poem  on  the  poet, — to  one,  whom  I  have  known  long, 
and  accompanied  far,  whom  I  have  tound  wakeful  over 
my  sickness,  and  kind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  in  my  pros- 
perity, and  firm  in  my  adversity,  true  in  counsel,  and 
trusiy  in  peril — to  a  friend  often  tried,  and  never  found 
wanting; — to  yourself. 

In  so  doing,  I  recur  from  fiction  to  truth,  and  in  dedi- 
cating to  vou  ir.  its  complete,  or  at  least  concluded 


state,  a  poetical  work  which  is  the  longest,  the  most 
thoughtful,  and  comprehensive  of  my  compositions,  J 
wish  to  do  honour  to  myself  by  the  record  of  manj 
years'  intimacy  with  a  man  of  learning,  of  talent,  «f 
steadiness,  and  of  honour.  It  is  not  for  minds  like  ours 
to  give  or  to  receive  flattery  ;  yet  -the  praises  of  sin 
cerity  have  ever  been  permitted  to  the  voice  of  friend- 
ship, and  it  is  not  for  you,  nor  even  for  others,  but  to 
relieve  a  heart  which  has  not  elsewhere,  or  lately,  been 
so  much  accustomed  to  the  encounter  of  good-will  as 
to  withstand  the  shock  firmly,  that  I  thus  attempt  to 
commemorate  your  good  qualities,  or  rather  the  ad- 
vantages which  I  have  derived  from  their  exertion. 
Even  the  recurrence  of  the  date  of  this  letter,  the  an- 
niversary of  the  most  unfortunate  day  of  my  past  ex- 
istence, but  which  cannot  poison  my  future,  while  1 
retain  the  resource  of  your  friendship,  and  of  my  owr. 
faculties,  will  henceforth  have  a  more  agreeable  recol- 
lection for  both,  inasmuch  as  it  will  remind  us  of  this 
my  attempt  to  thank  you  for  an  indefatigable  regard, 
such  as  few  men  have  experienced,  and  no  one  could" 
experience  without  thinking  better  of  his  species  and 
of  himself. 

It  has  been  our  fortune  to  traverse  together,  at  vari- 
ous periods,  the  countries  of  chivalry,  history,  and 
fable — Spain,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy :  and 
what  Athens  and  Constantinople  were  to  us  a  few  years 
ago,  Venice  and  Rome  have  been  more,  recently.  The 
poem  also,  or  the  pilgrim,  or  both,  have  accompanied 
me  from  first  to  last ;  and  perhaps  it  may  be  a  pardon- 
able vanity  which  induces  me  to  reflect  with  compla- 
cency on  a  composition  which  in  some  degree  connects 
me  with  the  spot  where  it  was  produced,  and  the  ob- 
jects it  would  fain  describe  ;  and  however  unworthy  il 
may  be  deemed  of  those  magical  and  memorable  abodes, 
however  short  it  may  fall  of  our  distant  conceptions 
and  immediate  impressions,  yet  as  a  mark  of  respec: 
for  what  is  venerable,  and  a  feeling  for  what  is  glorious, 
it  has  been  to  me  a  source  of  pleasure  in  the  produc- 
tion, and  I  part  with  it  with  a  kind  of  regret,  which  I 
hardly  suspected  that  events  could  have  left  me  for 
imaginary  objects. 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there 
will  be  found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the 
preceding,  and  that  little  slightly,  if  at  all,  separated 
from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own  person.  The  fact 
is,  that  I  had  become  weary  of  drawing  a  line  which 
every  one  seemed  determined  not  to  perceive  :  like  the 
Chinese  in  Goldsmith's  "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  whom 
nobody  would  believe  to  be  a  Chinese,  it  was  in  vain 
that  I  asserted,  and  imagined,  that  I  had  drawn  a  dis- 
tinction between  the  author  and  the  pilgrim  ;  and  the 
very  anxiety  to  preserve  this  difference,  and  disap- 
pointment at  finding  it  unavailing,  so  far  crushed  my 
efforts  in  the  composition,  that  I  determined  to  abandon 
it  altogether — and  have  done  so.  The  opinions  which 
have  been,  or  may  be,  formed  on  that  subject,  are  now 
a  matter  of  indifference  ;  the  work  is  to  depend  on  it- 
self, and  not  on  the  writer  ;  and  the  author,  who  has  no 
resources  in  his  own  mind  beyond  the  reputation,  tran- 
sient or  permanent,  which  is  to  arise  from  his  literary 
efforts,  deserves  the  fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my  inten- 
tion, either  in  the  text  or  in  the  not»s«,  to  have  touched 
upon  the  present  state  of  Italian  uteraUiie,  <»od  p^-hatw 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


of  manners.  But  the  text,  within  the  limits  I  proposed, 
I  soon  found  hardly  sufficient  for  the  labyrinth  of  ex- 
ternal objects  and  the  consequent  reflections ;  and  for 
the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting  a  few  of  the  shortest, 
I  am  indebted  to  yourself,  and  these  were  necessarily 
limited  to  the  elucidation  of  the  text. 

It  is  also  a  delicate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to 
disseit  upon  the  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so 
dissimilar  ;  and  requires  an  attention  and  impartiality 
which  would  induce  us, — though  perhaps  no  inatten- 
tive observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the  language  or  customs 
of  the  people  amongst  whom  we  have  recently  abode, 
—to  distrust,  or  at  least  defer  our  judgment,  and  more 
larrowly  examine  our  information.  The  state  of  lite- 
•ary,  as  well  as  political  party,  appears  to  run,  or  to 
have  run,  so  high,  that  for  a  stranger  to  steer  impar- 
tially between  them  is  next  to  impossible.  It  may  be 
enough,  then,  at  least  for  my  purpose,  to  quote  from 
»heir  own  beautiful  language — "Mi  pare  che  in  un 
Baese  tutto  poetico,  che  vanta  la  lingua  la  piu  nobile  ed 
•nsieme  la  piu  dolce,  tutte  tutte  le  vie  diverse  si  possono 
tentare,  e  che  sinche  la  patria  di  Alfieri  e  di  Monti  non 
na  perduto  1'antico  valore,  in  tutte-  essa  dovrebbe  essere 
•a  prima."  Italy  has  great  names  still — Canova,  Monti, 
UgoFoscolo,  Pindemonti,  Visconti,  Morelli,  Cicognara, 
A.lbrizzi,  Nezzofanti,  Mai,  Mustoxidi,  Aglietti,  and 
Vacca,  will  secure  to  the  present  generation  an  hon- 
ourable place  in  most  of  the  departments  of  art,  sci- 
ence, and  belles-lettres ;  and  in  some  the  very  highest ; 
— Europe — the  world — has  but  one  Canova, 

It  has  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfieri,  that  "La 
oianta  uomo  nasce  piu  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qualun- 
que  altra  terra — e  che  gli  stessi  atroci  delitti  che  vi  si 
commettono  ne  sono  una  prova."  Without  subscribing 
to  the  latter  part  of  his  proposition,  a  dangerous  doc- 
trine, the  truth  of  which  may  be  disputed  on  better 
grounds,  namely,  that  the  Italians  are  in  no  respect 
more  ferocious  than  their  neighbours,  that  man  must 
be  wilfully  blind,  or  ignorantly  heedless,  who  is  not 
struck  with  the  extraordinary  capacity  of  this  people, 
or,  if  such  a  word  be  admissible,  their  capabilities, 
the  facility  of  their  acquisitions,  the  rapidity  of  their 
tonceptions,  the  fire  of  their  genius,  their  sense  of 
beauty,  and,  amidst  all  the  disadvantages  of  repeated 
revolutions,  the  desolation  of  battles,  and  the  despair 
of  ages,  their  still  unquenched  "  longing  after  immor- 
tality,"— the  immortality  of  independence.  And  when 
we  ourselves,  in  riding  round  the  walls  of  Rome,  heard 
the  simple  lament  of  the  labourers'  chorus,  "  Roma ! 
Roma !  Roma !  Roma  non  e  piu  come  era  prima,"  it 
was  difficult  not  to  contrast  this  melancholy  dirge  with 
the  bacchanal  roar  of  the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled 
from  the  London  taverns,  over  the  carnage  of  Mont  St. 
Jean,  and  the  betrayal  of  Genoa,  of  Italy,  of  France, 
and  of  the  world,  by  me.n  whose  conduct  you  yourself 
bave  exposed  in  a  work  worthy  of  the  better  days  of 
our  history.  For  me, 

"  Non  movero  mai  corda 

Ove  la  turba  di  sue  ciance  assorda." 

What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  late  transfer  of  nations, 
it  were  useless  for  Englishmen  to  inquire,  till  it  becomes 
ascertained  that  England  has  acquired  something  more 
than  a  permanent  army  and  a  suspended  Hubeas  Cor- 
pus ;  it  is  enough  for  them  to  look  at  home.  For  what 
thuv  have  done  abroad,  and  especially  in  the  South, 
K 


verily  they  will  haie  their  reward,"  and  at  no  very 
distant  period. 

Wishing  you,  my  dear  Hobhouse,  a  safe  and  ajre  v 
able  return  to  that  country  whose  real  welfare  cai.  be 
dearer  to  none  than  to  yourself,  I  dedicate  to  you  thu 
poem  in  its  completed  state ;  and  repeat  once  more  bow 
truly  I  am  ever 

Your  obliged 

And  affectionate  friend, 

BYRON 

Venice,  January  2,  1818. 


I. 

I  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; ' 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand  : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand  : 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred 


isles ! 


II. 


She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean,  a 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers : 
And  such  she  was ; — her  daughters  had  their  dowert 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  Eas, 
Pour'd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers  : 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deem'd  their  dignity  increased 

III. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more,* 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier ; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear  : 
Those  days  are  gone — but  beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade — but  Nature  doth  not  die : 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy ! 

IV. 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despona 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanish'd  sway ; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto ;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !  though  all  were  o'ei, 
For  us  re-peopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay ; 
Essentially  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence :  that  which  la»o 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied 
First  exiles,  then  replaces  wh.it  we  hate ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flow  ers  have  cbnt. 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  TOK!. 


70 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


VI. 

Such  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age, 
The  first  from  hope,  the  last  from  vacancy ; 
And  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  page, 
And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  beneath  mine  eye : 
Yet  there  are  things  whose  strong  reality 
Outshines  our  fairy-land  ;  in  shape  and  hues 
More  beautiful  than  our  fantastic  sky, 
And  the  strange  constellations  which  the  muse 
O'er  her  wild  universe  is  skilful  to  diffuse  : 

VII. 

I  saw  or  dream'd  of  such, — but  let  them  go— 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappear'd  like  dreams ; 
And  whatsoe'er  they  were — are  now  but  so : 
I  could  replace  them  if  I  would,  still  teems 
My  mind  with  many  a  form  which  aptly  seems 
Such  as  I  sought  for,  and  at  moments  found ; 
Let  these  too  go — for  waking  reason  deems 
Such  overweening  phantasies  unsound, 
And  other  voices  speak,  and  other  sights  surround. 

VIII. 

I  Ve  taught  me  other  tongues — and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger ;  to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise  ; 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,  nor  hard  to  find 
A  country  with — ay,  or  without  mankind ; 
Yet  was  I  born  where  men  are  proud  to  be, 
Not  without  cause  ;  and  should  I  leave  behind 
The  invioiate  island  of  the  sage  and  free, 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea? 

IX. 

Perhaps  1  ioved  it  well :  and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine, 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it — if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.     I  twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remember'd  in  my  line 
With  my  land's  language :  if  too  fond  and  far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline, — 
If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are, 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  oblivion  bar 

X. 

My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honour'd  by  the  nations — let  it  be — 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head ! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me — 
"  Sparta  hath  many  a  worthier  son  than  he."  * 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need  ; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reap'd  are  of  the  tree 
I  planted ; — they  have  torn  me, — and  I  bleed : 

[  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  from  such 
a  seed. 

XL 

The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord : 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renew'd, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood ! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood  * 
Stand,  uut  in  mockery  of  his  wither'd  power, 
Over  tne  proud  Place  where  an  emperor  sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 

Wliun  Venire  was  a  queen  with  an  unequall'd  dower. 


XII. 

The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reign 
An  emperor  tramples  where  an  emperor  knelt  , 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities;  nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  fey 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosen'd  from  the  mountain's  belt  ; 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo  !  T 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  fo» 

XIII. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun  ; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass  ?  ' 
Are  they  not  bridled  1  —  Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose  ! 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 

XIV. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory,  —  a  new  Tyre,  — 
Her  very  by-word  sprung  from  victory, 
The  "  Planter  of  the  Lion,"  '  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea  ; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free. 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite  ; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia!  Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight  ! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 

XV. 

Statues  of  glass  —  all  shiver'd  —  the  long  Pie 
Of  her  dead  doges  are  declined  to  dusf  , 
But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pilt 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust  ; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger  :  empty  halls, 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals,  10 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls. 

XVI. 

When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fetter'd  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemplion  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse,  " 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar  : 
See  !  as  they  chanl  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  the  o'ermaster'd  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands  —  his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  its  belt  —  he  rends  his  captive's  chains, 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and  his 


XVII. 

Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine, 
Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot, 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  bard  divine, 
Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  hare  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants  ;   and  thy  lot 
la  shameful  to  the  nations,  —  most  of  all, 
Albion  !  to  thee  :  the  ocean  quef  n  should  not 
Abandon  ocean's  children  ;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despi'e  thy  watery  w*H 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


71 


XVIII. 

I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood — she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart ; 
And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art," 
Had  stamped  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 

XIX. 

I  can  repeople  with  the  past — and  of 
The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought, 
And  meditation  chasten'd  down,  enough ! 
And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or  sought : 
And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 
Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 
From  thee,  fair  Venice !  have  their  colours  caught : 
There  are  some  feelings  time  cannot  benumb, 
Nor  torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and  dumb. 

XX. 

But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow  ll 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  shelter'd  rocks, 
Rooted  in  barrenness,  where  nought  below 
Of  soil  supports  them  'gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
Of  eddying  storms  ;  yet  springs  the  trunk,  and  mocks 
The  howling  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Are  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose  blocks 
Of  bleak,  gray  granite,  into  life  it  came, 
And  grew  a  giant  tree ; — the  mind  may  grow  the  same. 

XXI. 

Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sufferance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms :  mute 
The  camel  labours  with  the  heaviest  load, 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence, — not  bestow'd 
In  vain  should  such  example  be  ;  if  they, 
Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood, 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear, — it  is  but  for  a  day. 

XXII. 

AH  suffering  doth  destroy,  or  is  destroy'd, 
Even  by  the  sufferer  ;  and,  in  each  event 
Ends : — some,  with  hope  replenish'd  and  rebuoy'd, 
Return  to  whence  they  came — with  like  intent, 
And  weave  their  web  again  ;  some,  bow'd  and  bent 
Wax  gray  and  ghastly,  withering  ere  their  time, 
And  perish  with  the  reed  on  which  they  leant ; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  crime, 
According  as  their  souls  were  form'd  to  sink  or  climb : 

XXIII. 

But  ever  and  anon  of  grief  subdued 
There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting, 
Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued ; 
And  slight  withal  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  for  »ver:  it  may  be  a  sound — 
A  tone  of  music, — summer's  eve — or  spring, 
A  flower — the,  wind — th»  ocean — which  shall  wound, 
Striking  the  eiectnc  chain  wherewith  we  are  quickly 
bound  ; 


XXIV. 

And  how  and  why  we  know  not,  nor  can  trace 

Home  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind, 

But  feel  the  shock  renew'd,  nor  can  efface 

The  blight  and  blackening  which  it  leaves  behind, 

Which  out  of  things  familiar,  undesign'd, 

When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to  ><ew 

The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind, 

The  cold — the  changed — perchance  the  dead — anew 

The  mourn'd,  the  loved,  the  lost — too  many !  yet  bow 
few! 

XXV. 

But  my  soul  wanders  ;  I  demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  and  stand 
A  ruin  amidst  ruins  ;  there  to  track 
Fallen  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  was  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The  master-mould  of  nature's  heavenly  hand, 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free, 

The  beautiful,  the  brave — the  lords  of  earth  and  sea, 

XXVI. 

The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of  Rome ! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy  ! 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  art  yields,  and  nature  can  decree ; 
Even  in  thy  desert,  what  b  like  to  thee  ? 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 
More  rich  than  other  climes'  fertility ; 
Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  cannot  be  defaced. 

xxvn. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night — 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains  ;  heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colours  seems  to  b« 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  west, 
Where  the  day  joins  the  past  eternity  ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest  j 

XXVIII. 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ;  but  stifl  ' 
Ton  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Roll'd  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhcetian  hill, 
As  day  and  night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaim'd  her  order: — gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-born  rose, 

Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  with*  ft 
glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill'd  with  the  fade  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters  ;  all  ilt.  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star. 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse : 
And  now  they  change ;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains ;  parting  dav 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  colour  as  it  gasps  away, 

The  last  still  loveliest,  till— -'t  is  gone — and  &il  is  f»» 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XXX. 

'Fhe.e  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua ; — rear'd  in  air, 
Pillar'd  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bunes  of  Laura's  lover ;  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes, 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes : 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name '  * 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

XXXI. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died ;  '* 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years ;  and  'tis  their  pride — 
An  honest  pride — and  let  it  be  their  praise, 
To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre  ;  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
'lhan  if  a  pyramid  form'd  his  monumental  fane 

xxxn. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
iTor  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 
And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decay'd 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  display'd, 
For  they  can  lure  no  further ;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday. 

xxxni. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  flowers, 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-by, 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
T  is  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers  ;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid ;  alone — man  with  his  God  must  strive. 

XXXIV. 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  "  who  impair 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  their  prey 
in  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 
Of  moody  texture  from  their  earliest  day, 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay,. 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Which  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away ; 
Making  the  sun  like  blood,  the  earth  a  tomb, 
rfce  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  gloom. 

XXXV. 

f  errara !  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets, 
Whose  symmetry  was  not  for  solitude, 
There  seems  as  't  were  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  thy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tyraiA,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impell'd,  of  those  who  wore 
Fhe  we<«'h  winch  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn  before. 


XXXVI. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame. 
Hark  to  his  strain !  and  then  survey  his  cell ! 
And  see  how  dearly  earn'd  Torquato's  fame, 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell : 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 
The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and  blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.     Glory  without  end 
Scatter'd  the  clouds  away — and  on  that  name  attend 

XXXVII. 

The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time ;  while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion — in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust,  which  from  thy  boasted  line 
Is  shaken  into  nothing ;  but  the  link  , 

Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn — 
Alfonso !    how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 
From  thee !  if  in  another  station  born, 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  him  thou  mad'st  to  mourn. 

XXXVIII. 

Thou  !  form'd  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die, 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty : 
He  !  with  a  glory  round  his  furrow'd  brow, 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire, 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow  1S 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking  lyre, 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth — monotony  in  wire . 

XXXIX. 

Peace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade  !  'twas  his 

In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 

Aim'd  with  her  poison'd  arrows ;  but  to  miss. 

Oh,  victor  unsurpass'd  in  modern  song ! 

Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions ;  but  how  long 

The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on, 

And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 

Compose  a  mind  like  thine !  though  all  in  one 

Condensed  their  scatter'd  rays,  they  would  not  form  a 
sun. 

XL. 

Great  as  thou  art,  yet  parallel'd  by  those, 
Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  bom  to  shine, 
The  bards  of  hell  and  chivalry :  first  rose 
The  Tuscan  father's  Comedy  Divine ; 
Then,  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott,  the  minstrel  who  call'd  forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  magic  line, ' 
And,  like  the  Ariosto  of  the  north, 

Sang  ladye-love  and  war,  romance  and  knightly  wort> . 

XLI. 

The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust " 
The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimick'd  leaves ; 
Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust, 
For  the  tme  laurel-wreath  which  glory  weaves ta 
Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves, 
And  the  false  semblance  but  disgraced  his  brow ; 
Yet  still,  if  fondly  superstition  grieves, 
Know  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below  ai 
Whate'er  it  strikes ; — yon  head  is  doubly  sacred  now. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILQRIMAGE. 


XLII. 

Italia!  ohltana!  thou  who  hast" 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past, 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough'd  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
Oh  God !  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back  who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress ; 

XLIII. 

Then  might'st  thou  more  appal ;  or,  less  desired, 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms ;  then,  still  untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 
Down  the  deep  Alps ;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nation'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  blood  and  water  ;  nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapo  i  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquish'd,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him,21 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least  mortal  mind, 
The  friend  of  Tully :  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a  fanning  wind, 
Came  Megara  before  me,  and  behind 
JEgma.  lay,  Piraeus  on  the  right, 
And  Corinth  on  the  left ;  I  lay  reclined 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
[  a  ruin,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight ; 

XLV. 

For  time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  uprear'd 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shatter'd  site, 
Which  only  make  more  mourn'd  and  more  endear'd 
The  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scatter'd  light, 
And  the  crush'd  relics  of  their  vanish'd  might. 
The  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age, 
These  sepulchres  of  cities,  which  excite 
Sad  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  page 
The  moral  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage. 

XLVI. 

Th<«.  page  is  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
His  country's  ruin  added  to  the  mass 
Of  perish'd  states  he  mourn'd  in  their  decline, 
And  I  in  desolation :   all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  is;  and  DOW,  alas! 
Rome — Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the  storm, 
In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titantic  form,24 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  are  warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet,  Italy  !  through  every  other  land 
Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side 
Mother  of  arts!  as  once  of  arms  ;  thy  hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide ; 
Piu'ent  of  our  religion !  whom  the  wide 
Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven! 
Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide, 
Shill  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven, 
Rwl  Jie  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 
K  2  15 


XLVIII. 

But  Arno  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls, 
Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 
Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and  plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 
Was  modern  luxury  of  commerce  born, 
And  buried  learning  rose,  redeem'd  to  a  new  morn. 

XLIX. 

There,  too,  the  goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills" 
The  air  around  with  beauty  ;  we  inhale 
The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instils 
Part  of  its  immortality  ;  the  veil 
Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn  ;  within  the  pale 
We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold 
What  mind  can  make,  when  nature's  self  would  fax, 
And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old  , 

Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a  soul  could  moulJ . 

L. 

We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  know  not  where, 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart 
Reels  with  its  fulness  ;  there — for  ever  there — 
Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  triumphal  art,  / 

We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart. 
Away ! — there  need  no  words,  nor  terms  precise, 
The  paltry  jargon  of  the  marble  mart, 
Where  pedantry  gulls  folly — we  have  eyes: 

Blood — pulse — and  breast,  confirm  the  Dardan  sliej* 
herd's  prize. 

LI. 

Appear'dst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise  ? 
Or  to  more  deeply  blest  Anehises?  or, 
In  all  thy  perfect  goddess-ship,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  vanquish'd  lord  of  war? 
And  gazing  in  thy  face  as  toward  a  star, 
Laid  on  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn, 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  cheek !  26  while  thy  lips  are 
With  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  burn, 

Showcr'd  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  and  mouth,  as  from  an 
urn? 

Ln. 

Glowing,  and  circumfused  in  speechless  lore, 
Their  full  divinity  inadequate 
That  feeling  to  express,  or  to  improve, 
The  gods  become  as  mortals,  and  man's  fate 
Has  moments  like  their  brightest ;  but  the  weight 
Of  earth  recoils  upon  us ; — let  it  go! 
We  can  recall  such  visions,  and  create, 
From  what  has  been  or  might  be,  things  which  JK>W 
Into  thy  statue's  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 

LIII. 

I  leave  to  learned  fingers,  and  wise  hands, 
The  artist  and  his  ape,  to  teach  and  tell 
How  well  his  ccnnoisseurship  understands 
The  graceful  bend,  and  the  voluptuous  swell 
Let  these  describe  the  undescribable : 
I  would  not  their  vile  breath  should  cnsp  the  utrua-u 
Wherein  that  image  shall  for  ever  dwell ; 
The  unruffled  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 
That  ever  left  the" sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LIV. 

In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie2' 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this, 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos  : — here  repose 
Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,28  and  his, 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes ; 
(lore  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence  it  rose.29 

LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 

Might  furnish  forth  creation : — Italy ! 

Time,  which  hath  wrong'd  thee  with  ten  thousand 

rents 

Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny, 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin : — thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  wiih  divinity, 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray ; 
Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 

LVI. 

But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three — 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit !  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love — where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguish'd  from  our  common  clay 
In  death  as  life  ?  Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  nought  to  say  ? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust  ? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  entrust? 

LVH. 

Ungrateful  Florence !  Dante  sleeps  afar,30 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore;31 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages ;  and  the  crown  3I 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown, 

Ills  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled — not  thine 
own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio  to  his  pa  ont  earth  bequeath'd  " 
His  dust, — and  lies  it  not  her  great  among, 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O'er  him  who  form'd  the  Tuscan's  siren  tongue? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song, 
The  poetry  of  speech  ?  No  ; — even  his  tomb 
UpC  -rn,  must  bear  the  hymtia  bigot's  wrong, 
No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 

f\or  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  whom  ! 

LIX. 

And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust; 
Ve»  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Oajsar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus'  bust, 
Did  but  of  Rome's  best  son  remind  her  more : 
Happier  Ravenna !  on  thy  hoary  shore, 
Fortress  of  falling  empire !  honour'd  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile  ; — Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  oroudly  claims  and  keeps, 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banish'd  dead  and  weeps. 


LX. 

What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones '/  '* 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  encrust  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes  ?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  dead, 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  muse, 
Are  gently  prest  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely  head 

LXI. 

There  be  more  things  to  greet  the  heart  and  eyes 
In  Arno's  dome  of  art's  most  princely  shrine, 
Where  sculpture  with  her  rainbow  sister  vies  ; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet — but  not  for  mine  ; 
For  I  have  been  accustom'd  to  entwine 
My  thoughts  with  nature  rather  in  the  fields, 
Than  art  in  galleries :   though  a  work  divine 
Calls  for  my  spirit's  homage,  yet  it  yields 
Less  than  it  feels,  because  the  weapon  which  it  wields 

LXII. 

Is  of  another  temper,  and  I  roam 
By  Thrasimene's  lake,  in  the  defiles 
Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home  ; 
For  there  the  Carthaginian's  warlike  wiles 
Come  back  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 
The  host  between  the  mountains  and  the  shore, 
Where  courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files, 
And  torrents,  swoln  to  rivers  with  their  gore, 
Reek  through  the  sultry  plain,  with  legions  scattcr'd  o'er 

LXI1I. 

Like  to  a  forest  fell'd  by  mountain  winds ; 
And  such  the  storm  of  battle  on  this  day, 
And  such  the  phrenzy,  whose  convulsion  blinds 
To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray 
An  earthquake  reel'd  unheededly  away !  " 
None  felt  stern  nature  rocking  at  his  feet, 
And  vawning  forth  a  grave  for  those  who  lay 
Upon  their  bucklers  for  a  winding-sheet ; 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  warring  nations  meet '. 

LXIV 

The  earth  to  them  was  as  a  rolling  bark 

Which  bore  them  to  eternity  ;  they  saw 

The  ocean  round,  but  had  no  time  to  mark 

The  motions  of  their  vessels  ;  nature's  law 

In  them  suspended,  reck'd  not  of  the  awe 

Which  reigns  when  mountains  tremble,  and  the  birds 

Plunge  in  the  clouds  for  refuge,  and  withdraw 

From  their  down-toppling  nests  ;  asJ  bellowing  herds 

Stumble  o'er  heaving  plains,  and  man's  dread  hath  no 
words. 

LXV 

Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now ; 
Her  lake  a  sheet  of  silver,  and  her  plain 
Rent  by  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough ; 
Her  aged  trees  rise  thick  as  once  the  slain 
Lay  where  their  roots  are  ;  but  a  brook  hath  ta'eo— 
A  little  rill  of  scanty  stream  and  bed — 
A  name  of  blood  from  that  day's  sanguine  rain ; 
And  Sanguinettr,  tells  ye  where  the  dead 

Made  the  earth  ^vet,  <»d  turn'd  the  ur  wUing  waters  red. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


LXVI. 

But  thou,  Clitumnus  !  in  thy  sweetest  wave  " 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e'er 
The  haunt  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes  ;  the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters ! 
And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear ; 
Surely  that  stream  was  unprofaned  by  slaughters — 
>  mirror  and  a  bath  for  beauty's  youngest  daughters ! 

LXVII. 

And  on  thy  happy  shore  a  temple  sti!!, 
Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps, 
Upon  a  mild  declivity  of  hill, 
Its  memory  of  thee  ;  beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current's  calmness ;  oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales, 
Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps ; 
While,  chance,  some  scatter'd  water-lily  sails 
Lown  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bubbling 
tales. 

Lxvni. 

Pass  not  unblest  the  genius  of  the  place ! 
If  through  the  air  a  zephyr  more  serene 
Win  to  the  brow,  't  is  his  ;  and  if  ye  trace 
Along  his  margin  a  more  eloquent  green, 
If  on  the  heart  the  freshness  of  the  scene 
Sprinkle  its  coolness,  and  from  the  dry  dust 
U.  weary  life  a  moment  lave  it  clean 
With  Nature's  baptism, — 't  is  to  him  ye  must 
Pay  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust. 

LXIX. 

The  roar  of  waters! — from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice  ; 
The  fall  of  waters !  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss  ; 
The  hell  of  waters  !  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture  ;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlcgethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

LXX. 

And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round, 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  ihe  ground, 
Making  it  all  one  emerald : — how  profound 
The  gulf!  and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound, 
Crushing  the  cliffs,  which,  downward  worn  and  rent 
vVith  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful  vent 

LXXI. 

I'o  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 
Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 
Of  a  new  world,  than  cnly  thus  to  be 
Parent  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly, 
With  many  windings,  through  the  vale  : — look  back! 
Lo!   \vhereitcomes  like  an  eternity, 
As  if  to  sweep  down  ail  things  in  its  track, 
r>arn""<r  the  eye  with  dread, — a  matchless  cataract," 


LXXII. 

Horribly  beautiful !  but  on  the  verge, 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn, 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge, "" 
Like  hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  boars  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn : 
Resembling,  'mid  the  torture  of  the  scene, 
Love  watching  madness  with  unalterable  mien. 

Lxxm. 

Once  more  upon  the  woody  Apennine, 
The  infant  Alps,  which — had  I  not  before 
Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the  pine 
Sits  on  more  shaggy  summits,  and  where  roar 
The  thundering  lauwine*9 — might  be  worshipp'd 

more; 

But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  Jungfrau  rear 
Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 
Glaciers  of  bleak  Mont-Blanc  both  far  and  near, 
And  in  Chimari  heard  the  thunder-hills  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th'  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  old  name  ; 
And  on  Parnassus  seen  the  eagles  fly 
Like  spirits  of  the  spot,  as 't  were  for  fame, 
For  still  they  soar'd  unutterably  high : 
I  've  look'd  on  Ida  with  a  Trojan's  eye ; 
Athos,  Olympus,  ./Etna,  Atlas,  made 
These  hills  seem  things  of  lesser  dignity, 
All,  save  the  lone  Soracte's  height,  display'd 
Not  now  in  snow,  which  asks  the  lyric  Roman'*  itid 

LXXV. 

For  our  remembrance,  and  from  out  the  plain 
Heaves  like  a  long-swept  wave  about  to  break, 
And  on  the  curl  hangs  pausing :  not  in  vain 
May  he,  who  will,  his  recollections  rake 
And  quote  in  classic  raptures,  and  awake 
The  hills  with  Latian  echoes  ;  I  abhorr'd 
Too  much,  to  conquer  for  the  poet's  sake, 
The  drill'd  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  by  wonl  ** 
In  my  repugnant  youth,  with  pleasure  to  record 

LXXVI. 

Aught  that  recalls  the  daily  drug  which  turn'd 
My  sickening  memory ;  and,  though  time  hath  tanj.'h' 
My  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  Icarn'd, 
Yet  such  the  fix'd  inveteracy  wrought 
By  the  impatience  of  my  early  thought, 
That,  with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 
My  mind  could  relish  what  it  might  have  sough), 
If  free  to  choose,  I  cannot  now  restore 
Its  health ;  but  what  it  then  detested,  still  abhor. 

LXXVH. 

Then  farewell,  Horace ;  whom  I  hated  so, 
Not  for  thy  faults,  but  mine  ;  it  is  a  curse 
To  understand,  not  feel  thy  lyric  flow 
To  comprehend,  but  never  love  thy  verse, 
Although  no  deeper  moralist  rehearse 
Our  little  life,  nor  bard  prescribe  his  an. 
Nor  livelier  satirist  the  conscience  pierce, 
Awakening  without  wounding  thu  touch'd  lieait, 
Yet  fare  tliec  well — upon  Soracte'f  ridge  we  nail 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LXXVIII. 

Oh  Rome !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
I/we  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
Ir  fheir  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  oui  woes  and  sufferance  ?  Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  uirones  and  temples,  ye ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

LXXIX. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe; 
An  empty  um  within  her  wither'd  hands, 
Whose  hcly  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ;  4I 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers  :  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
R.se,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress  ! 

LXXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  time,  war,  flood,  and  fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hill'd  city's  pride  j 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  capitol ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site : — 
Chaos  of  ruins  !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  "  here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night? 

LXXXI. 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter,  ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us  ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 
And  knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections ;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  "Eureka!"  it  is  clear — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas  !  the  lofty  city !  and  alas ! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs !  42  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away ! 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page ! — but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection ;  all  beside — decay. 
Was,  for  earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 

That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was 
free ! 

LXXXIII. 

Oh  thou,  whose  chariot  roll'd  on  fortune's  wheel,  ** 
Triumphant  Sylla !  thou  who  didst  subdue 
Fliy  country's  foes  ere  thou  would  pause  to  feel 
The  wrath  of  thy  own  wrongs,  or  reap  the  due 
•  >f  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O'er  orostrate  Asia; — thou,  who  with  thy  frown 
Annihilated  senates — Roman,  too. 
With  all  thy  vices,  for  thou  didst  lay  down 

With  »n  signing  smi'e  a  more  than  earth.y  crown — 


LXXXIV. 

The  dictatorial  wreath, — couldst  thou  divine 
To  what  would  one  day  dwindle  that  which  mode 
Thee  more  than  mortal  ?  and  that  so  supine 
By  aught  than  Romans  Rome  should  thus  be  laid  7 
She  who  was  named  eternal,  and  array'd 
Her  warriors  but  to  conquer — she  who  veil'J 
Earth  with  her  haughty  shadow,  and  display'd, 
Until  the  o'er-canopied  horizon  fail'd, 
Her  rushing  wings — Oh  !  she  who  was  almighty  hail'd! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla  was  first  of  victors  ;  but  our  own 
The  sagest  of  usurpers,  Cromwell ;  he 
Too  swept  off  senates  while  he  hew'd  (he  throne 
Down  to  a  block — immortal  rebel !    See 
What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a  moment  free 
And  famous  through  all  ages  !  but  beneath 
His  fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny ; 
His  day  of  double  victory  and  death 
Beheld  him  win  two  realms,  and,  happier,  yield  hi* 
breath. 

LXXXVI. 

The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former  course 
Had  all  but  crown'd  him,  on  the  selfsame  day 
Deposed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force, 
And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay.  ** 
And  show'd  not  fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway, 
And  all  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous  way, 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb  ? 
Were  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  different  were  his  doc  n1 

Lxxxvn. 

And  thou,  dread  statue  !  yet  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty,45 
Thou  who  beheldest,  'mid  the  assassins'  din, 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Csesar  lie, 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity, 
An  offering  to  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of  gods  and  men,  great  Nemesis  ?  did  he  die, 
And  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey  ?  have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a  scene  ? 

Lxxxvin. 

And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome!  *• 
She-wolf!   whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  within  the  dome 
Where,  as  a  monument  of  antique  art, 
Thou  standest: — mother  of  the  mighty  heart, 
Which  the  great  founder  suck'd  from  thy  wild  teat, 
Scorch'd  by  the  Roman  Jove's  ethereal  dart, 
And  thy  Imbs  black  with  lightning — dost  thou  yet 
Guard  thine  immortal  cubs,  nor  thy  fond  charge  forgtlT 

LXXXIX. 

Thou  dost ; — but  all  thy  foster-babes  are  dead — 
The  men  of  iron  ;  and  the  world  hath  rear'd 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres  :  men  bled 
In  imitation  of  the  things  they  fear'd. 
And  fought  and  conquer'!],  and  the  same  course  steer' d 
At  apish  distance  ;  but  as  yet  none  have, 
Nor  could,  the  same  supremacy  have  near'd. 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave, 
But,  vanquish'd  by  himself,  to  his  own  slaves  a  slave- 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


77 


xc. 

Fhe  fool  of  false  dominion — and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  Caesar,  following  him  of  old 
With  steps  unequal ;  for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modell'd  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould,4' 
With  passions  fiercer,  yet  a  judgment  cold, 
And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeem'd 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold ; 
Alcides  with  the  distaff  now  he  seem'd 
At  Cleopatra's  feet, — and  now  himself  he  bcam'd, 

XCI. 

And  rame — and  saw — and  conquer'd !  But  the  man 
Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to  flee, 
Like  a  train'd  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van, 
Which  he,  in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory, 
With  a  deaf  heart  which  never  seem'd  to  be 
A  listener  to  itself,  was  strangely  framed ; 
With  but  one  weakest  weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish  in  ambition — si  ill  he  aim'd — 
At  what :  can  he  avouch— or  answer  what  he  claim'd  ? 

XCII. 

And  would  be  all  or  nothing — nor  could  wait 
For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him ;  few  years 
Had  fix'd  him  with  the  Caesars  in  his  fate, 
On  whom  we  tread  :  for  this  the  conqueror  rears 
The  arch  of  triumph !  and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  have  flow'd, 
A  universal  deluge,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
An3  ebbs  but  to  reflow  ! — Renew  thy  rainbow,  God ! 

XCIII. 

What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap  ? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail,48 
Life  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the  deep, 
And  all  things  weigh'd  in  custom's  falsest  scale ; 
Opinion  and  omnipotence, — whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
And  wrong  are  accidents,  and  men  grow  pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become  too  bright, 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth  have  too 
much  light. 

xcrv. 

And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery, 
Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age, 
Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  so  die, 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rage 
To  the  new  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wage 
War  for  their  chains,  and,  rather  than  be  free, 
Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  arena  where  they  see 
fheir  fellows  fall  before,  like  leaves  of  the  same  tree. 

xcv. 

I  speak  not  of  men's  creeds  -they  rest  between 
Man  and  his  Maker — but  ol  things  allow'd, 
Averr'd,  and  known, — and  daily,  hourly  seen,— 
The  yoke  that  is  upon  us  doubly  bow'd, 
And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avow'd, 
The  edict  of  earth's  rulers,  who  are  grown 
The  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  the  proud, 
And  shook  them  from  their  slumbers  on  the  throne ; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  his  mighty  arm  had  done. 


XCVI. 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquer'd  be, 
And  freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  arm'd  and  undefiled  ? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourish'd  in  the  wild, 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  'midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infant  Washington  ?  Has  earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe  no  such  shore? 

XCVII. 

But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime  ; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen, 
And  vile  ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall, 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene, 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 

Which  nips  life's  tree,  and  dooms  man's  worst — !>n 
second  fall. 

XCVIII. 

Yet,  freedom !  yet  thy  banner,  torn,  but  flying, 
Streams  like  the  thunder-storm  against  the  wind : 
Thy  trumpet  voice,  though  broken  now  and  dying 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind  ; 
Thy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind, 
Chopp'd  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little  worth, 
But  the  sap  lasts, — and  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  north  ; 

So  shall  a  better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring  forth. 

XCIX. 

There  is  a  stern  round  tower  of  other  days,4* 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone, 
Such  as  an  army's  baffled  strength  delays, 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 
And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 
The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave 
The  green  leaves  over  all  by  time  o'erthrown ; — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strength?  within  its  cave 
What  treasure  lay  so  lock'd,  so  hid  ? — A  woman's  gra\  e 

C. 

But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 
Tomb'd  in  a  palace?  Was  she  chaste  and  fair? 
Worthy  a  king's— or  more — a  Roman's  bed  ? 
What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear  ? 
What  daughter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heir  ? 
How  lived — how  loved— rhow  died  she  ?  Was  she  rid 
So  honour'd — and  conspicuously  there, 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot, 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal  lot  ? 

CL 

Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or  they 
Who  love  the  lords  of  others  ?  such  have  been, 
Even  in  die  olden  time,  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien, 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen, 
Profuse  of  joy — or  'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inveterate  in  virtue  ?  Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 
Love  from  amongst  her  griefs  1 — for  such  the 
are. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


en. 

Perclaac'.  she  /Jiea  in  youth :  it  may  be,  bow'd 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  ponderous  tomb 
That  weigh'd  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a  cloud 
Might  gather  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eyt,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Her.ven  gives  its  favourites — early  death ; i0  yet  shed 
A  sunset  charm  around  her,  and  illume 
With  hectic  light,  the  Hosperus  of  the  dead, 
Ol  tier  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  red. 

era. 

Perchance  she  died  ii  age — surviving  all, 
Charms,  kindred,  children — with  the  silver  gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  might  yet  recall, 
(t  may  be,  still  a  something  of  tho  day 
When  they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and  eyed 

By  Rome But  whither  would  conjecture  stray? 

Thus  much  alone  we  know — Metella  died, 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife ;  behold  his  love  or  pride ! 

CIV. 

1  know  not  why — but  standing  thus  by  thee 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  inmate  known, 
Thou  tomb !  and  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Ot  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind : 
Yet  could  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  stone 
Till  1  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind 
Forms  f  om  tne  floating  wreck  which  ruin  leaves  behind; 

CV. 

And  from  the  planks,  far  shatter'd  o'er  the  rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  all  lies  founder'd  that  was  ever  dear : 
But  could  I  gather  from  the  wave-worn  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I  steer  ? 
1 1iere  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  what  is  here. 

CVI. 

Then  let  the  winds  howl  on !  their  harmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlet's  cry, 
As  I  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 
With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray  and  bright, 
And  sailing  pinions. — Upon  such  a  shrine 
"Vhat  are  our  petty  griefs  ? — let  me  not  number  mine. 

cm 

Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  wall-flower  grown 
Matted  and  mass'd  together,  hillocks  heap'd 
On  what  were  chambers,  arch  crush'd,  column  strown 
In  fragments,  choked-up  vaults,  and  frescos  steep'd 
In  subterranean  damps,  where  the  owl  peep'd, 
Deeming  it  midnight: — temples,  bathj,  or  halls? 
Pronounce  who  can  ;  for  all  that  learning  reap'd 
From  her  research  hath  been,  that  these  are  walls — 
Hehoid  the  Imperial  Mount !  't  is  thus  the  mighty  falls.51 


CVIII. 

There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales  ;  ** 
'T  is  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past, 
First  freedom,  and  then  glory — when  that  fails, 
Wealth,  vice,  corruption, — barbarism  at  last. 
And  history,  with  all  her  volumes  vast, 
Hath  but  one  page, — 't  is  bettor  written  here, 
Where  gorgeous  tyranny  had  thus  amass'd 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear, 

Heart,  soul,  could  seek,  tongue  ask Away  with  words! 

draw  near, 

CIX. 

Admire,  exult — despise — laugh,  weep, — for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling  : — man ! 
Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear, 
Ages  and  realms  are  crowded  in  this  span, 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled, 
Of  glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van, 
Till  the  sun's  rays  with  added  flame  were  fill'd ! 

Where  are  its  golden  roofs  ?  where  those  who  dared  to 
build? 

ex. 

Tully  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thou, 
Thou  nameless  column  with  the  buried  base ! 
What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Caesar's  brow? 
Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  dwelling-place. 
Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Titus,  or  Trajan's  ?  No — 'tis  that  of  time  : 
Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace 
Scoffing ;  and  apostolic  statues  climb 
To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime,*1 

CXI. 

Buried  in  air,  the  deep-blue  sky  of  Rome, 
And  looking  to  the  stars :  they  had  contain'd 
A  spirit  which  with  these  would  find  a  home, 
The  last  of  those  who  o'er  the  whole  earth  reign'd, 
The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sustain'd, 
But  yielded  back  his  conquests  : — he  was  more 
Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and,  unstain'd 
With  household  blood  and  wine,  serenely  wore 
His  sovereign  virtures — still  we  Trajan's  name  adore.** 

cxn. 

Where  is  the  rock  of  triumph,  the  high  place 
Where  Rome  embraced  her  heroes  ?  where  the  steep 
Tarpeian?  fittest  goal  of  treason's  race, 
The  promontory  whence  the  Traitor's  Leap 
Cured  all  ambition.    Did  the  conquerors  hepp 
Their  spoils  here  ?  Yes :  and  in  yon  field  below, 
A  thousand  years  of  silenced  factions  sleep—- 
The forum,  where  the  immortal  accents  glow, 
And  still  the  eloquent  air  breathes — burns  with  Oi"  K»' 

CXIII. 

The  field  of  freedom,  faction,  fame,  and  blood  ; 
Here  a  proud  people's  passions  were  exhaled, 
From  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when  further  worlds  to  conquer  fail'd  ; 
But  long  before  had  freedom's  face  been  veil'o 
And  anarchy  assumed  her  attributes  ; 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assail'd 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate's  slavish  mutca, 
Or  raised  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


cxiv 

Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune's  name, 
From  her  ten  thousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee, 
Redeemer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame — 
The  friend  of  Petrarch — hope  of  Italy — 
Rienzi!  last  of  Romans  ! ss    While  the  tree 
Of  freedom's  wither'd  trunk  puts  forth  a  leaf, 
Even  for  thy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be — 
The  forum's  champion,  and  the  people's  chief — 
H3r  new-born  Numa  thou — with  reign,  alas !  too  brief. 

cxv. 

Egeria !  sweet  creation  of  some  heart i8 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast ;   whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert, — a  young  Aurora  of  the  air, 
The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair ; 
Or,  it  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth, 
Who  found  a  more  than  common  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring ;  whatsoe'er  thy  birth, 
Fhou  wert  a  beautiful  thought,  and  softly  bodied  forth. 

CXVI. 

The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops ;  the  face         • 
Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinkled, 
Reflects  the  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place, 
Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works ;  nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prison'd  in  marble  ;  bubbling  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentle  leap 
The  rill  runs  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  and  ivy  creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically  tangled ;  the  green  hills 
Are  clothed  with  early  blossoms,  through  the  grass 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass  ; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class, 
Implore  the  pausing  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairy  mass ; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep-blue  eyes, 
Kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  colour'd  by  its 
skies. 

cxvni. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  in  this  enchanted  cover, 
Egeria !  thy  all-heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover ; 
The  purple  midnight  veil'd  that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befell  ? 
This  cave  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enamour'd  goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  love — the  earliest  oracle ! 

CXIX. 

And  didst  thou  not,  thy  breast  to  his  replying, 
Blend  a  celestial  with  a  human  heart ; 
And  love,  which  dies  as  it  was  born,  in  sighing, 
Share  with  immortal  transports  ?  could  thine  art 
Mak3  them  indeed  immortal,  and  impart 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys, 

Expei  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart 

The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys — 
And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which  cloys  7 


cxx. 

Alas !  our  }'oung  affections  run  to  waste, 
Or  water  but  the  desert ;   whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,«ares  of  '  aste 
Rank  at  the  core,  though  tempting  to  tne  eves. 
Flowers  whose  wild  odours  breathe  but  agonies, 
And  trees  whose  gums  are  poison  ;  such  the  plan  * 
Which  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  passion  flies 
O'er  the  world's  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 

For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

CXXI. 

Oh  love  !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art — 
An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart, 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be  ; 
The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  peopled  heaven, 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 
And  to  a  thought  such  shape  and  image  given, 

As  haunts  the   unquench'd  soul — parch'd — wearied— 
wrung — and  riven. 

CXXII. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased, 

And  fevers  into  false  creation : — where, 

Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor's  soul  hath  seized ' 

In  him  alone.     Can  nature  show  so  fair? 

Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 

Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men — 

The  unreach'd  paradise  of  our  despair, 

Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 

And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom  again ) 

CXXIII. 

Who  loves,  raves — 't  is  youth's  frenzy — but  the  cur* 
Is  bitterer  still ;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such,  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on, 
Reaping  the  whirldwind  from  the  oft-so\vn  winds ; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun, 

Seems  ever  near  the  prize, — wealthiest  when  most  u» 
done. 

CXX1Y. 

We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away — 
Sick — sick ;  unfound  the  boon — unslaked  the  thirst. 
Though  to  ihe  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay, 

Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first 

But  all  too  late, — so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice — 't  is  the  same, 
Each  idle — and  all  ill — and  none  the  worst — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name, 

And  death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flj>me. 

cxxv. 

Few — none — find  what  they  love  or  could  have  lov.-d, 
Though  accident,  blind  contact,  and  the  strong 
Necessity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Antipathies — but  to  recur,  ere  long, 
Envenom'd  with  irrevocable  wrong : 
And  circumstance,  that  unspiritual  god 
And  miscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  coming  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rod, 
Whose  touch  turns  hope  to  dust — the  dust  we  all  o»»« 
trod. 


ttO 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CXXVI. 

Our  life  is  a  false  nature — 't  is  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things, — this'hard  decree, 
This  uneradicable^aint  of  sin, 
This  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree, 
Whose  root  is  earth,  whose  leaves  and  branches  be 
The  skies  which  rain  their  plagues  on  men  like  dew — 
Disease,  death,  bondage— all  the  woes  we  see— 
And  worse,  the  woes  we  see  not — which  throb  through 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new.     , 

cxxvn. 

Yet  let  us  ponder  boldly s' — 't  is  a  base 
Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 
Our  right  of  thoughl— our  last  and  only  place 
Of  refuge ;  this,  at  least,  shall  still  be  mine: 
Though  from  our  birth  the  faculty  divine 
Is  chain'd  and  tortured — cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined, 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should  shine 
Too  brightly  on  the  unprepared  mind, 
The  beam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will  couch  the 
blind. 

C  XXVIII. 

Arches  on  arches  !  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Her  Coliseum  stands ;  the  moon-beams  shine 
As  "t  were  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation ;  and  tha  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.    There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its  dower. 

cxxx. 

Oh  time !  the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 
Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  nealer  when  the  heart  hath  bled — 
Time!  the  corrector  where  our  judgments  err, 
The  test  of  truth,  love, — sole  philosopher, 
For  all  beside  are  sophists,  fron.  thy  thrift, 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer — 
Time,  the  avenger !  unto  tnee  I  lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a  gift : 

CXXXI. 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a  shrine 
\nd  temple  more  divinely  desolate, 
Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine, 
Ruins  of  years — though  few,  yet  full  of  fate  :— 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate, 
Hear  me  not :  but  if  calmlv  I  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  net  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
llus  iron  in  my  so.u  in  vain — shall  they  not  mourn? 


CXXKII. 

And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
Left  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis  !  " 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long— 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  furies  from  the  abyss, 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution — just, 
Had  it  but  been  from  hands  less  near — in  this 
Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust ! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  ? — Awake !  thou  shall,  utf 
must, 

CXXXIII. 

It  b  not  that  I  may  not  have  incurr'd 

For  my  ancestral  faults  or  mine  the  wound 

I  bleed  withal,  and,  had  it  been  conferr'd 

With  a  just  weapon,  it  had  llow'd  unbound  ; 

But  now  my  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the  ground ; 

To  thee  I  do  devote  it — thou  shall  take 

The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought  and  found 

Which  if  /  have  not  taken  for  the  sake 

But  let  that  pass — I  sleep,  but  thou  shall  yet  awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  't  is  not  that  now 
f  shrink  from  what  is  suffer'd:  let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak  ; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse, 
Though  I  be  ashes  ;  a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse. 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  curse . 

cxxxv. 

That  curse  shall  be  forgiveness — Have  I  not—- 
Hear me,  my  mother  Earth  !  behold  it,  Heaven  !- 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot  ? 
Have  I  not  suffer'd  things  to  be  forgiven  ? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  sear'd,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapp'd,  name  blighted,  life's  life  lied  away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven, 
Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay. 
As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom  I  survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy, 
Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could  do  ? 
From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry  few, 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew, 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  seem  true, 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  sigh, 
Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  obloquy. 

CXXXVII. 

But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain: 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire, 
And  my  frame  perish  even  in  conquering  pain, 
But  there  is  that  within  me  which  .=hall  l\r<: 
Torture  and  time,  and  breathe  when  I  empire ; 
Something  unearthly,  which  they  deem  not  of, 
Like  the  remember'd  tone  of  a  mi-te  lyre, 
Shall  on  their  soften'd  spirits  sink,  and  nK  f«« 
In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  rentiers'  of  w>v*> 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


81 


CXXXVIII. 

The  seal  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  tliee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been, 
Ind  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughter'd  by  his  fellow  man. 
And  wherefore  slaughter'd  ?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure. — Wherefore  not  ? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

CXL. 

I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie  :  59 
He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower  ;  and  n»w 
The  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone, 

Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hail'd  the  wretch 
who  won. 

CXLI. 

He  heard  it,  br.t  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away ; 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 6° 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood — Shall  he  expire, 

And  unavenged.? — Arise !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire! 

CXLII. 

But  here,  where  murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam  ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 
Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, " 
My  voice  sounds  much — and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void — seats  crush'd — walls  bow'd — 

4nd  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely 
bud. 

CXLIII. 

A  ruin — yet  what  ruin !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear'd ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass 
Vnd  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appear'd. 
'lath  it  indeed  been  plunder'd,  or  but  clear'd  ? 
Alas!  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd. 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 

Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft 
away. 

Ifi 


CXLIV. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  tiw  \ 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head  ;  " 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead  : 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 't  is  on  their  dust  ye  treaii 

CXLV. 

"  While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand  ;  " 

When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 

And  when  Rome  falls — the  world."    From  our  own 

land 

Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  ^-all 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all ; 
Rome  and  her  ruin  past  redemption's  skill, 

The  world,  the  same  wide  den — of  thieves,  or  what  y« 
will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime — 
Shrine  of  all  saints,  and  temple  of  all  gods, 
From  Jove  to  Jesus — spared  and  blest  by  time  ;  "* 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  mai.  plod* 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes — glorious  dome! 
Shalt  thou  not  last  ?   Time's  scythe  and  tyrants'  roAt 
Shiver  upon  thee — sanctuary  and  home 

Of  art  and  piety — Pantheon ! — pride  of  Rome ! 

CXLVII. 

Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts ; 
Dcspoil'd  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts — 
To  art  a  model ;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture ;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads ; 
And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 

Their  eyes  on  honour'd  forms,  whose  busts  around 
them  close." 

CXLVI1I. 

There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light  ** 
What  do  I  gaze  on  ?  Nothing  :    Look  again ! 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadow'd  on  my  sight — 
Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain  : 
It  is  not  so ;  I  see  them  full  ana  plain—- 
An old  man,  and  a  female  young  and  fair, 
Fresh  as  a  nursing-mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar : — but  what  doth  she  there, 

With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and  bar* 

CXLIX. 

Full  swells  the  deep  pur<5  fountain  of  young  life, 
Where  on  the  heart  and  from  the  heart  we  lock 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  loon, 
Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceive* 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  noon 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves — 
What  may  the  fruit  be  yet? — I  know  noi — Cam  wa» 
E»e's. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CL. 

Hut  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food, 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift : — it  is  her  sire, 
To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
jlorn  with  her  birth.  No  :  he  shall  not  expire 
While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river  • — from  that  gentle  side 
)rink,  drink  and  live,  old  man  !  Heaven's  realm  holds 
no  such  tide. 

CLI. 

The  starry  fable  of  the  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  story's  purity ;  it  is 
A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray, 
And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worlds : — Oh,  holiest  nurse ! 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
«V~ith  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 

CLII. 

Turn  to  the  mole  which  Adrian  rear'd  on  high, 6f 
Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  piles, 
Colossal  copyist  of  deformity, 
Whose  travell'd  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile's 
Enormous  model,  doom'd  the  artist's  toils 
To  build  for  giants,  and,  for  his  vain  earth, 
His  shrunken  ashes  raise  this  dome :  How  smiles 
The  gazer's  eye  with  philosophic  mirth, 
TV  view  th<  huge  design  which  sprung  from  such  a  birth. 

CLIII. 

But  to  !  the  dome — the  vast  and  wondrous  dome,  " 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb! 
I  ha/e  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle — 
fa  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hyaena  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade  ; 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  survcy'd 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  pray'd ; 

CLIV. 

But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone — with  nothing  like  to  thee — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be, 
Of  earthly  structures  in  his  honour  piled, 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect  ?   Majesty, 
Power,  glory,  strength,  and  beauty,  all  are  aisled 
!n  tlus  eternal  ark  of  worship  undented. 

CLV. 

Enter:  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not, 
And  vjiy  ?  it  is  not  lessen'd ;  but  thv  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot, 
His  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  f    abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality ;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  uay.  if  found  worthy,  so  defined, 
See  thy  God  tace  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
If  in  Hnlv  of  Holips,  nor  be  b'asted  by  his  brow. 


CLVI. 

Thou  movest — but  increasing  with  the  advance 

Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  :  BO, 

Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance  ; 

Vastness  which  grows — but  grows  to  hannonize — 

All  musical  in  its  immensities : 

Rich  marbles — richer  painting — shrines  where  flamo 

The  lamps  of  gold — and  haughty  dome  which  vies 

In  air  with  earth's  chief  structures,  though  their  franm 

Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground — and  this  the  clouds  moot 
claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou  seest  not  all ;  but  piecemeal  thou  must  break, 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole  ; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 
That  ask  the  eye — so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  bv  part, 

The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart, 

CLVIII. 

Not  by  its  fault — but  thine  :  our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp — and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Ojtstrips  our  faint  expression  ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o'erwhelming  edifice 
Fools«our  fond  gaze,  and,  greatest  of  the  great, 
Defies  at  first  our  nature's  littleness, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then  pause,  and  be  enlighten'd ;  there  is  more 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would  adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  time,  nor  skill,  nor  thought  could  plan » 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  displays 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptions  can. 

CLX. 

Or,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 
Laocoon's  torture  dignifying  pain — 
A  father's  love  and  mortal's  agony 
With  an  immortal's  patience  blending  : — vain 
The  struggle  ;  vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  grasp, 
The  old  man's  clench  ;  the  lons-envenom'd  chain 
Rivets  the  living  links, — the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light — 
The  sun  in  human  limbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight ; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot — the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortal's  vengeance  ;   in  his  cy 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  and  might, 
And  majesty,  flash  their  full  lightnings  by 
Develooing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity* 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CLXII. 

But  in  his  delicate  form — a  dream  of  love, 
Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Long'd  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above, 
And  madden'd  in  that  vision — are  cxprest 
All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  bless'd 
The  mind  with  in  its  most  unearthly  mood, 
When  each  conception  was  a  heavenly  guest — 
A  ray  of  immortality — and  stood, 
Star-like,  around,  until  they  gather'd  to  a  god! 

CLXIII. 

And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  array'd 
With  an  eternal  glory — which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought; 
And  Time  himself  hath  hallow'd  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust — nor  hath  it  caught 
A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which, 
't  was  wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song, 
The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the  past  ? 
Methinks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
He  is  no  more — these  breathings  are  his  last; 
His  wanderings  done,  his  visions  ebbing  fast, 
And  he  himself  as  nothing: — if  he  was 
Aught  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be  class'd 
With  forms  which  live  and  suffer — let  that  pass— 
His  shadow  fades  away  into  destruction's  mass, 

CLXV. 

Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  all 
That  we  inherit,  in  its  mortal  shroud, 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which  all  things  grown  phantoms  ;  and  the 

cloud 

Between  us  sinks,  and  all  which  ever  glow'd, 
Till  glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  haio  scarce  allow'd 
To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness  ;  rays 
Sadder  than  saddest  night,  for  they  distract  the  gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss, 
To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Its  wretched  essence  ;  and  to  dream  of  fame, 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear, — but  never  more, 
Oh,  happier  thought !  can  we  be  made  the  same  : 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore 
These  fardels  of  the  heart — the  heart  whose  sweat  was 
gore. 

CLXVTI. 

Hark !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound  ; 
Through  slorm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending  ground, 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  r<-yal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown'd, 
And  paie,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasus  a  bahfc.  10  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief. 


CLXVIII. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thcu  ? 

Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead? 

Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  'ow 

Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  hc&d  ? 

In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled, 

The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy, 

Death  hush'd  that  pang  for  ever :   with  thee  fled 

The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 

Which  fill'd  the  imperial  isles  so  full  itseem'd  to  P<-I> 

CLXIX. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety. — Can  it  be, 
O  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored !  > 

Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee, 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  ONE  ;  for  she  had  pour'd 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris. — Thou,  too,  lonely  lord, 
And  desolate  consort — vainly  wert  thou  wed! 
The  husband  of  a  year !  the  father  of  the  dead  ' 

CLXX. 

Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made ; 
Thy  briclal's  fruit  is  ashes :  in  the  dust 
The  fair-hair'd  daughter  of  the  isles  is  laid, 
The  love  of  millions !    How  we  did  intrust 
Futurity  to  her !  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deem'd 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  bless'd 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seem'd 

Like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes : — 't  was  but  a  meteor 
beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Woe  unto  us,  not  her ;  for  she  sleeps  well : 
The  fickle  wreath  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle, 
Which  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 
Its  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o'erstung 
Nations  have  arm'd  in  madness,  the  strange  fate 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,60  and  hath  flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 

Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon  or  late,— 

CLXXII. 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny  ;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it :  and  so  young,  so  fair, 
Goou  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe ; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother — and  now  tiure  ! 
How  jr.any  ties  did  that  stem  moment  tear : 
From  thy  sire's;  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  link'd  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  oppreso 

The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could  lov 
best. 

CLXXIII. 

Lo,  Nemi !  '°  navell'd  in  the  woody  hills 
So  far,  that  the  uprooting  wind,  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  -vhich  smlls 
The  ocean  o'er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  against  the  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  glassy  lake ; 
And,  calm  as  cherish'd  hate,  its  surface  \vea.» 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  non-.n  can  sha*<* 

All  coil'd  into  itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  thr  <u  vac* 


84 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CLXXIV. 

And,  near,  Albano's  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley  ; — and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast  where  sprung  the  Epic  war, 
"Arms  and  the  man,"  whose  re-ascending  star 
Rose  o'er  an  empire  ; — but  beneath  thy  right 
Tully  reposed  from  Uome ; — and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight, 
The  Sabine  farm  was  till'd,  the  weary  bard's  delight." 

CLXXV. 

But  I  forget. — My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part, — so  let  it  be, — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done ; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea ; 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  no\»  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  follovv'd  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roll'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades :  long  years — 
Long,  though  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both ;  some  suffering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun : 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run, 
We  have  had  our  reward — and  it  is  here ; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladdcn'd  by  the  sun, 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 

CLXXVII. 

Oh !  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her ! 
Ye  elements  ! — in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being  7    Do  I  err 
I.  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

CLXXVHI. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  man  the  '.ess,  but  nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
*Vhai  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Koll  on,  t'nou  deep  and  dark-blue  ocean — roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Slops  with  the  shore- ; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wiecks  are  all  thv  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
W  hen,  for  i  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
Hn  sinks  into  ihy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 

a  grave,  unkivsU'd  uncofHn'd,  and  unknown. 


CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile  strength  he  .vield* 
For  earth'?  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth : — there  let  him  lay 

CLXXXI. 

The  armaments  which  thunder-strike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  mako 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war  ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  tliee 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they'' 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ;  their  decpy 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  : — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  piay — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

CLXXXIH. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almignty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving  ; — boundless,  endless,  and  sub.ime— 
The  image  of  eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  ocean  !  and  my  j'oy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 't  was  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  nere. 

CLXXXV. 

My  task  is  done — my  song  hath  ceased — my  them* 
Has  died  into  an  echo  ;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dreain. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguish'd  which  nith  li*. 
My  midnight  lamp — and  what  is  writ,  is  writ. — 
Would  it  were  worthier !  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been — and  my  visions  flit 
Less  palpably  before  me — and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  f  uttering,  fan*,  ««i  ow 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE 


86 


CLXXXVI. 

Farewell !  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been — 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger, — yet — farewell ! 
Ye !  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon.  and  scallop-shell ; 
Farewell !  with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain, 
If  such  there  were — with  you,  the  moral  of  his  strain. 


NOTES. 


CANTO  L 

Note  1.  Stanza  i. 
Yes !  righ'd  o'er  Delphi's  long-deserted  shrine. 

THE  little  village  of  Castri  stands  partly  on  the  site  of 
Delphi.  Along  the  path  of  the  mountain,  from  Chrysso, 
are  the  remains  of  sepulchres  hewn  in  and  from  the 
rock :  "  One,"  said  the  guide,  "  of  a  king  who  broke 
his  neck  hunting."  His  Majesty  had  certainly  chosen 
the  fittest  spot  for  such  an  achievement. 

A  little  above  Castri  is  a  cave,  supposed  the  Pythian, 
of  immense  depth  ;  the  upper  part  of  it  is  paved,  and 
now  a  cow-house. 

On  the  other  side  of  Castri  stands  a  Greek  monas- 
tery ;  some  way  above  which  is  the  cleft  in  the  rock, 
with  a  range  of  caverns  difficult  of  ascent,  and  ap- 
parently leading  to  the  interior  of  the  mountain ;  prob- 
ably to  the  Corycian  Cavern  mentioned  by  Pausanias. 
From  this  part  descend  the  fountain  and  the  "  Dews  of 
Castalie." 

Note  2.  Stanza  xx. 
And  rest  ye  at  "  our  Lady's  house  of  woe." 

The  convent  of  "  Our  Lady  of  Punishment,"  Nossa 
Senora  de  Pena, '  on  the  summit  of  the  rock.  Below, 
at  some  distance,  is  the  Cork  Convent,  where  St.  Ho- 
norius  dug  his  den,  over  which  is  his  epitaph.  From 
the  hills,  the  sea  adds  to  the  beauty  of  the  view. 
Note  3.  Stanza  xxi. 

Throughout  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not  life. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  in  the  year  1809,  the 
assassinations  in  the  streets  of  Lisbon  and  its  vicinity 
were  not  confined  by  the  Portuguese  to  their  country- 
men, but  that  Englishmen  were  daily  butchered  :  and 
so  far  from  redress  being  obtained,  we  were  requestec 
not  to  interfere  if  we  perceived  any  compatriot  defend- 
ing himself  against  his  allies.  I  was  once  stopped  in 
the  way  to  the  theatre  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evenin 
when  the  streets  were  not  more  empty  than  they  gener- 
illy  are  at  that  hour,  opposite  to  an  open  shop,  and  in 
a  carriage  wlih  a  friend  ;  had  we  not  fortunately  been 
.xrmed,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  we  should  hav< 
adorned  a  tale  instead  of  telling  one.  The  crime  o 


1  Since  the  publication  of  this  poem  I  have  been  intbrmei 
»f  the  misapprehension  of  the  term  JVossa  Senora  de  Pena 
It  was  owing  to  the  want  of  the  tilde,  or  mark  over  the  n 
which  altars  the  signification  of  the  word :  with  it,  Pena  tig 
•vfies  a  rock ;  without  it,  Pena  has  the  sense  I  adopted.  I  <1> 
not  think  it  if  ssary  to  alter  the  passage,  as,  thoii-M  the  com 
mon  accepts  in  affixed  to  it  is  "our  Lady  of  the  Rock,"  I  ma 
well  tissumf  ie  other  sense,  from  the  severities  practised  there 
L  2 


ssassination  is   not  confined  to  Portugal:    in  Sicilr 
nd  Malta  we  are  knocked  on  the  head  al  a  handsomf 

average  nightly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  or  Maltese  is  eve* 

)unished ! 

Note  4.   Stanza  x.xiv. 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  lalo  convei.ed  ! 
The  convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palao 
if  the  Marchese  Marialva.     The  late  exploits  of  Lorn 
Vellington  have  effaced  the  follies  of  Cintra.    He  ha3, 
ndeed,  done  wonders:   he  has  perhaps  changed  j.o 
character  of  a  nation,  reconciled  rival  superstitions, 
nd  baffled  an  enemy  who  never  retreated  before  his 
>redecessors. 

Note  5.  Stanza  xxix. 
Vet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay. 
The  extent  of  Mafra  is  prodigious ;  it  contains  a  pal- 
ace, convent,  and  most  superb  church.    The  six  organs 
are  the  most  beautiful  I  ever  beheld  in  point  of  deco- 
ration ;  we  did  not  hear  them,  but  were  told  that  their 
tones  were  correspondent  to  their  splendour.     Mafra  is 
.ermed  the  Escurial  of  .Portugal. 

Note  6.  Stanza  xxxiii. 

Well  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the  difference  know 

"1  wixl  him  and  Lusian  slave,  tliu  lowest  of  the  low. 

As  I  found  the  Portuguese,  so  I  have  characterized 
them.  That  they  have  since  improved,  at  least  in  cou- 
rage, is  evident. 

Note  7.  Stanza  xxxv. 

When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  call'd  the  band 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gothic  gore  7 

Count  Julian's  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spain.  Pela- 
»ius  preserved  his  independence  in  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Asturias,  and  the  descendants  of  his  followers,  after 
some  centuries,  completed  their  struggle  by  the  conquesl 
of  Grenada. 

Note  8.  Stanza  xlviii. 
No !  as  he  speeds  he  chaunts : — "  Viva  el  Rey !" 

"Viva  el  Rey  Fernando!" — Long  live  King  Ferdi- 
nand !  is  the  chorus  of  most  of  the  Spanish  patriotic 
songs ;  they  are  chiefly  in  dispraise  of  the  old  King 
Charles,  the  Queen,  and  the  Prince  of  Peace.  I  hava 
heard  many  of  them ;  some  of  the  -airs  are  beautiful. 
Godoy,  the  Pnncipe  de  la  Paz,  was  born  at  Badajoz, 
on  the  frontiers  of  Portugal,  and  was  originally  in  the 
ranks  of  the  Spanish  Guards,  till  his  person  attracted 
the  queen's  eyes,  and  raised  him  to  the  dukedom  of 
Alcudia,  etc.  etc.  It  is  to  this  man  that  the  Spaniards 
universally  impute  the  ruin  of  their  country. 

Note  9.  Stanza  1. 

Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimFqn  hue. 
Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet. 
The  red  cockade,  with  "  Fernando  Septimo"  in  Ui« 
centre. 

Note  10.  Stanza  li. 

The  ball-piled  pyramid,  the  ever-blazing  match 
All  who  have  seen  a  battery  will  recollect  the  pjr» 
midal  form  in  which  shot  and  shells  are  piled.     The 
Sierra  Morena  was  foitified  in  every  defile  through 
which  I  passed  in  my  way  to  Seville. 

Note  11.  Stanza  Ivi. 

Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand  before  a  battfti  u  wall. 
Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragoza. 
When  the  author  was  at  Seville  she  walked  Jailvon  tn« 


36 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Prailo,  d'ecoralnd  with  medals  and  orders,  by  command 
of  the  Junto. 

Note  12.  Stanza  Iviii. 

The  seal  love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impressed 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  that  bears  his  touch. 
"Sigilla  in  mento  impressa  amoris  digitulo 
Vesugio  demonstrant  mollitudinem." — Jiul.  Gel. 

Note  13.  Stanza  Ix. 
Oh,  thou  Parnassus ! 

These  Stanzas  were  written  in  Castri  (Delphos),  at  the 
foot  of  Parnassus,  now  called  Aiaropa — Liakura. 

Note  14.  Stanza  Ixv. 

Fair  is  proud  Seville ;  let  her  country  boast 

Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days. 

Seville  was  the  HISPALIS  of  the  Romans. 

Note  15.  Stanza  bo. 
Ask  re,  Boeotian  shades !  the  reason  why  ? 
This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  consequently  in  the 
best  situation  for  asking  and  answering  such  a  ques- 
tion ;  not  as  the  birth-place  of  Pindar,  but  as  the  capital 
of  Bceotia,  where  the  first  riddle  was  propounded  and 
solved. 

Note  16.  Stanza  Ixxxii. 
Some  bitter  o'er  the  flowers  its  bubbling  venom  flings. 

"  Medio  de  fonte  leporum 
Surgit  amari  aliquid,  quod  in  ipsis  floribus  angat." — Luc. 

Note  17.  Stanza  Ixxxv. 
A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud. 
Alluding  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the 
Governor  of  Cadiz. 

Note  18.  Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
"  War  even  to  the  knife!" 

'War  to  the  knife  ;"  Palafox's  answer  to  the  French 
General  at  the  siege  of  Saragoza. 

Note  19.  Stanza  xci. 
And  thou,  my  friend !  etc. 

The  honourable  I*.  W**.  of  the  Guards,  who  died  of 
a  fever  at  Coimbra.  I  had  known  him  ten  years,  the 
fcetter  half  of  his  life,  and  the  happiest  part  of  mine. 

In  the  short  space  of  one  month  I  have  lost  her  who 
(jave  me  being,  and  most  of  those  who  had  made  that 
being  tolerable.  To  me  the  lines  of  YOUNG  are  no 
fiction : 

Insatiate  archer !  coukl  not  one  suffice  ? 
Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain. 
And  thrice  ere  Ihrice  yon  moon  had  fill'd  her  horn." 

I  should  have  ventured  a  verse  to  the  memory  of  the 
fate  Charles  Skinner  Matthews,  Fellow  of  Downing  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  were  he  not  too  much  above  all  praise 
of  mine.  His  powers  of  mind,  shown  in  the  attainment 
o>*  greatei  honours,  against  the  ablest  candidates,  than 
those  of  any  graduate  on  record  at  Cambridge,  have 
sufficiently  established  his  fame  on  the  spot  where  it 
was  acqu:red,  while  his  softer  qualities  live  in  the  recol- 
M-ction  of  friends  who  loved  him  too  well  to  envy  his 
•uoenority. 


CANTO  II. 

Note  1.  Stanza  i. 
—despite  «•'  war  and  wasting  fire — 
P  i«T  of  tne  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion 
a  magazine  during  the  Venetian  siege. 


Note  1.  Stanza  i. 

But  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  ages  slow. 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  tho  sacreil  glow 
That  tnoughts  oftliee  and  thine  on  pu'lisli'd  breasts boaUw. 

We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with  \\luck 
the  ruins  of  cities,  once  the  capitals  of  empires,  are 
beheld ;  the  reflections  suggested  by  such  objects  an 
too  trite  to  require  recapitulation.  But  never  did  the 
littleness  of  man,  and  the  vanity  of  his  very  best  virtues, ' 
of  patriotism  to  exalt,  and  of  valour  to  defend  his 
country,  appear  more  conspicuous  than  in  the  record 
of  what  Athens  was,  and  the  certainty  of  what  she  now 
is.  This  theatre  of  contention  between  mighty  factions, 
of  the  struggles  of  orators,  the  exaltation  and  deposition 
of  tyrants,  the  triumph  and  punishment  of  generals,  is 
now  become  a  scene  of  petty  intrigue  and  perpetual 
disturbance,  between  the  bickering  agents  of  certain 
British  nobility  and  gentry.  "  The  wild  foxes,  the  owls 
and  serpents  in  the  ruins  of  Babylon,"  were  surely  less 
degrading  than  such  inhabitants.  The  Turks  have  ihe 
plea  of  conquest  for  their  tyranny,  and  the  Greeks  have 
only  suffered  the  fortune  of  war,  incidental  to  the 
bravest;  but  how  are  the  mighty  fahen,  when  two 
painters  contest  the  privilege  of  plundering  the  Par- 
thenon, and  triumph  in  turn,  according  to  the  tenor  of 
each  succeeding  firman !  Sylla  could  but  punish,  Philip 
subdue,  and  Xerxes  burn  Athens ;  but  it  remained  for 
the  paltry  antiquarian,  and  his  despicable  agents,  to 
render  her  contemptible  as  himself  and  his  pursuits. 

The  Parthenon,  before  its  destruction  in  part,  by  fire, 
during  the  Venetian  siege,  had  been  a  temple,  a  church, 
and  a  mosque.  In  each  point  of  view  it  is*  an  object  ol 
regard :  it  changed  its  worshippers  ;  but  still  it  was  a 
place  of  worship  thrice  sacred  to  devotion:  its  violation 
is  a  triple  sacrilege.  But 

"  Man,  vain  man, 
Drost  in  a  little  brief  authority. 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven. 
As  make  the  angels  weep." 

Note  3.  Stanza  v. 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps. 
It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  burr 
their  dead  ;  the  greater  Ajax  in  particular  was  interre* 
entire.     Almost  all  the  chiefs  became  gods  after  thei» 
decease,  and  he  was  indeed  neglected  who  had  not  an- 
nual games  near  his  tomb,  or  festivals  in  honour  of  his 
memory  by  his  countrymen,  as  Achilles,  Brasidas,  etc., 
and  at  last  even  Antinous,  whose  death  was  as  heroic  a* 
his  life  was  infamous. 

Note  4.  Stanza  x. 

Here,  son  of  Saturn  !  was  thy  fav'rite  throno. 
The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  of  which  sixteen 
columns  entirely  of  marble  yet  survive :  originally  ther» 
were  150.     These  columns,  however,  are  by  many  sup» 
posed  to  have  belonged  to  the  Pantheon. 

Note  5.  Stanza  xi. 

And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  long-reluctant  brine. 
The  ship  was  wrecked  in  the  Archipelago. 

Note  6.  Stanza  xii. 

To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  time  hath  sp?red 

At  this  moment  (January  3,  1809),  besides  what  ha« 

been  already  deposited  in  London,  a  Hydriot  vessel  i« 

in  the  Piraeus  to  receive  every  possible  rc'.ic.  TKus,  a^  1 

heard  a  young  Greek  observe,  in  common  wi'Ji  oxinv  4 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


S7 


his>  countrymen — for,  lost  as  they  are,  they  yet  feel  on 
tiiis  occasion — thus  may  Lord  Elgin  boast  of  having 
ruined  Athens.  An  Italian  painter  of  the  first  eminence, 
named  Lusieri,  is  the  agent  of  devastation ;  and,  like 
the  Greek  finder  of  Verres  in  Sicily,  who  followed  the 
same  profession,  he  has  proved  the  able  instrument  of 
plunder.  Between  this  artist  and  the  French  consul 
Fauvel,  who  wishes  to  rescue  the  remains  for  his  own 
government,  there  is  now  a  violent  dispute  concerning 
a  car  employed  in  their  conveyance,  the  wheel  of  which 
— I  wish  they  were  both  broken  upon  it — has  been 
locked  up  by  the  consul,  and  Lusieri  has  laid  his  com- 
plaint before  the  Waywode.  Lord  Elgin  has  been  ex- 
tremely happy  in  his  choice  of  SLgnor  Lusieri.  During 
a  residence  of  ten  years  in  Athens,  he  never  had  the 
curiosity  to  proceed  as  far  as  Sunium, '  till  he  accom- 
panied us  in  our  second  excursion.  However,  his  works, 
as  far  as  they  go,  are  most  beautiful :  but  they  are  al- 
most all  unfinished.  While  he  and  his  patrons  confine 
themselves  to  tasting  medals,  appreciating  cameos, 
sketching  columns,  and  cheapening  gems,  their  little 
absurdities  are  as  harmless  as  insect  or  fox-hunting, 
maiden-speechifying,  barouche-driving,  or  any  such 
pastime ;  but  when  they  carry  away  three  or  four  ship- 
loads of  the  most  valuable  and  massy  relics  that  time 
and  barbarism  have  left  to  the  most  injured  and  most 
celebrated  of  cities ;  when  they  destroy,  in  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  tear  down,  those  works  which  have  been  the 
admiration  of  ages,  I  know  no  motive  which  can  ex- 
cuse, no  name  which  can  designate,  the  perpetrators  of 
this  dastardly  devastation.  It  was  not  the  least  of  the 
crimes  laid  to  the  charge  of  Verres,  that  he  had  plun- 
dered Sicily,  in  the  manner  since  imitated  at  Athens. 
The  most  unblushing  impudence  could  hardly  go  fur- 
ther than  to  affix  the  name  of  its  plunderer  to  the  walls 
of  the  Acropolis ;  while  the  wanton  and  useless  deface- 
ment of  the  whole  range  of  the  basso-relievos,  in  one 
compartment  of  the  temple,  will  never  permit  that  name 
to  be  pronounced,  by  an  observer,  without  execration. 


1  Now  Cape  Colonna.  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens 
itself  and  Marathon,  Ihere  is  no  scene  more  interesting  than 
Cape  Colonna.  To  the  antiquary  and  anist,  sixteen  columns 
are  an  inexhaustible  source  of  observation  and  design  ;  to  the 
philosopher  the  supposed  scene  of  some  of  Plato's  conversa- 
tions will  not  be  unwelcome ;  and  the  traveller  will  be  struck 
with  the  beauty  of  the  prospect  over  "  hln  that  crown  the 
Mgean  deep;"  but  for  an  Englishman.  Colonna  has  yet  an 
addition:!  I  inteiest,  as  the  actual  spot  of  Falconer's  Shipwreck. 
Pallas  and  Plato  are  forgotten  in  the  recollection  of  Falconer 
and  Campbell  : 

"  Here  in  the  dead  of  night,  by  Lonna's  steep. 

The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep. 
This  temple  of  Minerva  may  be  been  at  sea  from  a  great  dis- 
tance. In  two  journeys  which  I  made,  and  one  voyage  to  Cape 
Colonna.  the  view  from  either  side,  by  land,  was  less  striking 
than  the  approach  from  the  isles.  In  our  second  land  excursion, 
we  had  a  narrow  escape  from  a  parly  of  Mainotea.  concealed 
in  the  caverns  beneath.  We  were  told  afterwards,  by  one  of 
iheir  prisoners  subsequently  ransomed,  that  they  were  deterred 
from  attacking  us  by  the  appearance  of  my  two  Albanians 
conjecturing  very  sagaciously,  but  falsely,  that  we  had  a  com- 
plete guard  of  these  Arnaouts  at  hand,  they  lemained  station- 
ary, anil  thus  slaved  our  parly,  which  was  too  small  to  have 
opposed  any  effectual  resistance. 

Colonna  is  no  less  a  resort  of  painters  than  of  pirates;  there 
"  The  hireline  artist  plants  his  paltry  desk. 
And  makes  degraded  Nature  picturesque." 

(Sec  Hodgson's  Lady  Jane  Grey,  etc.) 

But  tliere  Nature,  with  the  aid  of  art.  has  done  that  for  her- 
self. 1  wot  lortunate  enough  to  engage  a  very  superior  German 
mist;  and  Impe  tn  renew  my  acquaintance  with  tins  and  many 
iMl«i  l.-'vaotine  scenes,  by  the  arriva1  of  his  performance*. 


On  this  occasion  I  speak  impartially :  I  am  not  a  col- 

ector  or  admirer  of  collections,  consequently  no  rival ; 

ut  I  have  some  early  prepossessions  in  favour  of  Greece, 

and  do  not  think  the  honour  of  England  advanced  by 

plunder,  whether  of  India  or  Attica. 

Another  noble  Lord  has  done  better,  because  he  ha» 
done  less:  but  some  others,  more  or  less  noble,  yet 
"  all  honourable  men,"  have  done  bftt,  because,  after 
a  deal  of  excavation  and  execration,  bribery  to  th« 
Waywode,  mining  and  countermining,  they  have  done 
nothing  at  all.  We  had  such  ink-shed,  and  wine-shed, 
which  almost  ended  in  blood-shed  !  Lord  E.'s  "  prig," 
— see  Jonathan  Wylde  for  the  definition  of  "  priggisra," 
— quarrelled  with  another,  Gropius '  by  name  (a  very 
good  name  too  for  his  business),  and  muttered  some- 
thing about  satisfaction,  in  a  verbal  answer  to  a  note  of 
the  poor  Prussian  :  this  was  stated  at  table  to  Gropius, 
who  laughed,  but  could  eat  no  dinner  afterwards.  The 
rivals  were  not  reconciled  when  I  left  Greece.  I  have 
reason  to  remember  their  squabble,  for  they  wanted  to 
make  me  their  arbitrator. 

Note  7.  Stanza  xii. 

Her  sons  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard, 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains. 

I  cannot  resist  availing  myself  of  the  permission  of 
my  friend  Dr.  Clarke,  whose  name  requires  no  com- 
ment with  the  public,  but  whose  sanction  will  add  ten- 
fold weight  to  my  testimony,  to  insert  the  following  ex- 
tract from  a  very  obliging  letter  of  his  to  me,  as  a  note 
to  the  above  lines : 

"  When  the  last  of  the  Metopes  was  taken  from  the 
Parthenon,  and,  in  moving  of  it,  great  part  of  the  su- 
perstructure, with  one  of  the  triglyphs,  was  thrown 
down  by  the  workmen  whom  Lord  Elgin  employed ; 
the  Disdar,  who  beheld  the  mischief  done  to  the  build- 
ing, took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  dropped  a  tear,  and, 
in  a  supplicating  tone  of  voice,  said  to  Lusieri,  TAej ' 
— I  was  present." 

The  Disdar  alluded  to  was  the  father  of  the  present 

Dis  lar. 

Note  8.  Stanza  xiv. 

Where  was  thine  aegis,  Pallas!  that  appall'd 
Stern  Alaric  and  havoc  on  their  way  T 
According  to  Zozimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  fright- 
oned  Alaric  from  the  Acropolis  ;  but  others  relate  that 
the  Gothic  king  was  nearly  as  mischievous  as  the  Scot- 
tish peer See  CHANDLER. 

Note  9.  Stanza  xviii. 

the  netted  canopy. 

The  netting  to  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  taB- 
ing  on  deck  during  action. 

Note  10.  Stanza  xxix. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles. 

Goza  is  said  to  have  been  the  island  of  Calypso. 


1  This  Sr.  Gropius  was  employed  by  a  noble  Lord  for  tha 
sole  purpose  of  sketching,  in  which  he  excels ;  but  I  am  sorrr 
to  say,  that  he  has.  through  the  abused  sanction  of  that  most 
respectable  name,  been  treading  at  an  humble  distance  in  the 
steps  of  Sr.  Lusieri.  A  shipfull  of  his  trophies  was  detained, 
and,  I  believe,  confiscated  at  Constantinople,  in  1810.  I  am 
most  happy  to  be  now  enabled  to  state,  that  "  this  was  not  in 
his  bond  ;"  that  he  was  employed  solely  as  a  painter,  and  thai 
his  noble  patron  disavows  all  connexion  with  him,  except  M 
an  artist.  If  the  error  in  the  first  an<i  second  edition  of  Uii? 
poem  has  given  the  noble  Lord  a  moment's  pain.  1  am  verf 
sorry  for  it:  Sr.  Gropius  has  assumed  for  years  the  nam«  of 
his  agent ;  and,  though  I  cannot  much  condemn  myself  fat 
sharing  in  the  mistake  of  so  many,  I  am  happy  in  be  me  on* 
of  the  first  to  be  undeceived.  Indeed,  I  havens  much  y  eajo« 
in  contradicting  this  at  I  felt  reeret  in  statins  it. 


83 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Note  11.  Stanza  xxxviii. 
Land  of  Albania !  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  ruggeJ  nurse  of  savage  men  ! 

Albania  comprises  part  of  Macedonia,  Illyria,  Cha- 
onia,  and  Epirus.  Iskander  is  the  Turkish  word  for 
Alexander;  and  the  celebrated  Scanderbeg  (Lord  Al- 
exander) is  alluded  to  in  the  third  and  fourth  lines  of 
tne  thirty-eighth  stanza.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am 
torrect  in  making  Sr.anderbeg  the  countryman  of  Alex- 
ander, who  was  born  at  Pella  in  Macedon,  but  Mr. 
Gibbon  terms  him  so,  and  adds  Pyrrhus  to  the  list,  in 
speaking  of  his  exploits. 

Of  Albania,  Gibbon  remarks,  that  a  country  "  within 
sight  of  Italy,  is  less  known  than  the  interior  of  Ame- 
rica." Circumstances,  of  little  consequence  to  men- 
tion, led  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself  into  that  country, 
before  we  visited  any  other  part  of  the  Ottoman  domin- 
ions ;  and  with  the  exception  of  Major  Leake,  then 
officially  resident  at  Joannina,  no  other  Englishmen 
have  ever  advanced  beyond  the  capital  into  the  interior, 
as  that  gentleman  very  lately  assured  me.  Ali  Pacha 
was  at  that  time,  (October,  1809),  carrying  on  war 
against  Ibrahim  Pacha,  whom  he  had  driven  to  Berat, 
a  strong  fortress,  which  he  was  then  besieging  :  on  our 
arrival  at  Joannina  we  were  invited  to  Tepaleni,  his 
Highness's  birth-place,  and  favourite  Serai,  only  one 
day's  distance  from  Bcrat ;  at  this  juncture  the  Vizier 
had  made  it  his  head-quarters. 

After  some  stay  in  the  capital,  we  accordingly  fol- 
lowed; but  though  furnished  with  every  accommoda- 
tion, and  escorted  by  one  of  the  Vizier's  secretaries,  we 
were  nine  days  (on  account  of  the  rains)  in  accom- 
plishing a  journey  which,  on  our  return,  barely  occu- 
pied four. 

On  our  route  we  passed  two  cities,  Argyrocastro  and 
Libochabo,  apparently  little  inferior  to  Yanina  in  size  ; 
and  no  pencil  or  pen  can  ever  do  justice  to  the  scenery 
in  the  vicinity  of  Zitza  and  Dclvinachi,  the  frontier  vil- 
lage of  Epirus  and  Albania  Proper. 

On  Albania  and  its  inhabitants,  I  am  unwilling  to 
descant,  because  this  will  be  done  so  much  better  by 
my  fellow-traveller,  in  a  work  which  may  probably 
precede  this  in  publication,  that  I  as  little  wish  to  follow 
as  I  would  to  anticipate  him.  But  some  few  observa- 
tions are  necessary  to  the  text. 

The  Amaouts,  or  Albanese,  struck  me  forcibly  by 
their  resemblance  to  the  Highlanders  of  Scotland,  in 
dross,  figure,  and  manner  of  living.  Their  very  moun- 
tains seemed  Caledonian,  with  a  kinder  climate.  The 
kilt,  though  white ;  the  spare,  active  form ;  »heir  dia- 
lect, Celtic  in  its  sound,  and  their  hardy  habits,  all  car- 
ried me  back  to  Morven.  No  nation  are  so  detested 
and  dreaded  by  their  neighbours  as  the  Albanese  :  the 
Greeks  hardly  regard  them  as  Christians,  or  the  Turks 
as  Moslems ;  and  in  fact  t'aey  are  a  mixture  of  both, 
laid  sometimes  neither.  Their  habits  are  predatory: 
all  are  armed ;  and  the  red-shawled  Arnaouts,  the 
Montenegrins,  Chimariots,  and  Gegdes,  are  treacherous; 
ne  others  differ  somewhat  in  garb,  and  essentially  in 
Jjaraoter.  As  ^ir  as  my  o%vn  experience  goes,  I  can 
upeak  favourably.  I  was  attended  by  two,  an  Infidel 
and  a  Mussulman,  to  Constantinople  and  every  other 
(>drt  of  1  urxey  which  rame  within  my  observation ;  and 
more  faithful  in  peril,  or  indefatigable  in  service,  are 
rare  to  be  found.  The  Infidel  was  named  Basilius,  the 
Moslem,  Der*ish  Tahiri ;  the  formo-r  a  man  of  middle 


age,  and  the  latter  about  my  own.  Basili  was  stnctlj 
changed  by  Ali  Pacha  in  person  to  attend  us  ;  and  Der- 
vish was  one  of  fifty  who  accompanied  us  through  ths 
forests  of  Acarnania  to  the  banks  of  Achelous,  and  on- 
ward to  Messalunghi  in  ^Etolia.  There  I  took  him  inta 
my  own  service,  and  never  had  occasion  to  repent  it  till 
the  moment  of  my  departure. 

When  in  1810,  after  the  departure  of  my  friend  Mr. 
H.  for  England,  I  was  seized  with  a  severe  fever  in  the 
Morea,  these  men  saved  my  life  by  frightening  away 
my  physician,  whose  throat  they  threatened  to  cut  if  I 
was  not  cured  within  a  given  time.  To  this  consola 
tory  assurance  of  posthumous  retribution,  and  a  reso- 
lute refusal  of  Dr.  Romanelli's  prescriptions,  I  attributed 
my  recovery.  I  had  left  my  last  remaining  English 
servant  at  Athens  ;  my  dragoman  was  as  ill  as  myself, 
and  my  poor  Arnaouts  nursed  me  with  an  attention 
which  would  have  done  honour  to  civilization. 

They  had  a  variety  of  adventures  ;  for  the  Moslem, 
Dervish,  being  a  remarkably  handsome  man,  was  al- 
ways squabbling  with  the  husbands  of  Athens  ;  inso- 
much that  four  of  the  principal  Turks  paid  me  a  visit 
of  remonstrance  at  the  Convent,  on  the  subject  of  his 
having  taken  a  woman  from  the  bath — whom  he  had 
lawfully  bought  however — a  thing  quite  contrary  to 
etiquette. 

Basili  also  was  extremely  gallant  amongst  his  own 
persuasion,  and  had  the  greatest  veneration  for  the 
church,  mixed  with  the  highest  contempt  of  church- 
men, whom  he  cuffed  upon  occasion  in  a  most  hetero- 
dox manner.  Yet  he  never  passed  a  church  without 
crossing  himself;  and  I  remember  the  risk  he  ran  in 
entering  St.  Sophia,  in  Stambol,  because  it  had  once 
been  a  place  of  his  worship.  On  remonstrating  with 
him  on  his  inconsistent  proceedings,  he  invariably  an- 
swered, "  our  church  is  holy,  our  priests  are  thieves ;" 
and  then  he  crossed  himself  as  usual,  and  boxed  the 
ears  of  the  first  "  papas"  who  refused  to  assist  in  any 
required  operation,  as  was  always  found  to  be  neces- 
sary where  a  priest  had  any  influence  with  the  Cogia 
Bashi  of  his  village.  Indeed  a  more  abandoned  race 
of  miscreants  cannot  exist  than  the  lower  orders  of  the 
Greek  clergy. 

When  preparations  were  made  for  my  return,  my 
Albanians  were  summoned  to  receive  their  pay.  Basili 
took  his  with  an  awkward  show  of  regret  at  my  in- 
tended departure,  and  marched  away  to  his  quarters 
with  his  bag  of  piastres.  I  sent  for  Dervish,  but  for 
some  time  he  was  not  to  be  found  ;  at  last  he  entered, 
just  as  Signer  Logotheti,  father  to  the  ci-devant  Ang'o- 
consul  of  Athens,  and  some  other  of  my  Greek  ac- 
quaintances, paid  me  a  visit.  Dervish  took  the  money, 
but  on  a  sudden  dashed  it  to  the  ground  ;  and  clasping 
his  hands,  which  he  raised  to  his  forehead,  rushed  out 
of  the  room  weeping  bitterly.  From  that  moment  to 
the  h6"ur  of  my  embarkation,  he  continued  his  lament- 
ations, and  all  our  efforts  to  console  him  only  produced 
(his  answer,  "  M'  aQctvtt,"  "  He  leaves  me."  Signer 
Logotheti,  who  never  wept  before  for  any  thing  les« 
than  the  loss  of  a  para, '  melted  ;  the  padre  of  the 
convent,  my  attendants,  my  visitors — and  I  verily  be- 
lieve that  even  "  Sterne's  foolish  fat  scullion"  would 
have  left  her  "  fish-kettle"  to  sympathize  with  the  un 
affected  and  unexpected  sorrow  of  this  barbarian. 


1  P        about  the  fourth  of  a  faith  ing. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


For  my  own  part,  when  I  remembered  that,  a  short 
time  before  my  departure  from  England,  a  noble  and 
most  intimate  associate  had  excused  himself  from  tak- 
ino  leave  of  me  because  he  had  to  attend  a  relation 
"  to  a  milliner's,"  I  felt  no  less  surprised  than  humili- 
ated by  the  present  occurrence  and  the  past  recollec- 
don. 

That  Dervish  would  leave  me  with  sonic  regret  was 
to  be  expected :  when  master  and  man  have  been 
scrambling  over  the  mountains  of  a  dozen  provinces  to- 
gether, they  are  unwilling  to  separate  ;  but  his  present 
feelings,  contrasted  with  his  native  ferocity,  improved 
my  opinion  of  the  human  heart.  I  believe  this  almost 
feudal  fidelity  is  frequent  amongst  them.  One  day,  on 
our  journey  over  Parnassus,  an  Englishman  in  my  ser- 
vice gave  him  a  push  in  some  dispute  about  the  bag- 
gage, which  he  unluckily  mistook  for  a  blow  ;  he  spoke 
not,  but  sat  down,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hands. 
Foreseeing  the  consequences,  we  endeavoured  to  ex- 
plain away  the  affront,  which  produced  the  following 
answfer: — "I  have  been,  a  robber,  I  am  a  soldier;  no 
captain  ever  struck  me  ;  you  are  my  master,  I  have  eaten 
your  bread  ;  but  by  that  bread  !  (a  usual  oath)  had  it 
been  otherwise,  I  would  have  stabbed  the  dog  your  ser- 
vant, and  gone  to  the  mountains."  So  the  affair  ended, 
but  from  that  day  forward  he  never  thoroughly  forgave 
the  thoughtless  fellow  who  insulted  him. 

Dervish  excelled  in  the  dance  of  his  country,  conjec- 
tured to  be  a  remnant  of  the  ancient  Pyrrhic :  be  that  as 
it  may,  it  is  manly,  and  requires  wonderful  agility.  It  is 
very  distinct  from  the  stupid  Romaika,  the  dull  round- 
about of  the  Greeks,  of  which  our  Athenian  party  had 
BO  many  specimens. 

The  Albanians  in  general  (I  do  not  mean  the  cultiva- 
tors of  the  earth  in  the  provinces,  who  have  also  that 
appellation,  but  the  mountaineers)  have  a  fine  cast  o) 
countenance  ;  and  the  most  beautiful  women  I  ever  be- 
held, in  stature  and  in  features,  we  saw  levelling  the 
road  broken  down  by  the  torrents  between  Delvinachi 
and  Libochabo.  Their  manner  of  walking  is  truly  the- 
atrical ;  but  this  strut  is  probably  the  effect  of  the.ca- 
pote,  or  cloak,  depending  from  one  shoulder.  Their 
long  hair  reminds  you  of  the  Spartans,  and  their  cour- 
age in  desultory  warfare  is  unquestionable.  Though 
they  have  some  cavalry  amongst  the  Gegdes,  I  never 
saw  a  good  Arnaout  horseman :  my  own  preferred  the 
English  saddles,  which,  however,  they  could  never  keep. 
But  on  foot  they  arc  not  to  be  subdued  by  fatigue. 

Note  12.  Stanza  xxxlx. 

an.l  pass'd  the  barren  spot. 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlook'd  the  wave. 

Ithaca. 

Note  13.  Stanza  xl. 
Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar. 
Actium  and  Trafalgar  need  no  further  mention.  Th< 
battle  of  Lepanto,  equally  bloody  and  considerable,  bu 
less  known,  was  fought  in  the  gulf  of  Patras ;  here  thi 
author  of  Don  Quixote  lost  his  left  hand. 

Note  14.  Stanza  xli. 
Anil  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love. 
Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.   From  the  promontor} 
(the  I  .over's  Leap)  Sappho  is  said  to  have  thrown  her 


Mif. 


17 


Note  15.    Stanza  xlv. 

many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king. 

It  is  said,  that  on  the  day  previous  to  the  battle  o. 
Actium,  Anthony  had  thirteen  kings  at  his  levee. 

Note  16.  Stanza  xlv. 
Look  where  the  second  Cassar's  trophies  rose. 
Nicopolis,  whose  ruins  are  most  extensive,  is  at  sornt. 
listance  from  Actium,  where  the  wall  of  the  Hippo- 
Irome  survives  in  a  few  fragments. 

Note  17.   Stanza  xlvii. 

Acherusia's  lake. 

According  to  Pouqueville,  the  Lake  of  Yanina  ;  biit 
•"ouqueville  is  always  out. 

Note  18.  Stanza  xlvii. 
To  greet  Albania's  chief. 

The  celebrated  All  Pacha.  Of  this  extraordinary  man 
here  is  an  incorrect  account  in  Pouqueville's  Travels. 

Note  19.  Stanza  xlvii. 

Yet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain  band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold. 

Five  thousand  Suliotes,  among  the  rocks  and  in  the 
castle  of  Suli,  withstood  30,000  Albanians  for  eighteen 
•ears :  the  castle  at  last  was  taken  by  bribery.  In  this 
contest  there  were  several  acts  performed  not  unworthy 
of  the  better  days  of  Greece. 

Note  20.  Stanza  xlviii. 

Monastic  Zitza,  etc. 

The  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  (bur  hours'  jour- 
ney from  Joannina,  or  Yanina,  the  capital  of  the  Pa- 
chalick.  In  the  valley  the  river  Kalamas  (once  the  Ache- 
ron) flows,  and  not  far  from  Zitza  forms  a  fine  cataract. 
The  situation  is  perhaps  the  finest  in  Greece,  though 
the  approach  to  Delvinachi  and  parts  of  Acarnania  and 
/Etolia  may  contest  the  palm.  Delphi,  Parnassus,  and, 
in  Attica,  even  Cape  Colonna  and  Port  Raphti,  are 
very  inferior ;  as  also  every  scene  in  Ionia  or  the  Troad  : 
I  am  almost  inclined  to  add  the  approach  to  Constanti- 
nople, but,  from  the  different  features  of  the  last,  • 
comparison  can  hardly  be  made. 

Note  21.  Stanza  xlix. 
Here  dwells  the  caloyer 
The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. 

Note  22.  Stanza  li. 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre. 
The  Chimariot  mountains  appear  to  have  been  vo 
canic. 

Note  23.  Stanza  h. 

behold  black  Acheron  : 

Now  called  Kalamas. 

Note  24.  Stanza  lii. 

in  his  white  capotp — 

Albanese  cloak. 

Note  25.  Stanza  Iv. 
The  sun  had  sunn  behind  vast  Tomwit. 
Anciently  Mount  Tomarus. 

Note  26.  Stanza  Iv. 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  DJ. 
The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  pa.«s«.> 
it ;  and,  immediately  above  Tepaleen,  was  to  the  *je  ** 


90 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


wide  as  the  Thames  i>a  Westminster;  at  least  in  the 
opinion  of  the  author  and  his  fellow-traveller,  Mr. 
Hobhouse.  In  the  summer  it  must  be  much  narrower. 
It  certainly  is  the  finest  river  in  the  Levant ;  neither 
Achelous,  Alpheus,  Acheron,  Scamander,  nor  Cayster, 
•pproached  it  in  breadth  or  beauly. 

Note  27.  Stanza  Ixvi. 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof. 
Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall. 
Note  28.  Stanza  Ixxi. 

the  red  wine  circling  fast. 

The  Albanian  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from  wine, 
and  indeed  very  few  of  the  others. 

Note  29.  Stanza  Ixxi. 
Each  Palikar  his  sabre  from  him  cast. 
Palikar,  shortened  when  addressed  to  a  single  person, 
from  Ua\iKapt,  a  general  name  for  a  soldier  amongst 
the  Greeks  and  Albanese  who  speak  Romaic — it  means 
properly  "  a  lad." 

Note  30.    Stanza  Ixxii. 
While  thus  in  concert,  etc. 

As  a  specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout  dialect  of 
the  Illyric,  I  here  insert  two  of  their  most  popular  choral 
songs,  which  are  generally  chaunted  in  dancing  by  men 
or  women  indiscriminately.  The  first  words  are  merely 
a  kind  of  chorus,  without  meaning,  like  some  in  our 
own  and  all  other  languages. 

Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Lo,  Lo,  I  come,  I  come ; 


Naciarura,  popuso. 

Naciarura  na  civin 
Ha  pe  uderini  ti  hin. 
Ha  pe  uderi  escrotini 
Ti  vin  ti  mar  servetini. 

Caliriote  me  surme 
Ea  ha  pe  pse  dua  live. 

Buo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo, 

Gi  egem  spirta  esimiro. 
Caliriote  vu  le  funds 
Ede  veto  tunde  tunde. 

Caliriote  me  surme 
Ti  mi  put  e  poi  mi  le. 

Se  ti  puta  citi  mora 
Si  mi  ri  ni  veti  udo  gia 


be  thou  silent. 

I  come,  I  run ;  open  the 
door  that  I  may  enter. 

Open  the  door  by  halves, 
that  I  may  take  my  tur- 
ban. 

Caliriotes1  with  the  dark 
eyes,  open  the  gate  that 
I  may  enter. 

Lo,  lo,  I  hear  thee,  my 
soul. 

An  Arnaout  girl,  in  costly 
garb,  walks  with  graceful 
pride. 

Caliriot  maid  of  the  dark 
eyes,  give  me  a  kiss. 

If  I  have  kissed  thee,  what 
hast  thou  gained?  My 
soul  is  consumed  with 
fire. 

Va  ie  ni  il  chc  cadale          Dance  lightly,  more  gently, 
Celo  more,  more  celo.  and  gently  still. 

I*iu  hari  ti  tirete  Make  not  so  much  dust  to 

I'lu  huron  cia  ora  seti.  destroy  your  embroidered 

hose. 

The  lasv.  stanza  would  puzzle  a  commentator :  the  men 
nave  certainly  buskins  of  the^ost  beautiful  texture, 
tint  the  ladies  (to  whom  the  above  is  supposed  to  be 
addressed)  have  nothing  under  their  little  yellow  boots 


I  The  Albanese,  particularly  the  women,  are  frequently 
it     Calirio'e"  •"  for  what  reason  I  inquired  in  vain. 


and  slippers  but  a  well-turned  and  sometimes  very  white 
ancle.  The  Arnaout  girls  are  much  handsomer  than  the 
Greeks,  and  their  dress  is  far  more  picturesque.  They 
preserve  their  shape  much  longer  also,  from  being  al- 
ways in  the  open  air.  It  is  to  be  observed  that  the 
Arnaout  is  not  a  written  language  ;  the  words  of  thi» 
song,  therefore,  as  well  as  the  one  which  follows,  are 
spelt  according  to  their  pronunciation.  They  are  copied 
by  one  who  speaks  and  understands  the  dialect  peiv 
fectly,  and  who  is  a  native  of  Athens. 


Ndi  sefda  tinde  ulavossa 
Vettimi  upri  vi  lofsa. 

Ah  vaisisso  mi  privi  lofse 
Si  mi  rini  mi  la  vosse. 

Uti  tasa  roba  stua 
Sitti  eve  tulati  dua. 

Roba  stinori  ssidua 
Qu  mi  siru  vetti  dua. 

Qurmini  dua  civileni 
Roba  ti  siarmi  tildi  eni. 

Utara  pisa  vaisisso  me  simi 

rin  ti  bapti. 
Eti  mi  bire  a  piste  si  gui 

dendroi  tiltati. 

Udi  vura  udorini  udiri  ci- 

cova  cilti  mora 
Udorini  talti   hollna  u  ede 

caimoni  mora. 


I  am  wounded  by  thy  love, 
and  have  loved  but  to 
scorch  myself. 

Thou  hast  consumed  me ! 
Ah,  maid !  thou  hast 
struck  me  to  the  heart. 

I  have  said  I  wish  no  dow- 
ry, but  thine  eyes  and 
eyelashes. 

The  accursed  dowry  I  want 
not,  but  thee  only. 

Give  me  thy  charms,  and 
let  the  portion  feed  the 
flames. 

I  have  loved  thee,  maid, 
with  a  sincere  soul,  but 
thou  hast  left  me  like  a 
withered  tree. 

If  I  have  placed  my  hand 
on  thy  bosom,  what  have 
I  gained?  my  hand  is 
withdrawn,  but  retains 
the  flame. 


I  believe  the  two  last  stanzas,  as  they  are  in  a  differ- 
ent measure,  ought  to  belong  to  another  ballad.  An 
idea  something  similar  to  the  thought  in  the  last  lines 
was  expressed  by  Socrates,  whose  arm  having  come  in 
contact  with  one  of  his  "  u-oicoXirioi,"  Critobulus  or 
Cleobulus,  the  philosopher  complained  of  a  shooting 
pain  as  far  as  his  shoulder  for  some  days  after,  and 
therefore  very  properly  resolved  to  teach  his  disciples 
in  future  without  touching  them. 

Note  31.    Seng,  stanza  1. 
Tambourgi !  Tambourgi !  thy  'larum  afar,  etc. 
These  stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different  Alba- 
nese songs,  as  far  as  I  was  able  to  make  them  out  by 
the  exposition  of  the  Albanese  in  Romaic  and  Italian. 

Note  32.  Song,  stanza  8. 
Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell. 
It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 

Note  33.  Stanza  Ixxiii. 
Fair  Greece !  sad  relic  ofdcparted  worth,  etc. 
Some  thoughts  on  this  subject  will  be  found  in  IM 
subjoined  papers. 

Note  34.    Stanza  Ixxiv. 

Spirit  of  freedom  !  when  on  Phyle's  brow 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train. 

Phyle,  which  commands  a  beautiful  view  of  Athens, 
has  still  considerable  remains  ;  it  was  seized  by  Thrasy 
bulus  previous  U.  .he  expulsion  of  the.  Thirty 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Note  35.  Stanza  Ixxvii. 
•  Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  guest. 

When  taken  by  the  Latins,  and  retained  for  several 
years.     See  GIBBON. 

Note  36.  Stnnza  Ixxvii. 
The  prophet's  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil. 
Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time  ago  by  the 
Wahabees,  a  sect  yearly  increasing. 

Note  37.  Stanza  Ixxxv. 
Thy  vales  of  ever-green,  thy  hills  of  snow — 
On  many  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura,  the 
snow  never  is  entirely  melted,  notwithstanding  the  in- 
tense heat  of  the  summer ;  but  I  never  saw  it  lie  on  the 
plains,  even  in  winter. 

Note  38.  Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave. 
Of  Mount  Pentelicus,  from  whence  the  marble  was 
dug  that  constructed  the  public  edifices  of  Athens. 
The  modern  name  is  Mount  Mendeli.     An  immense 
cave  formed  by  the  quarries  still  remains,  and  will  till 
the  end  of  time. 

Note  39.  Stanza  Lxxxix. 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word — 
"  Siste,  viator — heroa  calcas !"  was  the  epitaph  on 
the  famous  Count  Merci ; — what  then  must  be  our 
feelings  when  standing  on  the  tumulus  of  the  two 
hundred  (Greeks)  who  fell  on  Marathon  ?  The  prin- 
cipal barrow  has  recently  been  opened  by  Fauvel ;  few 
or  no  relics,  as  vases,  etc.  were  found  by  the  excavator. 
The  plain  of  Marathon  was  offered  to  me  for  sale  at 
the  sum  of  sixteen  thousand  piastres,  about  nine  hun- 
dred pounds '  Alas  ! — "  Expende — quot  libras  in  duce 
summo — invenies?" — was  the  dust  of  Miltiades  worth 
no  more  ?  it  could  scarcely  have  fetched  less  if  sold  by 
weight, 

PAPERS  REFERRED  TO  BY  NOTE  33. 
1. 

Before  I  say  any  thing  about  a  city  of  which  every 
body,  traveller  or  not,  has  thought  it  necessary  to  say 
something,  I  will  request  Miss  Owenson,  when  she  next 
borrows  an  Athenian  heroine  for  her  four  volumes,, to 
have  the  goodness  to  marry  her  to  somebody  more  o 
a  gentleman  than  a  "  Disdar  Aga"  (who  by  the  by  is 
not  an  aga),  the  most  impolite  of  petty  officers,  the 
greatest  patron  oflarceny  Athens  ever  saw  (except  Lore 
E.),  and  the  unworthy  occupant  of  the  Acropolis,  on  a 
handsome  annual  stipend  of  130  piastres  (eight  pounds 
sterling),  out  of  which  he  has  only  to  pay  his  garrison 
the  most  ill-regulated  corps  in  the  ill-regulated  Otto- 
man Empire.     I  speak  it  tenderly,  seeing  I  was  onc 
the  cause  of  the  husband  of  "  Ida  of  Athens"  nearl; 
suffering  the  bastinado;  and  because  the  said  "  Disdar' 
is  a  turbulent  husband,  and  beats  his  wife,  so  that 
exhort  and  beseech  Miss  Owenson  to  sue  for  a  separat 
maintenance   in  behalf  of  "  Ida."     Having  premised 
fhus  much,  on  a  matter  of  such  import  to  the  readers 
of  romances,  I  may  now  leave  Ida,  to  mention   her 
jirth-place. 

Setting  aside  the  magic  of  the  name,  and  all  those 
associations  which  it  would  be  pedantic  and  super- 
fluous to  recapitulate,  the  very  situation  of  Athens 


A'ould  render  it  the  favourite  of  all  who  have  eves  for 
art  or  nature.  The  climate,  to  me  at  least,  appeared  a 
erpetual  spring  ;  during  eight  months  I  never  passed  a 
lay  without  being  as  many  hours  on  horseback ;  rain 
s  extremely  rare,  snow  never  lies  in  the  plains,  and  a 
cloudy  day  is  an  agreeable  rarity.  In  Spain,  Portusal, 
and  every  part  of  the  East  which  I  visited,  except  Iou>» 
and  Attica,  I  perceived  no  such  superiority  of  climate 
o  our  own ;  and  at  Constantinople,  where  I  passed 
May,  June,  and  part  of  July  (1810),  you  might  "damn 
the  climate,  and  complain  of  spleen,"  five  days  out  of 
even. 

The  air  of  the  Morea  is  heavy  and  unwholesome,  but 
the  moment  you  pass  the  isthmus  in  the  direction  of 
VIegara,  the  change  is  strikingly  perceptible.  But  I  feai 
Hesiod  will  still  be  found  correct  in  his  description  of 
a  Boeotian  winter. 

WTe  found  at  Livadia  an  "  esprit  fort"  in  a  Greek 
jishop,  of  all  free-thinkers !  1  lis  worthy  hypocrite 
rallied  his  own  religion  with  great  intrepidity  (but  not 
jefore  his  flock),  and  talked  of  a  mass  as  a  "  coglic- 
neria."  It  was  impossible  to  think  better  of  him  for 
this :  but,  for  a  Boeotian,  he  was  brisk  with  all  his  ab- 
surdity. This  phenomenon  (with  the  exception  indeed 
of  Thebes,  the  remains  of  Chseronea,  the  plain  of 
Platea,  Orchomenus,  Livadia,  and  its  nominal  cave  of 
Trophonius),  was  the  only  remarkable  thing  we  saw 
before  we  passed  Mount  Cithreron. 

The  fountain  of  Dirce  turns  a  mill :  at  least,  my  com- 
panion (who,  resolving  to  be  at  once  cleanly  and  clas- 
sical, bathed  in  it)  pronounced  it  to  be  the  fountain  of 
Dirce,  and  any  body  who  thinks  it  worth  while  may 
contradict  him.  At  Castri  we  drank  of  half  a  dozen 
streamlets,  some  not  of  the  purest,  before  we  decided 
to  our  satisfaction  which  was  the  true  Castalian,  and 
even  that  had  a  villanous  twang,  probably  from  the 
snow,  though  it  did  not  throw  us  into  an  epic  fever 
like  poor  Doctor  Chandler. 

From  Fort  Phyle,  of  which  large  remains  still  exist, 
the  Plain  of  Athens,  Pentelicus,  Hymettus,  the^Egean, 
and  the  Acropolis,  burst  upon  the  eye  at  once ;  in  my 
opinion,  a  more  glorious  prospect  than  even  Cintra  or 
Istambol.  Not  the  view  from  the  Troad,  with  Ida, 
the  Hellespont,  and  the  more  distant  Mount  Athos,  can 
equal  it,  though  so  superior  in  extent. 

I  heard  much  of  the  beauty  of  Arcadia,  but,  except- 
ing the  view  from  the  monastery  of  Megaspelion  (which 
is  inferior  to  Zitza  in  a  command  of  country),  and  the 
descent  from  the  mountains  on  the  way  from  Tripolitza 
to  Arsos,  Arcadia  has  little  to  recommend  it  beyond 
the  name. 

"  Stcrnitur,  et  dulces  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos." 
Virgil  could  have  put  this  into  the  mouth  of  none  but 
an  Argive;  and  (with  reverence  be  it  spoken)  it  doe» 
not  deserve  the  epithet.  And  if  the  Polynices  of  Sta- 
tins, "In  mediis  audit  duo  littora  campis,"  did  actually 
hear  both  shores  in  crossing  the  isthmus  of  Corinth,  he 
had  better  ears  than  have  ever  been  worn  in  sucn  • 
journey  since. 

"Athens,"  says  a  celebrated  topographer,  "  is  still  Un« 
most  polished  city  of  Greece."  Perhaps  it  may  i. 
Greece,  but  not  of  the  Greeks;  for  Joannina,  in  Epiu*i 
is  universally  allowed,  amongst  themselves,  to  be  supe 
rior  in  the  wealth,  refinement,  learning,  and  dialect  «i 
its  inhabitants.  The  Athenians  are  n  mirkable  <» 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


their  cunning  •,  and  the  lower  orders  are  not  improperly 
characterized1  in  th.tt  proverb,  which  classes  them  with 
"  the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  the  Turks  of  the  Negro- 
pont." 

Among  the  various  foreigners  resident  in  Athens, 
French,  Italians,  Germans,  Ragusans,  etc.,  there  was 
never  a  difference  of  opinion  in  their  estimate  of  the 
Greek  character,  though  on  all  other  topics  they  dis- 
puted with  great  acrimony. 

M.  Fauvel,  the  French  consul,  who  has  passed  thirty 
years  principally  at  Athens,  and  to  whose  talents  as  an 
artist,  and  manners  as  a  gentleman,  none  who  have 
known  him  can  refuse  their  testimony,  has  frequently 
declared  in  my  hearing,  that  the  Greeks  do  not  deserve 
to  be  emancipated  ;  reasoning  on  the  grounds  of  their 
"  national  and  individual  depravity,"  while  he  forgot 
that  such  depravity  is  to  be  attributed  to  causes  which 
can  only  be  removed  by  the  measure  he  reprobates. 

M.  Roque,  a  French  merchant  of  respectability  long 
settled  in  Athens,  asserted  with  the  most  amusing 
gravity :  "  Sir,  they  are  the  same  canaille  that  existed 
in  the  days  of  Themistocles ."'  an  alarming  remark  to 
the  "  Laudator  temporis  acti."  The  ancients  banished 
Themistocles ;  the  moderns  cheat  Monsieur  Roque  : 
thus  great  men  have  ever  been  treated ! 

In  short,  all  the  Franks  who  are  fixtures,  and  most 
of  the  Englishmen,  Germans,  Danes,  etc.  of  passage, 
canvs  over  by  degrees  to  their  opinion,  on  much  the 
same  grounds  that  a  Turk  in  England  would  condemn 
the  nation  by  wholesale,  because  he  was  wronged  by 
his  lacquey,  and  overcharged  by  his  washerwoman. 

Certainly  it  was  not  a  little  staggering,  when  the 
Sieurs  Fauvel  and  Lusieri,  the  two  greatest  demagogues 
of  the  day,  who  divide  between  them  the  power  of 
Pericles  and  the  popularity  of  Cleon,  and  puzzle  the 
poor  Waywode  with  perpetual  differences,  agreed  in 
the  utter  condemnation,  "nulla  virtute  redemptum," 
of  the  Greeks  in  general,  and  of  the  Athenians  in  par- 
ticular. 

For  my  own  humble  opinion,  I  am  loth  to  hazard  it, 
Knowing,  as  I  do,  that  there  be  now  in  MS.  no  less 
than  five  tours  of  the  first  magnitude  and  of  the  most 
threatening  aspect,  all  in  typographical  array,  by  per- 
sons of  wit,  and  honour,  and  regular  commonplace 
books :  but,  if  I  may  say  this  without  offence,  it  seems 
to  me  rather  hard  to  declare  so  positively  and  pertina- 
ciously, as  almost  every  body  has  declared,  that  the 
Greeks,  because  they  are  very  bad,  will  never  be  better. 

Eton  and  Sonnini  have  led  us  astray  by  their  pane- 
gyrics and  projects  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  De  Pauw 
and  Thornton  have  debased  the  Greeks  beyond  their 
demerits. 

The  Greeks  will  never  be  independent;  they  will 
never  be  sovereigns,  as  heretofore,  and  God  forbid  they 
ever  should  !  but  they  may  be  subjects  without  being 
•laves.  Our  colonies  are  not  independent,  but  they 
are  free  and  industrious,  and  such  may  Greece  be 
noreaftpr. 

At  present,  like  the  Catholics  of  Ireland,  and  the 
,»e\vs  throughout  the  world,  and  such  other  cudgelled 
ind  heterodox  people,  they  suffer  all  the  moral  and 
physical  ills  that  can  afflict  humanity.  Their  life  is  a 
Ktrusgie  against  truth ;  they  are  vicious  in  their  own 
rletence.  They  are  so  unused  to  kindness,  that  when 
;»'CT  occasionally  meet  with  it,  they  look  upon  it  with 


suspicion,  as  a  dog  often  beaten  snaps  at  your  fingen 
if  you  attempt  to  caress  him.  "  They  are  ungrateful,  • 
notoriously,  abominably  ungrateful !" — this  is  the  gen- 
eral cry.  Now,  in  the  name  of  Nemesis  !  for  what  ar« 
they  to  be  grateful  ?  Where  is  the  human  being  that 
ever  conferred  a  benefit  on  Greek  or  Greeks?  TheV 
are  to  be  grateful  to  the  Turks  for  their  fetters,  and  t> 
the  Franks  for  their  broken  promises  and  lying  coun- 
sels. They  are  to  be  grateful  to  the  artist  who  engraves 
their  ruins,  and  to  the  antiquary  who  carries  them 
away :  to  the  traveller  whose  janissary  flogs  them,  and 
to  the  scribbler  whose  journal  abuses  them !  This  is  the 
amount  of  their  obligations  to  foreigners. 

II. 

Franciscan  Convent,  Athens,  January  23,  1811. 

Amongst  the  remnants  of  the  barbarous  policy  of  the 
earlier  ages,  are  the  traces  of  bondage  which  yet  exist 
in  different  countries  ;  whose  inhabitants,  however  di- 
vided in  religion  and  manners,  almost  all  agree  in  op- 
pression. 

The  English  have  at  last  compassionated  their  ne- 
groes, and,  under  a  less  bigoted  government,  may 
probably  one  day  release  their  Catholic  brethren  :  but 
the  interposition  of  foreigners  alone  can  emancipate  the 
Greeks,  who,  otherwise,  appear  to  have  as  small  a 
chance  of  redemption  from  the  Turks,  as  the  Jews  have 
from  mankind  in  general.  , 

Of  the  ancient  Greeks  we  know  more  than  enough ; 
at  least  the  younger  men  of  Europe  devote  much  of 
their  time  to  the  study  of  the  Greek  writers  and  history, 
which  would  be  more  usefully  spent  in  mastering  theii 
own.  Of  the  moderns,  we  are  perhaps  more  neglectful 
than  they  deserve ;  and  while  every  man  of  any  pre- 
tensions to  learning  is  tiring  out  his  youth,  and  often  his 
age,  in  the  study  of  the  language  and  of  the  harangues 
of  the  Athenian  demagogues,  in  favour  of  freedom,  the 
real  or  supposed  descendants  of  these  sturdy  republicans 
are  left  to  the  actual  tyranny  of  their  masters,  although 
a  very  slight  effort  is  required  to  strike  off  their 
chains. 

To  talk,  as  the  Greeks  themselves  do,  of  their  rising 
again  to  their  pristine  superiority,  would  be  ridiculous ; 
as  the  rest  of  the  world  must  resume  its  barbarism,  after 
re-asserting  the  sovereignty  of  Greece :  but  there  seems 
to  lie  no  very  great  obstacle,  except  in  the  apathy  of  the 
Franks,  to  their  becoming  a  useful  dependency,  or 
even  a  free  state  with  a  proper  guarantee; — under 
correction,  however,  be  it  spoken,  for  many  and  well- 
informed  men  doubt  the  practicability  even  of  this. 

The  Greeks  have  never  lost  their  hope,  though  they 
are  now  more  divided  in  opinion  on  the  subject  of  their 
probable  deliverers.  Religion  recommends  the  Russians; 
but  they  have  twice  been  deceived  and  abandoned  by 
that  power,  and  the  dreadful  lesson  they  received  after 
the  Muscovite  desertion  in  the  Morea  has  never  been 
forgotten.  The  French  they  dislike ;  although  the 
subjugation  of  the  rest  of  Europe  will,  probably,  be 
attended  by  the  deliverance  of  continental  Greece. 
The  islanders  look  to  the  English  for  succour,  as  they 
have  very  lately  possessed  themselves  of  the  Ionian 
republic,  Corfu  excepted.  But  whoever  appear  with 
arms  in  their  hands  will  be  welcome  ;  and  when  that 
day  arrives,  Heaven  have  mercy  on  the  Ot'.omans ;  they 
cannot  expect  it  from  the  Giaours. 

But  instead  of  considering  what  (hey  have  been,  aitd 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


ipecukl:ng  on  what  they  may  be — let  us  look  at  them 
as  they  are. 

And  here  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  the  contrariety 
of  opinions :  some,  particularly  the  merchants,  decry- 
ing the  Greeks  in  the  strongest  language  ;  others,  gen- 
erally travellers,  turning  periods  in  their  eulogy,  and 
publishing  veiy  curious  speculations  grafted  on  their 
former  state,  which  can  have  no  more  effect  on  their 
present  lot,  than  the  existence  of  the  Incas  on  the  fu- 
ture fortunes  of  Peru. 

One  very  ingenious  person  terms  them  the  "  natural 
allies"  of  Englishmen  ;  another,  no  less  ingenious,  will 
not  al'ow  them  to  be  the  allies  of  any  body,  and  denies 
their  very  descent  from  the  ancients ;  a  third,  more  in- 
genious than  eitlier,  builds  a  Greek  empire  on  a  Russian 
foundation,  and  realizes  (on  paper)  all  the  chimeras  of 
Catherine  II.  As  to  the  question  of  their  descent,  what 
can  it  import  whether  the  Mainotes  are  the  lineal  La- 
conians  or  n.A  7  or  the  present  Athenians  as  indigenous 
as  the  bees  of  Hymettus,  or  as  the  grasshoppers,  to 
which  they  once  likened  themselves  ?  What  English- 
man cares  if  he  be  of  a  Danish,  Saxon,  Norman,  or 
Trojan  blood  ?  or  who,  except  a  Welchman,  is  afflicted 
with  a  desire  of  being  descended  from  Caractacus  ? 

The  poor  Greeks  do  not  so  much  abound  in  the  good 
things  of  this  world,  as  to  render  even  their  claims  to 
antiquity  an  object  of  envy ;  it  is  very  cruel  then  in  Mr. 
Thornton,  to  disturb  them  in  the  possession  of  all  that 
time  has  left  them ;  viz.  their  pedigree,  of  which  they 
are  the  more  tenacious,  as  it  is  all  they  can  call  their 
own.  It  would  be  worth  while  to  publish  together,  and 
compare,  the  works  of  Messrs.  Thornton  and  De  Pauw, 
Eton  and  Sonnini ;  paradox  on  one  side,  and  prejudice 
on  the  other.  Air.  Thornton  conceives  himself  to  have 
claims  to  public  confidence  from  a  fourteen  years'  resi- 
dence at  Pera  ;  perhaps  he  may  on  the  subject  of  the 
Turks,  but  this  can  give  him  no  more  insight  into  the  real 
state  of  Greece  and  her  inhabitants,  than  as  many  years 
spent  in  Wapping,  into  that  of  the  Western  Highlands. 

The  Greeks  of  Constantinople  live  in  Fanal ;  and  if 
Mr.  Thornton  did  not  oftener  cross  the  Golden  Horn 
than  his  brother  merchants  are  accustomed  to  do,  I 
should  place  no  great  reliance  on  his  information.  I 
actually  heard  one  of  these  gentlemen  boast  of  their 
little  general  intercourse  with  the  city,  and  assert  of 
himself,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  that  he  had  been  but 
four  times  at  Constantinople  in  as  many  years. 

As  to  Mr.  Thornton's  voyages  in  the  Black  Sea  with 
Greek  vessels,  they  gave  him  the  same  idea  of  Greece 
as  a  cruise  to  Berwick  in  a  Scotch  smack  would  of 
Johnny  Grot's  house.  Upon  what  grounds  then  does 
he  arrogate  the  right  of  condemning  by  wholesale  a  body 
of  men,  of  whom  he  can  know  little  ?  It  is  rather  a  cu- 
rious circumstance  that  Mr.  Thornton,  who  so  lavishly 
dispraises  Pouqueville  on  every  occasion  of  mentioning 
rhe  Turks,  has  yet  recourse  to  him  as  authority  on  the 
Greeks,  and  terms  him  an  impartial  observer.  Now  Dr. 
Pouqueville  is  as  little  entitled  to  that  appellation,  as 
Mr.  Thornton  to  confer  it  on  him. 

The  fact  is,  we  are  deplorably  in  want  of  information 
on  the  subject  of  the  Greeks,  and  in  particular  their 
jterature ;  nor  is  there  any  probability  of  our  being  bet- 
•er  acquainted,  till  our  intercourse  becomes  more  inti- 
mate, or  their  independence  confirmed :  the  relations  of 
passing  travellers  are  as  little  to  be  depended  on  as  the 

M 


invectives  of  angry  factors ;  but  till  som-lh'mg  more 
can  be  attained,  we  must  be  content  with  the  little  to 
be  acquired  from  similar  sources. ' 

However  defective  these  may  be,  they  are  preferaU 
to  the  paradoxes  of  men  who  have  read  superficially  o 
the  ancients,  and  seen  nothing  of  the  moderns,  such  a* 
De  Pauw ;  who,  when  he  asserts  that  the  British  breed 
of  horses  is  ruined  by  Newmarket,  and  that  the  Spar- 
tans  were  cowards  in  the  field,  betrays  an  equal  know- 
ledge'of  English  horses  and  Spartan  men.  His  "phi- 
losophical observations"  have  a  much  better  claim  to 
the  title  of  "  poetical."  It  could  not  be  expected  that 
he  who  so  liberally  condemns  some  of  the  most  cele- 
brated institutions  of  the  ancient,  should  have  mercy  or< 
the  modern  Greeks :  and  it  fortunately  happens,  thai 
the  absurdity  of  his  hypothesis  on  their  forefathers  re- 
futes his  sentence  on  themselves. 

Let  us  trust,  then,  that  in  spite  of  the  prophecies  of 
De  Pauw,  and  the  doubts  of  Mr.  Thornton,  there  is  a 
reasonable  hope  of  the  redemption  of  a  race  of  men, 
who,  whatever  may  be  the  errors  of  their  religion  and 
policy,  have  been  amply  punished  by  three  centuries 
and  a  half  of  captivity. 

HI. 

Athens,  Franciscan  Convent,  March  17,  1811. 
"  I  must  have  some  talk  with  this  learned  Theban." 

Some  time  after  my  return  from  Constantinople  tu 
this  city,  I  received  the  thirty-first  number  of  the  Edin 
burgh  Review  as  a  great  favour,  and  certainly  at  thii 
distance  an  acceptable  one,  from  the  Captain  of  an 
English  frigate  off  Salamis.  In  that  number,  Art.  3, 
containing  the  review  of  a  French  translation  of  Strabo, 
there  are  introduced  some  remarks  on  the  modern 
Greeks  and  their  literature,  with  a  short  account  of 
Coray,  a  co-translator  in  the  French  version.  On  those 
remarks  I  mean  to  ground  a  few  observations,  ai:d 
the  spot  where  I  now  write  will,  I  hope,  be  sufficient 
excuse  for  introducing  them  in  a  work  in  some  degree 
connected  with  the  subject.  Coray,  the  most  celebrated 
of  living  Greeks,  at  least  among  the  Franks,  was  born 


1  A  word,  en  passant,  with  Mr.  Thornton  and  Dr.  Pouquo 
ville,  wlio  have  been  guilty  between  them  of  Badly  clipping 
the  Sultan's  Turkish. 

Dr.  Pouqueville  tells  a  long  story  of  a  Moslem  who  swal 
lowed  corrosive  sublimate,  in  such  quantities  that  he  acquired 
the  name  of  "  Suleyman  Yej/cn,"  i.  e.  quoth  the  doctor, 
"  Suleyman,  the  eater  of  corrosive  sublimate."  "Aha," 
thinks  Mr.  Thornton,  (angry  with  the  doctor  for  the  fiftieth 
time)  "have  I  caught  you?" — Then,  in  a  note  twice  the 
thickness  of  the  doctor's  anecdote,  he  questions  the  doctor'* 
proficiency  in  the  Turkish  tongue,  and  his  veracity  in  his  own. 
— "For,"  observes  Mr.  Thornton,  (after  inflicting  on  us  the 
tough  participle  of  a  Turkish  verb),  "it  means  nothing  more 
than  Suleyman  the  eater,"  and  ouite  cashiers  the  supple- 
mentary "sublimate."  Now  both  are  right  and  both  ar» 
wrong.  If  Mr.  Thornton,  when  he  next  resides  "fourteen 
years  in  the  factory,"  will  consult  his  Turkish  dictionary,  or 
ask  any  of  his  Stamboline  acquaintance,  he  will  discover  that 
"  Stdeyina'n  yeyen,"  put  together  discreetly,  mean  ihe 
"  Shallower  of  sublimate,"  without  any  "  Sulet/man"  in  Ilia 
case;  " Sulevma"  signifying  "corrosive  sublimate,"  and  not 
being  a  proper  name  on  this  occasion,  although  it  be  an  or- 
thodox name  enough  with  the  addition  of  n  After  Mr 
Thornton's  frequent  hints  of  profound  orientalism,  he  might 
have  found  this  out  before  he  sang  such  paeans  over  Dr 
Pouqueville. 

After  this,  I  think  "Travellers  versus  Factors"  shall  <*> 
our  motto,  though  the  above  Mr.  Thornton  has  condemned 
"hoc  genus  omne,"tbr  mistake  and  misrepresentation.  *'  N« 
Sutor  ultra  crepidam."  "No  merchant  beyond  hi*  hales' 
N.  B.  For  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Thornton  '  Sutor"  w  »•  • 
proper  name. 


SI 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


at  Scio  (n>  the  E.evic-v  Smyrna  is  stated,  I  have  reason 
to  think,  incorrectly),  an/],  besides  the  translation  of 
Beccaria,  and  other  works  Mentioned  by  the  reviewer, 
has  published  a  lexicon  in  Romaic  and  French,  if  I  may 
trust  the  assurance  of  some  Danish  travellers  lately 
arrived  from  Paris  ;  but  the  latest  we  have  seen  here 
in  French  and  Greek  is  that  of  Gregory  Zolikogloon.  ' 
Coray  has  recently  been  involved  in  an  unpleasant 
controversy  with  M.  Gail,a  a  Parisian  commentator  and 
editor  of  some  translations  from  the  Greek  poets,  in 
consequence  of  the  Institute  having  awarded  him  the 
prize  for  his  version  of  Hippocrates  "  Iltpi  Maruv," 
etc.  to  the  disparagement,  and  consequently  displeasure, 
of  the  said  Gail.  To  his  exertions,  literary  and  patriotic, 
great  praise  is  undoubtedly  due,  but  a  part  of  that  praise 
ought  not  to  be  withheld  from  the  two  brothers  Zosimado 
(merchants  settled  in  Leghorn),  who  sent  him  to  Paris, 
and  maintained  him,  for  the  express  purpose  of  eluci- 
dating tne  ancient,  and  adding  to  the  modern  researches 
of  his  countrymen.  Coray,  however,  is  not  considered 
by  his  countrymen  equal  to  some  who  lived  in  the  two 
last  centuries  :  more  particularly  Dorotheus  of  Mity- 
lene,  whose  Hellenic  writings  are  so  much  esteemed  by 
the  Greeks,  that  Meletius  terms  him,  "  Mira  TOV 
QovKvSi&tjv  KOI  Etvo^uvra  apiaro;  'EXXjJvuv."  (P.  224. 
Ecclesiastical  History,  vol.  iv.) 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  the  translator  of  Fontenelle, 
and  Kamarases,  who  translated  Ocellus  Lucanus  on 
the  Universe  into  French,  Christodoulus,  and  more 
particularly  Psalida,  whom  I  have  conversed  with  in 
Joannina,  are  also  in  high  repute  among  their  literati. 
The  last-mentioned  has  published  in  Romaic  and  Latin 
a  work  on  "  True  Happiness,"  dedicated  to  Catherine 
II.  But  Potyzois,  who  is  stated  by  the  reviewer  to  be 
the  only  modern  except  Coray,  who  has  distinguished 
himself  by  a  knowledge  of  Hellenic,  if  he  be  the  Poly- 
zois  Lampanitziotes  of  Yanina,  who  has  published  a 
number  of  editions  in  Romaic,  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  an  itinerant  vender  of  books  ;  with  the  con- 
tents of  which  he  had  no  concern  beyond  his  name  on 
the  title-page,  placed  there  to  secure  his  property  in  the 
publication,  and  he  was,  moreover,  a  man  utterly  des- 
titute of  scholastic  acquirements.  As  the  name,  how- 
ever, is  not  uncommon,  some  other  Polyzois  may  have 
edited  the  Epistles  of  Aristsenetus. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  system  of  continental 
blockade  has  closed  the  few  channels  through  which 
the  Greeks  received  their  publications,  particularly 
Venice  and  Trieste.  Even  the  common  grammars  for 
children  are  become  too  dear  for  the  lower  orders. 
Amongst  their  original  works,  the  Geography  of  Mele- 
tius, Archbishop  of  Athens,  and  a  multitude  of  theo- 
logical quartos  and  poetical  pamphlets,  are  to  be  met 
with  :  their  grammars  and  lexicons  of  two,  three,  and 
four  languages,  are  numerous  and  excellent.  Their 


1  I  havn  in  my  possession  an  ex'.dllent  Lexicon  "  rpt- 
yXu<r<rov,"  which  I  received  in  exchange  from  8.  G — ,  Esq., 
for  a  small  gem  :  my  antiquarian  friends  have  never  forgotten 
.,  or  forgiven  me. 

?  In  Gail's  pamphlet  against  Coray,  he  talks  of  "  throwing 
the  insolvent  Hellenists  out  of  the  windows."  On  this  a 
French  critic  exclaims,  "  Ah,  my  God  '  throw  a  Hellcniste 
nut  of  '.he  window  !  what  sacrilege  !"  It  certainly  would  be 
it  serious  business  for  those  authors  who  dwell  in  the  attics  : 
but  I  have  quoted  the  passage  merely  to  prove  the  similarity 
uf  alylp  among  the  controversialists  of  all  polished  countries : 
l.undor  nr  Edinburgh  could  hardly  parallel  this  Parisian 
•Mlllition 


poetry  is  in  rhyme.  The  most  singular  piece  I  have  Iat3ly 
seen,  is  a  satire  in  dialogue  between  a  Russian,  Eng- 
lish, and  French  traveller,  and  the  Waywode  of  Wal- 
lachia  (or  Blackbey,  as  they  term  him),  an  archbishop, 
a  merchant,  and  Cogia  Bachi  (or  primate),  in  succes- 
sion ;  to  all  of  whom  under  the  Turks  the  writer  attrib- 
utes their  present  degeneracy.  Their  songs  are  some- 
times pretty  and  pathetic,  but  their  tunes  generally 
unpleasing  to  the  ear  of  a  Frank :  the  best  is  the  famous 
"  AtOrt  ira'i&tf  riav  'EAXiJvwv,"  by  the  unfortunate  Riga. 
But  from  a  catalogue  of  more  than  sixty  authors,  now 
before  me,  only  fifteen  can  be  found  who  have  touched 
on  any  theme  except  theology. 

I  am  intrusted  with  a  commission  by  a  Greek  of 
Athens,  named  Marmarotouri,  to  make  arrangements, 
if  possible,  for  printing  in  London  a  translation  of  Bar- 
thelemi's  Anacharsis  in  Romaic,  as  he  has  no  other 
opportunity,  unless  he  despatches  the  31S.  to  Vienna 
by  the  Black  Sea  and  Danube. 

The  reviewer  mentions  a  school  established  at  Heca- 
tonesi,  and  suppressed  at  the  instigation  of  Sebastiani; 
he  means  Cidonies,  or,  in  Turkish,  Haivali ;  a  town 
on  the  continent  where  that  institution,  for  a  hundred 
students  and  three  professors,  still  exists.  It  is  true, 
that  this  establishment  was  disturbed  by  the  Porte,  under 
the  ridiculous  pretext  that  the  Greeks  were  constructing 
a  fortress  instead  of  a  college;  but  on  investigation, 
and  the  payment  of  some  purses  to  the  Divan,  it  has 
been  permitted  to  continue.  The  principal  professor, 
named  Veniamin  (i.  e.  Benjamin),  is  stated  to  be  a 
man  of  talent,  but  a  free-thinker.  He  was  born  in 
Lesbos,  studied  in  Italy,  and  is  master  of  Hellenic, 
Latin,  and  some  Frank  languages,  besides  a  smattering 
of  the  sciences. 

Though  it  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  farther  on  this 
topic  than  may  allude  to  the  article  in  question,  I  can- 
not but  observe  that  the  reviewer's  lamentation  over  the 
fall  of  the  Greeks  appears  singular,  when  he  closes  it 
with  these  words  :  "  the  change  is  to  be  attributed  t(t  'heir 
misfortunes,  rather  than  to  any  physical  degradation." 
It  may  be  true,  that  the  Greeks  are  not  physically  de- 
generated, and  that  Constantinople  contained,  on  the 
day  when  it  changed  masters,  as  many  men  of  six  feet 
and  upwards,  as  in  the  hour  of  prosperity ;  but  ancient 
history  and  modern  politics  instruct  us  that  something 
more  than  physical  perfection  is  necessary  to  preserve 
a  state  in  vigour  and  independence ;  and  the  Greeks, 
in  particular,  are  a  melancholy  example  of  the  near  con- 
nexion between  moral  degradation  and  national  decay. 

The  reviewer  mentions  a  plan,  "  we  believe,"  by  Po- 
temkin,  for  the  purification  of  the  Romaic,  and  I  have 
endeavoured  in  vain  to  procure  any  tidings  or  traces  of 
its  existence.  There  was  an  academy  in  St.  Petersburg 
for  the  Greeks :  but  it  was  suppressed  by  Paul,  and  ha» 
not  been  revived  by  his  successor. 

There  is  a  slip  of  the  pen,  and  it  can  only  be  a  slip  of  the 
pen,  in  p.  58,  No.  xxxi,  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  whera 
these  words  occur : — "  We  are  told  that  when  the  capi 
tal  of  the  East  yielded  to  Solyman" — It  may  be  pre 
sumed  that  this  last  word  will,  in  a  future  edition,  be 
altered  to  Mahomet  II.1  The  "ladies  of  Constantinople," 


1  Fn  a  former  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  1S08,  it  a 
observed,  "Lord  Byron  passed  some  of  his  early  yean  in 
Scotland,  where  he  might  have  learned  that  pibroch  does  no* 
mean  a  bagpipe,  any  moni  thai  due t  means  njiddli  "  Query 
— Was  it  in  Scotland  that  the  young  gentlemen  ot  JIP  ULo 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


A  seems,  at  that  ncriod  spoke  a  dialect,  "  which  would 
not  have  disgraced  the  lips  of  an  Athenian."  I  do  not 
know  how  that  might  be,  but  am  sorry  to  say  the  ladies 
in  general,  and  the  Athenians  in  particular,  are  much 
altered  ;  being  far  from  choice  either  in  their  dialect  or 
J.vpressions,  as  the  whole  Attic  race  are  barbarous  to  a 
proverb : 

"  ii  \6rjva  TrpoTJj  %b>pa 

Tt  yaiiapov;  rptQcis  rupa  ;" 

In  Gibbon,  vol.  x.  p.  161,  is  the  following  sentence: — 
"  The  vulgi:  ialect  of  the  city  was  gross  and  barbarous, 
though  the  compositions  of  the  church  and  palace  some- 
times affected  to  copy  the  purity  of  the  Attic  models." 
Whatever  may  be  asserted  on  the  subject,  it  is  difficult 
to  conceive  that  the  "ladies  of  Constantinople,"  in  the 
reign  of  the  last  Caesar,  spoke  a  purer  dialect  then  Anna 
Comnena  wrote  three  centuries  before  :  and  those  royal 
pages  are  not  esteemed  the  best  models  of  composition, 
although  the  princess  yXuirrav  £i%tv  AKPIBiiS  Arr<*j- 
fyvoav.  In  the  Fanal,  and  in  Yanina,  the  best  Greek 
is  spoken :  in  the  latter  there  is  a  flourishing  school 
under  the  direction  of  Psalida. 

There  is  now  in  Athens  a  pupil  of  Psalida's,  who  is 
making  a  tour  of  observation  through  Greece :  he  is  in- 
telligent, and  better  educated  than  a  fellow-commoner 
of  most  colleges.  I  mention  this  as  a  proof  that  the 
spirit  of  inquiry  is  not  dormant  amongst  the  Greeks. 

The  reviewer  mentions  Air.  Wright,  the  author  of  the 
beautiful  poem  "  Horse  lonicae,"  as  qualified  to  give  de- 
tails of  these  nominal  Romans  and  degenerate  Greeks, 
and  also  of  their  language :  but  Mr.  Wright,  though  a 
good  poet  and  an  able  man,  has  made  a  mistake  where 
he  slates  the  Albanian  dialect  of  the  Romaic  to  approxi- 
mate nearest  to  the  Hellenic :  for  the  Albanians  speak 
l  Romaic  as  notoriously  corrupt  as  the  Scotch  of  Aber- 
leenshire,  or  the  Italian  of  Naples.  Yanina  (where, 
next  to  Fanal,  the  Greek  is  purest),  although  the 
capital  of  Ali  Pacha's  dominions,  is  not  in  Albania  but 
Epirus ;  and  beyond  Delvinachi  in  Albania  Proper  up 
to  Argyrocastro  and  Tepaleen  (beyond  which  I  did  not 
advance),  they  speak  worse  Greek  than  even  the  Athen- 
ians. J  was  attended  for  a  year  and  a  half  by  two  of 
these  singular  mountaineers,  whose  mother  tongue  is 
Illyric,  and  I  never  heard  them  or  their  countrymen 
(whom  I  have  seen,  not  only  at  home,  but  to  the  amount 
of  twenty  thousand  in  the  army  of  Veli  Pacha)  praised 
for  their  Greek,  but  often  laughed  at  for  their  provincial 
barbarisms. 

I  have  in  my  possession  about  twenty-five  letters, 
amongst  which  some  from  the  Bey  of  Corinth,  written 
to  me  by  Notaras,  the  Cogia  Bachi,  and  others  by  the 
dragoman  of  the  Caimacam  of  the  Morea  (which  last 
governs  in  Veli  Pacha's  absence)  are  said  to  be  favour- 


burgh  Review  Ifarned  that  Solvman  means  Mahomet  II.  any 
more  than  criticism  means  infallibility  ? — but  thus  it  is, 
"Ciedimus  inque  vicem  prsebemus  crura  gagittis." 
The  mistake  seemed  to  completely  a  lapse  of  the  pen  (from 
the  great  similarity  of  the  two  words,  and  the  total  absence 
Cf'  error  from  the  loriner  pages  of  the  literary  leviathan),  that 
\  should  have  passed  it  over  as  in  the  text,  had  I  not  perceived 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review  much  facetious  exultation  on  all 
•ucli  detections,  particularly  t  recent  one,  where  words  and 
•yllables  are  subjects  of  disquisitioii  r;rui  transposition  :  and  the 
cbove-meiitioned  parallel  passage  in  my  own  case  irresistibly 
propelled  IIIH  to  hint  how  much  easier  it  is  to  be  critical  than 
correct.  Th*  e**t/emen.  having  enjoyed  many  a  triumph  on 
•urn  victories  wiJl  hardly  begrudge  mn  a  Blight  ovation  for 

lie  U  resell 


able  specimens  of  their  epistolary  style,  I  also  receive* 
some  at  Constantinople  from  private  persons,  writtc* 
in  a  most  hyperbolical  style,  but  in  the  true  antique 
character. 

The  reviewer  proceeds,  after  some  remarks  on  tht 
tongue  in  its  past  and  present  state,  to  a  paradox  (page 
59)  on  the  great  mischief  the  knowledge  of  his  own 
language  has  done  to  Coray,  who,  it  seems,  is  less  likely 
to  understand  the  ancient  Greek,  because  he  is  perfect 
master  of  the  modern !  This  observation  follows  a  para- 
graph, recommending,  in  explicit  terms,  the  study  of 
the  Romaic,  as  "  a  powerful  auxiliary,"  not  only  to  tho 
traveller  and  foreign  merchant,  but  also  to  the  classical 
scholar ;  in  short,  to  every  body  except  the  only  person 
who  can  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  its  uses :  and 
by  a  parity  of  reasoning,  our  old  language  is  conjectured 
to  be  probably  more  attainable  by  "foreigners"  than 
by  ourselves !  Now  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  a  Dutch 
Tyro  in  our  tongue  (albeit  himself  of  Saxon  bloood) 
would  be  sadly  perplexed  with  "  Sir  Tristrem,"  or  any 
other  given  "  Auchinlech  MS."  with  or  withput  a  gram- 
mar or  glossary  ;  and  to  most  apprehensions  it  seema 
evident,  that  none  but  a  native  can  acquire  a  competent, 
far  less  complete,  knowledge  of  our  obsolete  idioms. 
We  may  give  the  critic  credit  for  his  ingenuity,  but  no 
more  believe  him  than  we  do  Smollett's  Lismahago,  who 
maintains  that  the  purest  English  is  spoken  in  Edin- 
burgh. That  Coray  may  err  is  very  possible  ;  but  if  he 
does,  the  fault  is  in  the  man  rather  than  in  his  mother 
tongue,  which  is,  as  it  ought  to  be,  of  the  greatest  aid 
to  the  native  student. — Here  the  Reviewer  proceeds  to 
business  on  Slrabo's  translators,  and  here  I  close  my 
remarks. 

Sir.  W.  Drummond,  Mr.  Hamilton,  Lord  Aberdeen 
Dr.  Clarke,  Captain  Leake,  Mr.  Cell,  Mr.  Walpole 
and  many  others  now  in  England,  have  all  the  requisite* 
to  furnish  details  of  this  fallen  people.  The  few  obser- 
vations I  have  offered  I  should  have  left  where  I  made 
them,  had  not  the  article  in  question,  and,  above  all, 
the  spot  where  I  read  it,  induced  me  to  advert  to  those 
pages,  which  the  advantage  of  my  present  situation 
enabled  me  to  clear,  or  at  least  to  make  the  attempt. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  waive  the  personal  feelings 
which  rise  in  despite  of  me  in  touching  upon  any  part  of 
the  Edinburgh  Review  ;  not  from  a  wish  to  conciliate 
the  favour  of  its  writers,  or  to  cancel  the  remembrance 
of  a  syllable  I  have  formerly  published,  but  simply  from 
a  sense  of  the  impropriety  of  mixing  up  private  resent- 
ments with  a  disquisition  of  the  present  kind,  and  more 
particularly  at  this  distance  of  time  and  place. 

ADDITIONAL  NOTE,  ON  THE  TURKS. 

The  difficulties  of  travelling  in  Turkey  have  been  mucn 

exaggerated,  or  rather  have  considerably  diminished  of 

late  years.     The  Mussulmans  have  been  beaten  into  a 

kind  of  sullen  civility,  very  comfortable  to  voyageis. 

It  is  hazardous  to  say  much  on  the  subject  of  Turk* 
and  Turkey ;  since  it  is  possible  to  live  amongst  them 
twenty  years  without  acquiring  information,  at  least 
from  themselves.  As  far  as  my  own  slight  experience 
carried  me,  I  have  no  complaint  to  make ;  but  am  in 
debted  for  many  civilities  (I  might  almost  say  iut 
friendship),  and  much  hospitality,  to  Ali  Pacha,  his  s'm 
Veli  Pacha  of  the  Morea,  and  several  others  of  high  r.iim 
in  the  provinces.  Suleyman  Ago,  late  Governor  o< 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


\thons,  and  now  of  Thebes,  was  a  bon  rivant,  and  as 
social  a  being  as  ever  sat  cross-legged  at  a  tray  or  a 
table.  During  the  carnival,  when  our  English  party 
were  masquerading,  both  himself  and  his  successor  were 
more  happy  to  "  receive  masks  "  than  any  dowager  in 
Grosvenor-square. 

On  one  occasion  of  his  supping  at  the  convent,  his 
friend  and  visitor,  the  Cadi  of  Thebes,  was  carried  from 
table  perfectly  qualified  for  any  club  in  Christendom, 
while  the  worthy  \Vaywode  himself  triumphed  in  his 
fall. 

In  all  money  transactions  with  the  Moslems,  I  ever 
found  the  strictest  honour,  the  highest  disinterestedness. 
In  transacting  business  with  them,  there  are  none  of 
those  dirty  peculations,  under  the  name  of  interest,  dif- 
ference of  exchange,  commission,  etc.  etc.,  uniformly 
found  in  applying  to  a  Greek  consul  to  cash  bills,  even 
on  the  first  houses  in  Pera. 

With  regard  to  presents,  and  established  custom  in 
the  East,  you  will  rarely  find  yourself  a  loser ;  as  one 
worth  acceptance  is  generally  returned  by  another  of 
similar  value — a  horse  or  a  shawl. 

In  the  capital  and  at  court  the  citizens  and  courtiers 
are  formed  in  the  same  school  with  those  of  Christian- 
ity ;  but  there  does  not  exist  a  more  honourable, 
friendly,  and  high-spirited  character  than  the  true  Turk- 
ish provincial  Aga,  or  Moslem  country  gentleman.  It 
is  not  meant  here  to  designate  the  governors  of  towns, 
but  those  Agas  who,  by  a  kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess 
lands  and  houses,  of  more  or  less  extent,  in  Greece  and 
Asia  Minor. 

The  lower  orders  are  in  as  tolerable  discipline  as 
the  rabble  in  countries  with  greater  pretensions  to 
civilization.  A  Moslem,  in  walking  the  streets  of  our 
country  towns,  would  be  more  incommoded  in  England 
than  a  Frank  in  a  similar  situation  in  Turkey.  Regi- 
mentals are  the  best  travelling  dress. 

The  best  accounts  of  the  religion,  and  different  sects 
of  Islamism,  may  be  found  in  D'Olisson's  French  ;  of 
their  manners,  etc.,  perhaps  in  Thorton's  English.  The 
Ottomans,  with  all  their  defects,  are  not  a  people  to  be 
despised.  Equal,  at  least,  to  the  Spaniards,  they  are 
superior  to  the  Portuguese.  If  it  be  difficult  to  pronounce 
what  they  are,  we  can  at  least  say  what  they  are  not : 
they  are  not  treacherous,  they  are  not  cowardly,  they 
rto  not  burn  heretics,  they  are  not  assassins,  nor  has  an 
er.emy  advanced  to  tlieir  capital.  They  are  faithful  to 
tneir  sultan  till  he  becomes  unfit  to  govern,  and  devout 
to  tneir  God  without  an  inquisition.  Were  they  driven 
from  St.  Sophia  to-morrow,  and  the  French  or  Russians 
enthroned  in  their  stead,  it  would  become  a  question, 
whether  Europe  would  gain  by  the  exchange.  England 
would  certainly  be  the  loser. 

With  regard  to  that  ignorance  of  which  they  are  so 
generally,  and  sometimes  justly,  accused,  it  may  be 
loubted,  always  excepting  France  and  England,  in  what 
useful  points  of  knowledge  they  are  excelled  by  other 
nations.  Is  it  in  the  common  arts  of  life  ?  In  their 
manufactures  ?  Is  a  Turkish  sabre  inferior  to  a  Toledo  ? 
w  is  a  Turk  worse  clothed  or  lodged,  or  fed  and 
.might,  than  a  Spaniard  ?  Are  their  Pachas  worse  edu- 
cated than  a  grandee  ?  or  an  Effendi  than  a  Knight  of 
St.  Jago  ?  1  think  P->. 

I  remember  Mahmout,  the  grandson  of  Ali  Pacha, 
•vicing  whether  my  fellow-traveller  and  myself  were  in 


the  upper  or  lower  House  'if  Parliament.  Now  this 
question  from  a  boy  of  ten  years  old  proved  that  his 
education  had  not  been  neglected.  It  may  be  doubted 
if  an  English  boy  at  that,  age  knows  the  diffe-ence  of 
the  Divan  from  a  College  of  Dervises ;  but  I  am  ve-y 
sure  a  Spaniard  does  not.  How  little  Mahmout,  sur- 
rounded, as  he  had  been,  entirely  by  his  Turkish  tutors, 
had  learned  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  parlia- 
ment, it  were  useless  to  conjecture,  unless  we  supposa 
that  his  instructors  did  not  confine  his  studies  to  the 
Koran. 

In  all  the  mosques  there  are  schools  established 
which  are  very  regularly  attended;  and  the  poor  are 
taught  without  the  church  of  Turkey  being  put  into 
peril.  I  believe  the  system  is  not  yet  printed  (though 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  Turkish  press,  and  books 
printed  on  the  late  military  institution  of  the  Nizam 
Gedidd):  nor  have  I  heard  whether  the  Mufti  and  the 
Mollas  have  subscribed,  or  the  Caimacam  and  the 
Tefterdar  taken  the  alarm,  for  fear  the  ingenuous 
youth  of  the  turban  should  be  taught  not  to  "  pray  to 
God  their  way."  The  Greeks,  also — a  kind  of  Eastern 
Irish  papists — have  a  college  of  their  own  at  Maynooth 
— no,  at  Haivali ;  where  the  heterodox  receive  much 
the  same  kind  of  countenance  from  the  Ottoman  as 
the  Catholic  college  from  the  English  legislature.  Who 
shall  then  affirm  that  the  Turks  are  ignorant  bigots, 
when  they  thus  evince  the  exact  proportion  of  Chris- 
tain  charity  which  is  tolerated  in  the  most  prosperous 
and  orthodox  of  all  possible  kingdoms  ?  But,  though 
they  allow  all  this,  they  will  not  suffer  the  Greeks  to 
participate  in  their  privileges :  no,  let  them  fight  their 
battles,  and  pay  their  haratch  (taxes),  be  drubbed  in 
this  world,  and  damned  in  the  next.  And  shall  we 
then  emancipate  our  Irish  Helots  ?  Mahomet  forbid ! 
We  s  hould  then  be  bad  Mussulmans,  and  worse  C  hris- 
tians  ;  at  present  we  unite  the  best  of  both — Jesuitical 
faith,  and  something  not  much  inferior  to  Turkish 
toleration. 


APPENDIX. 


AMONGST  an  enslaved  people,  obliged  to  have  recourse 
to  foreign  presses  even  for  their  books  of  religion,  it  is 
less  to  be  wondered  at  that  we  find  so  few  publications 
on  general  subjects,  than  that  we  find  any  at  all.  The 
whole  number  of  the  Greeks,  scattered  up  and  dowp 
the  Turkish  empire  and  elsewhere,  may  amount,  at 
most,  to  three  millions ;  and  yet,  for  so  scanty  a  num- 
ber, it  is  impossible  to  discover  any  nation  with  so 
great  a  proportion  of  books  and  their  authors,  as  the 
Greeks  of  the  present  century.  "  Ay,"  but  say  the 
generous  advocates  of  oppression,  who,  while  they  as- 
sert the  ignorance  of  the  Greeks,  wish  to  prevent  them 
from  dispelling  it,  "  ay,  but  these  are  mostly,  if  not 
all,  ecclesiastical  tracts,  and  consequently  good  fcr 
nothing."  Well!  and  pray  what  else  can  they  write 
about  ?  It  is  pleasant  enough  to  hear  a  Frank,  partic- 
ularly an  Englishman,  who  may  abuse  the  govern- 
ment of  his  own  country ;  or  a  Frenchman,  who  may 
abuse  every  government  except  his  own,  and  who  may 
range  at  will  over  every  philosophical,  religious,  scien- 
tific, sceptical,  or  moral  subject,  sneering  at  tlte  Greek 
legends.  A  Greek  must  not  write  on  politics,  ai.d  can- 
not touch  on  science  for  want  of  instruct.™ .  if  S« 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


doubts,  he  is  excommunicated  and  damned  ;  therefore 
lis  countrymen  are  not  poisoned  with  modern  philoso- 
ohy ;  and,  as  to  morals,  thanks  to  the  Turks !  there  are 
no  such  tilings.  What  then  is  left  him,  if  he  has  a  turn 
"or  scribbling  ?  Religion  and  holy  biography :  and  it  is 
natural  enough  that  those  who  have  so  little  in  this  life 
should  look  to  the  next.  It  is  no  great  wonder  then  that 
in  a  catalogue  now  before  me  of  fifty-five  Greek  wri- 
ters, many  of  whom  were  lately  living,  not  above  fifteen 
should  have  touched  on  any  thing  but  religion.  The 
catalogue  alluded  to  is  contained  in  the  twenty-sixth 
chapter  of  the  fourth  volume  of  Meletius's  Ecclesiastical 
History.  From  this  I  subjoin  an  extract  of  those  who 
have  written  on  .general  subjects  ;  which  will  be  followed 
by  some  specimens  of  the  Romaic. 

LIST  OF  ROMAIC  AUTHORS.1 

Neophitus,  Diakonos  (the  deacon)  of  the  Morea,  has 
published  an  extensive  grammar,  and  also  some  politi- 
cal regulations,  which  last  were  left  unfinished  at  his 
death. 

Prokopius,  of  Moscopolis  (a  town  in  Epirus),  has 
written  and  published  a  catalogue  of  the  learned  Greeks. 

Seraphin,  of  Periclea,  is  the  author  of  many  works 
in  the  Turkish  language,  but  Greek  character,  for  the 
Christians  of  Caramania,  who  do  not  speak  Romaic, 
but  read  the  character. 

Eustathius  Psalidas,  of  Bucharest,  a  physician,  made 
the  tour  of  England  for  the  purpose  of  study  (%dpiv 
fiadi'iatu;) :  but  though  his  name  is  enumerated,  it  is 
not  stated  that  he  has  written  any  thing. 

Kallinikus  Torgeraus,  Patriarch  of  Constantinople: 
many  poems  of  his  are  extant,  and  also  prose  tracts, 
and  a  catalogue  of  patriarchs  since  the  last  taking  of 
C  onstantinople. 

Anastasius  Macedon,  of  Naxos,  member  of  the  royal 
academy  of  Warsaw.  A  church  biographer. 

Demetrius  Pamperes,  a  Moscopolite,  has  written 
many  works,  particularly  "  A  Commentary  on  Hesiod's 
Shield  of  Hercules,"  and  two  hundred  talcs  (of  what  is 
not  specified),  and  has  published  his  correspondence 
with  the  celebrated  George  of  Trebizond,  his  contem- 
porary. 

Meletius,  a  celebrated  geographer ;  and  author  of  the 
book  from  whence  these  notices  are  taken. 

Dorotheus,  of  Mitylene,  an  Aristotelian  philosopher : 
nis  Hellenic  works  are  in  great  repute,  and  he  is  esteemed 
by  the  modems  (I  quote  the  words  of  Meletius)  pcra 
T&v  BovKvoiorjv  Kal  Hevo^uiru  a;x-o?  EXXiyywv.  I 
add  further,  on  the  authority  of  a  well-informed 
Greek,  that  he  was  so  famous  amongst  his  countrymen, 
that  they  were  accustomed  to  say,  if  Thucydides  and 
Xenophon  were  wanting,  ho  was  capable  of  repairing 
the  loss. 

Marinus  Count  Tharboures,  of  Ccphalonia,  professor 
of  chemistry  in  the  academy  of  Padua,  and  member  of 
that  academy  and  those  of  Stockholm  and  Upsal. 
He  has  published,  at  Venice,  an  account  of  some 
marine  animal,  and  a  treatise  on  the  properties  of 
iron. 

Marcus,  brother  to  the  former,  famous  in  mechanics. 


1  It  is  to  be  observed  that  the  names  given  are  not  in  chro- 
nological ordei ,  but  consist  of  some  selected  at  a  venture  from 
»mungst  those  who  nourished  from  the  taking  of  Constanti- 
novlu  to  the  time  of  Meletius. 
18 


He  removed  to  St.  Petersburg  the  immense  rock  on 
which  the  statue  of  Peter  the  Great  was  fixed  in  1769. 
See  the  dissertation  which  he  published  in  Paris  177''. 

George  Constantino  has  published  a  four-tongue.1 
lexicon. 

George  Ventote ;  a  lexicon  in  French,  Italian,  a  vj 
Romaic. 

There  exist  several  other  dictionaries  in  Latin  and 
Romaic,  French,  etc.,  besides  grammars,  in  every 
modern  language,  except  English. 

Amongst  the  living  authors  the  following  are  most 
celebrated : ' — 

Athanasius  Parios  has  written  a  treatise  on  rhetoric 
in  Hellenic. 

Christodoulos,  an  Acarnanian,  has  published,  in  Vi- 
enna, some  physical  treatises  in  Hellenic. 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  an  Athenian,  the  Romaic  trans- 
lator of  Fontenelle's  "  Plurality  of  Worlds  "  ( a  favounto 
work  amongst  the  Greeks),  is  stated  to  be  a  teacher  o» 
the  Hellenic  and  Arabic  languages  in  Paris,  in  both  of 
which  he  is  an  adept. 

Athanasius,  the  Parian,  author  of  a  treatise  on  rhet- 
oric. 

Vicenzo  Damodos,  of  Cephalonia,  has  written  "  th 
r4  pcooBdpSapov,"  on  logic  and  physics. 

John  Kamarases,  a  Byzantine,  has  translated  into 
French  Ocellus  on  the  Universe.  He  is  said  to  be  ac 
excellent  Hellenist  and  Latin  scholar. 

Gregorio  Demetrius  published,  in  Vienna,  a  geo 
graphical  work :  he  has  also  translated  several  Italia* 
authors,  and  printed  his  versions  at  Venice. 

Of  Coray  and  Psalida  some  account  ha*  been  already 
given. 


GREEK  WAR  SONG.* 

•  1. 

AEY  TE  raHtf  rdv  'EXX^vuv, 
!>  Kaipclf  TV;  £b%is  >/X0£v. 

A;  (pavdficv  a^tot  {xcivtav 
jroB  ^iaf  &G><?av  rjjy  dp^ijv. 

Aj  irari7<rw/i£v  atcpciias 
rov  £t>yov  rijf  rvpavvl&of. 


a!cxf>6v. 


fa  for 


as 


(jOtv  ilaOe  T&V  E 


pSiv  rJ  ai/ia 
irodwv. 


\lvtvfiara  laKop-mapiiva, 

rijtpa  Xnfcrt  -rtvofiv  ; 
'2  Triv  (fxiivSiv  rijf  aa\i;iyy6$  ftov 

truva^Qfin  oXa  oitov. 
Triv  firraXo^ov  ^t]TUTe, 

Kal  viKare  vptt  iravrow. 

Ta  ei-Xa  uj  Au'SuuEv,  eta 


1  These  names  are  not  taken  from  any  pulilicatwa. 

2  A  translation  of  this  song  will  be  found  at  par*  in 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


3. 

irapra,  S-opra,  ri  KOipaaat 
\  ~vov  \fiBapyov,  ffaOvv  ; 
'71  vrjtrov,  Kpdfc  AdijvaSj 


TOW  dvfyju;  fraivcpfvov, 
(fioScpov  KOI  Tpofiepov. 

Ta  SirXa  a;  \dSufiev,  etc. 

4. 

6  irou  e/;  raj  Stp/iOTruXay 

irijXt/iov  air3;  xpoTti, 
xal  Toi/s  Hipaas  atpavifa 

xal  a!>Tu)v  KaTaxparei. 
Mr  rptaxoaiovs  dvipas, 

ds  TO    KCVTpOV    TTfO^iapel, 

/tat,  il;  XfW  Svuiapivos, 
£t;  rj  ni^a   ruv  /Jourtt. 

Ta  6VXa  a;  XdSu/ttv,  etc. 


ROMAIC  EXTRACTS. 

P'iiror;,  AyyXo;,  icat  Fa'XXo;  Kauvovres  T?IV 

ri>»  'EXXa^o;,  »cat  /?X/irovr£;  rqy  dfJXt'av  r^v  icara- 
aTaatv,  elpu'iTTiaav  KaTap%as  eva  Tpaixov  ^tXAX^va 
i5td  j>a  fidBouv  r/jv  alriav,  p.tr'  avrbv  cva  /xjjr/io^oXtrjjv, 
£?ra  £i/(i  /JXa^/irEijv,  c~fira  cva  irpay^artur^v  /cat  £i/a 
rpottrraira. 

KIT?  ^aj,  ai  <pi\t\\riva,  jrfl;  tj>ipet;  rf/v  cric\aSiav 
•cal  r^v  a!raprjy6pr]Tov  T&V  TotipXaiv  rvpavvlav, 
*£>;  rat;  fvXais  KOI  v6pia/tovs  xal  fft&rjpoSetr/tlav 
iraifaiv,  Trapftevuv,  yvvaixiav  avi'iKovarov  <f>Qopttav* 
Atv  trX0"  f'fftij  d-fiyo^oi  (Kiiviav  r<2v  EXX^vwv 
rCi/  e\tv9ipii>v  KOI  co<f>iav  KOI  rtav  ^cXorarpWuv, 
<cai  iraif  CKtivoi  cnridvijiTKav  yta  rqv  IXcvQcptav 
Kai  Tiapa  fff£if  v~oKctade  el;  firotav  rvpavvtav, 
Kai  iroTov  ylvos  wf  f<r£i5  ivrddi]  ^(aTurjtivov 
tl;  rfjv  ao<piav,  ilvvafiiv,  tt;  K   6'Xa  ^aKovaptvov 
rias  vvv  iKaraarfiaaTt  rfiv  tparivfiv  EXXai5a. 
/3a5a  !    dij  Eva  axl\tQpov,  dj  axoTttvr/v  \aftTrdSav 
O/t&ci,  <t>i\rare  PpaiKC,  clni  pas  rfiv  uiri'av, 
f/i)  KpvuTjis  r«VoT£f  ij/ia/v,  XUE  T^V  &i:opiav. 

6-MAE'AAHNOZ. 

rFoxr<r-ayyXo-ya'XXoi,  EXXaj,  /cat  o^i  aXXot, 

fray,  cif  Xf'rf,  iruffov  ^sydX//. 

vBy  ^*  a0Xia,  Kai  ava^ia 

i<f>  ov  ap^tcev  fi  afiadia. 

8(7'  Iiyxopouaav  vd  rfjv  %vT,vfi<jr) 

•mSr'  c.,  ',  %ttpov  rfjv  iitiyouai, 

aiT>)   ortva'^fi,  ra  Tixva  Kpd^u, 

<rrd  v<i  7r/)OK(irrouv  SXa  irpo<rrd£ti} 

xai  TOT'  i*ni$ci  on  ncp&ifat 

liiptlv  tKctro  irou  ri]V  <j>\oyl$ti. 

Ma  OTTIS  roX/i^(T£j  va  Tr/v  ^vievijcrji 

tdyu  ffTov  aStiv  ^(<£flf  Ttva  xpiatv. 

't  tie  ahove  is  the  commencement  of  a  long  dramatic 
tmitv  on  the  Greek  priesthood,  princes, and  gentry ;  it 
it  rontcm  ptible  as  a  composition,  but  perhaps  curious 
u  a  *pecimen  of  their  rhyme ;  I  have  the  whole  in  MS. 


but  this  extract  will  be  found  sufficient.  The  Romaic 
in  this  composition  is  so  easy  as  to  render  a  version  aj 
insult  to  a  scholar ;  but  those  who  do  not  understand 
the  original  will  excuse  the  following  bad  translation  of 
what  is  in  itself  indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A  Russian,  Englishman,  and  Frenchman,  making  the 
tour  of  Greece,  and  observing  the  miserable  state  of 
the  country,  interrogate,  in  turn,  a  Greek  patriot,  to 
leam  the  cause  ;  afterwards  an  Archbishop,  then  a 
Vlackbey,1  a  Merchant,  and  Cogia  Bachi  or  Primate. 

Thou  friend  of  thy  country !  to  strangers  record 

Why  bear  ye  the  yoke  of  the  Oiloman"  lord  ? 

Why  bear  ye  these  fetters  thus  tamely  display'd. 

The  wrongs  of  the  matron,  the  stripling,  and  maid ! 

The  descendants  of  Hellas's  race  are  not  ye! 

The  patriot  sons  of  the  ease  and  the  free. 

Thus  sprung  from  the  blood  of  the  noble  and  brave, 

To  vilely  exist  as  the  Mussulman  slave ! 

Not  such  were  the  fathers  your  annals  can  boast. 

Who  conquer'd  and  died  for  the  freedom  you  lost ! 

Not  such  was  your  land  in  her  earlier  hour. 

The  day-star  of  nations  in  wisdom  and  power! 

And  still  will  you  thus  unresistin?  increase,  . 

Oh  shameful  dishonour !  the  darkness  of  Greece  ? 

Then  tell  us,  beloved  Achaean !  reveal 

The  cause  of  the  woes  which  you  cannot  conceal. 

The  reply  of  the  Philellenist  I  have  not  translated,  as 
it  is  no  better  than  the  question  of  the  travelling  trium- 
virate ;  and  the  above  will  sufficiently  show  with  what 
kind  of  composition  the  Greeks  are  now  satisfied.  I 
trust  I  have  not  much  injured  the  original  in  the  few 
lines  given  as  faithfully,  and  as  near  the  "  Oh,  Miss 
Bailey!  unfortunate  Miss  Bailey!"  measure  of  the 
Romaic,  as  I  could  make  them.  Almost  all  their  pieces, 
above  a  song,  which  aspire  to^the  name  of  poetry,  con- 
tain exactly  the  quantity  of  feet  of 
"  A  captain  bold  of  Halifax  who  lived  in  country  quarters," 

which  is,  in  fact,  the  present  heroic  couplet  of  the  Ro- 
maic. 


SCENE  FROM  'O  KA*ENE2. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF  GOLDONI  BT 
8PIRIDON    VLANTI. 

2KHNH  Kr. 

IIAATZIAA  £t;  TTIV  noprav  TOV  %aviov,  /rat  ol  avtitflev. 

IIAA.  ii  Qccl  dvo  TO  TtapaBvpi  fiou  ttf>dv>j  va  anovctt 
rfiv  <p<i>vnv  TOV  av&p6s  /tov  av  avTbs  tlvat  toi>,  c$6aaa  ct 
xatpov  va  TOV  ^vrponaVa).  [EiyatVa  tva;  ^ouXo;  axi 
TO  ipyaartipi.]  IlaXtKa'pt,  JT/;  /iow,  ai  wapa<aXu.  noiof 
etvat  CKCI  els  ixtivovs  TOVS  OVTUOCS  ', 

AOYA.  Tpcis  ^pfioiftoi  avepcs-  Eva;  b  Kiip  Euyt- 
vto;,  b  aXXo;  o  xiip  Maprto;  NfaToXtTavo;,  icat  &  Tphot 
b  Kiip  K.6vTC  Alav&po;  Ap^/vn?;. 

IIAA.  Ava'/t£<ra  £/;  airou;  iiv  tiva*  b  <tXoui»-<o;,  uv 
2/iu;  ti'fv  aXXa^fv  ovo/ita. 

AEA.      Na  Qj  rj  (caXij  rv^i;  TOV  Kvp  KjyEvt'ou.      [II( 

6AOI.     Na  ^,  va  ^. 

IIAA.  At'^S;  nvai  b  avfpas  /iou  ^Uj-fc  aXXj  KaXl 
avdpiaire,  xdv.1  fiov  Tyv  %aplv  va  pf  cvvT^oQevcji  'TTUV* 


1  Vlackbe}   Prince  of  Wallaohia 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


99 


cr'i  aiiTovs  Toi);  aQivrdfit;,  OTTOU  5Au>  va  roij  TTJI'^U  /<fav. 


^OT".  Opiff/io'f  era;'  (trvvrjOiainivov  oip<ptKtov  TSJv  oov- 
\evT&v.  )  [Tfiv  ifntd^ct  a-b  TO  IpyaaTijpi  rou  Ttai- 
yridiou.] 

I'lA.  K«p<5ia,  KapStd,  tcd^ere  /caXijv  Kaj)3iuv,  £fv  uvai 
-/TOT!?,  [n^af  T?JV  ViTTopiav.] 

BIT.  fej/'i  aicQdvopai  TrtDj  d-£0alVfc).  [Suv/p^srat 
fif  roV  favTov  TTJS.] 

[A.ITO  TO   irapdOvpa   TIOV    iird&iiiv   (f>aivovTat    3Xo(, 
orrou  at]Kovii)vTai  OTTO  TO  Tpairi^t  avy^iapivoi,  ltd 
TOV    ^aifiviafiuv    rou     Atdvopov     j3XiV<i)VTaj     Ttjv 
nXuY£ic5a,  KOI  SiaTi  avrbs  fefjgKI  JTCJJ  ^Aci  va 
rijv  ^lOvtiiffT;.] 
EYF.      6^1,  OTU0J/TE. 
MAP.      M>iv  <ca//v£T£... 
AEA.   5,'ijicu),  0uyc  air"  £<5<j5. 

IIAA.  BoflSaa,  0or/6tia  ['l>ru)'a  diro  T^v  fficaXav,  6 
AtavSpo;  3t'X«  vd  rqv  a.KO\ovOfiar)  u.1  rb  anaoOl,  Kal  6  Ei  y. 
TOV  Suora.] 

[TPA.  Mf  tva  ndro  /<f  fyayl  e!f  f<(av  wtr^fra  rijiji 
d~3  ri  irapaOvpt,  Kal  Qtvyti  £15  TOV  /ca0£vt.] 

[IIAA.  Euyai'i'ft  drro  ri  ipyaarfipi  TOO  jraiyvt^(oD 
rpl)£u>vTaf,  Kill  <ptvytt  £i;  rd  ^aVi.] 

[EYT.  M<  ap^ara  tl;  T&  %ipi  trpb;  SiaQlvrevaiv  rrj; 
n\dr$i&as,  harrier  TOV  Atdvlpov,  bxou  T!)V  (carorp/- 

X£'-l 

[MAP.  Kiiyalvu  Kal  avrij  atya  aiyd  dirJ  TO  tpya- 
gT/jpi,  xai  (jitvyti  X/yaivraj'  Rumores  fuge.]  [Povpdptf 
ttvye.]  ' 

|  Oi  AouXoi  drd  TO  epyaar^pi  axtpvovv  tit  ri  %dvit 
fat  K\tiouv  TTIV  77o'prav.] 

[BIT.  MfYfJ  els  TOV  Katpcvf  PotjOr/pivT]  dri  TOV 
Pi^X^.ov.] 

AEA.  Ad<r£T£  Tfirov  •S(Xa)  vci  £//6u  va  cfifno  els 
tiettvo  TO  'XO.VL  [M<  TO  (7ira6i  £ij  TO  %lpt  ivavTlov  TOV 

Ei/EVIOU.] 

EYT.  Op^i,  ^<^  yivoiTO  TOTI'  ctaai  tva$  aK\ripoKdp&os 
IvavTiov  T>J{  yvvamo;  <rou,  *cai  t  yC)  SeXft  TIJV  StcupevTevatii 

ii   £(S   TO   ZffTtpOV  dtfta. 

AEA.  Io5  /ci/jva)  o/j/cov  jr^f  ^Af(  ri  //£Tavoc(i<r^f. 
[Kuvijy^  T^K  Eiy/i'iov  f»£  TO  yaaOi.] 

EYF.  Afv  af  (poSovnat.  [KaTaTp/^Ei  T^V  AeavSpor, 
Kal  TOV  /?in'£a  va  avpOij  oiricut  ToVov,  oroD  tdpioKiavTas 
ivoiKTuv  TO  airrjTi  Tqf  ^opcvTpia;,  lu.6atvu  ei;  aiiTo,  Kal 


TRANSLATION. 

Platzida,  from  the  door  of  the  Hotel,  and  the  Others. 

Pla.  Oh  God  !  from  the  window  it  seemed  that  I 
heard  my  husband's  voice.  If  he  is  here,  I  have  arrived 
in  time  to  make  him  ashamed.  [A  servant  enters  from 
the  Shop.]  Boy,  tell  me,  pray,  who  are  in  those  cham- 
bers ? 

Scrv.  Three  Gentlemen  :  one  Signor  Eugenio  ;  the 
other  Signor  Martio,  the  Neapolitan;  and  the  third, 
my  Lord,  the  Count  Leander  Ardenti. 

Pla.  Flaminio  is  not  amongst  these,  unless  he  has 
changed  his  name. 

Ijeamler.  [IVilhin,  drinking.]  Long  liv«  the  good 
fortune  of  Signor  Eugenio. 


AOTIWCOJ,   irov  $«">«  vo  tirrg-   <f>tvyt  Tats 


[The  whole  company.]  Long  live,  etc.  (Literally, 
Na'  $fj,  vd  fa  May  he  live.) 

Pla.  Without  doubt  that  is  my  husband.  [To  tnt 
Serv.]  My  good  man,  do  me  the  favour  to  accompany 
me  above  to  those  gentlemen :  I  have  some  business. 

Serv.  At  your  commands.  [Aside.]  The  old  office 
of  us  waiters.  [7/e  goes  out  of  the  Gaming-house.] 

Ridolpho.  [To  Victoria  on  another  part  of  the  stage,] 
Courage,  courage,  be  of  good  cheer,  it  is  nothing. 

Victoria.  I  feel  as  if  about  to  die.  [Leaning  on  him 
as  if  fainting.] 

[From  the  windows  above  all  within  are  seen  rising 
from  tlie  table  in  confusion:  Leander  starts  at 
tite  sight  of  Platzida,  and  appears  by  his  gestures 
to  threaten  her  life.] 

Eugenio,     No,  stop 

rjartio.     Don't  attempt 

Leander.     Away,  fly  from  hence ! 

Pla.  Help  !  Help  !  [Flies  down  the  stairs :  Leander 
attempting  to  follow  with  his  sword,  Eugenio  hinders 
him.] 

[Trappola  with  a  plate  of  meat  leaps  over  the  balcony 
from  the  window,  and  runs  into  the  Coffee-house. 

f  Platzida  runs  out  of  the  Gaming-house,  and  takes 
shelter  in  the  Hotel.] 

[Martio  steals  softly  out  of  the  Gaming-house,  and 
goes  off" exclaiming,  "Rumores  fuge."  The  Servants 
from  the  Gaming-house  enter  the  Hotel,  and  shut  tht 
door.'] 

[Victoria  remains  in  the  Coffee-house  assisted  by 
Ridolpho.] 

[Leander,  sword  in  hand,  opposite  Eugenio,  exclaims,] 
Give  way — I  will  enter  that  hotel. 

Eugenio.  No,  that  shall  never  be.  You  are  a  scoun- 
drel to  your  wife,  and  I  will  defend  her  to  the  last  drop 
of  my  blood. 

Leander.  I  will  give  you  cause  to  repent  this.  [Men- 
acing  with  his  sword.] 

Eugenio.  1  fear  you  not.  [ He  attacks  Leander,  and 
makes  him  give  back  so  much  that,  Jinding  the  door  of 
the  dancing  girPs  house  open,  Leander  escapes  through, 
and  so  finishes.]1 


AIA'AOrOI   OiKIAKOI.  FAMILIAR  DIALOGUES. 
Ai«  vu^Ttforrjs  £va  irpaypia.       To  ask  for  any  thing. 
Saj  jra/xneaXu,  ooacTt  pi  av  I  pray  you,  give  me  if  you 

bpifyrc.  please. 

•if peri  /IE.  Bring  me. 

Aav£('(T£Tt  ut.  Lend  me. 

ni;ya(V£T£  va  fyTfatTC.  Go  to  seek. 

1  EwvETai — "finishes" — awkwardly  enough,  but  it  it 
the  literal  translation  of  the  Romaic.  The  original  of  thu 
comedy  of  Goldoni's  I  never  read,  but  it  does  not  appear  one 
of  his  best.  "II  Bugiardo"  is  one  of  the  most  lively,  but  I 
do  not  think  it  has  been  translated  into  Romaic :  it  is  much 
more  amusing  than  our  own  "  Liar,"  by  Foote.  The  char- 
acter of  Lelio  is  better  drawn  than  Young  Wilding.  Go. 
doni's  comedies  amount  to  fifty ;  some  perhaps  the  best  in 
Europe,  and  others  the  worst.  His  life  is  also  one  of  (he  best 
specimens  of  nuloliiopraphy,  and,  as  Gibbon  has  observed, 
"more  dramatic  than  any  of  his  plays."  The  above  scen« 
was  selected  as  containing  some  of  the  most  familiar  Romaic 
idioms,  not  for  any  wit  which  it  displays,  since  there  is  more 
done  than  said,  the  greater  part  consisting  of  stage  direction* 
The  original  is  one  of  the  few  comedies  by  Holdoni  whic.li  \» 
without  the  buffoonery  of  the  speaking  Harleauin. 


100                                             BYRON'S  WORKS. 

T&pa  cvdvs.                           Now  directly. 

Acv  SAoi  X(r|a  va  TOU  rd  I  will  not  fail  to  tell  him 

U  dxpiSt,  uov  Ktpi£,  Kaptri  My  dear  Sir,  do  me  this 

eliru.                                           of  it. 

j£  airi/v  T/jv  XaP'v-                 favour. 

UpoaKvvfyaTd  fiov  elf  Tqv  My   compliments    to    her 

Eyui  aaf  raoaxaXw.                 I  entreat  you. 

ap)(6vTiaaav.                           ladyship. 

Eya  <ra;  f£op»c/£u>.                   I  conjure  you. 

TltiyalveTe  f/tvpoaBd  ical  aaf  Go  befijre  and  I  will  follow 

E)'«i  <ras  TO  ^T<3  3ia  %dotv.  I  ask  it  of  you  as  a  favour. 

aKo\ovO&.                                    you. 

YiroxpiwatTt  jit  fi'j  rAaov.       Oblige  me  so  much. 

H^Etlpu)  xoXaTo  xplo;  ftov.      I  well  know  my  duty. 

H|£t!po)  ri  flvaf  ftov.               I  know  my  situation. 

Ac5yia  epuriied,  9  dydxtjf.        Affectionate  expressions. 

Ml  *ta/iv£T£  va  fvTpfirufiat  You  confound  me  with  so 

Zuij  fiov.                              My  life. 

pe  Taij  Tocraij   <f>i\otj>po-       much  civility. 

Ad-pit!);  fio'i  J/uviJ.                  My  dear  soul. 

truvai;  au{. 

AyaTrijTf  jiov,  dxpiBe  uov.       My  dear. 

6*X£T£  XoiTrdv  va  xa/ia)  ^/av  Would  you  have  me  then 

Kap<5i'r£a  ^ou.                          My  heart. 

d%pu6Tr)Ta  ;                             be  guilty  of  an  incivility? 

AyoVi;  //ou.                              My  love. 

YTrdyw  tji^poaQd  Sid  vd  aaf  I  go  before  to  obey  3'ou. 

Aia    vd    tl^apiaT^ajis,   va  To  thank,  pay  compliments, 

Aia  vada/ju  Ttjv  Trpoyrayfiv  To  comply  with  your  com 

xdpjf     vcpiiroiriatf,     Kal         and  testify  regard. 

aaf.                                          mand. 

QiXixaif  Sc&waes. 

Afv  dyarru  ToVaty  Titpmoi-  I  do  not  like  so  much  cer 

Eyui  aaf  cv^apiarS.               I  thank  you. 
£of  yvtapl^ia  \dptv.                I  return  you  thanks. 

tiaef.                                         emony. 
Alv    eiuai     T£\et<af     vepi-  I  am  not  at  all  ceremoni- 

2af   £?^at    (mixptos    KOTU  I  am  much  obliged  to  you. 
TroXXa. 

TTOtrjTtK6f.                                                  OUS. 

AVT&  ilvai  Td  <caX;JT£pov.         This  is  better. 

Eyui  •JAui  rd    teduti   /ifrd  I  will  do  it  with  pleasure. 

Tdo-ov  rb  ica\nrepov.                So  much  the  better. 
E^£T£  X<iyov,  £^£T£  ilxaiov.  You  are  in  the  right. 

Mf  5X/7V  ftov  rfiv  Kapoiav.       With  all  my  heart. 

Mf  icaX>7V  //ou  Kapbiav.            Most  cordially. 

A<a   va  ^£6ai(i<r»)j,  va   dp-  To  affirm,  deny,  consen', 

Xdf  £7/iai  tird^pfof.                 I  am  obliged  to  you. 

vriBrjf,  vii  avyKaTavetayf,                    etc. 

Efyai  0X05  itix6f  aaf.             I  am  wholly  yours. 

KT\. 

Ei/tai  5o5X(5j  aaf.                    I  am  your  servant. 

E<vai  dX^flii'di',  f'vai  dX^-  It  is  true,  it  is  very  true. 

TafffivoVarof  <5otXoj.              Your  most  humble  servant. 

0/OTOTOV. 

EioTEKard  roXXd  cvyeviK6(.    You  are  too  obliging. 

Aia  vd  adf  elvta  rfo  dXjJ-  To  tell  you  the  truth. 

IloXXu  irupd$ta6c.                  You  take  too  much  trouble. 

dctav. 

Td  £^w  iia  x,"Pav  Pav  v"  ^  have  a  pleasure  in  serv- 

OVTUS,  crfy  clvat.                   Really,  it  is  so. 

aas  douXcviTb].                           ing  you. 

Iloiof  u/j^ifia'XXft  ;                  Who  doubts  it? 

EICTTE  £iry£vi/coj  Kal  einrpocr-  You  are  obliging  and  kind. 

Atv  EiVai  TTOffai;  a/ji^ifioX/a.    There  is  no  doubt. 

<yopoj. 

Td    utarevw,    iev    rd  via-  I  believe  it,  I  do  not  be- 

Airi  eivat  irp/irov.                   That  is  right. 

Ttvii).                                     lieve  it. 

TY  5/XfT£  ;                             W  hat  is  your  pleasure  ? 

A/yui  Td  vat.                           I  say  yes. 

Ti  ipi^£T£  ;                               What  are  your  commands? 

Afyu>  Td  oyi.                          I  say  no. 

25$    irapoicaXw    vd  pi  fie-  I   beg  you  will   treat  me 

BaXXu  arl^ri/ta  BTI  eivat.       I  wager  it  is. 

Ta%eipi$eadt  i\cvOcpa.            freely. 

BaXXo)(7TiYi;//a  Unltv  elvai  I  wager  i'  is  not  so. 

Xupif  Ktpmoinacs.                   Without  ceremony. 

frfr. 

25f  dya-S)  f'f  6X17?  pou  «cap-  I  love    you  with    all   my 

Na<,  fid  riiv  itiariv  pov           Yes,  by  my  faith. 

Sia;.                                         heart. 
K<;(  fX<i  o/ioi'ojf.                       And  I  the  same. 

Ei's  TTJV  avvciltiaiv  /<ou.           In  conscience. 
Mci  T^V  tipfiv  fiov.                   By  my  life. 

Ti/i>;o-£T/  /<£   /if   rais  n-po-  Honour     me     with     your 

Nai,  aaf  iuvva.                       Yes,  I  swear  it  to  you. 

OTaya'ts  aa(.                              commands. 

Saj  Ajivvut  uadv  rifirjuivof  I  swear  to  you  as  an  hon- 

E^;£T£   riitores    vd  pe  irpo-  Have  you  any  commands 

avOpwtto;.                               est  man. 

ard^trt  ;                                   for  me  ? 
npoora(£T£  TOV  5oBXiJv  aaf.    Command  your  servant. 

Saj   AUVVU   i-ndvia    tls  rt/v  I  swear  to  you  on  my  hoii- 
rififiv  jtov.                                our. 

Upoafiivta     raj     xpotrayds  I  wait  your  commands. 

nioT£tJ(r£Tf  fit.                         Believe  me. 

aaf. 
Ml  KdfiveTC  fityd\rjv  rtpfjv.    You  do  me  great  honour. 

H/i7ropu  vd  <raf  T>  ^ffiajw-  I  can  assure  you  of  it. 

CO). 

$6dvovv>i    ircpiiroirjacs,    aaf  Not  so  much  ceremony,  I 

HfaXa  /Jn'Ar;  arl^fta  S,  ri  I  would  lay  what  bet  you 

—  uoa/caXoD.                                  beg. 

•S/XfTf  ^id  TOUTO.                    please  on  this. 

Ii^otr(cuvi?<7£T£      ^<c     pfpovf  Present  my  respects  to  the 

Mi)    rti^ij   Kal    ddaTti$ty&*  You  jest  by  chance  ? 

pov   TOV  ap^ovra,  n   ^dv       gentleman,  or  his  lord- 

(^OpaT£tJ£T£)  J 

xtpiov.                                   ship. 
B£(>aiwj£T/    rov    JTUJ    rdf  Assure  him  of  my  remem- 

O^iXcrTE  pt  rd  oXa  <raj  ;         Do  you  speak  ser.ouslv  ? 
Eyii  <ray  J//iXw  fie  rd  5X  '  I  speak  seriouslj'  to   voti. 

(vGunui'uji,                            brance. 
ttSatuiacrl    rov    wiZf    rdr  Assure  him  of  my  fricnd- 

jtov,  Kal  adf    Xfyu>    T>)V       and  tell  you  thn  tinih. 

<lv<ixw.                                 ship. 

Eyu  aaf  rd  (JtCaiuttu.            1  assure  »ou  oi  u 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.                               101 

Td  fVpo^i7r£i'(7£r£.                   You  have  guessed  it. 
Tb  iViT£u^£r£.                         You  have  hit  upon  it. 
2,5s  ffiimruw.                            I  believe  you. 

3.  6Xa  [ra  Tpa'y/iara]  ^ia        3.   HdvTa  tt    aurou  f'yf' 
ftlo-ov  TOV  [X<5you]  iyivijoav,  VETO-  icai  ^wpjy  auroC  iylv 
Kal   x<apls  avTov   &tv   eyive  CTO  oiice  iv,  o  yiyovev 

ripfVfi  va  aas  iricTettroi.         I  must  believe  you. 

xavfva  etTi  eyive. 

Atird  tci>  enat  dSvvaTov.         This  is  not  impossible. 
Td  XoiTor  us  tlvat  pi  Ka\r)v  Then  it  is  very  well. 

4.   Eiy   aurSv   ?rov   ^uij-       4.  Ev  a'ir^i  far)  ^v,  /ta 
itaj  ^  £w^  ^rov  ro  0aiy  ruf  fi  far)  }jv  TO  <t>G>s  T&V  dtBpfr 

upav. 

'vg-  ' 

KaXa,  (taXa.                             Well,  well. 

r1 

AJJ-  iivai  d\ri6tv6v.                  It  is  not  true. 

5.     KaZ   TO   (^(Sy  £?y    rtjv       5.   Kal  TO  0Cy  ^v  r?  axo- 

EiVai  v//£u<5fy.                          It  is  false. 

o-KOTiiav  Qeyyet,  Kal  {/  axo-  Tla<j>atvci,  KalriOKoirtaairrt 

A?v  £?vai  T(TTOTCS  a*b  auro".     There  is  nothing  of  this. 

Teia  Itv  Tb  KaTd\aSe.               ou  Kar/Xa6£v. 

E7i-at  £va  i//£«(5oy,  pia            It  is  a  falsehood,  an  impos- 

6.  Eytvfv  ?vay  av6piairos       6.  Eyfv£roav9pa>iroydir- 

dndTr].                                   ture. 

airfcrraX^fi'oy  anb  Tbv  Qebv,   EoraX/ifvoy  Traoa  GEOU,  ^vo^ 

Eyui    daTil^opovv     (t^opa-  I  was  in  joke. 

Tb  dvo/id  TOV  Iijidvvrjs.               u.a  airiji  jwavj'ijy. 

rfua). 

Eyi  TO  etxacia  va  ye\d<ria.    I  said  it  to  laugh. 

^ 

Tf;  dXrjOela.                             Indeed. 

Mf  dpfo-fj  Kari  iroXXrf.            It  pleases  me  much. 
Suy(carav£uo>  els  rouro.           I  agree  with  you. 

THE  INSCRIPTIONS  AT  ORCHOMENUS,  FROM 
MELET1US. 

A«?<J  T!JV  ij.rj<f>6v  jio'j,              I  give  my  assent. 

A  *      '              '                 ~          ^            T  An  Tint  nnrm  p  thi« 

OPXOMENOS    KOIVWC  SVOITTOU   TrdXiy  Tror^  trXoufftw- 

EI/IQI    <ni^0&>voy,   t<    OT/I-  I  agree. 

rar?;   »cai    iV^upwrar);,   irpoTipov   Ka\ovu.iiTj    BoiurKaJ 

<pwvov. 

A^vai,  £i'y  rqy  bnoiav  JJTOV  b  NaJy  ruv  Xap/rwv,  £/y 

Eyui  <5fv  0Aw.                         I  will  not. 

rdv  8ro?ov  £ffX»7paivov  rt'X>;  oj  6?;S«Toi,  ourivoy  ri  C(5«y>o{ 

y              ^      s               J 

£i'y  aui-»)v  Tr\v  tr6\iv  ra  Xapir»;o-ia,  rou  oiroi'ou  dyCv^f 

4ia    va    (rufiSouXfuS^f,    vd  To  consult,  consider,  or  re- 

clipov  eiriypa<pas  ev  <m;Xaiy  ev&ov  TOV  KTtaQlvTOS  Vaou  fir' 
6v6uaTi  Trjs  GfordKou,  iwd  rou  irpiaTocvadapiov  Aiovros, 

^  X       .1  >                   V 

firl  T&V  6aai\l(i>v  Ba(riXci'ou,  Afovroy,  «a(  Kwfcrravri'voi), 

Ti  7rpf7r£(  va  «a'^u/i£v  ;            What  ought  we  to  do  1 
Ti  $a  Kd/ta/jtev  ;                      What  shall  we  do? 

i-^ovaas  ouruiy  £v  ^fv  r_5  fttq  xoivwy. 
"  Oi^£  tvixiav  Tbv  dywva  TUV  Xapir^<rfa»v. 

Ti  /if  trup6oi;Xri£r£  va  KU-  What  do  you  advise  me  to 

Mqviy  imXWfo*  Avrioyfuy  dffJ  Mai^pou. 

^j;                                           do? 

Kijpuf. 

6irtiov  rpdrov  -S/Xo/<£v  ;<£ra-  What  part  shall  we  take? 

ZuiXoy  ZufXou  Ila'^ioy. 

'Af  Kaput  jtev  CT^HJ.                    Let  us  do  this. 

Patl'wody. 
Nouu^vioy  NOUUT/VIOU  A.0t]vutos. 

E7i'ai  /caX^rj-poy  f'yai  va  It  is  better  that  I  

Iloii/rijy  IrtSv. 

Zra95r£  dXi'yov.                       Wait  a  little. 

Afv  !jdc\ev  etvat  Ka\$rtpov  Would   it  not  be    better 

AiX      ' 

va  ;                                 that  ? 

AiroXXdooroy  ATroXXoodTou  Kp^y* 

Eyci  dyarouo-a  «aX>;r£pa.        I  wish  it  were  better. 

A^iJffErf  jte.                            Let  me  go. 

Pd^nrroy  PoJiVrou  Apy^oy. 

Av  ^ouv  els  TOV  roVov  aas,  If  I  were  in  your  place, 

tavtas  AjroXXo^drou  rou  $  avi'ov  A^oXfuy  dir4  Kii^iX' 

tyui                                                       I 

Ki0aow^df 

E7vai  Tb  ic'iov.                       It  is  the  same. 

At?^*5rpioy  IIapp£v/(ricov  KaX^»?^dij(oy. 

The  reader  by  the  specimens  below  wtu  be  enabled  to 
compare  the  modern  with  the  ancient  tongue. 

KaXXforparoy  E^a/cto-rou  6)?5aioy. 
IIoi»;rrjy  Sarijpwv. 
A.pTjvia$  A^poxXfovy  G^6a?cy. 

PARALLEL  PASSAGES  FROM  ST.  JOHN'S 

fTroAcpiriJy. 

GOSPEL. 

AaipdOfoy  Awpofit'ou  Tapavnvdy. 

N/ov.                                 AufovriKdv. 

^  HoiJ/r^y  Tpay^iwv. 

Kf^a'X.  a.                                Ke<pd\.  a. 

So^ofcXijy  2o0o*cXf'ouy  A9^vaioy. 

I.  EJS  r»)v  dpx?iv  %TOV  o       1.  EN  dp^ij  ^v  b  Xdyoy, 

Kafi/pij^oy  QeoS&pov  QrjSatos. 

Aiyoj'  Kal  b  Xdyoy  ^rov  pcra  Kal   b   Xdyoj   %v   Ttpbs    TOV 

notrtTfis  KiauutStSv- 

fieou'  ftai  Qebg  !/TOV  b  Xdyof.   Qebv,  xal  Qebs  tfv  b  Xdyoy. 

AX/^avJpoy  ApiVnuvoy  A0?vaio;. 

£.    Erouroy   ^rov   £«y  r^v       2.    OSroy    !jv   In    &PXJJ 

rirojfpjrijy. 

•Ij-^ffi  «tr£  Ocnv.                        irpbs  rdv  Qiov. 

ArraXoj  ArraXow  AfJijvalef. 

f02 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


T&V  vfipriTov  aytava,  TUV 
i&as  avXi/tTTaj. 

QrjSalos. 


Q"6e  iviK&v 

Tl 

A(o«X/j;  Ka 


£rpar<»'0j  Euvtxou  6»;fia?oj. 

AvSpa;  avXijoraf. 
Aio/cX!jf  KaXXi/«5&iu  Gij^aTo 

Avi3pa{  qytyidvaj. 
Pd&Trrof  PoJiVrron  Apy£?o?. 


ioro/ifi'ouj  P<5ioj. 
K<i>/if>£d;. 
KaXX/crrparo?  EfaK/croti  6>7<>a7oj. 

Ta  iTtivlKia. 
Kdt/ttfftHiv  HotrjT/j(. 
AX/fayiJpo?  Apurrtiiivos  A.0qvaiof. 

]•>  5t  TJ}  /r/pa  <3up«ciuj. 
Mvafflvia  ap%ovTos  aywvoQtTiovros  rj 
XapiraTiov,  tvapi6aT<i>  TtdvTutv  01  mi  it  tvixuiaav  TO. 
XapiTfi'ria. 

EaXiriy/tTaj. 
•ti'Xivcj  <I>tXwi>  A0av£io;. 


uJita?  Duxpario;  QelSciof. 
Tlottrds- 


Kpdruv  KX/uv 

AiXt 

Ilcpiycvci;  Hp 


KQ)  Apyioy. 


^ariof  A/iaXaiu  AioXcu; 

TpoyatviiJj. 
KXan<5i3tt)oo5  IToti0£<fo  Topavnvrfy. 

Kw^ntDOdc. 

/cdorparof  "T(Xo<TTporu;  Gti'Sao;. 
Ta  fnftafM  Kufiatu^oj. 
sp^os  Hpo^dru  Kopwvrff." 

fey  aXXy  Xifl^. 

oj  IIoXv<cporouj  iapaiw/iOf  iioytrtavof  avSptaot 
\opaytlcavTtf  vncaVavrcj  Jtovuirot)  aviQrjKav  rfyiuvoj  ap- 
^•jvroj  oiXi'oyroj  «X/of  alovros  a\Kta6ivtos." 

Ev  fV/p<(i  X/0<(». 
"Swdp^ta  apxovrof,  ftivug  $ti\ov6i'ta,  ap^i  .....  if  Eu- 

<(i)X«   Apxctdfiu)  (ptaiecla  .........  85  aff/^axa  ord  raj  <rovy- 

ypa<t>G>  vtba  T&V  iro\tfidp%u>v,  uri  riav  xarorrauv,  ai/fXi!- 
^tvof  raf  <rovyypa<pus  Ta;  Kiptvas  -nap  ti^pdva,  «r^  $i&tav 
ii)  vaa't<Xctv  ..............  xq  Ti/jidftetiov  <pi*>Kttas,  Kfi  iapo- 

TfXtTv  \vaiidfto),  KTJ  itovvaov  Kayiaotiuta  ^?;puvtjo  <cdr 


Swrfp^a)  ap^ovrof,  fteivb;  dXaX«;a/icvi'(i>  F  apvCv,  jroXtJ- 
*Xt!os  rafi/af  onrfitaKt  tf?i>i\v  dp^tidftia  (jxaxtii  drd  raj 
u  r4  KaraXuTrov  Kar  ri  ^/dipiaua  ria  fduia,  avc- 
rdf  ?avyypj.ra>v  ri>  uliievas  trap  a<a<pi\av,  K!; 


ev<ppova  (fiUKin;.  K^  rap  5«a)in5(riov  t 
icfi  \val!>apov  iafioTt\iof  iti&a  riav 


\  (a 


Irj  Mfvoi'rao  'Ap^tXa'u  //avdf  jrparu).  6/*oX- 
oya  EuSwXu  F  fXarii;,  o  (cfj  rjj  rdXi  fpyopEviuv.  Eirfi^i) 
KtKOfilffTrj  EufiwXof  Trap  ri;j  TrdXioj  rd  fidvctov  anav  Kaf 
rdj  bftoXoyiaf  rdj  TtfliVaj  ^uvap^co  ap%ovTOs,  fitivi>{ 
SciXovOiw,  Krl  O\IT  6tf>ct\{Ttj  aJrii  ?r(  oiflfv  irdp  rdv  rruXiv, 
dXX'  dff/^i  rrdira  rrtpi  ravr3{,  «r^  aTO^E^davfit  r^  irdXi  rd 
e^ovrff  rdf  bito\oylaSj  ti  piv  TTOTJ  Icfofiii'ov  %p6vov 
Ef'SiuXti  f^i  vo/ifa;  F  ?TI  drfrrapa  ftoiitaoi  aovv  iirrrvj  iid 
KOTlij;  Fi  KaTi  irpoGdrv;  aaiiv  ?yu{  ^EiXi'^f  dp^(  T<3  ^pdvu 
5  mawrif  6  //£rd  6vvap%ov  ap%ovTa  tp^Oftevios  diroypa- 
(pecBrj  &c  ECjJuiXoi'  (car'  tviaurov  Exaffrov  Trap  r3v  Tartar 
xi)  T&V  vijiiav  uv  TdTC  (caflpara  TUV  TrpoSdrtav,  KTI  TO>V 
I'/yflv,  (c^  rCv  flovSJv,  Kri  TWV  (Trrwv,  x^  <ariva  daaftaiuiv 
5i*^  TD  rX£?9o{  /i£i  airoypdQtGO  !>&t  jrXiova  raiv  ycypaft- 

fitvdiv  iv  TIJ  <rovy%ti>pciat  fi  StKaTtf ij  Ti  tvvoftiov 

Et>j3a)Xov  i<j>t!\£t Xi;   rui/   ip^oficviuv   dpyovpla 

TCTTapaKovTa  EtlfiuXu  Ka0'  IKUHTOV  cviavT&v, 

K>I  riKov  <pepiT<j>  &pajfjia( raj  fivaf  havTa;  (card 

fjufa T&V   Krl   e/nrpaKTo;  caTia  riv   cpvofttviov 

xal  rd  /^r/j." 

fev  afXXotf  Xi'floif. 

apQdptxos,  Kal  dXXat."  Ev  ovie/tia  tirtypaifiij  i&ov  rdvcv, 
q  TrvfE/ia,  a  6(  r;/J£»s  iivoypdipo/jnv,  ol  raXaiot  vpoaiyoa* 
0ov.  Kai  rd  «^ijf. 


The  following  is  the  prospectus  of  a  translation  of 
Anacharsis  into  Romaic,  by  my  Romaic  master.  Mar- 
marotouri,  who  wished  to  publish  it  in  England. 

EfAHSIS  TmorrA<I>IKH. 
Ilpdf  TOVS  iv         ^iXoy£V£(f  Kal  0«X/XX»;vay. 
O2OI    tlf   /?«SXia    Tavro^oTrd    Ivrpvtjiiaaiv,   fi%t6pow 
r6aov   tlvat    ri  ^pfiaifiov  Ttjs  laroplaf,   It*   avrrjf  yap 
f^ivplaKirai  5  rXf'oi/  pfpa^pixr^ifvi;  TTa\ai6rt]t,  not  5£U>- 
povvrai  5y  In  Kardirrpy  rjOr/,  trpd^cts  xai  Itoixfjcrcts  ;roX- 
Xuv  icai  titaQipuv  if)vG>v  xai  yevijiv  &v  rfiv  fivfi/iriv  Stcffus- 
aro    Kal   iia<ri!><TCi    ti   loropoci)  Ai>Jyi;(r(j   its   aluva    T&» 
a~avTa. 

Mia  TtToia  i 
(LcJf'Aifi??,  Sj  xpci 
It6voi  va  TVJV  (vr 

rw»  jrpoyrfvuv  /<a{,  i:66tv  iriJrc  «ai  waif  cvpiBrjaav  tlf  T&f 
irarpiias  pas,  ovrt  ra  rjBii  fa  xaropBuftara  Kal  rfii 
tioiKT](ri'v  raf  ;  Av  ipdirrjcuifiev  TOVS  dXXcy£V£7f,  i]^cvpovt 
va  H'fS  Itavovv  $%t  pdvov  tOTOpiK&f  TT/V  ap^tjv  ical  Ttjt 
&V  Ttpoydvwv  /iaf,  dXXd  »cai  rojroypa'0i«rij  /tas 
Ta(  5/<r£(f  T&V  vaTptiuv  fiaf,  Kal  o'lovtl  ^cip- 
ayiayol  ytv6[tcvoi  ftt  TOV;  ycwypaQiKoti;  Ttiiv  iriV^jcaj,  ^105 
X/youv,  fto  t7i'ai  a!  A.9?/vai,  Wii  !/  Xra'pr^,  txti  aj  Ofjfiai. 
Jj  fit\ia  a-ni^ti  fj  ftta  iiiap%la  d:ri  ri)>  £X 


ripn  (tvat  tlairtiicTijTos,  xat  Iv  rairy 
eiirclv  avayxala'  tiarl  XourJv  §/J£?s 


roira 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


10; 


Xi7V.  Tot-rot  <Jjico<3<5fii7<r£  rfiv  piav  rrdXiv,  tKcivos  rr.v  oX- 
Xi?v,  Kal  rX.  npoaiTi  av  ipurfiaiapiv  aiirovs  rovs  firi 
EXX^vaj  xtipaytayoiis  pas,  xoQtv  ivapaKivfjdriaav  v<5 
Ifcpcvvrjoovv  ap%as  r&aov  iraXa«d{,  dvuTrcoTo'Xuj  /«5j 
diroftptVovraj  //{  auroij  rouj  Xd"you{.  "  Ka0<if  6  « 
Extras  Ava'xapo-i?,  av  otv  htpiipxi.ro  ra  ?rav£u</>po<ruva 
iKuva  /cXiuara  rijj  EXXu'c5os,  uV  tiv  iu<j>opciro  rd  d£(ciua- 
ra,  ra  ijdii  Kal  ToCj  vo>ouj  r<3v  EXXiJvwi',  i;0iX£  //ffvi; 
2ict!0i;f  ira?  rd  Jvo^a  «a<  rd  rpayua'  ourai  <cai  o  fipircpos 
larpbs,  Sv  ofv  (udvOave.  TO  row  iTTjroKparous,  <5fv  eovvaro 
vd  npoxuptiafl  ds  rfiv  r^vv  rov.  Av  b  iv  //utv  vopoOirris 
iev  (^iral,t  ra.  rov  SoXuvof,  AvKovpyov,  xal  TlirraKov, 
lev  tciivaro  vaL  pvOiirjiTr]  Kal  va  Ka\ttpy>'/<rjl  ra  ijdri  riav 
binoytviav  rov  Av  6  PI?TU/>  Si  v  tfqvikfyn  raj  eixppaSclas 
KOI  rov;  ^apitvria^ov;  rou  A^offQfVous,  icv  ivcpyovaev 
ilf  rat  </^X"J  ™v  oxpoariav  rou'  Av  b  N/of  Ava^ap- 
o-if,  o  Kt'pioj  A66af  Bap0oXo^a?of  <5fv  dvcyivawrKt  //f 
fctyaX;;!'  eTUjiovriv  Kal  aictyiv  rov;  rX/ov  lyKpirov;  avy- 
ypa<j>c~i;  ruv  feXXlJvui',  f^fpruvaiv  alroiis  Kara  fiddos  f-i 
rplaKovra  Avu  crn,  liv  ^tXtv  Ifrfdin)  rovrrjv  rqv  ircpl 
feXX/Jvuv  (oropi'av  rou,  ijrij  IIf/Jt^y>;(r<j  row  N/ov  Ava- 
vdpactiis  Tap'  airou  TTpocwvopdaQr;,  Kal  tls  3Xaj  Taj 
tipuraiicaj  &aX«rot>;  p£r£yXojr7i'<T0>/."  Kai  fv  f  vl  \6ytf, 
o!  v£a)Tfpo(,  ac  &cv  CKtpvav  Sid  bor/yoiis  rov;  irpoyovovs 
pas,  fi9i\av  iau>(  trtpii/i/puvraj  /larai'uf  ft  l%pt  rov  vvv 
Aura  &tv  tivai  Xdyta  lv8mm**pflHm  Sta  TO  (f>i\oycvfs 
Tpaticov,  tlvai  <5f  0iXaX)70ou{  rtppavov,oo-ris  iptrdippaae 
r)v  Ntov  Avd^ap<7iv  affi  roE  raXXixoD  t/j  ro  rEp/iavi<coV 

Av  XoirSv  /cai  ^£?j  S/Xajptv  va  ite8l!;upcv  rtjf  yvwatai 
rwv  Xa^Trpdiv  KaropBdijiftnav  b—ov  ctea/jav  ol  •Sau/iauro 
(Kiti'Oi  xpoTrdropts  f]jtZv,  av  £irt0upaip£v  va  ^a'fluptv  r^ 
irpdo^ov  KOI  av&aiv  ruv  tij  raf  r/^vaj  »cai  £7r«rr^aj  Ka 
tij  (ra'St  aXXo  t7^oj  paOrjottas,  av  l^wutv  ntpicpytiav  va 
yvwplVw^itv  ffdOtv  KaraySftcda,  xal  bnolovs  Savpaarov 
Kal  /jfyaXous  avcpas,  d  Kal  irpoyoVotif  ^wv,  ^EU,  ^£? 
^fv  yv(up/£o/i£v,  £('{  (caipov  OJTOU  o!  dXXoyfvaf  ^au/ia^oucri 
avroif,  «aZ  <ls  a'arrpaj  iravro(H<roi"v  p«0/;(7£<<)S  trfSovrat 
as  <njv<5pa'p.a>/i£v  aravrfj  irpoOu/iwf  tJf  T^I/  «3o<riv  roB 
5iu//a<ri'ou  rourou  opwyypa///jarbs  rou  Nfou  Ava^apo-t 

H//£(f  ouv  of  (nroyfypafiu/vot  $t\o/it:v  tm\tm  -rrpo- 
QVU.US  rfiv  itcriitppao-iv  rov  B(6'Xiou  pf  r^v  <car5  rd  5uva- 
rov  ^/iiv  /caXT/v  tjtpdaiv  r~j$  vvv  «:a9'  >;u«s  o/iiXi'ac,  »fai 
W<5vr££  roEro  £??  r-Jrov,  5«Xou£v  rd  (c«XXa)T('<7£t  ^f  rooj 
ytuypa^ocouf  ir/raxa?  pf  «7rXu;  Pwfiai<c«f  Xfffif  iyxt)(- 
apaypivovs  ds  f&tKd  aas  ypdpfiarn,  rpoariOi  vres  S  ,  r« 
oXXo  ^p>5<rifiov  icai  apu6$tov  ds  rf/v  laropiav. 

6Xov  rd  (rtiyypa/Jua  5/X«  y/i'£i  cJj  rrf/iouf  ZuScxa  Kara 
plunoiv  rfis  iraX«cr;s  £*<5<i<n:u?.  H  n//i)  6Xou  rou  crvyypap- 
j»aro{  flvat  Qiopivta  icKal^n  rtjj  Bifvvijs  ^i<i  r^v  irpoo-- 
QflKijv  rSv  y£oiypu^tK(3v  TTivaVaiv.  O  (itXoyfvrjf  o7v  <ruv- 
Ipoprjriis  rpfJT£«  va  rXijpwtfi;  £('?  ta'0£  rd/iov  ^lopi'vt 
rai  Kapavravc'a  E'XOCTI  rrjf  Bi/vvi;?,  (cai  roCro  xu^'f  ' 
ufav  rp<5oo(Tiv,  uXX'  £ul3uf  OTOU  0/Xfi  rip  -rrapa&oOjj  o  r 
ru-(u^fvof  »cai  fitptvos. 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER  IN  ROMAIC. 

ii  TlATEPA  uas  orroii  elaai  ds  reuj  ovpavoif  uj 
aytaadfj  rb  Svoud  aov.  AS  c\0i]  q  0aai\tla  ao\-.  AS 
'ivy  re  3(\rjud  aov,  KtiO^s  ds  rbv  ovpavbv,  cr£ti  KO?  dt 
•fiv  yijv.  Tb  \pd>p.i  uas  rb  KaOtjucpivov,  $6s  uaj  rb  ar]j,- 
tpov.  Kai  avy%(i>p!iaf  uas  r>\  xpi>)  uas,  Ka0(5f  xai  lutif 
rvy%<i>povucv  rovs  Kpto<j>ti\lras  uas.  KaJ  ufjv  uas  V'P* 
:ls  trtipaaubv,  dXXd  iXcvdiptaai  uas  a-ab  rbv  rcovripdv* 
")ri  tCixrj  aov  clvai  >;  0aai\da  oi,  ;}  Ivvauis,  Kal  f,  i3dfa 
'  roiif  (Lt'jJvQS*  A.ui]V. 

IN  GREEK. 

FIATEP  riutbv,  o  e v  roTj  ovpavols,  ayiaa8/jru>  rb  Svoud 
o'ou.  EX0/ra»  q  0aai\da  aov  ycvriOtjria  rb  5l\r;ud  aov, 
if  ev  ovpavS,  Kal  tnJ  rtjs  ynS'  Tov  aprov  fjuiav  rbv  litioti- 
aiov  Sbs  quiv  afijiipov.  Kai  atpcs  t>ulv  ra  6<pci\>juara  ijuwv, 
<uf  <cai  riuds  ouptcuev  rols  o<pei\irais  t;uS>v.  Kai  ufi 
datvtyKys  'Ifas  ds  xetpaaubv,  dXXa  pvaat  r/uas  u~4  ro8 
•Kovijpov.  6ri  aov  cariv  q  ftaai\da,  Kal  q  ovvauis,  Kai  q 


CANTO  III. 


feppui/i/voi  <ca2 
Trjs  vptrtfJS  aydn 


Btvifp»;f. 
Hpffi/rof. 
ou,  1799. 


Note  1.    Stanza  xviii. 
In  "pride  of  place"  here  last  the  eagle  flew. 
PRIDE  of  place"  is  a  term  of  falconry,  and  means 
the  highest  pitch  of  flight — See  Macbeth,  etc. 

"  An  eagle  towering  in  his  pride  of  place 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawk'd  at  and  kill'd." 

Note  2.  Stanza  xx. 

Such  as  Harmodius  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord. 
See  the  famous  Song  on  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton. 
— The  Best  English  translation  is  in  Eland's  Anthology 
by  Mr.  Denman : 

"  With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe,"  etc. 

Note  3.    Stanza  xxi. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell. 
On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said  that  a 
ball  was  given  at  Brussels. 

Notes  4  and  5.    Stanza  xxvi. 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears. 

Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Donald,  the 
"  gentle  Lochiel"  of  the  "  forty-five." 

Note  6.  Stanza  xxvii. 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves. 
The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a  remnant  of 
the  "  forest  of  Ardennes,"  famous  in  Boiaido's  Orlando, 
and  immortal  in  Shakspeare's  "  As  you  '.Ike  it."  H  u 
also  celebrated  in  Tacitus  as  being  the  spot  o)  succe*fu. 
defence  by  the  Germans  against  the  RomiJ»  wicroach- 


104 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


merits.-  I  nave  ventured  to  adopt  the  name  connected 

with  nobler  associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 

Note  7.     Stanza  xxx. 

I  turn'd  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not  bring. 

My  guide  from  Mont  St.  Jean  over  the  field  seemed 
intelligent  and  accurate.  The  place  where  Major  How- 
ard fell  was  not  far  from  two  tall  and  solitary  trees  (there 
was  a  third  cut  down,  or  shivered  in  the  battle)  which 
stand  a  few  yards  from  each  other  at  a  pathway's  side. 
— Beneath  these  he  died  and  was  buried.  The  body 
has  since  been  removed  to  England.  A  small  hollow 
for  the  present  marks  where  it  lay ;  but  will  probably 
Boon  be  effaced ;  the  plough  has  been  upon  it,  and  the 
grain  is. 

After  pointing  out  the  different  spots  where  Picton 
and  other  gallant  men  had  perished,  the  guide  said, 
"  Here  Major  Howard  lay ;  I  was  near  him  when 
wounded."  I  told  him  my  relationship,  and  he  seemed 
then  still  more  anxious  to  point  out  the  particular  spot 
and  circumstances.  The  place  is  one  of  the  most 
marked  in  the  field,  from  the  peculiarity  of  the  two 
trees  above-mentioned. 

I  went  on  horseback  twice  over  the  field,  comparing 
it  with  my  recollection  of  similar  scenes.  As  a  plain, 
Waterloo  seems  marked  out  for  the  scene  of  some  great 
action,  though  this  may  be  mere  imagination :  I  have 
viewed  with  attention  those  of  Platea,  Troy,  Mantinea, 
Leuctra,  Chseronea,  and  Marathon;  and  the  field  around 
Mont  St.  Jean  and  Hougoumont  appears  to  want  little 
but  a  better  cause,  and  that  undefinabie  but  impressive 
halo  which  the  lapse  of  ages  throws  around  a  celebrated 
fpot,  to  vie  in  interest  with  any  or  all  of  these,  except 
perhaps  the  last  mentioned. 

Note  8.    Stanza  xxxiv. 
Like  to  the  apples  on  the  Dead  Sea's  shore. 
The  (fabled)  apples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  Asphaltes 
were  said  to  be  fair  without,  and  within  ashes. — Vide 
Tacit.  Histor.  1.  v.  7. 

Note  9.  Stanza  xli. 

For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den. 
The  great  error  of 'Napoleon,  "if  we  have  writ  our 
annals  true,"  was  a  continued  obtrusion  on  mankind 
of  his  want  of  all  community  of  feeling  for  or  with 
them;  perhaps  more  offensive  to  human  vanity  than 
the  active  cruelty  of  more  trembling  and  suspicious 
tyranny. 

Such  were  his  speeches  to  public  assemblies  as  well 
as  individuals ;  and  the  single  expression  which  he  is 
said  to  have  used  on  rsturning  to  Paris  after  the  Russian 
winter  had  destroyed  his  army,  rubbing  his  hands  over 
a  fire,  "  This  is  pleasanter  than  Moscow,"  would  prob- 
ably alienate  more  favour  from  his  cause  than  the 
destruction  and  reverses  which  led  to  the  remark. 

Note  10.  Stanza  xlviii. 

What  want  these  outlaws  conquerors  should  have  ? 
"  What  wants  that  knave 
That  a  king  should  have  ?" 

irss  King  James  9  question,  on  meeting  Johnny  Arm- 
strong and  his  followers  in  full  accoutrements See 

th«  Ballad. 

Note  11.  Song,  stanza  1. 
The  castle  crag  of  Drachenfels. 

The  castie  of  Drachenfela  stands  on  the  highest  sum- 
mit of  "  the  Seven  Mountains,"  over  the  Rhine  banks ; 


it  is  in  ruins,  and  connected  with  some  singular  tradi. 
tions :  it  is  the  first  in  view  on  the  road  from  Bonn, 
but  on  (he  opposite  side  of  the  river ;  on  this  bank, 
nearly  facing  it,  are  the  remains  of  another  called  th« 
Jew's  Castle,  and  a  large  cross  commemorative  of  the 
murderof  a  chief  by  his  brother.  The  number  of  castle* 
and  cities  along  the  course  of  the  Rhine  on  both  sides 
is  very  great,  and  their  situations  remarkably  beautiiul. 

Note  12.    Stanza  Ivii. 

The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  werj*. 

The  monument  of  the  young  and  lamented  General 
Marceau  (killed  by  a  rifle-ball  at  Alterkirchen,  on  the 
last  day  of  the  fourth  year  of  the  French  republic)  stil1 
remains  as  described. 

The  inscriptions  on  his  monument  are  rather  too 
long,  and  not  required ;  his  name  was  enough  ;  France 
adored,  and  her  enemies  admired ;  both  wept  over  him. 
— His  funeral  was  attended  by  the  generals  and  detach- 
ments from  both  armies.  In  the  same  grave  General 
Hoche  is  interred,  a  gallant  man  also  in  every  sense  of 
the  word ;  but  though  he  distinguished  himself  greatly 
in  battle,  he  had  not  the  good  fortune  to  die  there ;  his 
death  was  attended  by  suspicions  of  poison. 

A  separate  monument  (not  over  his  body,  which  is 
buried  by  Marceau's)  is  raised  for  him  near  Andernach, 
opposite  to  which  one  of  his  most  memorable  exploits 
was  performed,  in  throwing  a  bridge  to  an  island  on 
the  Rhine.  The  shape  and  style  are  different  from 
that  of  Marceau's,  and  the  inscription  more  simple  and 
pleasing : 

"The  Army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse 

to  its  Coinmandfir-in-Chief, 

HOCHE." 

This  is  all,  and  as  it  should  be.  Hoche  was  esteemed 
among  the  first  of  France's  earlier  generals,  before 
Buonaparte  monopolized  her  triumphs. — He  was  the 
destined  commander  of  the  invading  army  of  Ireland. 

Note  13.  Stanza  Iviii. 
Here  Ehrenbreitstein,  with  her  shatter'd  wall. 

Ehrenbreitstein,  i.  e.  "  the  broad  Stone  of  Honour," 
one  of  the  strongest  fortresses  in  Europe,  was  dis- 
mantled and  blown  up  by  the  French  at  the  truce  of 
Leoben. — It  had  been  and  could  only  be  reduced  by 
famine  or  treachery.  It  yielded  to  the  former,  aided 
by  surprise.  After  having  seen  the  fortifications  of 
Gibraltar  and  Malta,  it  did  not  much  strike  by  compar- 
ison, but  the  situation  is  commanding.  General  Mar- 
ceau besieged  it  in  vain  for  some  time,  and  I  slept  in  a 
room  where  I  was  shown  a  window  at  which  he  is  said 
to  have  been  standing,  observing  the  progress  of  the 
siege  by  moonlight,  when  a  ball  struck  immediately 
below  it. 

Note  14.  Stanza  Ixiii. 
Unsepulchrcd  they  roam'd,  and  shriek'd  each  wandering  ghost 

The  chapel  is  destroyed,  and  the  pyramid  of  bones  di- 
minished to  a  small  number  by  the  Burgundian  legion  in 
the  service  of  France,  who  anxiously  effaced  this  record 
of  their  ancestors'  less  successful  invasions.  A  few  still 
remain,  notwithstanding  the  pains  taken  by  the  Bnrgun- 
dians  for  ages  (all  who  passed  that  way  moving  a  bone  to 
their  owi.  country)  and  the  less  justifiable  larcenies  of  the 
Swiss  postilions,  who  carried  them  off  to  sell  for  knife- 
handles  ;  a  purpose  for  which  the  whiteness  imbibed  by 
the  bleaching  of  years  had  rendered  them  in  great  re- 
quest. Of  these  relics  I  ventured  to  bring  away  as  much 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


103 


M  may  have  made  the  quarter  of  a  hero,  for  which  the 
*olo  excuse  is,  that  if  I  had  not,  the  next  passer-by  might 
have  perverted  them  to  worse  uses  than  the  careful  pre- 
servation which  1  intend  for  them. 

Note  15.  Stanza  Ixv. 

Levell'd  Aventicum,  hath  strew'd  her  subject  lands. 
Aventicum  (near  Moral)  was  the  Roman  capital  of 
Helvetia,  where  Avenches  now  stands. 

Note  16.  Stanza  Ixvi. 

And  held  within  their  um  one  mind,  one  heart,  one  dust. 
Julia  Alpinula,  a  young  Aventian  priestess,  died  soon 
after  a  vain  endeavour  to  save  her  father,  condemned 
to  death  as  a  traitor  by  Aulus  Caecina.  Her  epitaph  was 
discovered  many  years  ago ; — it  is  thus — 

Julia  Alpinula 

Hicjaceo, 
Infelicis  patris  intelix  proles, 

DPS  Aventiae  sacerdos. 

Exorare  patris  necem  non  potui ; 

Male  niori  in  latis  ille  erat. 

Vixi  Annos  XXIII. 

I  know  of  no  human  composition  so  affecting  as 
this,  nor  a  history  of  deeper  interest.  These  are  the 
names  and  actions  which  ought  not  to  perish,  and  to 
which  we  turn  with  a  true  and  healthy  tenderness,  from 
the  wretched  and  glittering  detail  of  a  confused  mass 
of  conquests  and  battles,  with  which  the  mind  is  roused 
for  a  time  to  a  false  and  feverish  sympathy,  from 
whence  it  recurs  at  length  with  all  the  nausea  conse- 
quent on  such  intoxication. 

Note  17.  Stanza  Ixvii. 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow. 
This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc  (June  3d, 
1316),  which  even  at  this  distance  dazzles  mine. 

(July  20th.)  I  this  day  observed  for  some  time  the 
distinct  reflection  of  Mont  Blanc  and  Mont  Argentine 
in  the  calm  of  the  lake,  which  I  was  crossing  in  my 
boat ;  the  distance  of  these  mountains  from  their  mir- 
ror is  sixty  miles. 

Note  18.  Stanza  Ixxi. 

By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone. 

The  colour  of  the  Rhone  at  G  ene  va  is  blue,  to  a  depth 

of  tint  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in  water,  salt 

or  fresh,  except  in  the  Mediterranean  and  Archipelago. 

Note  19.  Stanza  Ixxix. 

Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  see'k  possesU 
This  refers  to  the  account  in  his  "  Confessions"  of  his 
passion  for  the  Comtesse  d'Houdetol  (the  mistress  of  St 
Lambert),  and  his  long  walk  every  morning  for  the  sak< 
of  the  single  kiss  which  was  the  common  salutation  o 
French  acquaintance. — Rousseau's  description  of  his 
leelings  on  this  occasion  may  be  considered  as  the  mos 
passionate,  yet  not  impure  description  and  expression 
of  love  that  ever  kindled  into  words ;  which  after  ai 
must  be  felt,  from  their  very  force,  to  be  inadequate 
to  the  delineation:  a  painting  can  give  no  sufficien 
idea  of  the  ocean. 

Note  20.  Stanza  xci. 
Of  earth  o'er-gazing  mountains. 
It  is  tc  be  recollected,  that  the  most  beautiful  an 
impressive  doctrines  of  the  divine  Founder  of  Chris 
tianity  were  delivered,  not  in   the  Temple,   but  on  th 
Mount. 


eloquence,  the  most  effectual  and  splendid  specimen* 
were  nof.  pronounced  within  walls.     Demosthenes  ad- 
dressed the  publick  and  popular  assemblies.     Cicero 
spoke  in  the  forum.     That  this  added  to  their  effect  01 
the  mind  of  both  orator  and  hearers,  may  be  conceive! 
from  the  difference  between  what  we  read  of  the  emo- 
tions then  and  there  produced,  and  those  we  ourselves 
experience  in  the  perusal  in  the  closet.     It  is  one  thing 
to  read  the  Iliad  at  Sigseum  and  on  the  tumuli,  or  by 
the  springs  with  mount  Ida  above,  and  the  plain  anc1 
rivers  and  Archipelago  around  you  ;  and  another  to  trim 
your  taper  over  it  in  a  snug  library — this  I  know. 
Were  the  early  and  rapid  progress  of  what  is  called 
lethodism  to  be  attributed  to  any  cause  beyond  the 
nthusiasm  excited  by  its  vehement  faith  and  doctrines 
the  truth  or  error  of  which  I  presume  neither  to  canvass 
or  to  question),  I  should  venture  to  ascribe  it  to  the 
ractice  of  preaching  in  the  Jields,  and  the  unstudied 
nd  extemporaneous  effusions  of  its  teachers. 

The  Mussulmans,  whose  erroneous  devotion  (at  least 
n  the  lower  orders)  is  most  sincere,  and  therefore  im 
iressive,  are  accustomed  to  repeat  their  prescribed 
risons  and  prayers  wherever  they  may  be  at  the  stated 
tours — of  course  frequently  in  the  open  air,  kneeling 
pon  a  light  mat  (which  they  carry  for  the  purpose  ol 
a  bed  or  cushion  as  required) ;  the  ceremony  lasts  sonrs 
minutes,  during  which  they  are  totally  absorbed,  am: 
mly  living  in  their  supplication ;  nothing  can  distur': 
hem.  On  me  the  simple  and  entire  sincerity  of  these 
men,  and  the  spirit  which  appeared  to  be  within  and 
upon  them,  made  a  far  greater  impression  than  any 
general  rite  Much  was  ever  performed  in  places  of 
worship,  of  which  I  have  seen  those  of  almost  every 
jersuasion  under  the  sun ;  including  most  of  our  own 
sectaries,  and  the  Greek,  the  Catholic,  the  Armerow, 
.he  Lutheran,  the  Jewish,  and  the  Mahometan.  Muny 
of  the  negroes,  of  whom  there  are  numbers  in  the 
Turkiui  empire,  are  idolaters,  and  have  free  exercise  of 
heir  belief  and  its  rites :  some  of  these  I  had  a  distant 
view  of  at  Patras,  and  from  what  I  could  make  out  oJ 
them,  they  appeared  to  be  of  a  truly  Pagan  descr.p- 
tion,  and  not  very  agreeable  to  a  spectator. 

Note  21.  Stanza  xcii. 

The  sky  is  changed  ! — and  such  a  change !  Oh  nigli 
The  thunder-storms  to  which  these  lines  refei  oo 
curred  on  the  13th  of  June,  1816,  at  midnight.     I  have 
seen  among  the  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  Chimap 
several  more  terrible,  but  none  more  beautifuL 

Note  22.  Stanza  xclr. 
And  sunset  into  rose-hues  §ees  them  wrought 
Rousseau's  Helo'ise,  Letter  17,  part  4,  note. — "Cea 
montagnes  sont  si  hautes,  qu'une  demi-heure  apres  le 
soleil  couche,  leurs  sommets  sont  encore  eclaires  de  sea 
rayons  ;  dont  le  rouge  forme  sur  ces  cimes  blanches 
ime  belle  couleur  de  rose  qu'on  apercoit  de  fort  loin." 
This  applies  more  particularly  to  the  heights   over 
Meillerie. 

"  J'allai  b  Vevay  loger  a  la  Clef,  et  pendant  deux  jo>jr« 
que  j'y  re&tai  sans  voir  personne,  je  pris  pour  cetta 
vilie  un  amour  qui  m'a  suivi  dans  tous  mes  voyages, 
et  qui  m'y  a  fait  etablir  enfin  les  heros  de  mon  roman. 
Je  dirois  volontiers  a  ceux  qui  ont  du  gout  et  qui  sonl 
sensibles :  Allez  k  Vevay— visitez  le  piys,  examine'  .e« 


sites,  promenez-vous  sur  te  lac,  et  dites  si  la  nature 

'£*„'  waive  the  question  of  devotion,  and  turn  fc>  human  I  n'a  pas  fait  ce  beau  pays  pour  une  Julie,  po.ir  un« 
N  19 


106 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Claire  et  pour  iin  Saint-Prcux ;  mais  ne  les  y  chcrchez 
pas."  Les  Confessions,  Uvre  iv.  page  306.  Lyon, 
1796. 

In  July,  1816,  I  made  a  voyage  round  the  lake  of 
Geneva ;  and  as  far  as  my  own  observations  have  led 
me  in  a  not  uninterested  nor  inattentive  survey  of  all 
liic  scenes  most  celebrated  by  Rousseau  in  his  "  He- 
Joise,"  I  can  safely  say,  that  in  this  there  is  no  exagge- 
ration. It  would  be  difficult  to  see  Clarens  (with  the 
scenes  around  it,  Vevay,  Chillon,  Boveret,  St,  Gingo, 
Meillerie,  Evian,  and  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone),  with- 
out being  forcibly  struck  with  its  peculiar  adaptation 
to  the  persons  and  events  with  which  it  has  been  peo- 
pled. But  this  is  not  all ;  the  feeling  with  which  all 
around  Clarens,  and  the  opposite  rocks  of  Meillerie,  is 
invested,  is  of  a  still  higher  and  more  comprehensive 
order  than  the  mere  sympathy  with  individual  passion ; 
it  is  a  sense  of  the  existence  of  love  in  its  most  extended 
and  sublime  capacity,  and  of  our  own  participation  of 
its  good  and  of  its  glory :  it  is  the  great  principle  of  the 
universe,  which  is  there  more  condensed,  but  not  less 
manifested ;  and  of  which,  though  knowing  ourselves  a 
part,  we  lose  our  individuality,  and  mingle  in  the  beauty 
of  the  whole. 

If  Rousseau  had  never  written,  nor  lived,  the  same 
associations  would  not  less  have  belonged  to  such 
scenes.  He  has  added  to  the  interest  of  his  works  by 
their  adoption  ;  he  has  shown  his  sense  of  their  beauty 
by  the  selection;  but  they  have  done  that  for  him 
which  no  human  being  could  do  for  them. 

I  had  the  fortune  (good  or  evil  as  it  might  be)  to  sail 
from  Meillerie  (where  we  landed  for  some  time)  to  St. 
Gingo  during  a  lake-storm,  which  added  to  the  magni- 
liccnre  of  all  around,  although  occasionally  accompa- 
nied bj-  danger  to  the  boat,  which  was  small  and  over- 
loaded. It  was  over  this  very  part  of  the  lake  that 
Rousseau  has  driven  the  boat  of  St.  Preux  and  Madame 
\Volmar  to  Meillerie  for  shelter  during  a  tempest. 

On  gaining  the  shore  at  St.  Gingo,  I  found  that  the 
wind  had  been  sufficiently  strong  to  blow  down  some 
fine  old  chesnut  trees  on  the  lower  part  of  the  moun- 
tains. On  the  opposite  height  is  a  seat  called  the  Cha- 
teau de  Clarens.  The  hills  are  covered  with  vineyards, 
and  interspersed  with  some  small  but  beautiful  woods  ; 
one  of  these  was  named  the  "  Bosquet  de  Julie,"  and  it 
is  'emarkable  that,  though  long  ago  cut  down  by  the 
brutal  selfishness  of  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard  (to  whom 
the  land  appertained),  that  the  ground  might  be  in- 
closed into  a  vineyard  for  the  miserable  drones  of  an 
execrable  superstition,  the  inhabitants  of  Clarens  still 
point  out  the  spot  where  its  trees  stood,  calling  it  by 
the  name  which  consecrated  and  survived  them. 

Rousseau  has  not  been  particularly  fortunate  in  the 
preservation  of  the  "local'habitations"  he  has  given  to 
"  airy  nothings."  The  Prior  of  Great  St.  Bernard  has 
cui  down  some  of  his  woods  for  the  sake  of  a  few 
casks  of  wine,  and  Buonaparte  has  levelled  part  of  the 
rocks  of  Meillerie  in  improving  the  road  to  the  Simplon. 
Tl^e  road  is  an  excellent  one,  but  I  cannot  quite  agree 
with  a  remarK  which  I  heard  made,  that  "  La  route 
»»ut  mieux  que  les  souvenirs." 

Note  23.  Stanza  cv. 

Lausanne  and  Ferney  '.  ye  have  been  the  abodes. 
foHaae  and  Gibbon. 


Note  24.  Stanza  cxiii. 
Had  I  not  filed  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

"  if  it  be  thus, 

For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  filed  my  miiul." 
Macbeth. 

Note  25.  Stanza  cxiv. 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve, 
It  is  said  by  Rochefoucault  that  "there  is  altcayt 
something  in  the  misfortunes  of  men's  best  friends  not 
displeasing  to  them." 


CANTO  IV. 


Note  1.  Stanza  i. 

I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand. 

THE  communication  between  the  Ducal  palace  and  the 
prisons  of  Venice  is  by  a  gloomy  bridge,  or  covered  gal- 
lery, high  above  the  water,  and  divided  by  a  stone  wall 
into  a  passage  and  a  cell.  The  state  dungeons,  called 
"  pozzi,"  or  wells,  were  sunk  in  the  thick  walls  of  the 

lace ;  and  the  prisoner  when  taken  out  to  die  was 
conducted  across  the  gallery  to  the  other  side,  and  being 
then  led  back  into  the  other  compartment,  or  cell,  upon 
the  bridge,  was  there  strangled.  The  low  portal  through 
which  the  criminal  was  taken  into  this  cell  is  now  walled 
up  ;  but  the  passage  is  still  open,  and  is  still  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  The  pozzi  are  under 
the  flooring  of  the  chamber  at  the  foot  of  the  bridge. 
They  were  formerly  twelve,  but  on  the  first  arrival  of  lh» 
French,  the  Venetians  hastily  blocked  or  broke  up  th« 
deeper  of  these  dungeons.  You  may  still,  however,  de- 
scend by  a  trap-door,  and  crawl  down  through  holes, 
half  choked  by  rubbish,  to  the  depth  of  two  storeys 
below  the  first  range.  If  you  are  in  want  of  consolation 
for  the  extinction  of  patrician  power,  perhaps  you  may 
find  it  there  ;  scarcely  a  ray  of  light  glimmers  into  the 
narrow  gallery  which  leads  to  the  cells,  and  the  places  of 
confinement  themselves  are  totally  dark.  A  small  hole 
in  the  wall  admitted  the  damp  air  of  the  passages,  and 
served  for  the  introduction  of  the  prisoner's  food.  A 
wooden  pallet,  raised  a  foot  from  the  ground,  was  ihe 
only  furniture.  The  conductors  tell  you  that  a  light 
was  not  allowed.  The  cells  are  about  five  paces  in  length, 
two  and  a  half  in  width,  and  seven  feet  in  height.  They 
are  directly  beneath  one  another,  and  respiration  is 
somewhat  difficult  in  the  lower  holes.  Only  one  prisoner 
was  found  when  the  republicans  descended  into  these 
hideous  recesses,  and  he  is  said  to  have  been  confined 
sixteen  years.  But  the  inmates  of  the  dungeons  beneath 
had  left  traces  of  their  repentance,  or  of  their  despair, 
which  are  still  visible,  and  may  perhaps  owe  something 
to  recent  ingenuity.  Some  of  the  detained  appear  to 
have  offended  against,  and  others  to  have  belonged  to, 
the  sacred  body,  not  only  from  their  signatures,  but  from 
the  churches  and  belfries  which  they  have  scratched 
upon  the  walls.  The  reader  may  not  object  to  see  a  spe- 
cimen of  the  records  prompted  by  so  terrific  a  solitude. 
As  nearly  as  they  could  be  copied  by  more  than  one 
pencil,  three  of  them  are  as  follows : 

1. 

NON  TI  FIDAR  AD  ALCUNO,  HSNSA  c  TACI 
SE  FUGIR  VUOi  DI  SP10N1  INSID1E  e  LACC' 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


.07 


It  PENTIRTI  PENTIRTI  NULLA  GIOVA 
MA  BEN  DI  VALOR  TUO  LA  VERA  PROVA 

1607.  ADI  2.  GENARO.  FUI  RE- 
TENTO  P'  LA  BESTIEMMA  P'  AVER  DATO 
DA  MANZAR  A  UN  MORTO 

IACOMO.  GR1TTI.  SCRISSE. 

2. 

UN  PARLAR  POCO  et 
NEGARE  PRONTO  et 

UN  PENSAR  AL  FINE  PUO  DARE  LA  VITA 
A  NOI  ALTRI  MESCHIM 

1605. 

EGO  IOHN  BAPTIST  A  AD 
ECCLESIAM  CORTELLARIUS. 

3. 

DI  CHI  MI  FIDO  GUARDAMI  DIG 
DI  CHI  NON  MI  FIDO  MI  GUARDERO  IO 

V*.       LA    STA.     CH.    RA.    R!»A. 

The  copyist  has  followed,  not  corrected,  the  solecisms; 
some  of  which  are  however  not  quite  so  decided,  since  the 
letters  were  evidently  scratched  in  the  dark.  It  only 
need  be  observed,  that  Bestemmia  and  Mangiar  may 
be  read  in  the  first  inscription,  which  was  probably 
written  by  a  prisoner  confined  for  some  act  of  impiety 
committed  at  a  funeral :  the  Cortellarius  is  the  name  of 
a  parish  on  terra  firma,  near  the  sea :  and  that  the  last 
initials  evidently  are  put  for  Viva  la  Santa  Chiesa 
Kattolica  Romano. 

Note  2.  Stanza  ii. 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean. 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers. 

An  old  writer,  describing  the  appearance  of  Venice, 
has  made  use  of  the  above  image,  which  would  not  be 
poetical  were  it  not  true. 

"Quo  Jit  ut  qui  superne  urbem  contemplelur,  turritam 
Ulluris  imaginem  media  oceano  Jiguratam  se  putet  in- 
spicere."  ' 

Note  3.  Stanza  iii. 
In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more. 

The  well-known  song  of  the  gondoliers,  of  alternate 
stanzas,  from  Tasso's  Jerusalem,  has  died  with  the  inde- 
pendence of  Venice.  Editions  of  the  poem,  with  the 
original  on  one  column,  and  the  Venetian  variations  on 
the  other,  as  sung  by  the  boatmen,  were  once  common, 
and  are  still  to  be  found.  The  following  extract  will  serve 
to  show  (he  difference  between  the  Tuscan  epic  and  the 
"Canta  alia  Barcariola." 

Original. 
Canto  V  armi  pietose,  e'l  capitano 

Che  M  gran  sepolcro  libero  di  Cristo. 
Molto  eg  Ii  oprb  col  senno,  e  con  la  mano 

Molto  Boffri  n«l  glorioso  acquisto ; 
E  in  van  I"  Inferno  a  lui  a'  oppose,  e  in  vano 

S'  armb  d'  Asia,  c  di  Libia  il  popol  misto, 
Che  il  Ciel  gli  die  favore,  e  sotto  a  i  santi 
Segni  ridusse  i  suoi  compagni  erranti. 

Venetian. 
L'  arme  pietose  de  cantar  gho  vogia, 

E  de  Gnffredo  la  immortal  braura, 
Che  nl  fin  1'  ha  libera  co  strassia.  e  dogia 

Del  nostro  buon  Gesii  la  sepoltura ; 
De  mezo  mondo  unito,  e  de  quel  Bogia 

Missier  Plii'on  no  I'  ha  bu  mai  paura; 
Dio  1'  ha  agmt.1,  e  i  compagni  sparpagnai 
Tutii  '1  gh'  i  ha  messi  insicme  i  di  del  Dai. 


1  Mai  :i  Antonii  S?al>n!li,  de  Venetse  Urbis  situ,  narratio,  edit 
T»urin.  1527  lib.  1.  fol.  'JOi 


Some  of  the  elder  gondoliers  will,  however,  take  up 
and  continue  a  stanza  of  their  once  familiar  bare? 

On  the  7th  of  last  January,  the  author  of  Child" 
Sarold,  and  another  Englishman,  the  writer  of  tm» 
notice,  rowed^o  the  Lido  with  two  singers,  one  of  \\  hor.i 
was  a  carpenter,  and  the  other  a  gondolier.  The  former 
ilaced  himself  at  the  prow,  the  latter  at  the  stern  of  the 
)oat.  A  little  after  leaving  the  quay  of  the  Piazetta,  they 
jegan  to  sing,  and  continued  their  exercise  until  we 
arrived  at  the  island.  They  gave  us,  amongst  other 
issays,  the  death  of  Clorinda,  and  the  palace  of  Armida; 
and  did  not  sing  the  Venetian,  but  the  Tuscan  verses. 
The  carpenter,  however,  who  was  the  cleverer  of  the  two. 
and  was  frequently  obliged  to  prompt  his  companion, 
told  us  that  he  could  translate  the  original.  He  added, 
that  he  could  sing  almost  three  hundred  stanzas,  but  har 
not  spirits  (morbin  was  the  word  he  used),  to  learn  anj 
more,  or  to  sing  what  he  already  knew :  a  man  mus 
lave  idle  time  on  his  hands  to  acquire,  or  to  repeat,  and 
said  the  poor  fellow,  "look  at  my  clothes  and  at  me, 
am  starving."  This  speech  was  more  affecting  than  his 
performance,  which  habit  alone  can  make  attractive. 
The  recitative  was  shrill,  screaming,  and  monotonous, 
and  the  gondolier  behind  assisted  his  voice  by  holding 
lis  hand  to  one  side  of  his  mouth.  The  carpenter  used  a 
quiet  action,  which  he  evidently  endeavoured  to  restrain, 
but  was  too  much  interested  in  his  subject  altogether  to 
repress.  From  these  men  WP.  iearnt  that  singing  is  not 
confined  to  the  gondoliers,  and  that,  although  the  chaunt 
is  seldom,  if  ever,  voluntary,  there  are  still  several  amongst 
the  lower  classes  who  are  acquainted  with  a  few  stanzas. 

It  does  not  appear  that  it  is  usual  for  the  performers  to 
row  and  sing  at  the  same  time.  Although  the  verses  of 
the  Jerusalem  are  no  longer  casually  heard,  there  is  yet 
much  music  upon  the  Venetian  canals  ;  and  upon  holi- 
days, those  strangers  who  are  not  near  or  informed 
enough  to  distinguish  the  words,  may  fane)  that  many  of 
the  gondolas  still  resound  with  the  strains  of  Tasso.  The 
writer  of  some  remarks  which  appeared  in  the  Curiosities 
of  Literature  must  excuse  his  being  twice  quoted  ;  for, 
with  the  exception  of  some  phrases  a  little  too  ambitious 
and  extravagant,  he  has  furnisned  a  very  exact,  as  well 
as  agreeable,  description. 

"  In  Venice  the  gondoliers  know  by  heart  long  pas- 
sages from  Ariosto  and  Tasso,  and  often  chaunt  them  with 
a  peculiar  melody.  But  this  talent  seems  at  present  on 
the  decline : — at  least,  after  taking  some  pains,  I  could 
find  no  more  than  two  persons  who  delivered  to  me  in 
this  way  a  passage  from  Tasso.  I  must  add,  that  the  late 
Mr.  Berry  once  chaunted  to  me  a  passage  in  Tasso  in  the 
manner,  as  he  assured  me,  of  the  gondoliers. 

"  There  are  always  two  concerned,  who  alternately 
sing  the  strophes.  We  know  the  melody  eventually  by 
Rousseau,  to  whose  songs  it  is  printed ;  it  has  properly  no 
melodious  movement;  and  is  a  sort  of  medium  between 
the  canto  fermo  and  the  canto  figurato ;  it  approaches  to 
the  former  by  recitativical  declamation,  and  to  the  lattei 
by  passages  and  course,  by  which  one  syllable  is  detained 
and  embellished. 

"  I  entered  a  gondola  by  moonlight ;  one  singer  placed 
himself  forwards,  and  the  other  aft,  and  thus  proceeded 
to  St.  Georgio.  One  began  the  song :  when  he  had  ena&l 
his  strophe,  the  other  took  up  the  lay,  and  so  continued 
the  song  alternately.  Throughout  the  whole  of  it,  Inn 
same  notes  invariably  returned,  but,  according  to  ai» 


(08 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


subject  matter  of  the  strophe,  they  laid  a  greater  or  a 
xmaller  stiriss,  sometimes  on  one,  and  sometimes  on 
another  note,  and  indeed  changed  the  enunciation  of  the 
whole  s'rophe  as  the  object  of  the  poem  altered. 

"  On  the  whole,  however,  the  sounds  w^  hoarse  and 
screaming :  they  seemed,  in  the  manner  of  all  rude  un- 
civilized men,  to  make  the  excellency  of  their  singing  in 
the  force  of  their  voice :  one  seemed  desirous  of  conquer- 
ing the  other  by  the  strength  of  his  lungs ;  and  so  far 
from  receiving  delight  from  this  scene  (shut  up  as  I  was 
in  the  box  of  the  gondola),  I  found  myself  in  a  very  un- 
pleasant situation. 

"  My  companion,  to  whom  I  communicated  this  cir- 
cumstance, being  very  desirous  to  keep  up  the  credit  of 
his  countrymen,  assured  me  that  this  singing  was  very 
delightful  when  heard  at  a  distance.  Accordingly  we 
got  out  upon  the  shore,  leaving  one  of  the  singers  in  the 
gondola,  while  the  other  went  to  the  distance  of  some 
hundred  paces.  They  now  began  to  sing  against  one 
another,  and  I  kept  walking  up  and  down  between  them 
both,  so  as  always  to  leave  him  who  was  to  begin  his  part. 
I  frequently  stood  still  and  hearkened  to  the  one  and  to 
the  other. 

"  Here  the  scene  was  properly  introduced.  The  strong 
declamatory,  and,  as  it  were,  shrieking  sound,  met  the 
ear  from  far,  and  called  forth  the  attention  ;  the  quickly- 
succeeding  transitions,  which  necessarily  required  to  be 
sung  in  a  lower  tone,  seemed  like  plaintive  strains  suc- 
ceeding the  vociferation  of  emotion  or  of  pain.  The 
other,  who  listened  attentively,  immediately  began  where 
the  former  left  off",  answering  him  in  milder  or  more 
vehement  notes,  according  as  the  purport  of  the  strophe 
required.  The  sleepy  canals,  the  lofty  buildings,  the 
•plendour  of  the  moon,  the  deep  shadows  of  the  few 
gondolas,  that  moved  like  spirits  hither  and  thither,  in- 
creased the  striking  peculiarity  of  the  scene ;  and,  amidst 
all  these  circumstances,  it  was  easy  to  confess  the  char- 
acter of  this  wonderful  harmony. 

"  It  suits  perfectly  well  with  an  idle  solitary  mariner, 
lying  at  length  in  his  vessel  at  rest  on  one  of  these  canals, 
waiting  for  his  company,  or  for  a  fare,  the  tiresomeness 
of  which  situation  is  somewhat  alleviated  by  the  songs 
and  poetical  stories  he  has  in  memory.  He  often  raises 
his  voice  as  loud  as  he  can,  which  extends  itself  to  a  vast 
distance  over  the  tranquil  mirror,  and  as  all  is  still  around, 
he  is,  as  it  were,  in  a  solitude  in  the  midst  of  a  large  and 
populous  town.  Here  is  no  rattling  of  carriages,  no  noise 
of  foot  passengers :  a  silent  gondola  glides  now  and  then 
by  him,  of  which  the  splashing  of  the  oars  is  scarcely 
to  be  heard. 

"At  a  distance  he  hears  another,  perhaps  utterly  un- 
known to  him.  Melody  and  verse  immediately  attach 
the  two  strangers ;  be  becomes  the  responsive  echo  to  the 
former,  and  exerts  himself  to  be  heard  as  he  had  heard 
the  other.  By  a  tacit  convention  they  alternate  verse  for 
verse ;  though  the  song  should  last  the  whole  night 
through,  Uiey  entertain  themselves  without  fatigue ;  the 
hearers,  who  ure  passing  between  the  two,  take  part  in 
Se  amusement. 

"  This  vocal  performance  sounds  best  at  a  great  dis- 
tance, and  is  then  inexpressibly  charming,  as  it  only 
fulfils  its  des.gn  in  the  sentiment  of  remoteness.  It  is 
plaintive,  but.  not  dismal  in  its  sound,  and  at  times  it  is 
warceiv  rw>ssible  to  refrain  from  tears.  My  companion, 
woo  otherwise  was  not  a  very  delicately  organized  person, 


said  quite  unexpectedly :  '  e  singolare  come  quel  canii 
intenerisce,  e  molto  piu  quando  lo  cantano  meglio.' 

"I  was  told  that  the  women  of  Libo,  the  long  ro\« 
of  islands  that  divides  the  Adriatic  from  the  Lagouns, ' 
particularly  the  women  of  the  extreme  districts  of  Ma!a- 
mocca  and  Palestnna,  sing  in  like  manner  the  works  of 
Tasso  to  these  and  similar  tunes. 

"  They  have  the  custom,  when  their  husbands  are 
fishing  out  at  sea,  to  sit  along  the  shore  in  the  evenings 
and  vociferate  these  songs,  and  continue  to  do  so  with 
great  violence,  till  each  of  them  can  distinguish  the 
responses  of  her  own  husband  at  a  distance."  2 

The  love  of  music  and  of  poetry  distinguishes  all  classes 
of  Venetians,  even  amongst  the  tuneful  sons  of  Italy. 
The  city  itself  can  occasionally  furnish  respectable  au- 
diences for  two  and  even  three  opera-houses  at  a  time ; 
and  there  are  few  events  in  private  life  that  do  not  call 
forth  a  printed  and  circulated  sonnet.  Does  a  physician 
or  a  lawyer  take  his  degree,  or  a  clergyman  preach  his 
maiden  sermon,  has  a  surgeon  performed  an  operation, 
would  a  harlequin  announce  his  departure  or  his  benefit, 
are  you  to  be  congratulated  on  a  marriage,  or  a  birth,  or  a 
law-suit,  the  Muses  are  invoked  to  furnish  the  same  num- 
ber of  syllables,  and  the  individual  triumphs  blaze  abroad 
in  virgin  white  or  party-coloured  placards  on  half  the  cor- 
ners of  the  capital.  The  last  curtsy  of  a  favourite  "  prima 
donna"  brings  down  a  shower  of  these  poetical  tributes 
from  those  upper  regions,  from  which,  in  our  theatres, 
nothing  but  cupids  and  snow-storms  are  accustomed  to 
descend.  There  is  a  poetry  in  the  very  life  of  a  Venetian, 
which,  in  its  common  course,  is  varied  with  those  surprises 
and  changes  so  recommendable  in  fiction,  but  so  different 
from  the  sober  monotony  of  northern  existence  ;  amuse- 
ments are  raised  into  duties,  duties  are  softened  into 
amusements,  and  every  object  being  considered  as  equal- 
ly making  a  part  of  the  business  of  life,  is  announced  and 
performed  with  the  same  earnest  indifference  and  gay 
assiduity.  The  Venetian  gazette  constantly  closes  iu 
columns  with  the  following  triple  advertisement : 
Charade. 


Exposition  of  the  most  Holy  Sacrament  in  the  church  of  St.  • 


Theatres. 
St.  Moses,  opera. 

St.  Benedict,  a  comedy  of  characters. 
St.  Luke,  repose. 

When  it  is  recollected  what  the  Catholics  believe  then 
consecrated  wafer  to  be,  we  may  perhaps  think  it  worth> 
of  a  more  respectable  niche  than  between  poetry  and  the 
playhouse. 

Note  4.  Stanza  x. 

Sparta  hnth  many  a  worthier  eon  than  he. 
The  answer  of  the  mother  of  Brasidas  to  the  strangers 
who  praised  the  memory  of  her  son. 

Note  5.  Stanza  ft.  • 

ft.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  wliere  he  stood 
Stand.— 

The  lion  has  lost  nothing  by  his  journey  to  the  In  • 
valides,  but  the  gospel  which  supported  the  paw  that  '» 
now  on  a  level  with  the  other  foot.  The  horses,  »_sa, 
are  returned  to  the  ill-chosen  spot  whence  they  set  ou, 
and  are,  as  before,  half  hidden  under  me  porcn  window 
of  St.  Mark's  church. 


1  Tho  writer  meant  I  Ado,  which  is  not  a  long  row  of  is;a,.as, 
but  a  long  island — littua,  the  shore. 

2  Curiosities  of  Literature,  vol.  ii.  p.  156  sdit.  1807 ;  and 
Appendix  xxbc.  to  Black't  Life  of  Tasso. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Their  history,  after  a  dv.-pcrate  struggle,  has  been 
»atisfactorily  explored.  The  decisions  and  doubts  of 
Erizzo  and  Zanetti,  and  lastly,  of  the  Count  Leopold 
Cicognara,  would  have  given  them  a  Roman  extraction, 
and  a  pedigree  not  more  ancient  than  the  reign  of  Nero. 
But  M.  de  Schlegel  stepped  in  to  teach  the  Venetians 
the  value  of  their  own  treasures,  and  a  Greek  vindicated, 
at  last  and  for  ever,  the  pretension  of  his  countrymen 
to  this  noble  production.1  Mr.  Mustoxidi  has  not  been 
left  without  a  reply ;  but,  as  yet,  he  has  received  no 
answer.  It  should  seem  that  the  horses  are  irrevocably 
Chian,  and  were  transferred  to  Constantinople  by  The- 
sdosius.  Lapidary  writing  is  a  favourite  play  of  the 
Italians,  and  has  conferred  reputation  on  more  than 
t  ne  of  their  literary  characters.  One  of  the  best  speci- 
Jiens  of  Bodoni's  typography  is  a  respectable  volume 
of  inscriptions,  all  written  by  his  friend  Pacciaudi. 
Several  were  prepared  for  the  recovered  horses.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  the  best  was  not  selected,  when  the 
following  words  were  ranged  in  gold  letters  above  the 
cathedral  porch : 

QCATUOR  .  EQUORCM  .  SIGNA  .  A  .  VENETIS  .  BY- 
ZANTIO  .  CAPTA  .  AD  .  TEMP  .  D  .  MAR  .  A  .  R  .  8  . 
MCC1V  .  POSITA  .  QUJE  .  HOSTILIS  .  CUPIDITAB  .  A  . 
MDCCCIII  .  ABSTULERAT  .  FRANC  .  I  .  IMP  .  PACIS  . 
ORBI  .  SATS  .  TROPH.KUM  .  A  .  MDCCCXV  .  VICTOR  . 
REDUXIT. 

Nothing  shall  be  said  of  the  Latin,  but  it  may  be  per- 
mitted to  observe,  that  the  injustice  of  the  Venetians  in 
transporting  the  horses  from  Constantinople  was  at 
least  equal  to  that  of  the  French  in  carrying  them  to 
Paris,  and  that  it  would  have  been  more  prudent  to  have 
avoided  all  allusions  to  either  robbery.  An  apostolic 
prince  should,  perhaps,  have  objected  to  affixing,  over 
the  principal  entrance  of  a  metropolitan  church,  an  in- 
scription having  a  reference  to  any  other  triumphs  than 
those  of  religion.  Nothing  less  than  the  pacification 
of  the  world  can  excuse  such  a  solecism. 

Note  6.  Stanza  xii. 

The  Suabiao  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  rnipns — 
An  emperor  tramples  where  an  emperor  knelt. 

After  many  vain  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  Italians, 
entirely  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  Frederic  Barbarossa, 
and  as  fruitless  attempts  of  the  emperor  to  make  him- 
self absolute  master  throughout  the  whole  of  his  Cisal- 
pine dominions,  the  bloody  struggles  of  four-and-twenty 
years  were  happily  brought  to  a  close  in  the  city  of  Ven- 
ice. The  articles  of  a  treaty  had  been  previously 
agreed  upon  between  Pope  Alexander  III.  and  Barba- 
rossa, and  the  former,  having  received  a  safe-conduct, 
had  already  arrived  at  Venice  from  Ferrara,  in  com- 
pany with  the  ambassadors  of  the  king  of  Sicily  and  the 
consuls  of  the  Lombard  league.  There  still  remained, 
•lowever,  many  points  to  adjust,  and  for  several  days 
the  peace  was  believed  to  be  impracticable.  At  this 
Juncture  it  was  suddenly  reported  that  the  emperor 
had  arrived  at  Chioza,  a  town  fifteen  miles  from  the 
capital.  The  Venetians  rose  tumultuously,  and  insisted 
upon  immediately  conducting  him  to  the  city.  The 
Lombards  took  the  alarm,  and  departed  towards  Tre- 
viso.  The  Pope  himself  was  apprehensive  of  some  dis- 
aster if  Frederic  should  suddenly  advance  upon  him, 
DUI  was  re-assured  by  the  prudence  and  address  of 


1  Sui  qnattro  caval.i  del'a  Basilica  Hi  S.  Marco  in  Venezia. 
Lettcra  di  Andrea  Mustoxidi  Corcirese.    Padovn  per  Bettoni 
comoagni,  L81& 


Sebastian  Ziani,  the  Doge.  Se\eral  embassies  passe/* 
between  Chioza  and  the  capital,  until,  at  last,  the  emporov 
relaxing  somewhat  of  his  pretensions,  "laid  aside  hi 
leonine  ferocity,  and  put  on  the  mildness  of  the  lamb." " 
On  Saturday  the  23d  of  July,  in  the  year  1177,  sa. 
Venetian  galleys  transferred  Frederic,  in  great  pomp 
from  Chioza  to  the  island  of  Lido,  a  mile  from  Venice. 
Early  the  next  morning,  the  Pope,  accompanied  by  the 
Sicilian  ambassadors,  and  by  the  envoys  of  Lombardy 
whom  he  had  recalled  from  the  main  land,  togethei 
with  a  great  concourse  of  people,  repaired  from  the 
patriarchal  palace  to  Saint  Mark's  church,  and  solemnly 
absolved  the  emperor  and  his  partisans  from  the  ex- 
communication pronounced  against  him.  The  chan- 
cellor of  the  empire,  on  the  part  of  his  master,  re- 
nounced the  anti-popes  and  their  schismatic  adherents. 
Immediately  the  doge,  with  a  great  suite  both  of  tht 
clergy  and  laity,  got  on  board  the  galleys,  and  waiting 
on  Frederic,  rowed  him  in  mighty  state  from  the  Lido 
to  the  capital.  The  emperor  descended  from  the  galley 
at  the  quay  of  the  Piazetta.  The  doge,  the  patriarch, 
his  bishops  and  clergy,  and  the  people  of  Venice,  with 
their  crosses  and  their  standards,  marched  in  solemn 
procession  before  him  to  the  church  of  Saint  Mark. 
Alexander  was  seated  before  the  vestibule  of  the  ba- 
silica, attended  by  his  bishops  and  cardinals,  by  the 
patriarch  of  Aquileja,  by  the  archbishops  and  bishops 
of  Lombardy,  all  of  them  in  state,  and  clothed  in  their 
church  robes.  Frederic  approached — "  moved  by  tho 
Holy  Spirit,  venerating  the  Almighty  in  the  person  of 
Alexander,  laying  aside  his  imperial  dignity,  and  throw- 
ing off  his  mantle,  he  prostrated  himself  at  full  length 
at  the  feet  of  the  Pope.  Alexander,  with  tears  in  his> 
eyes,  raised  him  benignantly  from  the  ground,  kissed 
him,  blessed  him ;  and  immediately  the  Germans  of  the 
train  sang,  with  a  loud  voice,  '  We  praise  thee,  O  Lord. 
The  emperor  then  taking  the  Pope  by  the  right  hand, 
led  him  to  the  church,  and,  having  received  his  bene- 
diction, returned  to  the  ducal  palace."  2  The  ceremony 
of  humiliation  was  repeated  the  next  day.  The  Pope 
himself,  at  the  request  of  Frederic,  said  mass  at  Saint 
Mark's.  The  emperor  again  laid  aside  his  imperial 
mantle,  and,  taking  a  wand  in  his  hand,  officiated  as 
verger,  driving  the  laity  from  the  choir,  and  preceding 
the  pontiff  to  the  altar.  Alexander,  after  reciting  tho 
gospel,  preached  to  the  people.  The  emperor  put  him- 
self close  to  the  pulpit  in  the  attitude  of  listening  ;  and 
the  pontiff,  touched  by  this  mark  of  his  attention,  for 
he  knew  that  Frederic  did  not  understand  a  word  ho 
said,  commanded  the  patriarch  of  Aquileja  to  translate 
the  Latin  discourse  into  the  German  tongue.  The  creed 
was  then  chaunted.,  Frederic  made  his  oblation,  and 
kissed  the  Pope's  feet,  and,  mass  being  over,  led  him  by 
the  hand  to  his  white  horse.  He  held  the  stirrup,  and 
would  have  held  the  horse's  rein  to  the  water  side,  had 
not  the  Pope  accepted  of  the  inclination  for  the  per- 
formance, and  affectionately  dismissed  him  with  his 
benediction.  Such  is  the  substance  of  the  account  'eft 
by  the  archbishop  of  Salerno,  who  was  present  at  ihe 
ceremony,  and  whose  story  is  confirmed  by  every  sub- 
sequent narration.  It  would  not  be  worth  to  minute 
a  record,  were  it  not  the  triumph  of  liberty  as  well  n§ 


1  "Qnibus  auditis,  imperator.  operanle  eo,  qui  corda  prin- 
cipum  iicut  vult  ct  quando  vult  humililer  mclinat,  lcon:nl 
teritate  deposits,  ovinam  mansuetudinem  induit."  RnmujidJ 
Snlernitam.  Chromcon.  apud Script.  Her.  Itai.  U»n.  VII.  p  *S> 

2  Ibid.  p.  23L 


BYRON  S  WORKS. 


of  superstition.  TV  states  of  Lombardy  owed  to  it  the 
confirmatiin  of  iheir  privileges;  and  Alexander  had 
reason  to  tiiank  the  Almighty,  who  had  enabled  an  in- 
firm, unarmed  old  man  to  subdue  a  terrible  and  potent 
sovereign.1 

Note  7.  Stanza  xii. 

Oh,  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo  ! 

Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  exclamation  of  the  high- 
lander,  Oh,  for  one  hour  of  Dundee!  Henry  Dandolo, 
when  elected  doge,  in  1192,  was  eighty-five  years  of  age. 
When  he  commanded  the  Venetians  at  the  taking  of 
Constantinople,  he  was  consequently  ninety-seven  years 
old.  At  this  age  he  annexed  the  fourth  and  a  half  of 
the  whole  empire  of  Romania, 2  for  so  the  Roman  em- 
pire was  then  called,  to  the  title  and  to  the  territories  of 
the  Venetian  Doge.  The  three-eighths  of  this  empire 
were  preserved  in  the  diplomas  until  the  dukedom  of 
Giovanni  Dolfino,  who  made  use  of  the  above  designa- 
tion in  the  year  1357.3 

Dandolo  led  the  attack  on  Constantinople  in  person  : 
two  ships,  the  Paradise  and  the  Pilgrim,  were  tied  to- 
gether, and  a  drawbridge  or  ladder  let  down  from  their 
higher  yards  to  the  walls.  The  doge  was  one  of  the  first 
to  rush  into  the  city.  Then  was  completed,  said  the 
Venetians,  the  prophecy  of  the  Erythraean  sybil.  "  A 
gathering  together  of  the  powerful  shall  be  made  amidst 
the  waves  of  the  Adriatic,  under  a  blind  leader :  they 
shall  beset  the  goat — they  shall  profane  Byzantium — 
they  shall  blacken  her  buildings — her  spoils  shall  be  dis- 
persed ;  a  new  goat  shall  bleat  until  they  have  measured 
out  and  run  over  fifty-four  feet,  nine  inches,  and  a  half."11 

Dandolo  died  on  the  first  day  of  June,  1205,  having 
reigned  thirteen  years,  six  months,  and  five  days,  and 
was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Sophia,  at  Constanti- 
nople. Strangely  enough  it  must  sound,  that  the  name 
of  the  rebel  apothecary  who  received  the  doge's  sword, 
and  annihilated  the  ancient  government  in  1796-7,  was 
Dandolo. 

Note  8.  Stanza  xiii. 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass  1 
Are  they  not  bridled  ? 

After  the  loss  of  the  battle  of  Pola,  and  the  taking  of 
Chioza  on  the  16th  of  August,  1379,  by  the  united 
armament  of  the  Genoese  and  Francesco  da  Carrara, 

1  See  the  above-cited  Romuald  of  Salerno.    In  a  second 
sermon  which  Alexander  preached,  on  the  first  day  of  Au- 
gust, before  the  e\.>peror,  he  compared  Frederic  to  the  prodigal 
son,  and  himself  to  the  forgiving  father. 

2  Mr.  Gibbon  has  omitted  the  important  «,  and  has  written 
Romani  instead  of  Romania: — Decline  and  Fall,  chap.  Ixi. 
note  9.    But  the  title  acquired  by  Dnndolo  runs  thus  in  the 
chronicle  of  his  namesake,  the  Doge  Andrew  Dandolo: — 
Duc.ali  titulo  addiilit,  "  Quartx  partis  et  dimidia*  totius  im- 
peril Romania."  And.  Dand.  Chronicon.  cap.  iii.  para  x.xxvii. 
ap.  Script.  Rer.  Ital.  torn.  xii.  page  3.11.    And  the  Romania) 
is  observed  in  the  subsequent  acts  of  the  doges.    Indeed  the 
continental  possessions  of  the  Greek  empire  in  Europe,  were 
then  generaUy  known  by  the  name  of  Romania,  and  that  ap- 
pellation is  still  seen  in  the  maps  of  Turkey  as  applied  to 
Thrace. 

3  See  the  continuation  of  Dandolo's  Chronicle,  ibid.  p.  498. 
Mr.  Gibbon  appears  not  to  include  Dolfino,  following  Sanudo, 
*ho  says,  "  il  gual  titnlo  si  uan  fin  al  Doge  Giovanni  Dol- 
fiao."    SPP  Vite  de'  Duchi  de  Venezia,  ap.  Script.  Rer.  Ital. 
•em.  xxii.  530.  641. 

•fr  "  Fiet  pntentinm  in  aquis  Adriaticis  congregatio,  caero 
pnediico,  Hircum  ainlngent,  Ryznntium  prophanabunt,  a>di- 
ficia  denigralumt;  spolia  disporgentur,  Hircus  novus  balabit 
u«que  dum  LIV.  pe<ie«  et  IX.  pollices  et  semis  praemensurati 
JuK-urui:'.."  Chrunicon.  ibid,  pan  zxxiv. 


Signor  of  Padua,  the  Venetians  were  reduced  to  the  in- 
most despair.  An  embassy  was  sent  to  the  conquerors 
with  a  blank  sheet  of  paper,  praying  :hem  to  prescribe 
what  terms  they  pleased,  and  leave  to  Venice  only  her 
independence.  The  Prince  of  Padua  was  inclined  to 
listen  to  these  proposals,  but  the  Genoese,  who,  aftei 
the  victory  at  Pola,  had  shouted,  "  to  Venice,  to  Ven- 
ice, and  long  live  St.  George,"  determined  to  annihilate 
their  rival,  and  Peter  Doria,  their  commander-in-chief, 
returned  this  answer  to  the  suppliants :  "  On  God's 
faith,  gentlemen  of  Venice,  ye  shall  have  no  peace  from 
the  Signor  of  Padua,  nor  from  our  commune  of  Genoa, 
until  we  have  first  put  a  rein  upon  those  unbridled  horses 
of  yours,  that  are  upon  the  porch  of  your  evangelist  St. 
Mark.  When  we  have  bridled  them,  we  shall  keep  you 
quiet.  And  this  is  the  pleasure  of  us  and  of  our  com- 
mune. As  for  these  my  brothers  of  Genoa,  that  you 
have  brought  with  you  U>  give  up  to  us,  I  will  not  have 
them  :  take  them  back  ;  for,  in  a  few  days  hence,  I 
shall  come  and  let  them  out  of  prison  myself,  both  these 
and  all  the  others."  '  In  fact,  the  Genoese  did  advance 
as  far  as  Malamocco,  within  five  miles  of  the  capital ; 
but  their  own  danger,  and  the  pride  of  their  enemies, 
gave  courage  to  the  Venetians,  who  made  prodigious 
efforts,  and  many  individual  sacrifices,  all  of  them  care- 
fully recorded  by  their  historians.  Vettor  Pisani  was 
put  at  the  head  of  thirty-four  galleys.  The  Genoese 
broke  up  from  Malamocco,  and  retired  to  Chioza  in 
October ;  but  they  again  threatened  Venice,  which  was 
reduced  to  extremities.  At  this  time,  the  1st  of  Janu- 
ary, 1380,  arrived  Carlo  Zeno,  who  had  been  cruising 
on  the  Genoese  coast  with  fourteen  galleys.  The 
Venetians  were  now  strong  enougli  to  besiege  the  Ge- 
noese. Doria  was  killed  on  the  22d  of  January  by  a 
stone  bullet  a  hundred  and  ninety-five  pounds  weight, 
discharged  from  a  bombard  called  the  Trevisan.  Chioza 
was  then  closely  invested  ;  five  thousand  auxiliaries 
amongst  whom  were  some  English  Condottieri,  com- 
manded by  one  Captain  Ceccho,  joined  the  Venetians. 
The  G  enoese,  in  their  turn,  prayed  for  conditions,  bul 
none  were  granted,  until,  at  last,  they  surrendered  al 
discretion ;  and,  on  the  24th  of  June,  1380,  the  Doge 
Contarini  made  his  triumphal  entry  into  Chioza.  Four 
thousand  prisoners,  nineteen  galleys,  many  smaller 
vessels  and  barks,  with  all  the  ammunition  and  arms, 
and  outfit  of  the  expedition,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
conquerors,  who,  had  it  not  been  for  the  inexorable 
answer  of  Doria,  would  have  gladly  reduced  their  do- 
minion to  the  city  of  Venice.  An  account  of  these 
transactions  is  found  in  a  work  called  the  War  of 
Chioza,  written  by  Daniel  Chinazzo,  who  was  in  Ven 
ice  at  the  time.2 

Note  9.  Stanza,  xiv. 
The  "  Planter  of  the  Lion." 
Plant  the  Lion — that  is,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  the 


1  "  Alia  fe  di  Dio,  Signori  Veneziani,  non  haverete  mai  pace 
dal  Signore  di  Padoua,  ne  dal  nostro  comune  di  Geneva,  se 
primieramente  non  mettemo  le  hriglie  a  quelli  vostri  cavallr 
sfrenati,  che  sono  su  la  Reza  del  Vostro  Evangelista  S.  Marco. 
Infrenati  che  gli  havremo,  vi  faremo  stare  in  buona  pace.    B 
questn  e  la  intenzione  nostrn,  e  del  nostro  comune.    Questi 
miei  fratelli  Genovesi,  che  havete  menati  con  voi  per  donarci 
non  li  voglio  ;  rimanetegli  in  dietro  perche  io  intendo  da  qui 
a  pochi  giorni  venirgli  a  riscuoter  dalle  vostre  prigioni  e  lora 
e  gli  allri." 

2  "Chronica  della  guerra  di  Chioza."  ttc.Scrip'  Rt«  111 
torn,  xv  p.  699  to  804. 


CHLLDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Ill 


standard  of  the  republic,  which  is  the  origin  of  the  word 
pantajoon — Pianta-ieone,  Pantaleone,  Pantaloon. 

Note  10.  Stanza  xv. 

Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals. 

The  population  of  Venice  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
century  amounted  to  nearly  two  hundred  thousand 
souls.  At  the  last  census,  taken  two  years  ago,  it  was 
no  more  than  about  one  hundred  and  three  thousand, 
and  it  diminishes  daily.  The  commerce  and  the  official 
employments,  which  were  to  be  the  unexhausted  source 
of  Venetian  grandeur,  have  both  expired.1  Most  of  th< 
patrician  mansions  are  deserted,  and  would  gradually 
disappear,  had  not  the  government,  alarmed  by  the  de- 
molition of  seventy-two,  during  the  last  two  years,  ex- 
pressly forbidden  this  sad  resource  of  poverty.  Many 
remnants  of  the  Venetian  nobility  are  now  scattered 
and  confounded  with  the  wealthier  Jews  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Brenta,  whose  palladian  palaces  have  sunk,  or 
are  sinking,  in  the  general  decay.  Of  the  "  gentil  uomo 
Veneto,"  the  name  is  still  known,  and  dial  is  all.  He 
is  but  the  shadow  of  his  former  self,  but  he  is  polite  and 
kind.  It  surely  may  be  pardoned  to  him  if  he  is  que- 
rulous. Whatever  may  have  been  the  vices  of  the  re- 
public, and  although  ths  natural  term  of  its  existence 
may  be  thought  by  foreigners  to  have  arrived  in  the  due 
course  of  mortality,  only  one  sentiment  can  be  expected 
from  the  Venetians  themselves.  At  no  time  were  the 
•ubjects  of  the  republic  so  unanimous  in  their  resolution 
to  rally  round  the  standard  of  St.  Mark,  as  when  it  was 
for  the  last  time  unfurled  ;.  and  the  cowardice  and  the 
tieachery  of  the  few  patricians  who  recommended  the 
fatal  neutrality,  were  confined  to  the  persons  of  the 
traitors  themselves. 

The  present  race  cannot  be  thought  to  regret  the 
loss  of  their  aristocratical  forms,  and  too  despotic  gov- 
ernment; they  think  only  on  their  vanished  indepen- 
dence. They  pine  away  at  the  remembrance,  and  on 
this  subject  suspend  for  a  moment  their  gay  good-hu- 
mour. Venice  may  be  said,  in  the  words  of  the  scrip- 
ture, "  to  die  daily ;"  and  so  general  and  so  apparent 
is  the  decline,  as  to  become  painful  to  a  stranger,  not 
reconciled  to  the  sight  of  a  whole  nation  expiring  as  it 
were,  before  his  eyes.  So  artificial  a  creation,  havin" 
lost  that  principle  which  called  it  into  life  and  sup- 
ported its  existence,  must  fall  to  pieces  at  once,  and 
sink  more  rapidly  than  it  rose.  The  abhorrence  of 
slavery,  which  drove  the  Venetians  to  the  sea,  has, 
since  their  disaster,  forced  them  to  the  land,  where 
they  may  be  at  least  overlooked  amongst  the  crowd 
of  dependants,  and  not  present  the  humiliating  specta- 
cle of  a  whole  nation  loaded  with  recent  chains.  Their 
liveliness,  their  affability,  and  that  happy  indifference 
which  constitution  alone  can  give,  for  philosophy  aspires 
to  it  in  vain,  have  not  sunk  under  circumstances ;  but 
many  peculiarities  of  costume  and  manner  have  by 
degrees  been  lost,  and  the  nobles,  with  a  pride  com- 
mon to  all  Italians  who  have  "been  masters,  have  not 
been  persuaded  to  parade  their  insignificance.  That 
splendour  which  was  a  proof  and  a  portion  of  their 
power,  they  would  not  degrade  into  the  trappings 


of  their  subjection.  They  retired  from  the  space  wh-k 
they  had  occupied  in  the  eyes  of  their  fellow-citizens 
their  continuance  in  which  would  have  been  a  symptom 
of  acquiescence,  and  an  insult  to  those  who  suffered  b« 
the  common  misfortune.  Those  who  remained  in  th 
degraded  capita'  might  be  said  rather  to  haunt  thu 
scenes  of  their  departed  power,  than  to  live  in  them. 
The  reflection,  "  who  and  what  enthrals,"  will  hardly 
bear  a  comment  from  one  who  is,  nationally,  the  friend 
and  the  ally  of  the  conqueror.  It  may,  however,  be 
allowed  to  say  thus  much,  that,  to  those  who  wish  to 
recover  their  independence,  any  masters  must  be  an 
object  of  detestation  ;  and  it  may  be  safely  foretold  that 
this  unprofitable  aversion  will  not  have  been  corrected 
before  Venice  shall  have  sunk  into  the  slime  of  her 
choked  canals. 

Note  11.  Stanza  xvi. 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse. 
The  story  is  told  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Nicias. 

Note  12.    Stanza  xviii. 

And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art. 

Venice  Preserved ;  Mysteries  of  Udolpho ;  the  Ghost- 

seer,  or  Armenian ;  the  Merchant  of  Venice ;  Othello. 

Note  13.  Stanza  xx. 
But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow 
Loftiest  on  lot'tiest  and  least  shelter'd  rocks. 
Tannen  is  the  plural  of  tonne,  a  species  of  fir  pecu- 
liar to  the  Alps,  which  only  thrives  in  very  rocky  parts, 
where  scarcely  soil  sufficient  for  its  nourishment  can  ba 
found.  On  these  spots  it  grows  to  a  greater  height  than 
any  other  mountain  tree. 

Note  14.    Stanza  xxviii. 
A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven. 

The  above  description  may  seem  fantastical  or  exag- 
gerated to  those  who  have  never  seen  an  oriental  or  ac 
Italian  sky ;  yet  it  is  but  a  literal  and  hardly  sufficient 
delineation  of  an  August  evening  (the  eighteenth),  as 
contemplated  in  one  of  many  rides  along  the  banks  of 
the  Brenta  near  La  Mira. 

Note  15.  Stanza  xxx. 

Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

Thanks  to  the  critical  acumen  of  a  Scotchman,  we 
now  know  as  little  of  Laura  as  ever.1  The  discoveries 
of  the  Abbe  de  Sade,  his  triumphs,  his  sneers,  can  no 
longer  instruct  or  amuse.2  We  must  not,  however, 
think  that  these  memoirs  are  as  much  a  romance  as 
Belisarius  or  the  Incas,  although  we  are  told  so  by  Dr. 
Beattie,  a  great  name,  but  a  little  authority.3  His  "la- 
bour "  has  not  been  in  vain,  notwithstanding  his  "love" 
has,  like  most  other  passions,  made  him  ridiculous.4 
The  hypothesis  which  overpowered  the  struggling  Ita- 


1  "  Nonnullorum  e  nobilitate  immense  sunt  opes,  adeo  ut 
vir  cstimari  possint :  id  quod  tribus  e  rebus  oritur,  parsimonia, 
eommercio,  atque  iis  emolumentis,  qus  e  Repub.  porcipiunt, 
quie  hanc  ob  causam  diuturna  fore  creditur." — See  l)e  Prin- 
upatibus  Italia?  Tractalus,  edit.  1631. 


1  See  A  historical  and  critical  Essay  on  the  Life  »nd  Char- 
acter of  Petrarch ;  and  a  Dissertation  on  a  Historical  Hy- 
pothesis of  the  Abbe  de  Sade:  the  first  appeared  about  iha 
rear  17S4  ;  the  other  is  inserted  in  the  fourth  volume  of  the 
Transactions  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Edinburgh  ;  and  both 
have  been  incorporated  into  a  work,  published  under  the  fiml 
title,  by  Baiiantyne  in  1810. 

2  Memoirs  pour  la  Vie  de  Petrarque. 

3  Life  of  Beattie,  by  Sir.  W.  Forbes,  t.  ii.  p.  Hfc 

4  Mr.  Gibbon  called  his  Memoirs  "  a  tab.mr  of  lore,"  (s«e 
Decline  and  Fall,  cap.  Ixx,  note  1.)  and  followe  1  >iiin  with 
confidence  and  delight.    The  compiler  of  a  very  vo.ummouf 
work  must  take  much  criticism  upon  trust:  Mr.  Gibbon  >ia» 
dune  BO,  though  not  so  readily  as  some  other  authors. 


112 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


lians,  and  cairied  along  »ess  interested  critics  in  its 
current,  is  run  out.  We  have  another  proof  that  we 
can  never  be  sure  that  the  paradox,  the  most  singular, 
and  therefore  having  the  most  agreeable  and  authentic 
air,  will  not  give  place  to  the  re-established  ancient 
prejudice. 

It  seems  then,  first,  that  Laura  was  born,  lived,  died, 
and  was  buried,  not  in  Avignon,  but  in  the  country. 
The  fountains  of  the  Sorga,  the  thickets  of  Cabrieres, 
may  resume  their  pretensions,  and  the  exploded  de  la 
Sastie  again  be  heard  with  complacency.  The  hypo- 
thesis of  the  Abbe  had  no  stronger  props  than  the 
parchment  sonnet  and  medal  found  on  the  skeleton  of 
the  wife  of  Hugo  de  Sade,  and  the  manuscript  note  to 
the  Virgil  of  Petrarch,  now  in  the  Ambrosian  library. 
If  these  proofs  were  both  incontestable,  the  poetry  was 
written,  the  medal  composed,  cast,  and  deposited,  with- 
in the  space  of  twelve  hours ;  and  these  deliberate  du- 
ties were  performed  round  the  carcass  of  one  who  died 
of  the  plague,  and  was  hurried  to  the  grave  on  the  day 
of  her  death.  These  documents,  therefore,  are  loo  de- 
cisive :  they  prove,  not  the  fact,  but  the  forgery.  Either 
the  sonnet  or  the  Virgilian  note  must  be  a  falsification. 
The  Abbe  cites  both  as  incontestably  true  ;  the  conse- 
quent deduction  is  inevitable — they  are  both  evidently 
false.1 

Secondly,  Laura  was  never  married,  and  was  a  haughty 
virgin  rather  than  that  tender  and  prudent  wife  who 
honoured  Avignon  by  making  that  town  the  theatre  of 
an  honest  French  passion,  and  played  off  for  one-and- 
twenty  years  her  little  machinery  of  alternate  favours 
and  refusals1  upon  the  first  poet  of  the  age.  It  was, 
indeed,  rather  too  unfair  that  a  female  should  be  made 
responsible  for  eleven  children  upon  the  faith  of  a  mis- 
interpreted abbreviation,  and  the  decision  of  a  librarian.3 
It  is,  however,  satisfactory  to  think  that  the  love  of 
Petrarch  was  not  platonic.  The  happiness  which  he 
prayed  to  possess  but  once  and  for  a  moment  was  surely 
not  of  the  mind,1  and  something  so  very  real  as  a  mar- 
riage project,  with  one  who  has  been  idly  called  a 
shadowy  nymph,  may  be,  perhaps,  detected  in  at  least 
six  places  of  his  own  sonnets.5  The  love  of  Petrarch 
was  neither  platonic  nor  poetical ;  and,  if  in  one  passage 
of  his  works  he  calls  it  "  amore  veemenceissimo  ma 
unico  ed  onesto,"  ho  confesses,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend, 


1  The  sonnet  had  before  awakened  the  suspicions  of  Mr. 
Horace  Walpole.    See  his  letter  to  Wharton  in  1763. 

2  "  Par  ce  petit  manege,  cette  alternative  de  favours  et  de 
rigueurs  bien  menagee.  une  femme  tendre  et  gage  amuse, 
pendant  vingt-un  ans,  le  plus  grand  poete  de  son  siecle,  sans 
faire  la  momdre  breche  a   son  honneur."    Mem.  pour  la 
Vie  de  Petrarque.  Preface  aux  Francais.     The  Italian  editor 
of  the  London  edition  of  Petrarch,  who  has  translated  Lord 
Woodhouselee,  renders  the  "  femme  tendre  et  sage,"  "rif- 
finatu  civetta."  Rillessioni  intorno  a  Madonna  Laura,  p.  234. 
vol.  iii.  ed.  1811. 

II  In  a  dialogue  with  8t.  Augustin,  Petrarch  has  described 
Laura  as  having  a  body  exhausted  with  repeated  ptuhs.  The 
old  editors  read  and  printed  perturbqtionihus;  but  M.  Capn^r- 
pnier,  librarian  to  the  French  King,  in  1762,  who  saw  the  MS. 
in  the  Paris  library,  made  an  attestation  that  "  on  lit  et  qu'on 
£(jit  lire,  pnrtubus  exhaustum."  De  Sarte  joined  the  names 
of  Messrs.  Doudot  and  Bejut  with  M.  Capperonier,  and  in  the 
whole  discussion  on  this  j, tubs,  showed  himself  a  downright 
literary  rogue.  See  Riflessioni.  etc.,  p.  267.  Thomas  Aquinas 
i*  called  in  to  settle  whether  Petrarch's  mistress  was  a  chaste 
maid  or  a  continent  wife. 

4  "  Pismalion.  quanto  lodarti  del 
Dell'  iromagine  tua,  so,  mille  volte 
N*  avotiquel  rh'  i'  sol  una  vorrei." 

Snnetto  53,   Quando  piunsc  a  Simon  I' 
alto  concetto.   Le  Rime,  etc.,  par.  i. 
pair.  189.  edit.  Ven.  1756. 
Stc  RiBessioni,  etc.,  p.  291. 


that  it  was  guilty  and  perverse,  that  i\  aosorbed  hut 
quite,  and  mastered  his  heart.1 

In  this  case,  however,  he  was  perhaps  alarmed  for 
the  culpability  of  his  wishes ;  for  the  Abbe  de  Sade 
himself,  who  certainly  would  not  have  been  scrupu- 
lously delicate,  if  he  could  have  proved  his  descent  from 
Petrarch  as  well  as  Laura,  is  forced  into  a  stout  defence 
of  his  virtuous  grandmother.  As  far  as  relates  to  the 
poet,  we  have  no  security  for  the  innocence,  except 
perhaps  in  the  constancy  of  his  pursuit.  He  assures  us, 
in  his  epistle  to  posterity,  that,  when  arrived  at  his 
fortieth  year,  he  not  only  had  in  horror,  but  had  lost 
all  recollection  and  image  of  any  "irregularity."2  But 
the  birth  of  his  natural  daughter  cannot  be  assigned 
earlier  than  his  thirty-ninth  year ;  and  either  the  mem- 
ory or  the  morality  of  the  poet  must  have  failed  him, 
when  he  forgot  or  was  guilty  of  this  slip.3  The  weakest 
argument  for  the  purity  of  this  love  has  been  drawn  from 
the  permanence  of  effects,  which  survived  the  object  of 
his  passion.  The  reflection  of  M.  de  la  Bastie,  that 
virtue  alone  is  capable  of  making  impressions  which 
death  cannot  efface,  is  one.of  those  which  every  body 
applauds,  and  every  body  finds  not  to  be  true,  the  mo- 
ment he  examines  his  own  breast  or  the  records  of 
human  feeling.4  Such  apophthegms  can  do  nothing  for 
Petrarch  or  for  the  cause  of  morality,  except  with  the 
very  weak  and  the  very  young.  He  that  has  made  even 
a  little  progress  beyond  ignorance  and  pupilage,  cannot 
be  edified  with  any  thing  but  truth.  What  is  called 
vindicating  the  honour  of  an  individual  or  a  nation,  is 
the  most  futile,  tedious,  and  uninstructive  of  all  writing; 
although  it  will  always  meet  with  more  applause  than 
that  sober  criticism,  which  is  attributed  to  the  malicious 
desire  of  reducing  a  great  man  to  the  common  standard 
of  humanity.  It  is,  after  all,  not  unlikely,  that  our 
historian  was  tight  in  retaining  his  favourite  hypothetic 
salvo,  which  secures  the  author,  although  it  scarcely  saves 
the  honour  of  the  still  unknown  mistress  of  Petraich.* 

Note  16.  Stanza  xxxi. 
They  keep  his  dust  in  A/qua,  where  he  died. 
Petrarch  retired  to  Arqua  immediately  on  his  return 
from  the  unsuccessful  attempt  to  visit  Urban  V.  at  Rome, 
in  the  year  1370,  and,  with  the  exception  of  his  cele- 
brated visit  to  Venice  in  company  with  Francesco  No- 
vello  de  Carrara,  he  appears  to  have  passed  the  four  last 
years  of  his  life  between  that  charming  solitude  and 
Padua.  For  four  months  previous  to  his  death  he  was 
in  a  state  of  continual  languor,  and  in  the  morning  of 
July  the  19th,  in  the  year  1374,  was  found  dead  in  his 
library  chair  with  his  head  resting  upon  a  book.  The 
chair  is  still  shown  amongst  the  precious  relics  of  Arquii, 
which,  from  the  uninterrupted  veneration  that  has  been 
attached  to  every  thing  relative  to  this  great  man,  from 


1  "  duella  rea  e  perversa  passione  che  solo  tutto  mi  occu 
pava  e  mi  regnava  nel  cuore." 

2  Azion  disonesta,  are  his  words. 

3  "  A  questa  confessione  cosi  sincere  died?  forse  occaiiona 
unanuova  caduta  ch'  ei  fece. "  Tiraboschi,  Storia,  etc.,  torn, 
v.  lib.  iv.  par.  ii.  pag.  492. 

4  "  11  n'v  a  Que  la  vertu  settle  qui  spit  rapnlile  de  faire  del 
impressians  que  la  mart  n'  efface  pan."  M.  He  Bimard.  Baron 
de  la  Bastie,  in  the  Memoires  dp  1'Arademie  Hes  Inscription* 
et  Belles-Letties  fur  1740  and  1751.  See  also  Rilles.sioni  etc 
p.  295. 

5  "  And  if  the  virtue  or  prudence  of  Laura  was  inexo  cbl« 
he  enjoyed,  and  might  boast  of  enjoyinz  the  ryinph  n!  o  >e« 
17."    Decline  and  Fall,  cap.  Ixx.  p.  327.  vol.  xii   OCL    ID. 
haps  the  if  is  here  meant  for  although 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


113 


.he  moment  of  his  death  to  the  present  hour,  have,  it 
may  be  hoped,  a  better  chance  of  authenticity  than  the 
Shakspearian  memorials  of  Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Arqui  (for  the  last  syllable  is  accented  in  pronun- 
ciation, although  the  analogy  of  the  English  language 
has  been  observed  in  the  verse),  is  twelve  miles  from 
Padua,  and  about  three  miles  on  the  right  of  the  high 
road  to  Rovigo,  in  the  bosom  of  the  Euganean  hills. 
After  a  walk  of  twenty  minutes,  across  a  flat  well- wooded 
meadow,  you  come  t;  a  little  blue  lake,  clear  but  fathom- 
less, and  to  the  foot  of  a  succession  of  acclivities  and 
hills,  clothed  with  vineyards  and  orchards,  rich  with  fir 
and  pomegranate  trees,  and  every  sunny  fruit-shrub. 
From  the  banks  of  the  lake,  the  road  winds  into  the  hills, 
and  the  church  of  Arqua  is  soon  seen  between  a  cleft 
where  two  ridges  slope  towards  each  other,  and  nearly 
inclose  the  village.  The  houses  are  scattered  at  intervals 
on  the  steep  sides  of  these  summits ;  and  that  of  the 
poet  is  on  the  edge  of  a  little  knoll  overlooking  two  de- 
icents,  and  commanding  a  view  not  only  of  the  glowing 
gardens  in  the  dales  immediately  beneath,  but  of  the 
wide  plains,  above  whose  low  woods  of  mulberry  and 
willow  thickened  into  a  dark  mass  by  festoons  of  vines, 
tall  single  cypresses,  and  the  spires  of  towns  are  seen 
in  the  distance,  which  stretches  to  the  mouths  of  the  Po 
and  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic.  The  climate  of  these 
volcanic  hills  is  warmer,  and  the  vintage  begins  a  week 
sooner  than  in  the  plains  of  Padua.  Petrarch  is  laid, 
for  he  cannot  be  said  to  be  buried,  in  a  sarcophagus  of 
red  marble,  raised  on  four  pilasters  on  an  elevated  base, 
and  preserved  from  an  association  with  meaner  tombs. 
It  stands  conspicuously  alone,  but  will  be  soon  over- 
shadowed by  four  lately-planted  laurels.  Petrarch's 
fountain,  for  here  every  thing  is  Petrarch's,  springs  and 
expands  itself  beneath  an  artificial  arch,  a  little  below 
the  church,  and  abounds  plentifully,  in  the  driest  season, 
with  that  soft  water  which  was  the  ancient  wealth  of 
the  Euganean  hills.  It  would  be  more  attractive,  wer* 
it  not,  in  some  seasons,  beset  with  hornets  and  wasps. 
No  other  coincidence  could  assimilate  the  tombs  of 
Petrarch  and  Archilochus.  The  revolutions  of  centu- 
ries have  spared  these  sequestered  valleys,  and  the 
only  violence  which  has  been  offered  to  the  ashes  of 
Petiarch,  was  prompted,  not  by  hate,  but  veneration. 
An  attempt  was  made  to  rob  the  sarcophagus  of  its 
treasure,  and  one  of  the  arms  was  stolen  by  a  Floren- 
tine, through  a  rent  which  is  still  visible.  The  injury  is 
not  forgotten,  but  has  served  to  identify  the  poet  with 
the  country  where  he  was  bom,  but  where  he  would 
iiot  live.  A  peasant  boy  of  Arqui  being  asked  who 
Petrarch  was,  replied,  "that  the  people  of  the  par- 
sonage knew  all  about  him,  but  that  he  only  knew  that 
he  was  a  Florentine." 

Mr.  Forsyth  '  was  not  quite  correct  in  saying,  that 
Petrarch  never  returned  to  Tuscany  after  he  had  once 
quitted  it  when  a  boy.  It  appears  he  did  pass  through 
Florence  on  his  way  from  Parma  to  Rome,  and  on  his 
return  in  tfye  year  1350,  and  remained  there  long  enough 
to  form  some  acquaintance  with  its  most  distinguished 
inhabitants.  A  Florentine  gentleman,  ashamed  of  the 
aversion  of  the  poet  for  his  native  country,  was  eager  to 
point  out  this  trivial  error  in  our  accomplished  traveller, 
«*noru  he  knew  and  respected  for  an  extraordinary 


1  Remarks,  etc.  on  Italy,  p,  9.'<,  rote,  3d  edit. 
20 


capacity,  extensive  erudition,  and  refined  taste,  joined 
to  that  engaging  simplicity  of  manners  which  has  beeo 
so  frequently  recognised  as  the  surest,  though  it  is  rer 
tainly  not  an  indispensable,  trait  of  superior  genius. 

Every  footstep  of  Laura's  lover  has  been  anxious)) 
traced  and  recorded.  The  house  in  which  he  lodged  it 
shown  in  Venice.  The  inhabitants  of  Arezzo,  in  orda 
to  decide  the  ancient  controversy  between  their  city  ana 
the  neighbouring  Ancisa,  where  Petrarch  was  carried 
when  seven  months  old,  and  remained  until  his  seventl 
year,  have  designated,  by  a  long  inscription,  the  spol 
where  their  great  fellow-citizen  was  bom.  A  tablet  has 
been  raised  to  him  at  Parma,  in  the  chapel  of  St.  Agatha, 
at  the  cathedral, J  because  he  was  archdeacon  of  that 
society,  and  was  only  snatched  from  his  intended  sepul- 
ture in  their  church  by  a.  foreign  death.  Another  tablet 
with  a  bust  has  been  erected  to  him  at  Pavia,  on  ac- 
count of  his  having  passed  the  autumn  of  1368  in  thai 
city,  with  his  son-in-law  Brossano.  The  political  con- 
dition which  has  for  ages  precluded  the  Italians  from 
the  criticism  of  the  living,  has  concentrated  their 
attention  to  the  illustration  of  the  dead. 

Note  17.  Stanza  xxxiv. 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons.  * 

The  struggle  is  to  the  full  as  likely  to  be  with  demon? 
as  with  our  better  thoughts.  Satan  chose  the  wilder- 
ness for  the  temptation  of  our  S-iviour.  And  our  un- 
sullied John  Locke  preferred  the  presence  of  a  child  t« 
complete  solitude. 

Note  18.  Stanza  xxrvni. 

In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire ; 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy,  etc. 

Perhaps  the  couplet  in  which  Boileau  depreciate* 
Tasso,  may  serve  as  well  as  any  other  specimen  to  jus- 
tify the  opinion  given  of  the  harmony  of  French  verse. 

A  Malherbe,  a  Raran,  preferer  Theophile, 
£t  le  clinquant  du  Tasse  a  tout  1'or  de  Virgile. 

Sat.  ix.  verse  176. 

The  biographer  Serassi,2  out  of  tenderness  to  the  repu- 
tation either  of  the  Italian  or  the  French  poet,  is  eager 
to  observe  that  the  satirist  recanted  or  explained  away 
this  censure,  and  subsequently  allowed  the  author  of  the 
Jerusalem  to  be  a  "  genius  sublime,  vast,  and  happily 
bom  for  the  higher  flights  of  poetry."  To  this  we  wilJ 
add,  that  the  recantation  is  far  from  satisfactory,  when 


I  D.  O.  M. 

Francisco  Petrarcha 

Parmensi  Archidiacono. 

Parentibus  prseclaris  genere  peranliquo 

Elhices  Chiistianic  scriptori  eximio 

Romans  lingua*  restituturi 

Etruscce  principi 

Africae  ob  carmen  bac  in  urbe  peractum  regibus  accho 
S.  P.  Q.  R.  laurea  donate. 

Tanti  Viri 
Juvenilium  juvenig  senilium  genex 

StudiosUsimus 

Comes  Nicolaus  Canonicus  Cicogntrm 
Marmorea  proxima  ara  excilata. 

Ibique  cundilo 

Diva;  Januariae  crucnto  corpore 
H.  M.  P. 
Suffectum 

Bed  infra  meritum  Francisci  sepulchre 
Sumrna  hac  in  cede  efferri  mandautii 

Si  Parma?  occumberet 
Extcra  rnorte  heu  nbbis  erepti. 

2  La  vita  dehTasgo,  lib.  iii.  p.  284.  torn,  u  edit    tsejsam 
1790. 


fvl 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


we  examine  the  whole  anecdote  as  reported  by  Olivet. ' 
The  sentence  pronounced  against  him  by  Bohours  2  is 
»ecorded  only  to  the  confusion  of  the  critic,  whose  pa- 
knodia  the  Italian  makes  no  effort  to  discover,  and 
would  not  perhaps  accept.  As  to  the  opposition  which 
tho  Jerusalem  encountered  from  the  Cruscan  academy, 
who  degraded  Tasso  from  all  competition  with  Ariosto, 
oelow  Bojardo  and  Pulci,  the  disgrace  of  such  opposition 
must  also,  in  some  measure,  be  laid  to  the  charge  of 
Alphonso,  and  the  court  of  Ferrara.  For  Leonard  Sal- 
viati,  the  principal  and  nearly  the  sole  origin  of  this 
attack,  was,  there  can  be  no  doubt,3  influenced  by  a 
hope  to  acquire  the  favour  of  the  House  of  Este :  an 
object  which  he  thought  attainable  by  exalting  the  repu- 
tation of  a  native/ poet  at  the  expense  of  a  rival,  then  a 
prisoner  of  state.  The  hopes  and  efforts  of  Salviati 
must  serve  to  show  the  cotemporary  opinion  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  poet's  imprisonment ;  and  will  fill  up  the 
measure  of  our  indignation  at  the  tyrant  jailor.4  In 
fact,  the  antagonist  of  Tasso  was  not  disappointed  in  the 
reception  given  to  his  criticism ;  he  was  called  to  the 
court  of  Ferrara,  where,  having  endeavoured  to  heighten 
his  claims  to  favour,  by  panegyrics  on  the  family  of  his 
sovereign,5  he  was  in  his  turn  abandoned,  and  expired 
in  neglected  poverty.  The  opposition  of  the  Cruscans 
was  brought  to  a  close  in  six  years  after  the  commence- 
ment of  the  controversy  ;  and  if  the  academy  owed  its 
first  renown  to  having  almost  opened  with  such  a  para- 
dox,6 it  is  probable  that,  on  the  other  hand,  the  care 
of  his  reputation  alleviated  rather  than  aggravated  the 
imprisonment  of  the  injured  poet.  The  defence  of  his 
father  and  of  himself,  for  both  were  involved  in  the 
censure  of  Salviati,  found  employment  for  many  of  his 
solitary  hours,  and  the  captive  could  have  been  but  little 
embarrassed  to  reply  to  accusations,  where,  amongst 
other  delinquencies,  he  was  charged  with  invidiously 
omitting,  in  his  comparison  between  France  and  ItaJy, 
to  mane  any  mention  of  the  cupola  of  St.  Maria  del 
Fiore  at  Florence.'  The  late  biographer  of  Ariosto 
seems  as  if  willing  to  renew  the  controversy  by  doubting 
the  interpretation  of  Tasso's  self-estimation,8  related 


1  Histoire  de  1'Aciulemie  Franeaise,   depuis  1652  jusqu'k 
1700,  par  1'abbe  d'Olivct,  p.   181.  edit.   Amsterdam,  1730. 
"Mais,  ensuite,  vcnant  k  1'usage  qu'Ll  a  fait  de  ses  talcns, 
j'aurais  montr6  quc  le  bon  sens  n'est  pas  toujours  ce  qui  do- 
mine  chez  lui,"  p.  183.    Boileau  said  he  had  not  changed  his 
opinion  :  "  J'enuisi  peu  change,  dit-il,"  etc.  p.  181. 

2  La  maniere  de  bien  penser  dans  Ics  ouvrages  de  I'esprit, 
lec.  dial.  p.  89.  edit.  1692.  Philanthpa  is  for  Tasso,  and  says, 
in  the  outset,  "de  tous  les  beaux  esprits  que  1'Italie  a  pones, 
le  Tassc  cst  pcut-etre  cclui  qui  pcnse  le  plus  noblement." 
But  Bohours  seems  to  speak  in  Ecdoxus,  who  closes  with 
the  absurd  comparison,  "Faites  valoire  le  Tasse  tant  qu'il 
vous  plaira,  jc  m'en  ticns  pourmoi  i  Virpile,"etc.  ib.  p.  102. 

3  La  Vita,  etc.  lib.  iii.  p.  90,  torn.  ii.    The  English  reader 
may  see  an  account  of  me  opposition  of  the  Crusca  to  Tasso, 
in  Dr.  Black,  Life,  etc.  cap.  xvii.  vol.  ii 

4  For  further,  and,  it  is  hoped,  decisive  proof,  that  Tasso 
>vas  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  prisoner  of  stntr.  the  reader 
is  referred  to  "  Historical  Illustrations  of  the  IVth  Canto  of 
Childe  Harold,"  p.  5,  and  following. 

5  Orazioni  funetiri.  .  .  .  Delle  lodi  di  Don'Luigi  Cardinal 
d'Esto   .  .  .  Deile  lodi  di  Donno  Alfonzo  d'Este.    See  La 
Vita,  lib.  iii.  pag.  117. 

6  It  was  founded  in  1582.  and  the  Cruscan  answer  to  Pel- 
egrmol's  Ca.ra.ffa  or  epica  poesia,  was  published  in  1584. 

7  "Cotanto  pole  sempre  in  lui  il  veleno  della  sua  pessima 
•olonta.  r.ontro  alia  nazion  Fiorentana."  La  Vita,  lib.  iii.  pp. 
Sf.  »8.  torn,  il 

8  La  Vita  di  M.  L.  Ariosto,  scritta  dall'  Abate  Giro  lamo 
Uaruffaldi  giuniore,  etc.,  Ferrara,  1807.  lib.  iii.  page  262. 
4ee  Historical  Illustrations,  etc  n  9(5. 


in  Scrassi's  life  of  the  poet.  But  Tiraboschi  had  beforu 
laid  that  rivalry  at  rest,1  by  showing,  that  between 
Ariostc  and  Tasso  it  is  not  a  question  of  comparison, 
but  of  preference. 

Note  19.  Stanza  xli. 
The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust 
Thp  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimick'd  leaves. 
Before  the  remains  of  Ariosto  were  removed  from  the 
Benedictine  church  to  the  library  of  Ferrara,  his  bust, 
which  surmounted  the  tomb,  was  struck  by  lightning, 
and  a  crown  of  iron  laurels  melted  away.  The  event 
has  been  recorded  by  a  writer  of  the  last  century.2  The 
transfer  of  these  sacred  ashes  on  the  6th  of  June,  1801, 
was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  spectacles  of  the  short- 
lived Italian  Republic,  and  to  consecrate  the  memory  of 
the  ceremony,  the  once  farm  us  fallen  Intrepidi  were 
revived  and  re-formed  in  the  Ailostean  academy.  The 
large  public  place  through  which  the  procession  paraded 
was  then  for  the  first  time  called  Ariosto  Square.  Th« 
author  of  the  Orlando  is  jealously  claimed  as  the  Ho- 
mer, not  of  Italy,  but  Ferrara.3  The  mother  of  Ari- 
osto was  of  Reggio,  and  the  house  in  which  he  was 
born  is  carefully  distinguished  by  a  tablet  with  these- 
words :  "  Qui  nacque  Ludovico  Ariosto  il  giorno  8  di 
Settembre  deW  anno  1474."  But  the  Ferrarese  make 
light  of  the  accident  by  which  their  poet  was  born 
abroad,  and  claim  him  exclusively  for  their  o\vn.  They 
possess  his  bones,  they  show  his  arm-chair,  and  his 
ink-stand,  and  his  autographs. 

" hie  illius  arma. 

Hie  currus  fuit " 

The  house  where  he  lived,  the  room  where  he  died,  sre 
designated  by  his  own  replaced  memorial,4  and  by  a 
recent  inscription.  The  Ferrarese  are  more  jealous  of 
their  claims  since  the  animosity  of  Denina,  arising  from 
a  cause  which  their  apologists  mysteriously  hint  is  not 
unknown  to  them,  ventured  to  degrade  their  soil  and 
climate  to  a  Kffiotian  incapacity  for  all  spiritual  produc- 
tions. A  quarto  volume  has  been  called  forth  by  the 
detraction,  and  this  supplement  to  Baretti's  Memoirs 
of  the  illustrious  Ferrarese,  has  been  considered  a  tri- 
umphant reply  to  the  "  Quadro  Storico  Statistico  dell' 
Alta  Italia." 

Note  20.  Stanza  xli. 

For  the  true  laurel-wreath  which  glory  weaves 
Is  of  tho  tre\!  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves. 
The  eagle,  the  sea-calf,  the  laurel,5  and  the  white 
vine,6  were, amongst  the  most  approved  preservatives 
against  lightning:  Jupiter  chose  the  first,  Augustus  Cae- 
sar the  second,7  and  Tiberius  never  failed  to  wear  a 
wreath  of  the  third  when  the  sky  threatened  a  thunder- 
storm.8 These  superstitions  may  be  received  without  a 


1  Storia  della  Lett.,  etc.  lib.  iii.  torn.  vii.  par.  iii.  p.  1230 
sect.  4. 

2  "Mi  raccontarono  quo"  monaci,  ch'  essendo  caduto  un 
fulmine  nella  loro  chiesa  schianto  esso  dalle  tcmpie  la  corona 
di  lauro  a  auelP  immortale  poeta."    Op.  di  Bianconi,  vol.  iii. 
p.  17fi.  ed.  Milano,  1802 ;  lettera  al  Signor  Guido  Savini  Ar- 
cifisiocritico,  suit'  indole  di  un  fulmine  caduto  in  Dresila 
anno  1759. 

3  "Appassionato  ammiratore  cd  invitto  apqjogista  <!ell' 
Omero  Ferrarrse."    The  title  was  first  given  l"y  Tasso,  ind 
is  quoted  *>  the  confusion  of  the  Tassisti,  lio.  iii.  pp    162 
265.    La  Vila  di  M.  L.  Ariosto.  etc. 

4  "  Parva,  sed  apta  mihi,  sed  nulli  obnoxia,  sed  n>n 
Sordida,  parta  mpo  sed  tamcn  sere  dcmus." 

5  Aquila,  vituhis  marinus,  et  laurug.  fulmino  o>n  fci  un'ur 
Plin.  Nat.  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  Iv. 

6  Columella,  iib.  x. 

7  Sucton.  in  Vit.  August,  cnp.'xc 

8  Id.  in  Vit.  Tiberii.  cap.  Ixiz. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


115 


sneer  in  a  country  where  the  magical  properties  of  the 
hazei-twig  have  not  lost  all  their  credit ;  and  perhaps  the 
reader  may  not  be  much  surprised  to  find  that  a  com- 
mentator on  Suetonius  has  taken  upon  himself  gravely 
lo  disprove  the  imputed  virtues  of  the  crown  of  Tibe- 
rius, by  mentioning  that,  a  few  years  before  he  wrote, 
a  laurel  was  actually  struck  by  lightning  at  Rome. 

Note  21.  Stanza  xli. 
Know  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below. 

The  Curtian  lake  and  the  Ruminal  fig-tree  in  the 
Forum,  having  been  touched  by  lightning,  were  held 
sacred,  and  the  memory  of  the  accident  was  preserved 
by  a  puleat,  or  altar,  resembling  the  mouth  of  a  well, 
witli  a  little  chapel  covering  the  cavity  supposed  to  be' 
made  by  the  thunderbolt.  Bodies  scathed  and  persons 
struck  dead  were  thought  to  be  incorruptible  ;J  and  a 
stroke  not  fatal  conferred  perpetual  dignity  upon  the 
man  so  distinguished  by  Heaven.3 

Those  killed  by  lightning  were  wrapped  in  a  white 
garment,  aud  buried  where  they  fell.  The  superstition 
was  not  confined  to  the  worshippers  of  Jupiter :  the 
Lombards  believed  in  the  omens  furnished  by  lightning, 
and  a  Christian  priest  confesses  that  by  a  diabolical  skill 
in  interpreting  thunder,  a  seer  foretold  to  Agilulf,  duke 
of  Turin,  an  event  which  came  to  pass,  and  gave  him  a 
queej  and  a  crown.*  There  was,  however,  somethin 
equivocal  in  this  sign,  which  the  ancient  inhabitants  ol 
Rome  did  not  always  consider  propitious ;  and  as  the 
fears  are  likely  to  last  longer  than  the  consolations  oi 
superstition,  it  is  not  strange  that  the  Romans  of  the  age 
of  Leo  X.  should  have  been  so  much  terrified  at  some 
misinterpreted  storms  as  to  require  the  exhortations  ol 
a  scholar,  who  arrayed  all  the  learning  on  thunder  and 
cghtning  to  prove  the  omen  favourable ;  beginning  with 
the  flash  which  struck  the  walls  of  Velitrae,  and  includ- 
ing that  which  played  upon  a  gate  at  Florence,  anc 
foretold  the  pontificate  of  one  of  its  citizens.5 

Note  22.  Stanza  Ixii. 

Italia,  oh  Italia,  etc. 
The  two  stanzas,  XLII.  and  XLIII.,  are,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  line  or  two,  a  translation  of  the  famous 
sonnet  of  Filicaja : 

"  Italia,  Italia,  O  tu  cui  fco  la  sorte." 

Note  23.  Stanza  xfiv. 

Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him, 

The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least  mortal  mind. 

The  celebrated  letter  of  Servius  Sulpicius  to  Cicero,  on 

the  death  of  his  daughter,  describes  as  it  then  was,  anc 

now  is,  a  path  which  I  often  traced  in  Greece,  both  by 

sea  and  land,  in  different  journeys  and  voyages. 

"  On  my  return  from  Asia,  as  I  was  sailing  frorr 
/Egina  towards  Megara,  I  began  to  contemplate  th 
prospect  of  the  countries  around  me :  ^Egina  was  behind 
Megara  before  me ;  Piraeus  on  the  right,  Corinth  on  th 
left ;  all  which  towns,  once  famous  and  flourishing,  now 
fie  overturned  and  buried  in  their  ruins.  Upon  thi 
tight,  I  could  not  but  think  presently  within  mysell 


Alas !  how  do  we  poor  mortals  fret  and  vex  ourse.ves  it 
any  of  our  friends  happen  to  die  or  be  killed,  whoss 
ife  is  yet  so  short,  when  the  carcasses  of  so  many  ns>->*6 
ities  lie  here  exposed  before  me  in  one  view."  ' 
Note  24.  Stanza  xlvi. 


Note  2.  pap.  409.  edit.  Lugd.  Bat.  1667. 
Vid.  J.  C.  liullcnger,  de  Terrse  motu  et  Fulminibus,  lib 
i,  cap.  xi. 

3  OtxJtif   xcpavviaOas   ari/io$   tari,    SOtv   «ai   if 
riii'lra'.      Pint.  Sympos.,  vid.  J.  C.  Bulleng.  ut  sup. 

4  Pauli  Diaconi,  dp  gestis  Langobard.  lib.  iii.  cap.  xiv.  fo 
tv.  edit.  Taurin.  1527. 

5  1.  P.  Valerian!,  ile  fulminum  significationihus  declamatio 
»p.  Gripv.  Antiq.  Rom.  turn.  v.  p.  593.    The  declamation  is 
addressed  to  Julian  of  Media'*. 


-and  we  pass 


The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form. 

It  is  Poggio,  who,  looking  from  the  Capitoline  hi 
upon  ruined  Rome,  breaks  forth  into  the  exclamation 
'  Ut  nunc  omni  decore  nudata,  prostrata  jacet,  insta/ 
pgantei  cadaveris  corrupti  atque  undique  exesi."2 

Note  25.  Stanza  xlix. 
There,  too,  the  goddess  loves  in  stone. 

The  view  of  the  Venus  of  Medicis  instantly  suggests 
he  lines  in  the  Seasons,  and  the  comparison  of  the  ob- 
ect  with  the  description  proves,  not  only  the  correct- 
ness of  the  portrait,  but  the  peculiar  turn  of  though^ 
and,  if  the  term  may  be  used,  the  sexual  imagination  ol 
the  descriptive  poet.  The  same  conclusion  may  be  de- 
duced from  another  hint  in  the  same  episode  of  Musi- 
dora ;  for  Thomson's  notion  of  the  privileges  of  favoured 
ove  must  have  been  either  very  primitive,  or  rather 
deficient  in  delicacy,  when  he  made  his  grateful  nymph 
nform  her  discreet  Damon  that  in  some  happier  mo- 
ment he  might  perhaps  be  the  companion  of  her  bath: 
"  The  time  may  come  you  need  not  fly." 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  anecdote  told  in  the 
life  of  Dr.  Johnson.  We  will  not  leave  the  Florentine 
Eallery  without  a  word  on  the  JVhelter.  It  seems  strange 
that  the  character  of  that  disputed  statue  should  not  be 
entirely  decided,  at  least  in  the  mind  of  any  one  who 
has  seen  a  sarcophagus  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Basilica 
of  St.  Paul  without  the  walls,  at  Rome,  where  the  whole 

roup  of  the  fable  of  Marsyas  is  seen  in  tolerable  pre- 
servation ;  and  the  Scythian  slave  whetting  the  knife 
is  represented  exactly  in  the  same  position  as  this 
celebrated  masterpiece.  The  slave  is  not  naked  •  but 
it  is  easier  to  get  rid  of  this  difficulty  than  to  suppose 
the  knife  in  the  hand  of  the  Florentine  statue  an  in- 
strument for  shaving,  which  it  must  be,  if,  as  Lanzi 
supposes,  the  man  is  no  other  than  the  barber  of  Ju- 
lius Ccesar.  Winkelmann,  illustrating  a  bas-relief  of 
the  same  subject,  follows  the  opinion  of  Leonard  Agos- 
tini,  and  his  authority  might  have  been  thought  con- 
clusive, even  if  the  resemblance  did  not  strike  the  mo?t 
careless  observer.3 

Amongst  the  bronzes  of  the  same  princely  collection 
is  still  to  be  seen  the  inscribed  tablet  copied  and  com- 
mented upon  by  Mr.  Gibbon.4  Our  historian  found 
some  difficulties,  but  did  not  desist  from  his  illustra- 
tion :  he  might  be  vexed  to  hear  that  his  criticism  has 
been  thrown  away  on  an  inscription  now  generally  re- 
cognised to  be  a  forgery. 

Note  26.  Stanza  !i. 


his  eyes  to  thee  upturn. 


Feeding  on  thy'swect  cheek. 

6<i0aA/<oti5-  iartjfi'. 
' . .  .Atque  oculos  pascal  uterque  sues." — Ovid.  Jimor.  lib.  u 


1  Dr.  Middlcton— History  of  the  Life  of  M  Tullius  Cicero, 
sect.  vii.  pag.  371,  vol.  ii. 

2  Do  fortune  varietute  urbis  Roma;  et  do  ruinis  ejusdem 
descriptio,  ap.  Sallengre,  Thesaur.  loin.  i.  pag.  501. 

3  See  Monim.  Ant.  ined.  par.  i.  cap.  xvii.  n.  xMi.  pag.  50 
and etoria  delle  arti,  etc.  lib.  xi.  cap.  i,  torn.  ii.  p.  314.  not  B 

4  Nomina  eentesque  Antique  Italic,  p.  204,  edit,  uct 


ne> 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Note  27.  Stanza  liv. 
IP  Santa  Grace's  holy  precincts  lie. 
This  name  will  recall  the  memory,  not  only  of  those 
*ho?e  tombs  have  raised  the  Santa  Croce  into  the 
centre  of  pi'grimage,  the  Mecca  of  Italy,  but  of  her 
whose  eloquence  was  poured  over  the  illustrious  ashes, 
and  whose  voice  is  now  as  mute  as  those  she  sung. 
CORISNA  is  no  more  ;  and  with  her  should  expire  the 
fear,  the  flattery,  and  the  envy,  which  threw  too  daz» 
zling  or  too  dark  a  cloud  round  the  march  of  genius, 
and  forbad  the  steady  gaze  of  disinterested  criticism. 
We  have  her  picture  embellished  or  distorted,  as  friend- 
ship or  detraction  has  held  the  pencil:  the  impartial 
portrait  was  hardly  to  be  expected  from  a  contempo- 
rary. The  immediate  voice  of  her  survivors  will,  it  is 
probable,  be  far  from  affording  a  just  estimate  of  her 
•ingular  capacity.  The  gallantry,  the  love  of  wonder, 
Bid  the  hope  of  associated  fame,  which  blunted  the 
edge  of  censure,  must  cease  to  exist. — The  dead  have 
no  sex ;  they  can  surprise  by  no  new  miracles ;  they 
can  confer  no  privilege:  Corinna  has  ceased  to  be  a 
woman — she  is  only  an  author :  and  it  may  be  foreseen 
that  many  will  repay  themselves  for  former  complai- 
sance, by  a  severity  to  which  the  extravagance  of  pre- 
vious praises  may  perhaps  give  the  colour  of  truth. 
The  latest  posterity,  for  to  the  latest  posterity  they  will 
assuredly  descend,  will  have  to  pronounce  upon  her 
various  productions ;  and  the  longer  the  vista  through 
which  they  are  seen,  the  more  accurately  minute  will 
be  the  object,  the  more  certain  the  justice  of  the  deci- 
sion. She  will  enter  into  that  existence  in  which  the 
great  writers  of  all  ages  and  nations  are,  as  it  were, 
associated  in  a  world  of  their  own,  and  from  that  su- 
perior sphere  shed  their  eternal  influence  for  the  con- 
trol and  consolation  of  mankind.  But  the  individual 
will  gradually  disappear  as  the  author  is  more  dis- 
tinctly seen :  some  one,  therefore,  of  all  those  whom 
the  charms  of  involuntary  wit,  and  of  easy  hospitality, 
attracted  within  the  friendly  circles  of  Coppet,  should 
rescue  from  oblivion  those  virtues  which,  although 
they  are  said  to  love  the  shade,  are,  in  fact,  more  fre- 
quently chilled  than  excited  by  the  domestic  cares  of 
private  life.  Some  one  should  be  found  to  portray 
the  unaffected  graces  with  which  she  adorned  those 
dearer  relationships,  the  performance  of  whose  duties 
is  rather  discovered  amongst  the  interior  secrets,  than 
seen  in  the  outward  management,  of  family  inter- 
course ;  and  which,  indeed,  it  requires  the  delicacy  of 
genuine  affection  to  qualify  for  the  eye  of  an  indiffer- 
ent spectator.  Some  one  should  be  found,  not  to 
celebrate,  but  to  describe,  the  amiable  mistress  of  an 
open  mansion,  the  centre  of  a  society,  ever  varied,  and 
always  pleased,  the  creator  of  which,  divested  of  the 
ambition  and  the  arts  of  public  rivalry,  shone  forth  only 
to  give  fresh  animation  to  those  around  her.  The  mo- 
ther tenderly  affectionate  and  tenderly  beloved,  the 
friend  unboundedly  generous,  but  still  esteemed,  the 
charitable  patroness  of  all  distress,  cannot  be  forgotten 
by  those  whom  she  cherished,  protected,  and  fed.  Her 
loss  will  be  mourned  the  most  where  she  was  known 
the  best ;  and,  to  the  sorrows  of  very  many  friends  and 
"ioie  dependants,  may  be  offered  the  disinterested  re- 
giet  of  a  stranger,  who,  amidst  the  sublimer  scenes  of 
the  Leman  lake,  icceived  his  chief  satisfaction  from 
contemplating  th«  engaging  qualities  of  the  incompa- 
r*o.e  Corinna. 


Note  28.  Stanza  liv. 


-here  repose 


Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones. 

Alfieri  is  the  great  name  of  this  ag«.  The  Italian's, 
without  waiting  for  the  hundred  years,  consider  him  aa 
"  a  poet  good  in  law." — His  memory  is  the  more  dear 
to  them  because  he  is  the  bard  of  freedom ;  and  because, 
as  such,  his  tragedies  can  receive  no  countenance  from 
any  of  their  sovereigns.  They  are  but  very  seldom,  and 
but  very  few  of  them,  allowed  to  be  acted.  It  was  ob- 
served by  Cicero,  that  nowhere  were  the  true  opinions 
and  feelings  of  the  Romans  so  clearly  shown  as  at.  the 
theatre.1  In  the  autumn  of  1816,  a  celebrated  improv- 
visatorc  exhibited  his  talents  at  the  Opera-house  of  ]Vi- 
laa.  The  reading  of  the  theses  handed  in  for  the  sub- 
jects of  his  poetry  was  received  by  a  very  numerous  ai1 
dience,  for  the  most  part  in  silence,  or  with  laughter ; 
but  when  the  assistant,  unfolding  one  of  the  papers,  ex- 
claimed, "  The  apotheosis  of  Victor  jllfieri,"  the  whole 
theatre  burst  into  a  shout,  and  the  applause  was  con- 
tinued for  some  moments.  The  lot  did  not  fall  on  Al- 
fieri ;  and  the  Signor  Sgricci  had  to  pour  forth  his  ex- 
temporary commonplaces  on  the  bombardment  of  Al- 
giers. The  choice,  indeed,  is  not  left  to  accident  quite 
so  much  as  might  be  thought  from  a  first  view  of  the 
ceremony ;  and  the  police  not  only  takes  care  to  look 
at  the  papers  beforehand,  but,  in  case  of  any  prudential 
after- thought,  steps  in  to  correct  the  blindness  of 
chance.  The  proposal  for  deifying  Alfieri  was  received 
with  immediate  enthusiasm,  the  rather  because  it  was 
conjectured  there  would  be  no  opportunity  of  carrying 
it  into  effect. 

Note  29.  Stanza  liv. 
Hero  Machiavelli's  earth  return'd  to  whence  it  rose 

The  affectation  of  simplicity  in  sepulchral  inscrip- 
tions which  so  often  leaves  us  uncertain  whether  the 
structure  before  us  is  an  actual  depository,  or  a  ceno- 
taph, or  a  simple  memorial  not  of  death  but  life,  has 
given  to  the  tomb  of  Machiavelli  no  information  as  to 
the  place  or  time  of  the  birth  or  death,  the  age  or  pa- 
rentage, of  the  historian. 

TANTO  NOMINI  NVLLVM  PAR  ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAV3  MACHIAVELLI. 

There  seems  at  least  no  reason  why  the  name  should 
not  have  been  put  above  the  sentence  which  alludes 
to  it. 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  the  prejudices  which 
have  passed  the  name  of  Machiavelli  into  an  epithel 
proverbial  of  iniquity,  exist  no  longer  at  Florence.  His 
memory  was  persecuted  as  his  life  had  been  for  an  at- 
tachment to  liberty,  incompatible  with  the  new  system 
of  despotism,  which  succeeded  the  fall  of  the  free  gov- 
ernments of  Italy.  He  was  put  to  the  torture  for  be- 
ing a  "  lihertine,"  that  is,  for  wishing  to  restore  the  re- 
public of  Florencfi ;  and  such  are  the  undying  efforts 


1  The  free  expression  of  their  honest  sentiments  survived 
their  liberties.  Titus,  the  friend  of  Antony,  presented  them 
with  games  in  the  theatre  of  Pompey.  They  did  not  suffer  tho 
brilliancy  of  the  spectacle  to  efface  from  their  memory  that  the 
man  who  furnished  them  with  the  entertainment  had  mui- 
dered  the  son  of  Pompey.  They  drove  him  from  the  tlientro 
with  curses.  The  moral  sense  of  a  populace,  spontaneously 
expressed,  is  never  wrong.  Even  the  soldiers  of  the  triumviri 
joined  in  the  execration  of  the  citizens,  by  shouting  -fiund  the 
chariots  of  Lepidus  and  Plancus,  who  had  proscribed  l-heii 
brothers,  De  ffermanis  nan  de  Gallis  duo  triumvhant  i  J«n 
sulet;  a  saying  worth  a  record,  were  it  nothing  but  8  |cxi4 
pun.  C.  Veil.  Paterculi  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  Uxix,  pag.  71  eort 
Elzevir.  1639.  Ibid.  lib.  ii.  cap.  luvii 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


o<"  those  who  are  interested  in  the  perversion  not  only 
of  the  nature  of  actions,  but  the  meaning  of  words, 
that  what  was  once  patriotism,  has  by  degrees  come  to 
signify  debauch.  We  have  ourselves  outlived  the  old 
meaning  of  "  liberality,"  which  is  now  another  word  for 
treason  in  one  country  and  for  infatuation  in  all.  It 
seems  \i  have  been  a  strange  mistake  to  accuse  the  au- 
Jior  of  tn*  Prince,  as  being  a  pander  to  tyranny ;  and 
to  think  that  the  inquisition  would  condemn  his  work 
for  such  a  delinquency.  The  fact  is,  that  Machiavelli, 
as  is  usual  with  those  against  whom  no  crime  can  be 
proved,  was  suspected  of  and  charged  with  atheism  ; 
and  the  first  and  last  most  violent  opposers  of  the  Prince 
were  both  Jesuits,  one  of  whom  persuaded  the  inqui- 
sition "  benche  fosse  tardo,y'  to  prohibit  the  treatise, 
and  the  other  qualified  the  secretary  of  the  Florentine 
republic  as  no  better  than  a  fool.  The  father  Possevin 
was  proved  never  to  have  read  the  book,  and  the  father 
Lucchesini  not  to  have  understood  it.  It  is  clear,  how- 
ever, that  such  critics  must  have  objected  not  to  the 
slavery  of  the  doctrines,  but  to  the  supposed  tendency 
of  a  lesson  which  shows  how  distinct  are  the  interests 
of  a  monarch  from  the  happiness  of  mankind.  The 
Jesuits  are  re-established  in  Italy,  and  the  last  chapter 
of  the  Prince  may  again  call  forth  a  particular  refuta- 
tion, from  those  who  are  employed  once  more  in 
moulding  the  minds  of  the  rising  generation,  so  as  to 
receive  the  impressions  of  despotism.  The  chapter 
bears  for  title,  "  Esortazione  a  liberare  la  Italia  dai  Bar- 
bari,"  and  concludes  with  a  lilertine  excitement  to  the 
future  redemption  of  Italy.  "  Nan  si  deve  adunque 
lasciar  passare  questa  occasione,  acciocchb  la  Italia 
te<?ga  dopo  tanto  tempo  apparire  un  'suo  redentore. 
Nl  posso  esprimere  con  qua!  amore  ei  fusse  ricevuto  in 
tutte  quelle  provincie,  che  hanno  patito  per  queste  il- 
tuvioni  esterne,  con  qual  sete  di  vendetta,  con  che  os- 
tinata  fede,  con  che  lacrime.  Quali  porte  se  li  serre- 
rebeno  1  Quali  populi  li  negherebbeno  la  obbedienza  1 
Quote  Italiano  li  negherebbe  P  ossequio  1  AD  OGNURO 

PUZZA  QUESTO  BARBARO  DOMINIO."  ' 

Note  30.  Stanza  Ivii. 
Ungrateful  Florence  !  Dante  sleeps  afar. 
Dante  was  born  in  Florence  in  the  year  1261.  He 
fought  in  two  battles,  was  fourteen  times  ambassador, 
and  once  prior  of  the  republic.  When  the  party  of 
Charles  of  Anjou  triumphed  over  the  Bianchi,  he  was 
absent  on  an  embassy  to  Pope  Boniface  VIII.  and  was 
condemned  >o  two  years'  banishment,  and  to  a  fine  of 
eight  thousand  lire  ;  on  the  non-payment  of  which  he 
was  further  punished  by  the  sequestration  of  all  his 
property.  The  republic,  however,  was  not  content  with 
this  satisfaction,  for  in  1772  was  discovered  in  the 
archives  at  Florence  a  sentence  in  which  Dante  is  the 
eleventh  of  a  list  of  fifteen  condemned  in  1302  to  be 
ournt  alive ;  Talis  perveniens  igne  combwatur  sic  quod 
moriatur.  The  pretext  for  this  judgment  was  a  proof 
i»f  unfair  barter,  extortions,  and  illicit  gains:  Baracte- 
riarum  iniquarum,  extorsionum,  et  illiritorum  lucro- 
um,2  and  with  such  an  accusation  it  is  not  strange  that 
Jante  should  have  always  protested  his  innocence,  and 


1  II  Principe  di  Niccolo  Machiavelli,  etc.,  con  la  prefazione 
t  le  note  istoriche  e  politiche  di  M.  Amelot  de  la  Hnnssaye,  e 

'egamee  confbtazione  dell"  opera....  Cosmopoli,  ITti'J. 

2  Storia  della  Lett.  Ital.  torn.  v.  lib.  iii.  par.  2.  pag.  448. 
Tiralionchi  is  incorrect :  the  dates  of  the  three  decrees  against 
liante  are  A.  O.  1302,  1314,  and  1316 

0 


the  injustice  of  his  fellow-iitizL'hs.  His  appeal  to  Flo- 
rence was  accompanied  l:y  another  to  the  Empe'oi 
Henry,  and  the  death  of  that  sovereign,  in  1313,  \va 
the  signal  for  a  sentence  of  irrevocable  banishment.  II  •> 
had  before  lingered  near  Tuscany,  with  hopes  of  recal 
then  travelled  into  the  north  of  Italy,  where  Verona 
had  to  boast  of  his  longest  residence,  and  he  finalU 
settled  at  Ravenna,  which  was  his  ordinary  but  not 
constant  abode  until  his  death.  The  refusal  of  the  Vo- 
netians  to  grant  him  a  public  audience,  on  the  part  of 
Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  his  protector,  is  said  to  have 
been  the  principal  cause  of  this  event,  which  happened 
in  1321.  He  was  buried  ("  in  sacra  minorum  aede,") 
at  Ravenna,  in  a  handsome  tomb,  which  was  erected 
by  Guido,  restored  by  Bernardo  Bembo  in  1483,  pretor 
for  that  republic  which  had  refused  to  hear  him,  again 
restored  by  Cardinal  Corsi  in  1692,  and  replaced  by  a 
more  magnificent  sepulchre,  constructed  in  1780  at  the 
expense  of  the  Cardinal  Luigi  Valenti  Gonzaga.  The 
offence  or  misfortune  of  Dante  was  an  attachment  to  a 
defeated  party,  and,  as  his  least  favourable  biographers 
allege  against  him,  too  great  a  freedom  of  speech  and 
haughtiness  of  manner.  But  the  next  age  paid  honours 
almost  divine  to  the  exile.  The  Florentines,  having  in 
vain  and  frequently  attempted  to  recover  his  body, 
crowned  his  image  in  a  church,'  and  his  picture  is  stil. 
one  of  the  idols  of  their  cathedral.  They  struck  medals, 
they  raised  statues  to  him.  The  cities  of  Italy,  no\ 
being  able  to  dispute  about  his  own  birth,  contendeo 
for  that  of  his  great  poem,  and  the  Florentines  though* 
it  for  their  honour  to  prove  that  he  had  finished  the 
seventh  Canto,  before  they  drove  him  from  his  native 
city.  Fifty-one  years  after  his  death,  they  endowed  a 
professional  chair  for  the  expounding  of  his  verses,  anci 
Boccaccio  was  appointed  to  this  patriotic  employment. 
The  example  was  imitated  by  Bologna  and  Pisa,  and  the 
commentators,  if  they  performed  but  little  service  to 
literature,  augmented  the  veneration  which  beheld  a 
sacred  or  moral  allegory  in  all  the  images  of  his  mystic 
muse.  His  birth  and  his  infancy  were  discovered  to 
have  been  distinguished  above  those  of  ordinary  men  : 
the  author  of  the  Decameron,  his  earliest  biographer, 
relates  that  his  mother  was  warned  in  a  dream  of  the 
importance  of  her  pregnancy;  and  it  was  found,  by 
others,  that  at  ten  years  of  age  he  had  manifested  his 
precocious  passion  for  that  wisdom  or  theology  which, 
under  the  name  of  Beatrice,  had  been  mistaken  for  a 
substantial  mistress.  When  the  Divine  Comedy  had 
been  recognised  as  a  mere  mortal  production,  and  at 
the  distance  of  two  centuries,  when  criticism  and  com- 
petition had  sobered  the  judgment  of  Italians,  Dante 
was  seriously  declared  superior  to  Homer,1  and  though 
the  preference  appeared  to  some  casuists  "  a  heretical 
blasphemy  worthy  of  the  flames,"  the  contest  was  vig- 
orously maintained  for  nearly  fifty  years.  In  later 
times,  it  was  made  a  question  which  of  the  lords  of 
Verona  could  boast  of  having  patronized  him,3  and  the 
jealous  scepticism  of  one  writer  would  not  allow  Ra 
venna  the  undoubted  possession  of  his  bones.  Even 
the  critical  Tiraboschi  was  inclined  to  believe  that  the 


1  So  relates  Ficino,  hut  some  think  hig  coronation  only  an 
allegory.  See  Storia,  etc.,  ut  sup.  p.  453. 

2  By  Varchi,  in  his  Ercolano.   The  controversy  continue* 
from  1570  to  1616.    See  Storia,  etc.,  torn.  vii.  lib.  v\  par  iii 

3  Gio.  Jacopo  Dionisi  canonico  di  Verona.  Serie  di  AIM* 
doti,  n.  2.   See  Storia,  etc,,  torn.  v.  lib.  i.  par.     p.  24. 


118 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


poet  h  id  foreseen  and  foretold  one  of  the  discoveries  of 
G  Jileo.  Like  the  great  originals  of  other  nations,  his 
popularity  has  not  always  maintained  the  same  level. 
The  last  age  seemed  inclined  to  undervalue  him  as  a 
model  and  a  study  ;  and  Bettinelli  one  day  rebuked  his 
pupil  Monti,  for  poring  over  the  harsh  and  obsolete 
extravagancies  of  the  Commedia.  The  present  genera- 
tion, having  recovered  from  the  Gallic  idolatries  of 
Cesarotti,  has  returned  to  the  ancient  worship,  and  the 
Danteggaire  of  the  northern  Italians  is  thought  even 
indiscreet  by  the  more  moderate  Tuscans. 

There  is  still  much  curious  information  relative  to 
the  life  and  writings  of  this  great  poet,  which  has  not 
as  yet  been  collected  even  by  the  Italians  ;  but  the  cele- 
brated Ugo  Foscolo  meditates  to  supply  this  defect ; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  regretted  that  this  national  work 
has  been  reserved  for  one  so  devoted  to  his  countrv 
and  the  cause  of  truth. 

Note  31.    Stanza  Ivii. 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore; 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war. 
Proscribed,  etc. 

The  elder  Scipio  Africanus  had  a  tomb,  if  he  was  not 
buried,  at  Liternum,  whither  he  had  retired  to  volun- 
tary banishment.  This  tomb  was  near  the  sea-shore, 
and  the  story  of  an  inscription  upon  it,  Ingrala  Patria, 
having  given  a  name  to  a  modern  tower,  is,  if  not  true, 
sn  agreeable  fiction.  If  he  was  not  buried,  he  certainly 
bved  there.1 

In  cosi  angusta  e  solitaria  villa 

Era  'I  grand'  uomo  che  d'Africa  s'appella 

Perche  prima  col  terro  al  vivo  apprilla.  " 

Ingratitude  is  generally  supposed  the  vice  peculiar  to 
republics ;  and  it  seems  to  be  forgotten,  that,  for  one 
instance  of  popular  inconstancy,  we  have  a  hundred 
examples  of  the  fall  of  courtly  favourites.  Besides,  a 
people  have  often  repented — a  monarch  seldom  or 
net er.  Leaving  apart  many  familiar  proofs  of  this  fact, 
a  short  story  may  show  the  difference  between  even 
an  aristocracy  and  the  multitude. 

Vettor  Pisani,  having  been  defeated  in  1354  at  Porto- 
longo,  and  many  years  afterwards  in  the  more  decisive 
action  of  Pola,  by  the  Genoese,  was  recalled  by  the 
Venetian  government,  and  thrown  into  chains.  The 
Avvogadori  proposed  to  behead  him,  but  the  supreme 
tribunal  was  content  with  the  sentence  of  imprison- 
ment. Whilst  Pisani  was  suffering  this  unmerited  dis- 
grace, Chioza,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  capital,3  was,  by 
the  assistance  of  the  Signer  of  Padua,  delivered  into 
the  hands  of  Pietro  Doria.  At  the  intelligence  of  that 
disaster,  the  great  bell  of  St.  Mark's  tower  tolled  to 
arms,  and  the  people  and  the  soldiery  of  the  galleys 
were  summoned  to  the  repulse  of  the  approaching 
enemy ;  but  they  protested  they  would  not  move  a 
step,  unless  Pisani  were  liberated,  and  placed  at  their 
head.  The  great  council  was  instantly  assembled :  the 
prisoner  was  called  before  them,  and  the  Doge,  Andrea 
Contarini,  informed  him  of  the  demands  of  the  people 
*nd  the  necessities  of  the  state,  whose  only  hope  of 
satpty  was  reposed  on  his  efforts,  and  who  implored 
hiir  to  forgive  the  indignities  he  had  endured  in  her 


1  Vilam  Liferni  egit  sine  desiderio  urbis.  See  T.  Liv.  Hist, 
lib.  xxxviii.  Livy  reports  tha*.  some  said  he  was  buried  at 
l.iternum,  others  at  Rome.  1U  cap.  Iv. 

2  Trionfo  Jclla  Castiu. 

i  Bee  note  to  stanza  XIII. 


service.  "  I  have  submitted,"  replied  the  magnanimous 
republican,  "I  have  submitted  to  your  deliberations 

ithout  complaint ;  I  have  supported  patiently  the  pains 
of  imprisonment,  for  they  were  inflicted  at  your  com- 
mand :  this  is  no  time  to  inquire  whether  I  deserved 
them — the  good  of  the  republic  may  have  seemed  to 
require  it,  and  that  which  the  republic  resolves  is  always 
resolved  wisely.  Behold  me  ready  to  lay  down  my  lil'a 
for  the  preservation  of  my  country."  Pisani  was  ap- 
pointed generalissimo,  and,  by  his  exertions,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  those  of  Carlo  Zeno,  the  Venetians  soon  re- 
covered the  ascendancy  over  their  maritime  rivals. 

The  Italian  communities  were  no  less  unjust  to  they 
citizens  than  the  Greek  republics.  Liberty,  both  with 
the  one  and  the  other,  seems  to  have  been  a  national, 
not  an  individual  object :  and,  notwithstanding  the  boa»  • 
ed  equality  before  the  laws,  which  an  ancient  Green 
writer  '  considered  the  great  distinctive  mark  between 
his  countrymen  and  the  barbarians,  the  mutual  rights 
of  fellow-citizens  seem  never  to  have  been  the  principal 
scope  of  the  old  democracies.  The  world  may  have  not 
yet  seen  an  essay  by  the  author  of  the  Italian  Republics, 
in  which  the  distinction  between  the  liberty  of  former 
states,  and  the  signification  attached  to  that  word  by  the 
happier  constitution  of  England,  is  ingeniously  devel- 
oped. The  Italians,  however,  when  they  had  ceased  to 
be  free,  still  looked  back  with  a  sigh  upon  those  times  of 
turbulence,  when  every  citizen  might  rise  to  a  share  of 
sovereign  power,  and  have  never  been  taught  fully  to 
appreciate  the  repose  of  a  monarchy.  Sperone  Speroni, 
when  Francis  Maria  II.  Duke  of  Rovero  proposed  the 
question,  "  which  was  preferable,  the  republic  or  the 
principality — tKe  perfect  and  not  durable,  or  the  less 
perfect  and  not  so  liable  to  change,"  replied,  "  that  our 
happiness  is  to  be  measured  by  its  quality,  not  by  its 
duration  ;  and  that  he  preferred  to  live  for  one  day  like 
a  man,  than  for  a  hundred  years  like  a  brute,  a  stock, 
or  a  stone."  This  was  thought,  and  called,  a  mag 
nificent  answer,  down  to  the  last  days  of  Italian  ser 
vitude.2 

Note  32.    Stanza  Ivii. 


-and  the  crown 


Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown. 

The  Florentines  did  not  take  the  opportunity  of  Pe 
trarch's  short  visit  to  their  city,  in  1350,  to  revoke  the 
decree  which  confiscated  the  property  of  his  father, 
who  had  been  banished  shortly  after  the  exile  of  Dante. 
His  crown  did  not  dazzle  them  ;  but  when,  in  the  next 
year,  they  were  in  want  of  his  assistance  in  the  formation 
of  their  university,  they  repented  of  their  injustice,  and 
Boccaccio  was  sent  to  Padua  to  entreat  the  laureat  tc 
conclude  his  wanderings  in  the  bosom  of  his  native 
country,  where  he  might  finish  his  immortal  Africa,  and 
enjoy,  with  his  recovered  possessions,  the  esteem  of  all 
classes  of  his  fellow-citizens.  They  gave  him  the  op- 
tion of  the  book,  and  the  science  he  might  condescend 
to  expound:  they  called  him  the  glory  of  his  countrv. 
who  was  dear,  and  would  be  dearer  to  them ;  and  they 
added,  that  if  there  was  any  thing  unpleasing  in  thcu- 
letter,  he  ought  to  return  amongst  them,  were  it  only  to 


1  The  Greek  boasted  that  he  was  to-ovo/ios — See  thn  law 
chapter  of  the  first  book  of  Dionysuis  of  Halicarrmssus. 

2  "  E  intorno  alia  magnif.cn.  risposta,"  etc.    Scrassi   V't* 
del  Tasso,  lib.  iii.  pag.  149.  torn.  ii.  edit.  2,  Bergamo. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


.13 


correct  their  slyie.1  Petrarch  seemed  at  first  to  listen  to 
the  flattery  and  to  the  entreaties  of  his  friend,  but  he  did 
not  return  to  Florence,  and  preferred  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  tomb  of  Laura  and  the  shades  of  Vaucluse. 
Note  33.  Stanza  Iviii. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeath'd 

His  dust. 

Boccaccio  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael  and 
St.  James,  at  Certaldo,  a  small  town  in  the  Valdelsa, 
which  was  by  some  supposed  the  place  of  his  birth. 
There  he  passed  the  latter  part  of  his  life  in  a  course  of 
laborious  study,  which  shortened  his  existence ;  and 
there  might  his  ashes  have  been  secure,  if  not  of  honour, 
at  least  of  repose.  But  the  "hyaena  bigots"  of  Certaldo 
tore  up  the  tombstone  of  Boccaccio,  and  ejected  it  from 
the  holy  precints  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  James.  The 
occasion,  and,  it  may  be  hoped,  the  excuse  of  this  eject- 
ment, was  the  making  of  a  new  floor  for  the  church  : 
but  the  fact  is,  that  the  tombstone  was  taken  up  and 
thrown  aside  at  the  bottom  of  the  building.  Ignorance 
may  share  the  sin  with  bigotry.  It  would  be  painful  to 
relate  such  an  exception  to  the  devotion  of  the  Italians 
for  their  great  names,  could  it  not  be  accompanied  by  a 
trait  more  honourably  conformable  to  the  general  char- 
acter of  the  nation.  The  principal  perjon  of  the  district, 
the  last  branch  of  the  house  of  Medicis,  afforded  that 
protection  to  the  memory  of  the  insulted  dead  which 
her  best  ancestors  had  dispensed  upon  all  cotemporary 
merit.  The  Marchioness  Lenzoni  rescued  the  tombstone 
of  Boccaccio  from  the  neglect  in  which  it  had  some  time 
lain,  and  found  for  it  an  honourable  elevation  in  her  own 
mansion.  She  has  done  more :  the  house  in  which  the 
poet  lived  has  been  as  little  respected  as  his  tomb,  and 
is  falling  to  ruin  over  Ae  head  of  one  indifferent  to  the 
name  of  its  former  tenant.  It  consists  of  two  or  three 
little  chambers,  and  a  low  tower,  on  which  Cosmo  II. 
affixed  an  inscription.  This  house  she  has  taken  meas- 
ures to  purchase,  and  proposes  to  devote  to  it  that  care 
and  consideration  which  are  attached  to  the  cradle  and 
to  the  roof  of  genius. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  undertake  the  defence  of  Boc- 
caccio ;  but  the  man  who  exhausted  his  little  patrimony 
in  the  acquirement  of  learning,  who  was  amongst  the 
first,  if  not  the  first,  to  allure  the  science  and  the  poetry 
of  Greece  to  the  bosom  of  Italy ; — who  not  only  invented 
a  new  style,  but  founded,  or  certainly  fixed,  a  new  lan- 
guage ;  who,  besides  the  esteem  of  every  polite  court  of 
Europe,  was  thought  worthy  of  employment  by  the  pre- 
dominant republic  of  his  own  country,  and,  what  is 
more,  of  the  friendship  of  Petrarch,  who  lived-  the  life 
of  a  philosopher  and  a  freeman,  and  who  died  in  the 
pursuit  of  knowledge, — such  a  man  might  have  found 
more  consideration  than  he  has  met  with  from  the 
priest  of  Certaldo,  and  from  a  late  English  traveller,  who 
strikes  off  his  portrait  as  an  odious,  contemptible,  li- 
centious writer,  whose  impure  remains  should  be  suf- 
fered to  rot  without  a  record.1  That  English  traveller, 

1  "  Aceingiti  innoltre.  se  cie  'ecito  ancor  I'esorlarti,  a  com- 
pire  1'  immortal  tu-i  Africa....  ?e  ti  nyviene  d'incontrare  ncl 
nostro  stile  cosa  che  ti  disoiaecia,  cib  debb'  essere  un  nliro 
motive  ad  esau:lire  i  desiderj  della  tin  patria."     Storia  della 
l.ctt.  Tia!.  torn,  v,  par.  i.  lib.  i.  pae.  70. 

2  Classical  Tour.  cap.   ix.  vol.  ii.  p.  355.  Hit.  3d.    "  Of 
Roccarri  •>.  the  modern  Petronius,  we  say  nothing:  the  abuse 
of  genius  is  more  odions  :>nd  more  contemptible  than  its  ab- 
sence;  and  it  imports  little  where  the  impure  remnins  of  a  li- 
ivntini  s  author  are  consigned  to  their  kindred  ilu^t.    For  tbe 
•arne  reason  the  traveller  may  pass  unnoticed  the  tomb  of  the 
•naiiziiiuit  Aretino." 


unfortunately  for  those  who  have  to  deplore  the  loss  of 
a  very  amiable  person,  is  beyond  all  criticism  ;  but  the 
mortality  which  did  not  protect  Boccaccjo  from  Mr. 
Eustace,  must  not  defend  Mr.  Eustace  from  the  impar- 
tial judgment  of  his  successors.  Death  may  canonize 
his  virtues,  not  his  errors ;  and  it  may  be  modestly  pro- 
nounced that  he  transgressed,  not  only  as  an  author, 
but  as  a  man,  when  he  evoked  the  shade  of  Boccaccio 
in  company  with  that  of  Aretino,  amidst  the  sepulchres 
of  Santa  Croce,  merely  to  dismiss  it  with  indignity.  As 
far  as  respects 

"  II  flasello  de'  Principi. 
II  divin  Pietro  Aretino," 

'it  is  of  little  import  what  censure  is  passed  upon  a  coi- 
comb  who  owes  his  present  existence  to  the  above  bur- 
lesque character  given  to  him  by  the  poet  whose  amber 
has  preserved  many  other  grubs  and  worms :  but  to 
classify  Boccaccio  with  such  a  person,  and  to  excom- 
municate his  very  ashes,  must  of  itself  make  us  doubt 
of  the  qualification  of  the  classical  tourist  for  writing 
upon  Italian,  or,  indeed,  upon  any  other  literature  ;  for 
ignorance  on  one  point  may  incapacitate  an  author 
merely  for  that  particular  topic,  but  subjection  to  a  pro- 
fessional prejudice  must  render  him  an  unsafe  directoj 
on  all  occasions.  Any  perversion  and  injustice  may  be 
made  what  is  vulgarly  called  "  a  case  of  conscience," 
and  this  poor  excuse  is  all  that  can  be  offered  for  the 
priest  of  Certaldo,  or  the  author  of  the  Classical  Tour. 
It  would  have  answered  the  purpose  to  confine  the  cen- 
sure to  the  novels  of  Boccaccio,  and  gratitude  to  that 
source  which  supplied  the  muse  of  Dryden  with  her  last 
and  most  harmonious  numbers,  might  perhaps  have  re- 
stricted that  censure  to  the  objectionable  qualities  of 
the  hundred  tales.  At  any  rate,  the  repentance  of  Boc- 
caccio might  have  arrested  his  exhumation,  and  it  should 
have  been  recollected  and  told,  that  in  his  old  age  he 
wrote  a  letter  entreating  his  friend  to  discourage  the 
reading  of  the  Decameron,  for  the  sake  of  modesty,  and 
for  the  sake  of  the  author,  who  would  not  have  an  apolo- 
gist always  at  hand  to  state  in  his  excuse  that  he  wrote  it 
when  young,  and  at  the  command  of  his  superiors.1  It 
is  neither  the  licentiousness  of  the  writer,  nor  the  evil 
propensities  of  the  reader,  which  have  given  to  the  De- 
cameron alone,  of  all  the  works  of  Boccaccio,  a  perpet- 
ual popularity.  The  establishment  of  a  new  and  delight- 
ful dialect  conferred  an  immortality  on  the  works  in 
which  it  was  first  fixed.  The  sonnets  of  Petrarch  were, 
for  the  same  reason,  fated  to  survive  his  sclf-admirea 
Africa,  the  "favourite  of  Mngx."  The  invariable  traits 
of  nature  and  feeling,  with  which  the  novels,  as  well  as 
the  verses,  abound,  have,  doubtless,  been  the  chief  source 
of  the  foreign  celebrity  of  both  authors  ;  but  Boccaccio, 
as  a  man,  is  no  more  to  be  estimated  by  that  work,  than 
Petrarch  is  to  be  regarded  in  no  other  light  than  as  the 


This  dubious  phrase  is  hardly  enoueh  to  save  the  tourist 
from  the  suspicion  of  another  blunder  respecting  the  huriai- 
place  of  Aretino.  whose  tomb  was  in  the  church  of  St.  Luke 
at  Venice,  and  eave  rise  to  the  famous  controversy  of  wh'ch 
some  notice  is  taken  innarte.  Now  the  words  of  Mr.  En- 
tace  would  lead  us  to  think  the  tomb  was  at  Florence,  or  at 
least  was  to  be  somewhere  recoenised.  Whether  the  nscrip- 
lion  so  much  disputed  was  ever  written  on  the  tomr  cannot 
now  he  decided,  for  all  .nemorial  of  this  author  has  disap- 
peared from  tbe  church  of  St.  Luke,  which  is  now  changed 
into  a  lamp  warehouse. 

1  "\on  enim  ubique  ert,  qtii  in  excusationem  meam  COP 
siirgens  dicat,  juvenis  scripsit.  el  majoris  coactus  imoerio. 
The  letter  was  addressed  to  Maphmard  rf  Cavalcanti.  m«r 
shal  of  the  kinHorn  of  Sicily.     See  Tin.boschi  Storia  «• 
torn.  v.  par.  ii.  lib.  iii.  oag.  525.  ed.  Ven.  17!I5. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


(over  of  Laura.  Even,  however,  had  the  father  of  the 
Tuscan  prose  been  known  only  as  the  author  of  the 
Decameron,  a  considerate  writer  would  have  been  cau- 
tious to  pronounce  a  sentence  irreconcileable  with  the 
unerring  voice  of  many  ages  and  nations.  An  irrevoca- 
ble value  has  never  been  stamped  upon  any  work  solely 
recommended  by  impurity. 

The  true  source  of  the  outcry  against  Boccaccio,  which 
began  at  a  very  early  period,  was  the  choice  of  his  scan- 
dalous personages  in  the  cloisters  as  well  as  the  courts  ; 
out  the  princes  only  laughed  at  the  gallant  adventures 
so  unjustly  charged  upon  Queen  Theodclinda,  whilst  the 
priesthood  cried  shame  upon  the  debauches  drawn  from 
the  convent  and  the  hermitage ;  and,  most  probably,  for 
the  opposite  reason,  namely,  that  the  picture  was  faithful 
to  the  life.  Two  of  the  novels  are  allowed  to  be  facts 
usefully  turned  into  tales,  to  deride  the  canonization  of 
rogues  and  laymen.  Ser  Ciapdelletto  and  Marcellinus 
are  cited  with  applause  even  by  the  decent  Muratori. ' 
The  great  Arnaud,  as  he  is  quoted  in  Bayle,  states,  that 
a  new  edition  of  the  novels  was  proposed,  of  which  the 
expurgation  consisted  in  omitting  the  words  "monk" 
and  "nun,"  and  tacking  the  immoralities  to  other 
names.  The  literary  history  of  Italy  particularizes  no 
such  edition ;  but  it  was  not  long  before  the  whole  of 
Europe  had  but  one  opinion  of  the  Decameron ;  and  the 
absolution  of  the  author  seems  to  have  been  a  point  set- 
tled at  least  a  hundred  years  ago :  "  On  se  ferait  siffler 
si  I'on  pretendait  convaincre  Boccace  de  n'avoir  pas  etc 
»onn£te  homme,  puisqu'il  a  fait  le  Decameron."  So  said 
one  of  the  best  men,  and  perhaps  the  best  critic,  that 
ever  lived — the  very  martyr  to  impartiality.2  But  as  this 
infoimation,  that  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century 
o«ie  would  have  been  hooted  at  for  pretending  that  Boc- 
caccio was  not  a  good  man,  may  seem  to  come  from 
one  of  those  enemies  who  are  to  be  suspected,  even 
when  they  make  us  a  present  of  trull',  a  more  accept- 
able contrast  with  the  proscription  of  the  body,  soul, 
and  muse  of  Boccaccio  may  be  found  in  a  few  words 
trom  the  righteous,  the  patriotic  contemporary,  wno 
thought  one  of  the  tales  of  this  impure  writer  worthy  a 
Latin  version  from  his  own  pen.  "  /  have  remarked 
elsewhere"  says  Petrarch,  writing  to  Boccaccio,  "  that 
the  book  itself  has  been  worried  by  certain  dogs,  but 
ttoutly  defended  by  your  staff"  and  voice.  Nor  was  I 
astonished,  for  I  have  had  proof  of  the  vigour  of  your 
mind,  and  I  know  you  have  fallen  on  that  unaccom- 
modating incapable  race  of  mortals  tvho,  whatever  they 
either  like  not,  or  know  not,  or  cannot  do,  are  sure  to 
reprehend  in  others,  and  on  those  occasions  only  put  on  a 
show  of  learning  and  eloquence,  but  otlierwise  are  entirely 
dumb.3 

It  is  satisfactory  to  find  that  all  the  priesthood  do  not 
resemble  those  of  Certaldo,  and  that  one  of  them  who 
did  not  possess  the  bones  of  Boccaccio  would  not  lose 
(he  opportunity  of  raising  a  cenotaph  to  his  memory. 


1  Dissertazioni  supra  le  antichi&  Italiano.  Diss.  Iviii.  p.  233. 
lorn.  iii.  edit.  Milan,  1751. 

2  F.clairctssemcnt,  etc.  etc.  p.  638.  edit.  Basle,  1741,  in  the 
Supplement  to  Bayle's  Dictionary. 

3  '  Animadvert!  alicubi  librum  ipsum  canum  dentibus  la- 
tessitum  tuo  tamen  baculo  egregie  tuaque  voce  defensum. 
Nee  miratus  sum:  nam  et  vires  ingenii  tui  novi,  et  scio  exper- 
.*us  esses  hnminum  genus  insolens  et  ignavum,  qui,  quicqnid 
ipai  vel  nolunt,  vel  nesciunt,  yel  non  ppssunt,  in  aliis  repre- 
nendunt;  ad  hoc  unum  docti  et  arguti,  Bed  elineues  ad  relt- 
nua  "  Epist  Joan  Boccatio.  opp.  torn.  i.  o.  340  ediu  Basil 


Bevius,  canon  of  Padua,  at  the  beginning  of  the  16th 
century,  erected  at  Arqua,  opposite  to  the  tomb  of  the 
laureat,  a  tablet,  in  which  he  associated  Boccaccio  t» 
the  equal  honours  of  Dante  and  Petrarch. 

Note  34.  Stanza  Ix. 
What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones  ? 
Our  veneration  for  the  Medici  begins  with  Cosmo,  and 
expires  with  his  grandson  ;  that  stream  is  pure  only  tt 
the  source ;  and  it  is  in  search  of  some  memorial  of  the 
virtuous  republicans  of  the  family,  that  we  visit  the 
church  of  St.  Lorenzo  at  Florence.  The  tawdry,  glaring, 
unfinished  chapel  in  that  church,  designed  for  the  mau- 
soleum of  the  Dukes  of  Tuscany,  set  round  with  crowns 
and  coffins,  gives  birth  to  no  emotions  but  those  of  con- 
tempt for  the  lavish  vanity  of  a  race  of  despots,  whilst 
the  pavement  slab,  simply  inscribed  to  the  Father  of  his 
Country,  reconciles  us  to  the  name  of  Medici.1  It  was 
very  natural  for  Corinna2  to  suppose  that  the  statue 
raised  to  the  Duke  of  Urbino  in  the  capella  de  depositi, 
was  intended  for  his  great  namesake  ;  but  the  magnifi- 
cent Lorenzo  is  only  the  sharer  of  a  coffin  half  hidden 
in  a  niche  of  the  sacristy.  The  decay  of  Tuscany  dates 
from  the  sovereignty  of  the  Medici.  Of  the  sepulchral 
peace  which  succeeded  to  the  establishment  of  the  reign- 
ing families  in  It&ly,  our  own  Sidney  has  given  us  a 
glowing,  but  a  faithful  picture.  "Notwithstanding  all 
the  seditions  of  Florence,  and  other  cities  of  Tuscany, 
the  horrid  factions  of  Guelphs  and  Ghibelins,  Neri  and 
Bianchi,  nobles  and  commons,  they  continued  populous, 
strong,  and  exceeding  rich ;  but  in  the  space  of  less  than 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  the  peaceable  reign  of  the 
Medices  is  thought  to  have  destroyed  nine  parts  in  ten 
of  the  people  of  that  province.  .  Amongst  other  things 
it  is  remarkable,  that  when  Philip  the  Second  of  Spain 
gave  Sienna  to  the  Duke  of  Florence,  his  ambassador 
then  at  Rome  sent  him  word,  that  he  had  given  away 
more  than  650,000  subjects  ;  and  it  is  not  believed  there 
are  now  20,000  souls  inhabiting  that  city  and  terri- 
tory. Pisa,  Pistoia,  Arezzo,  Cortona,  and  other  towns, 
that  were  then  good  and  populous,  are  in  the  like  pro- 
portion diminished,  and  Florence  more  than  any. 
When  that  city  had  been  long  troubled  with  seditions, 
tumults,  and  wars,  for  the  most  part  unprosperou?,  they 
still  retained  such  strength,  that  when  Charles  VIII. 
of  France,  being  admitted  as  a  friend  with  his  whole 
army,  which  soon  after  conquered  the  kingdom  of 
Naples,  thought  to  master  them,  the  people  taking  arms 
struck  such  a  terror  into  him,  that  he  was  glad  to  depart 
upon  such  conditions  as  they  thought  fit  to  impose. 
Machiavel  reports,  that,  in  that  time,  Florence  alone, 
with  the  Val  d'Arno,  a  small  territory  belonging  to  that 
city,  couid,  in  a  few  hours,  by  the  sound  of  a  bell,  bring 
together  135,000  well-armed  men ;  whereas  now  that 
city,  with  all  the  others  in  that  province,  are  brought  to 
such  despicable  weakness,  emptiness,  poverty,  and  base- 
ness, that  they  can  neither  resist  the  oppressions  of  their 
own  prince,  nor  defend  him  or  themselves  if  they  were 
assaulted  by  a  foreign  enemy.  The  people  are  dispersed 
or  destroyed,  and  the  best  families  sent  to  seek  habita- 
tions in  Venice,  Genoa,  Rome,  Naples,  and  Lucca.  This 
is  not  the  effect  of  war  or  pestilence  ;  they  enjoy  a  perfect 
peace,  and  suffer  no  other  plague  than  *he  governmenl 


1  Cosmus  Medices,  Decreto  Publico,  Pater  Patria. 

2  Corinne,  T/iv.  xviii.  cap.  iii.  vol.  iii.  page  246 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


12/ 


Ihcy  are  under.1  From  the  usurper  Cosmo  down  to  the 
imbecile  Gaston,  we  look  in  vain  for  any  of  those  unmixed 
qualities  which  should  raise  a  patriot  to  the  command  of 
his  fellow-citizens.  The  Grand  Dukes,  and  particularly 
the  third  Cosmo,  had  operated  so  entire  a  change  in  the 
Tuscan  character,  that  the  candid  Florentines,  in  excuse 
'or  some  imperfections  in  the  philanthropic  system  cf 
..jeopold,  are  obliged  to  confess  that  the  sovereign  was  the 
i  nly  liberal  man  in  his  dominions.  Yet  that  excellent 

ince  himself  had  no  other  notion  of  a  national  as- 
sembly, than  of  a  body  to  represent  the  wants  and 
wishes,  not  the  will  of  the  people. 

Note  35.  Stanza  Ixiii. 
An  earthquake  reel'd  unheededly  away ! 

"And  such  was  their  mutual  animosity,  so  intent 
were  they  upon  the  battle,  that  the  earthquake,  which 
overthrew  in  great  part  many  of  the  cities  of  Italy, 
which  turned  the  course  of  rapid  streams,  poured  back 
the.  sea  upon  the  rivers,  and  tore  down  the  very  moun- 
tains, was  not  felt  by  one  of  the  combatants."2  Such 
is  the  description  of  Livy.  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
modern  tactics  would  admit  of  such  an  abstraction. 

The  site  of  the  battle  of  Thrasimene  is  not  to  be  mis- 
•taken.  The  traveller  from  the  village  under  Cortona  to 
Jasa  di  Piano,  the  next  stage  on  the  way  to  Rome,  has, 
for  the  first  two  or  three  miles,  around  him,  but  more 
particularly  to  the  right,  that  flat  land  which  Hannibal  laid 
waste  in  order  to  induce  the  Consul  Flaminius  to  move 
from  Arezzo.  On  his  left,  and  in  front  of  him,  is  a  ridge 
of  hills,  bending  down  towards  the  lake  of  Thrasimene, 
called  by  Livy  "monies  Cortonenses,"  and  now  named 
the  Gualandra.  These  hills  he  approaches  at  Ossaja,  a 
village  which  the  itineraries  pretend  to  have  been  so  de- 
nominated from  the  bones  found  there :  but  there  have 
been  no  bones  found  there,  and  the  battle  was  fought  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hill.  From  Ossaja  the  road  begins 
lo  rise  a  little,  but  does  not  pass  into  the  roots  of  the 
mountains  until  the  sixty-seventh  mile-stone  from  Flo- 
rence. The  ascent  thence  is  not  steep  but  perpetual,  and 
continues  for  twenty  minutes.  The  lake  is  soon  seen 
below  on  the  right,  with  Borghetto,  a  round  tower  close 
upon  the  water ;  and  the  undulating  hills  partially  covered 
with  wood  amongst  which  the  road  winds,  sink  by  degrees 
into  the  marshes  near  to  this  tower.  Lower  than  the 
road,  down  to  the  right  amidst  these  woody  hillocks, 
Hannibal  placed  his  horse,3  in  the  jaws  of  or  rather  above 
1»3  pass,  which  was  between  ihe  lake  and  the  present 
oad,  and  most  probably  close  to  Borghetto,  just  und^r 
the  lowest  of  the  "  tumuli."*  On  a  summit  to  the  left, 
above  the  road,  is  an  old  circular  ruin  which  the  peasants 
call  "  the  Tower  of  Hannibal  the  Carthaginian."  Arrived 
at  the  highest  point  of  the  road,  the  traveller  has  a  partial 
view  of  the  fatal  plain,  which  opens  fully  upon  him  as  he 
descends  the  Gualandra.  He  soon  finds  himself  in  a  vale 
inclosed  to  the  left  and  in  front  and  behind  him  by  the 
Gualandra  hills,  bending  round  in  a  segment  larger  than 


a  semicircle,  and  running  down  at  each  end  to  the  lake, 
which  obliques  to  the  right,  and  forms  the  chord  of  tlus 
mountain  arc.  The  position  cannot  be  guessed  at  fron 
the  plains  of  Cortona,  nor  appears  to  be  so  complete.y 
inclosed  unless  to  one  who  is  fairly  within  the  hills.  I« 
then,  indeed,  appears  "  a  place  made  as  it  were  on  pur- 
pose for  a  snare,"  "locus  insidiis  natus."  Borghetto  is 
then  found  to  stand  in  a  narrow  marshy  pass  close  to 
the  hill  and  to  the  lake,  whilst  there  is  no  other  outlet  at 
the  opposite  turn  of  the  mountains  than  through  the  little 
town  of  Pasignano,  which  is  pushed  into  the  water  by  the 
foot  of  a  high  rocky  acclivity. '  There  is  a  woody  emi- 
nen\.e  branching  down  from  the  mountains  into  the  up- 
per end  of  the  plain  nearer  to  the  side  of  Passignano,  and 
on  this  stands  a  white  village  called  Torre.  Poly  bius  seems 
to  allude  to  this  eminence  as  the  one  on  which  Hannibal 
encamped  and  drew  out  his  heavy-armed  Africans  and 
Spaniards  in  a  conspicuous  position.2  From  this  spot  he 


» 


1  On  Government,  chap.  ii.  sect.  xxvi.  paeeSOS.  edit.  1751. 
Sidney  is,  together  with   Locke  and  Hoadlcy,  one  of  Mr. 
Hume's  "despicable"  writers. 

2  "Tantusque  fuit  ardor  animorum,  adeo  intentus  pugnfe 
animus,   utcuin  terrae  tnotum   qui  multarum   urbium   llaliae 
magnas  paries  prostravit,  avertitque  cursu  rapido  amnes,  mare 
flum'milms  invexit,  monies  lapsu  ingenti  proruit,  nemo  pug- 
oantium  sanserif...."  Tit.  Liv.  lib.  XXH.  cap.  xn. 

3  "  Eiinites  ad  ipsas  fauces  saltus,  tumulia  apte  tegentibus, 
local."  Tit-  Liv.  lib.  xxii.  cap.  iv. 

4  "  Ubi  raaxime  monies  Cortonenses  Thrasimenus  subit.' 
Ibid. 

o2  21 


through  the  Gualandra  heights  to  the  right,  so  as  to  arrive 
unseen,  and  form  an  ambush  amongst  the  broken  accli- 
vities which  the  road  now  jasses,  and  to  be  ready  to  act 
upon  the  left  flank  and  above  the  enemy,  whilst  the  horse 
shut  up  the  pass  behind.  Flaminius  came  to  the  lake 
near  Borghetto  at  sunset ;  and,  w'  thout  sending  any  spies 
before  him,  marched  through  the  pass  the  next  morning 
before  the  day  had  quite  broken,  so  that  he  perceived 
nothing  of  the  horse  and  light  troops  above  and  about 
turn,  and  saw  only  the  heavy-armed  Carthaginians  in 
front  on  the  hill  of  Torre.3  The  consul  began  to  draw 
)ut  his  army  in  the  flat,  and  in  the  mean  time  the  horse 
n  ambush  occupied  the  pass  behn.d  him  at  Borghetto. 
Thus  the  Romans  were  completely  inclosed,  having  the 
lake  on  the  right,  the  main  army  on  the  hill  of  Torre  in 
front,  the  Gualandra  hills  filled  with  the  light-armed  on 
their  left  flank,  and  being  prevented  from  receding  by 
the  cavalry,  who,  the  farther  they  advanced,  stopped  up 
all  the  outlets  in  the  rear.  A  fog  rising  from  the  lake 
now  spread  itself  over  the  army  of  the  consul,  but  the 
high  lands  were  in  the  sunshine,  and  all  the  different 
corps  in  ambush  looked  towards  the  hill  of  Torre  for  the 
order  of  attack.  Hannibal  gave  the  signal,  and  moved 
down  from  his  post  on  the  height.  At  the  same  moment 
all  his  troops  on  the  eminences  behind  and  in  the  flank 
of  Flaminius,  rushed  forward  as  it  were  with  one  accord 
into  the  plain.  The  Romans,  who  were  forming  their 
array  in  the  mist,  suddenly  heard  the  shouts  of  the 
enemy  amongst  them,  on  every  side,  and,  before  they 
could  fall  into  their  ranks,  or  draw  their  swords,  or  see 
by  whom  they  were  attacked,  felt  at  once  that  they  were 
surrounded  and  lost. 

There  are  two  little  rivulets  which  run  from  the  Gua 
landra  into  the  lake.  The  traveller  crosses  the  first  of 
these  at  about  a  mile  after  he  comes  into  the  plain,  and 
this  divides  the  Tuscan  from  the  Papal  territories.  The 
second,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  further  on,  is  called 
"  the  bloody  rivulet,"  and  the  peasants  point  out  an 
open  spot  to  the  left  between  the  "  Sanguinctto"  anil 


1  "  Inde  colles  assurgunt."    Tit.  Liv.  lib.  xxii.  cap   iv. 

2  Toy  fifv  Kara   7r/50<7u>7ro»-   tnf   rofeias  \6fov   airtt 
icareAa'fitfo,  *ai  rot>«  Ai'Stiuj  KOI  roij  ]()iipas  cxwv  <V 
airoC  (car£<rr  paroviotvat.    Hist.  lib.  iii.  cap.  K».  The  ac- 
count in  Polybius  is  not  eo  easily  reconcileaUe  with  preeoii. 
appearances  as  that  in  Livy;  he  talks  of  hills   to  the  r.ght 
and  left  of  the  pass  and  valluy  :  but  when  Hamimus  entered 
he  had  the  lake  at  the  right  of  both. 

3  "A  tergoetiuper  captftdecepereiniidi*.     Jr.  LAI  w 


122 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


the  hills,  whi-.h,  they  say,  was  the  principal  scene  of 
slaughter.  The  other  part  of  the  plain  is  covered  with 
thick-set  olive  trees  in  corn-grounds,  and  is  nowhere 
quite  level  excipt  near  the  edge  of  the  lake.  It  is, 
indeed,  most  probable  that  the  battle  was  fought  near 
llus  end  of  the  valley,  for  the  six  thousand  Romans 
who,  at  the  beginning  of  the  action,  broke  through  the 
enemy,  escaped  to  the  summit  of  an  eminence  which 
mug',  have  been  in  this  quarter,  otherwise  they  would 
have  had  to  traverse  the  whole  plain,  and  to  pierce 
thro.igh  the  main  army  of  Hannibal. 

The  Romans  fought  desperately  for  three  hours,  but 
the  death  of  Flaminius  was  the  signal  for  a  general 
dispersion.  The  Carthaginian  horse  then  burst  in  upon 
the  fugitives,  and  the  lake,  the  marsh  about  Borghetto, 
but  chiefly  the  plain  of  the  Sanguinetto  and  the  passes 
of  the  Gualandra,  were  strewed  with  dead.  Near  some 
old  walls  on  a  bleak  ridge  to  the  left  above  the  rivulet, 
many  human  bones  have  been  repeatedly  found,  and 
this  has  confirmed  the  pretensions  and  the  name  of  the 
"stream  of  blood." 

Every  district  of  Italy  has  Us  hero.  In  the  north  some 
painter  is  the  usual  genius  of  the  place,  and  the  foreign 
Julio  Romano  more  than  divides  Mantua  with  her  native 
Virgil.1  To  the  south  we  hear  of  Roman  names.  Near 
Thrasimene  tradition  is  still  faithful  to  the  fame  of  an 
enemy,  and  Hannibal  the  C  arthaginian  is  the  only  ancient 
name  remembered  on  the  banks  of  the  Perugian  lake. 
Flaminius  is  unknown;  hit  the  postilions  on  that  road 
have  been  taught  to  show  the  very  spot  where  il  Console 
Romano  was  slain.  Of  all  who  fought  and  fell  in  the 
batile  of  Thasimeiie,  the  historian  himself  has,  besides 
the  generals  and  Maharbal,  preserved  indeed  only  a 
single  name.  You  overtake  the  Carthaginian  again  on 
the  same  read  to  Rome.  The  antiquary,  that  is,  the 
hostJer  of  the  post-house  at  Spoleto,  tells  you  that  his 
town  repulsed  the  victorious  enemy,  and  shows  you  the 
gate  still  called  Porta  di  Annibale.  It  is  hardly  worth 
while  to  remark  that  a  French  travel-writer,  well  known 
by  the  name  of  the  President  Dupaty,  saw  Thrasimene 
in  the  lake  of  Bolsena,  which  lay  conveniently  on  his 
way  from  Sieiuia  to  Rome. 

Note  36.  Stanza  l.xvi. 
But  thou,  Clitumnus! 

No  book  of  travels  has  omitted  to  expatiate  on  the 
temple  of  the  Clitumnus,  between  Foligno  and  Spoleto ; 
and  no  site,  or  scenery,  even  in  Italy,  is  more  worthy  a 
description.  For  an  account  of  the  dilapidation  of 
this  temple,  the  reader  is  referred  to  Historical  Illustra- 
tions of  the  Fourth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold. 

Note  37.  Stanza  Ixxi. 

Charming  the  eye  with  dread, — a  matchless  cataract. 
I  saw  the  "  Cascata  del  marmore  "  of  Terni  twice,  at 
different  periods ;  once  from  the  summit  of  the  preci- 
pice, and  again  from  the  valley  below.  The  lower 
tiew  is  far  to  be  preferred,  if  the  traveller  has  time 
for  one  only :  but  in  any  point  of  view,  either  from 
above  or  below,  it  is  worth  all  the  cascades  and  tor- 
renta  of  Switzerland  put  together ;  the  Stauhach,  Rei- 
chenbach,  Pisse  Vache,  fall  of  Arpenaz,  etc.,  are  rills 


1  About  the  middle  of  fne  Xlltli  century,  the  coins  of 
Mantua  bore  on  one  side  the  image  and  tiguro  of  Virgil, 
'/.fi-ca  d'  Italin,  pi.  xvii.  i.  6.  .  .  Voyago  dans  le  Milanuis, 
vc.,  ttar  A  Z.  Millin,  torn  n.  p.  291.  Paris,  1817. 


in  comparative  appearance.     Of  the  fall  of  Schafl 
hausen  I  cannot  speak,  not  yet  having  seen  i». 

Note  38.  Stanza  Ixxii. 
An  Iris  sils,  amidst  the  infernal  surge. 
Of  the  time,  place,  and  qualities  of  this  kind  of  Ins 
the  reader  may  have  seen  a  short  account  in  a  note  to 
Manfred.  The  fall  looks  so  much  like  "  the  hell  of 
waters"  that  Addison  thought  the  descent  alluded  to 
to  be  the  gulf  in  which  Alecto  plunged  into  ihe  in- 
fernal regions.  It  is  singular  enough  that  two  of  the 
finest  cascades  in  Europe  should  be  artificial — this  of 
the  Velino,  and  the  one  at  Tivoli.  The  traveller  is 
strongly  recommended  to  trace  the  Velino,  at  least  as 
high  as  the  little  lake  called  Pie'  di  Lup.  The  Reatine 
territory  was  the  Italian  Tempe,1  and  the  ancient  na- 
turalist, amongst  other  beautiful  varieties,  remarked 
the  daily  rainbows  of  the  lake  Velinus.2  A  scholar 
of  great  name  has  devoted  a  treatise  to  this  district 
alone.1 

Note  39.  Stanza  Ixxiii. 

The  thundering  lauwine. 

In  the  greater  part  of  Switzerland  the  avalanches  are 
known  by  the  name  of  lauwine. 

Note  40.  Stanza  Ixxv. 


-1  abhorr'd 


Too  much,  to  conquer  for  tho  post's  sake, 

The  drill'd  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  by  word. 

These  stanzas  may  probably  remind  the  reader  of 
Ensign  NoTthertmi's  remarks :  "  D — n  Homo,"  etc.,  but 
the  reasons  for  our  dislike  are  not  exactly  the  same. 
I  wish  to  express  that  we  become  tired  of  the  task 
before  we  can  comprehend  the  beauty  •  that  we  learn 
by  rote  before  we  can  get  by  heart ;  that  the  freshness 
is  worn  away,  and  the  future  pleasure  and  advantage 
deadened  and  destroyed,  by  the  didactic  anticipation, 
at  an  age  when  we  can  neither  feel  nor  understand 
the  power  of  compositions  which  it  requires  an  ac- 
quaintance with  life,  as  well  as  Latin  and  Greek,  to 
relish  or  to  reason  upon.  .  For  the  same  reason  we 
never  can  be  aware  of  the  fulness  of  some  of  the  finest 
passages  of  Shakspeare  ("  To  be  or  not  to  be,"  for 
instance),  from  the  habit  of  having  them  hammered 
into  us  at  eight  years  old,  as  an  exercise,  not  of  mind 
but  of  memory :  so  that  when  we  are  old  enough  to 
enjoy  them,  the  taste  is  gone,  and  the  appetite  palled. 
In  some  parts  of  the  continent,  young  persons  are 
taught  from  more  common  authors,  and  do  not  read 
the  best  classics  till  their  maturity.  I  certainly  do  not 
speak  on  this  point  from  any  pique  or  aversion  to- 
wards the  place  of  my  education.  I  was  not  a  slow, 
though  an  idle  boy ;  and  I  believe  no  one  could,  or 
can  be  more  attached  to  Harrow  than  I  have  always 
been,  and  with  reason ; — a  part  of  the  time  passed 
there  was  the  happiest  of  my  life :  and  :ny  preceptor 
(the  Rev.  Dr.  Joseph  Drury)  was  the  best  and  worthiest 
friend  I  ever  possessed,  whose  warnings  I  have  rempni- 
bered  but  too  well,  though  too  late — when  I  have 
erred,  and  whose  counsels  I  have  but  followed  when 
I  have  done  well  or  wisely.  If  ever  this  imperfect 


1  "  Rentini  me  ad  sua  Tempe  duxerunt."  Cicer.  Kpist.  ad 
Attic,  xv.  lib.  iv. 

2  "  In  eodem  lacu  nnllp  non  die  apparere  arcus."  Plin, 
Hist.  Nat.  lib.  ii.  cap.  Ixii. 

3  Aid.  Maiiiit.  de  Hen'ini  urbt   IK  oquo    ap.  P^'lengr* 
Thesuur.  torn.  i.  p.  773 


CH1LDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


123 


record   of  my  feelings  towards  him  should  reach  his 

eyes,  let  it  remind   him  of  one  who  never  thinks  o 

.'lim   but  with  gratitude  and   veneration — of  one  who 

would  more  gladly  boast  of  having  been  his  pupil,  if, 

by  more   closely  following   his   injunctions,  he  coulc 

reflect  any  honour  upon  his  instructor. 

Note  41.  Stanza  Ixxix. 

The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now. 

For  a  comment  on  this  and  the  two  following  stanzas, 

the  reader  may  consult  Historical  Illustrations  of  the 

Fourth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold. 

Note  42.    Stanza  Ixxxii. 

The  trebly  hundred  triumphs ! 

Orosius  gives    three  hundred  and  twenty  for  the 

number  of  triumphs.     He  is  followed  by  Panvinius : 

and  Panvinius  by  Mr.  Gibbon  and  the  modern  writers. 

Note  43.  Stanza  Ixxxiii. 

Oh  thoti,  whose  chariot  roll'd  on  fortune's  wheel,  etc. 
Certainly  were  it  not  for  these  two  traits  in  the  life 
of  Sylla,  alluded  to  in  this  stanza,  we  should  regard 
him  as  a  monster  unredeemed  by  any  admirable  quality. 
The  atonement  of  his  voluntary  resignation  of  empire 
may  perhaps  be  accepted  by  us,  as  it  seems  to  have 
satisfied  the  Romans,  who  if  they  had  not  respected 
must  have  destroyed  him.  There  could  be  no  mean,  no 
division  of  opinion ;  they  must  have  all  thought,  like 
Eucrates,  that  what  had  appeared  ambition  was  a  love 
of  glory,  and  what  had  been  mistaken  for  pride  was  a 
real  grandeur  of  soul.1 

Note  44.    Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay. 
On  the  third  of  September,  Cromwell  gained  the  vic- 
tory of  Dunbar  ;  a  year  afterwards  he  obtained  "his 
crowning  mercy"  of  Worcester ;  and  a  few  years  after, 
on  the  same  day,  which  he  had  ever  esteemed  the  most 
fortunate  for  him,  died. 

Note  45.    Stanza  Ixxxvii. 
And  thou,  dread  statue  !  still  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty. 

The  projected  division  of  the  Spada  Pompey  has 
already  been  recorded  by  the  historian  of  the  Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.  Mr.  Gibbon  found  it 
in  the  memorials  of  Flaminius  Vacca,2  and  it  may  be 
added  to  his  mention  of  it  that  Pope  Julius  III.  gave 
the  contending  owners  five  hundred  crowns  for  the 
statue ;  and  presented  it  to  Cardinal  Capo  di  Ferro, 
who  had  prevented  the  judgment  of  Solomon  from 
being  executed  upon  the  image.  In  a  more  civilized 
age  this  statue  was  exposed  to  an  actual  operation :  for 
the  French,  who  acted  the  Brutus  of  Voltaire  in  the 
Coliseum,  resolved  that  their  Caesar  should  fall  at  the 
base  of  that  Pompey,  which  was  supposed  to  have  been 
sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  the  original  dictator.  The 
nine  foot  hero  was  therefore  removed  to  the  arena  of 
»he  amphitheatre,  and  to  facilitate  its  transport,  suf- 
(fcred  the  temporary  amputation  of  its  right  arm.  The 
republican  tragedians  had  to  plead  that  the  arm  was  a 
restoration  :  but  their  accusers  do  not  believe  that  the 
•Jitegrity  of  the  statue  would  have  protected  it.  The 


love  of  finding  every  coincidence  has  discovered  the 
true  Caesafean  ichor  in  a  stain  near  the  right  kne«-  • 
but  colder  criticism  has  rejected  not  only  the  blood 
but  the  portrait,  and  assigned  the  globe  of  power  rather 
to  the  first  of  the  emperors  than  to  the  last  ol  tho 
republican  masters  of  Rome.  Winkelmann  '  is  loth 
to  allow  a  heroic  statue  of  a  Roman  citizen,  but  tht 
Grimani  Agrippa,  a  contemporary  almost,  is  heroic  ;  and 
naked  Roman  figures  were  only  very  rare,  not  abso- 
lutely forbidden.  The  face  accords  much  better  with 
the  "  hominem  integrum  et  castum  et  gravem,"  2  than 
with  any  of  the  busts  of  Augustus,  and  is  too  stern  for 
him  who  was  beautiful,  says  Suetonius,  at  all  periods 
of  his  life.  The  pretended  likeness  to  Alexander  the 
Great  cannot  be  discerned,  but  the  traits  resemble  the 
medal  of  Pompey.3  The  objectionable  globe  may  not 
have  been  an  ill-applied  flattery  to  him  who  found 
Asia  Minor  the  boundary,  and  left  it  the  centre  of  the 
Roman  empire.  It  seems  that  Winkelmann  has  made 
a  mistake  in  thinking  that  no  proof  of  the  identity  of 
this  statue,  with  that  which  received  the  bloody  sacri- 
fice, can  be  derived  from  the  spot  where  it  was  discov- 
ered.4 Flaminius  Vacca  says  sotto  una  cantina,  and 
this  cantina  is  known  to  have  been  in  the  Vicolo  de 
Leutari  near  the  Cancellaria,  a  position  corresponding 
exactly  to  that  of  the  Janus  before  the  basilica  of 
Pompey's  theatre,  to  which  Augustus  transferred  the 
statue  after  the  curia  was  either  burnt  or  taken  down.* 
Part  of  the  Pompeian  shade,6  the  portico,  existed  in 
the  beginning  of  the  XVth  century,  and  the  atrium 
was  still  called  Satrum.  So  says  Blondus.'  At  all 
events,  so  imposing  is  the  stern  majesty  of  the  statue, 
and  so  memorable  is  the  story,  that  the  play  of  the 
imagination  leaves  no  room  for  the  exercise  of  the 
judgment,  and  the  fiction,  if  a  fiction  it  is,  operates 
on  the  spectator  with  an  effect  not  less  powerful  than 
truth. 

Note  46.  Stanza  Lxxxviii. 
And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome ! 
Ancient  Rome,  like  modern  Sienna,  abounded  mos 
probably  with  images  of  the  foster-mother  of  ha 
founder;  but  there  were  two  she-wolves  of  whom 
iiistory  makes  particular  mention.  One  of  these,  of 
brass  in  ancient  work,  was  seen  by  Dionysius  8  at  the 
emple  of  Romulus  under  the  Palatine,  and  is  uni- 
versally believed  to  be  that  mentioned  by  the  Latin 
listorian,  as  having  been  made  from  the  money  col- 
ected  by  a  fine  on  usurers,  and  as  standing  under  the 
Eluminal  fig-tree.9  The  other  was  that  which  Cicero '" 
ms  celebrated  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  which  tho 


t  "Seigneur,  vous  cliangez,  toutes  mes  idees  de  la  facon 
4ont  je  vous  vois  ngir.  Je  crnyais  que  vous  aviez  de  1'ambi- 
lion,  mais  aucun  amour  pour  la  gloire:  je  voynis  bien  que 
»otre  ame  etait  haute;  mais  je  ne  sonpconnais  pas  qu'elle 
•fit  grande." — Dtnlaffue  lie  $i  '.in  et  <C  Eucrale. 

2  Mcmoiia  oum.  Ivii.  pag  D.  ap.  Monlfaucon,  Uiarium 
ruuicuir 


1  Storia  delle  arti,  etc.,  lib.  ix.  cap.  i.  p.  321,  322.  torn,  ii 

2  Cicer.  Epist.  ad  Atticum,  xi.  6. 

3  Published  by  Causeus  in  his  Museum  Romanum. 

4  Storia  delle  arti,  etc.,  ibid. 

5  Sueton.  in  vit.  August  cap.  31.  and  in  vit.  C.  J.  Caed/tf 
cap.  88.  Appian  says  it  was  burnt  down.    Sec  a  noto  of  Pit 
scus  to  Suetonius,  pag.  224. 

6  "  Tu  modo  Pompeia  lenta  spatiare  sub  umbra." 

Ovid  Ar.  Jlman. 

7  Roma  instaurata,  lib.  ii.  fol.  31. 

8  Xd\Kta  TToirJuaTa  ira\aias  ipyaataf.  Antiq.  Rom.  Kb  , 

9  "Ad  ficum  Ruminalem  simulacra  infantium  conditoriMi 
urbis  sub  uberibus  IUPEE  posuerunt."    Liv.  Hist,  lib    x  <;ati. 
l.xix.    This  was  in  the  year  U.  C.  455,  or  457. 

10  "  Turn  statua  Natta:,  turn  simulacra  Deorum,  Romuliu 
que  et  Remu«  cum  altrice  bellua  vi  fulminis  icti  conriderunt." 
De  Divinat.  ii.  20.    "Tactusest  illo  etiam  qui  hanc  urbem 
comlidit  Romulu*.  quern  inauratum  in  Capitol«>  pa/vure 


124 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


listor'-Ai  Dion  ilso  reco.ds  as  having  suffered  the  same 
aocide  it  as  is  iJluded  to  by  the  orator.1  The  question 
agitated  by  the  antiquaries  is,  whether  the  wolf  now 
in  the  conservator's  palace  is  that  of  Livy  and  Dio- 
nysius,  or  that  of  Cicero,  or  whether  it  is  neither 
one  nor  the  other.  The  earlier  writers  differ  as  much 
as  the  moderns :  Lucius  Faunus  2  says,  that  it  is  the  one 
alluded  to  by  both,  which  is  impossible,  and  also  by 
Virgil,  which  may  be.  Fulvius  Ursinus  3  calls  it  the 
wolf  of  Dionysius,  and  Marlianus  *  talks  of  it  as  the 
one  mentioned  by  Cicero.  To  him  Rycquius  trem- 
blingly assents.4  Nardini  is  inclined  to  suppose  it  may 
be  one  of  the  many  wolves  preserved  in  ancient  Rome ; 
but  of  the  two  rather  bends  to  the  Ciceronian  statue.6 
Montfaucon T  mentions  it  as  a  point  without  doubt. 
Of  the  later  writers  the  decisive  Winkelmann8  pro- 
claims it  as  having  been  found  at  the  church  of  Saint 
Theodore,  where,  or  near  where,  was  the  temple  of 
Romulus,  and  consequently  makes  it  the  wolf  of 
Dionysius.  His  authority  is  Lucius  Faunus,  who,  how- 
ever, only  says  that  it  was  placed  not  found,  at  the 
Ficus  Ruminalis  by  the  Comitium,  by  which  he  does 
not  seem  to  allude  to  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore. 
Rycquius  was  the  first  to  make  the  mistake,  and 
Winkelmann  followed  Rycquius. 

Flaminius  Vacca  tells  quite  a  different  story,  and  says 


•tqne  lactantem,  iiberibus  lupinis  inhiantem  fuisse  meminis- 
lis."    In  C'atilin.  iii.  8. 

"  Hie  sylvestris  erat  Roman!  nominis  altrix 
Murtia.  quie  paryos  Mavortis  semine  natos 
Uberibus  gravidis  vitali  rore  rigabat, 
ft  u  SB  turn  cum  pueris  flammato  fulminis  ictu 
Concidit,  atque  avulsa  peduin  vestieia  liquit." 

De  Consulatu,  lib.  ii.  (lib.  i.  de  Divinat.  cap.  ii.) 
1  'Ev  yap  rip  KairijruAi'cj;  av&pidvres  TI  TroXAoi  IK& 
Ktpavvuv  mivtxwvevQiitrav,  xai  nyaA//ara  aXXa  TC, 
leal  AiJf  l~i  xiovos  tfipv/itvov,  tlx&v  re  TI;  \VKalvris 
svvirt  r<3  Pw/xijD  Kai  avv  r-5  Pw//i5A<|j  't&pv/jtevri  er:carj. 
Dion.  Hist.  lib.  xxxvii.  pag.  37.  edit.  Rob.  Steph.  1548.  He 
goes  on  to  mention  that  the  letters  of  the  columns  on  which 
the  laws  were  written  were  liquefied  and  become  Auvip'f. 
All  that  the  Romans  did  was  to  erect  a  large  statue  to  Jupiter, 
looking  towards  the  east:  no  mention  is  afterwards  made  of 
the  wolf.  This  happened  in  A.  U.  C.  689.  The  Abate  Fea, 
in  noticing  this  passage  of  Dion,  (Storia  delle  arti,  etc.,  torn, 
i.  p.  202.  note  x.)  says,  .\"nn  ostante,  aggiunee  Diane,  eke 
fosse  ben-fermata  (the  wolf),  by  which  it  is  clear  the  Abate 
translated  the  Xylandro-Leuclavian  version,  which  puts 
quamvis  stabilita  for  the  original  l&pvfierri,  a  word  that  does 
not  mean  ben-fermata.  but  only  raised,  as  may  be.  distinctly 
seen  from  another  passage  of  the  same  Dion:  i\Sov\^9rj 
iifv  oliv  b  kyplTriraf  KO.L  rbv  Avyovarov  ivravBa  i&pvaai. 
Hist.  lib.  Ivi.  Dion  says  that  Agrippa  "  wished  to  raise  a 
statue  of  Augustus  in  the  Pantheon." 

2  "  In  eadem  porticu  a?nea  lupa,  cujus  uberibus  Romulus  ac 
Remus   lactantes    inhiant,  conspiciuir:  de    hac    Cicero  et 
Virgilius  semper  intelloxere.   Livius  hoc  signum  ab  .'Kdilibus 
ex  pecuniis  puihus  mulctati  cssent  freneratores.  positum  in- 
puit.  Antea  in  Comitiisad  Ficum  Ruminalem.  quo  loco  pueri 
luermit  expositi  locaturn  pro  certo  est."    Luc.  Fauni,  de 
Antiq.  Urb.  Rom.  lib.  ii.  cap.  vii.  pp.  Sallengre,  torn.  i.  p. 
BIT.  In  his  XVlIth  chapter  he  repeats  that  the  statues  were 
there,  but  not  that  they  were  found  there. 

3  Ap.  Nardini,  Roma  Vetus,  lib.  v.  cap.  iv. 

1  Marliani,  Urb.  Rom.  topograph.  lib.  ii.  cap.  ix.  He  men- 
tions another  wolf  and  twins  in  the  Vatican,  lib.  v.  cap.  xxi. 

5  "  Non  desur.t  qui  hanc  ipsam  esse  putent,  quam  adpinxi- 
mus,  nuae  e  comitio  in  Basilicam  Lateranam,  cum  nonnutlis 
uliis  antiquitatum  reliquiis,  atque  hinc  in  Cnpitolium  postea 
relata  sit.  quamvis  Marlianus  antiquam  Capitolinam  esse 
maluit  a  Tullio  descriptam.  cui  ut  in  re  nimis  dubia,  trepide 
nsspntimur."    Just.  Rycquii  de  Capit.  Roraun.  Comm.  cap. 
»xiv.  pag.  250.  edit.  Lugd.  Bat.  1696. 

6  Nardini  Roma  Vetus,  lib.  v.  cap.  iv. 

7  "  Lupa  ho,lieque  in  capitolinis  prostat  edibus,  cum  vcs- 
IIKIO  fulminis  quo  ictam  narrat  Cicero."  Diarium  Italic,  torn. 
i.  D.  174. 

-  Storm  delle  arti,  do.,  lib.  iii.  cap.  iii.  $  ii.  note  10.  Win- 
telmann  has  made  a  strange  blunder  in  the  note,  by  saying 
tti«  Uicuronian  wolf  waa  not  in  tha  Capitol,  ?nd  that  Dion 
*u  wrong  in  saying  go. 


he  had  heard  the  wo?f  with  the  twins  was  found '  near 
the  arch  of  Seplimius  Severus.  The  commentator  on 
Winkelmann  is  of  the  same  opinion  with  that  learned 
person,  and  is  incensed  at  Nardini  for  not  having  re- 
marked that  Cicero,  in  speaking  of  the  wolf  struck 
with  lightning  in  the  Capitol,  makes  use  of  the  past 
tense.  But,  with  the  Abate's  leave,  Nardini  does  not 
positively  assert  the  statue  to  be  that  mentioned  by 
Cicero,  and,  if  he  had,  the  assumption  would  not  per- 
haps have  been  so  exceedingly  indiscreet.  The  Abate 
himself  is  obliged  to  own  that  there  are  marks  very 
like  the  scathing  of  lightning  in  the  hinder  legs  of  the 
present  wolf  and,  to  get  rid  of  this,  adds,  that  the  wolf 
seen  by  Dionysius  might  have  been  also  struck  by  light- 
ning, or  otherwise  injured. 

Let  us  examine  the  subject  by  a  reference  to  the 
words  of  Cicero.  The  orator  in  two  places  seems  to 
particularize  the  Romulus  and  the  Remus,  especially 
the  first,  which  his  audience  remembered  to  have  been 
in  the  Capitol,  as  being  struck  with  lightning.  In  his 
verses  he  records  that  the  twins  and  wolf  both  fell,  and 
that  the  latter  left  behind  the  marks  of  her  feet.  Cicero 
does  not  say  that  the  wolf  was  consumed  :  and  Dion 
only  mentions  that  it  fell  down,  without  alluding,  as 
the  Abate  has  made  him,  to  the  force  of  the  blow,  or 
the  firmness  with  which  it  had  been  fixed.  The  whole 
strength,  therefore,  of  the  Abate's  argument,  hangs 
upon  the  past  tense ;  which,  however,  may  be  some- 
what diminished  by  remarking  that  the  phrase  only 
shows  that  the  statue  was  not  then  standing  in  its 
former  position.  Winkelmann  has  observed,  that  ths 
present  twins  are  modern;  and  it  is  equally  clear  that 
there  are  marks  of  gilding  on  the  wolf,  which  might 
therefore  be  supposed  to  make  part  of  the  ancient 
group.  It  is  known  that  the  sacred  images  of  the  Capi- 
tol were  not  destroyed  when  injured  by  time  or  accident, 
but  were  put  into  certain  underground  depositories 
called  favissce.3  It  may  be  thought  possible  that  tho 
wolf  had  been  so  deposited,  and  had  been  replaced  in 
some  conspicuous  situation  when  the  Capitol  was  re- 
built by  Vespasian.  Rycquius,  without  mentioning  his 
authority,  tells  that  it  was  transferred  from  the  Comi- 
tium to  the  Lateran,  and  thence  brought  to  the  Capitol. 
If  it  was  found  near  the  arch  of  Severus,  it  may  have 
been  one  of  the  images  which  Orosius  3  says  was  thrown 
down  in  the  Forum  by  lightning  when  Alaric  took  the 
city.  That  it  is  of  very  high  antiquity  the  workman- 
ship is  a  decisive  proof;  and  that  circumstance  induced 
Winkelmann  to  believe  it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius.  The 
Capitoline  wolf,  however,  may  have  been  of  the  same 
early  date  as  that  at  the  temple  of  Romulus.  Lactan- 
tius  4  asserts  that,  in  his  time,  the  Romans  worshipped  a 
wolf;  and  it  is  known  that  the  Lupercalia  held  out  to 


J  "  Intesi  dire,  che  1'Ercole  di  bronzo.  che  oggi  si  trova  nella 
sala  del  Campidoglio,  fu  trovato  nel  foro  Romano  a.ipr'sso 
Parco  di  Settimio  :  e  vi  fu  trovata  anche  la  lupa  di  bronzo  che 
allatta  Romolo  e  Remo.  esta  nella  Loggia  de'  conservatori." 
Flam.  Vacca.  Memorie,  num.  iii.  pag.  i.  ap.  Montfaucon, 
Diar.  Ital.  torn.  i. 

2  Luc.  Faun.  ibid. 

3  See  note  to  stanza  LXXX.  in  Historical  Illustrations. 

4  "  Rnmuli  nutrix  Lupa  honoribus  cst  affecta  divinis,  el 
ferrcm  si  animal  ipsum  fuisset,  cujus  figurant  gerit."    Lac- 
tant.  de  falsa  religione.  Lib.  i.  cap.  20.  pag.  101.  edit,  vario* 
1660  j  that  is  to  say,  he  would  rather  adore  a  wolf  than  a 
prostitute.    His  commentator  has  observed,  that  the  opiniop 
of  Livy  concerning  Laurentia  being  figured  in  this  volf  wai 
not  universal.  Strabo  thought  so.    Rycquius  is  wror.g  in  say- 
ing that  Lactantius  mention!  the  wolf  was  in  the  CaritoL 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


12J 


a  very  .ate  period  '  after  every  other  observance  of  the 
ancient  superstition  had  totally  expired.  This  may  ac- 
count for  the  preservation  of  the  ancient  image  longer 
than  the  other  early  symbols  of  paganism. 

It  may  be  permitted,  however,  to  remark  that  the 
wolf  was  a  Roman  symbol,  but  that  the  worship  ol 
that  symbol  is  an  inference  drawn  by  the  zeal  of  Lac- 
tamms.  The  early  Christian  writers  are  not  to  be 
trusted  in  the  charges  which  they  make  against  the 
pagans.  Eusebius  accused  the  Romans  to  their  faces 
of  worshipping  Simon  Magus,  and  raising  a  statue  to 
him  in  the  island  of  the  Tyber.  The  Romans  had  prob- 
ably never  heard  of  such  a  person  before,  who  came, 
lowever,  to  play  a  considerable,  though  scandalous  part 
in  the  church  nistory,  and  has  left  several  tokens  of  his 
aerial  combat  with  St.  Peter  at  Rome  ;  notwithstanding 
that  an  inscription  found  in  this  very  island  of  the 
Tyber  showed  the  Simon  Magus  of  Eusebius  to  be  a 
certain  indigenal  god,  called  Semo  Sangus  orFidius.2 

Even  when  the  worship  of  the  founder  of  Rome  had 
been  abandoned,  it  was  thought  expedient  to  humour 
the  habits  of  the  good  matrons  of  the  city  by  sending 
them  with  their  sick  infants  to  the  church  of  St.  Theo- 
dore, as  they  had  before  carried  them  to  the  temple  of 
Romulus.3  The  practice  is  continued  to  this  day  ;  and 
Jie  site  of  the  above  church  seems  to  be  thereby  iden- 
tified with  that  of  the  temple :  so  that  if  the  wolf  had 
been  really  found  there,  as  Winkelmann  says,  there 
would  be  no  doubt  of  the  present  statue  being  that 
seen  by  Dionysitis.*  But  Faunus,  in  saying  that  it  was 
at  the  Ficus  Ruminalis  by  the  Comitium,  is  only  talking 
of  its  ancient  position  as  recorded  by  Pliny  ;  and  even 
if  he  had  been  remarking  where  it  was  found,  would 
not  have  alluded  to  the  church  of  St.  Theodore,  but  to 
a  very  different  place,  near  which  it  was  then  thought 
the  Ficus  Ruminalis  had  been,  and  also  the  Comitium ; 
that  is,  the  three  columns  by  the  church  of  Santa  Maria 
Liberatrice,  at  the  corner  of  the  Palatine  looking  on 
the  Forum. 

It  is,  in  fact,  a  mere  conjecture  where  the  image  was 
»ctually  dug  up,5  and  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  marks 


1  To  A.  D.  496.    "Quis  credere  possit,"  says  Baronius, 
(Ann.  Eccles.  torn.  viii.  pug.  602.  in  an.  496.)  "  viguisse  adhuc 
Romae  ad  Gelasii  tempora.  quae  fuere  ante  exordia  urbis  al- 
lata  in  Italiam  Lupercalia?"    Gelasius  wrote  a  letter  which 
occupies  four  folio  pages  to  Andromachus,  the  senator,  and 
others,  to  show  that  the  rites  should  he  given  up. 

2  Eusebius  has  these  words-.  Kai  avSptavrt  nap'  vp'iv  (Lf 
5ed{  TtrifiriTai,  iv  r!f  TiStpi  //ora//<p  fttra^v  riav  Svo  }'£$- 
vpuiv,   c^aiv  itnypaQriv    VaiftdiKfiv   TUVTTIV,   Zljuavi  bit? 
'ZdyKTtp.    Eccles.  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  xiii.  p.  40.  Justin  Martyr 
'lad  told  the  story  before  ;  but  Baronius  himself  was  obliged 
•o  detect  this  fable.    See  Nardini  Roma  Vet.  lib.  vii.  cap.  xii. 

3  "  In  essa  gli  antichi  pontefici  per  toglier  la  memoria  de' 
eiuochi  Lupercali  istituiti  in  onore  rii  Romolo,  introdussero  I' 
am  di  portarvi  Bambini  oppress!  da  irilermita.  occulte,  accio 
«i  libenno  per  1'intercessipne  di  qu^sto  Santo,  come  di  con- 


linuo  si  sperimenta."    Rione  xii.  Ripa,  aecurata  e^succinta 

tescrizione,  etc.,  di  Roma  Moderna  dell' 

•766. 


II'  Ab.  Ridolf.  Venuti, 


4  Nardini,  lib.  v.  cap.  ii.  convicts  Pomponius  Lietus  eriffi 
trrnris,  in  putting  the  Ruminal  fig-tree  at  the  church  of  Saint 
"roodure :  but  as  Livy  says  the  wolf  was  at  the  Ficus  Rumi- 
talis,  and  Dionysius  at  the  temple  of  Romulus,  he  is  obliged 
cap.  iv.)  to  own  that  the  two  were  close  together,  as  well  as 
tfie  Lupercal  cave,  shaded,  as  it  were,  by  the  fig-tree. 

6  "  Ad  Comitium  ficus  olim  Ruminalis germinabat,  sub  qua 
tuple  rumam,  hoc  est,  maminam,  docenle  Varrone,  suxerant 

<hm   Romulus   et   Remus;    nun  procul  a  tempio  hodie  D. 
larirn  Liberatricig  appellato,  ubi  forsatt  inventa  nobilis  ilia 
tinea  siatua  lupa;  geminos  puerulus  luctantis,  quam  hodie  in 


of  the  gilding,  and  of  the  lightning,  are  a  better  argu- 
ment in  favour  of  its  being  the  Ciceronian  wolf  tha» 
any  that  can  be  adduced  for  the  contrary  opinion.  Ai 
any  rate,  it  is  reasonably  selected  in  the  text  of  tha 
poem  as  one  of  the^most  interesting  relics  of  the  ancient 
city,1  ana  is  certainly  the  figure,  if  not  the  very  anima. 
to  wmch  Virgil  alludes  in  his  beautiful  verses  : 

"  Geminos  huic  ubcra  circum 
Ludere  pendentes  pueros  et  lambere  mat  rein 
Impavidos :  illam  tereti  cervice  rcflexam 
Mulcere  alternos,  ct  fingere  corpora  lingua."* 

Note  47.  Stanza  xc. 


-for  the  Roman's  mind 


Was  modell'd  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould. 

It  is  possible  to  be  a  very  great  man,  and  to  b<s  stiK 
very  inferior  to  Julius  Cassar,  the  most  complete  chai 
acter,  so  Lord  Bacon  thought,  of  all  antiquity.  Nature 
seems  incapable  of  such  extraordinary  combinations  as 
composed  his  versatile  capacity,  which  was  the  wonder 
even  of  the  Romans  themselves.  The  first  general — 
the  only  triumphant  politician — inferior  to  none  in 
eloquence — comparable  to  any  in  the  attainments  of 
wisdom,  in  an  age  made  up  of  the  greatest  commanders, 
statesmen,  orators,  and  philosophers,  that  ever  appeared 
in  the  world — an  author  who  composed  a  perfect  speci- 
men of  military  annals  in  his  travelling-carriage — at 
one  time  in  a  controversy  with  Cato,  at  another  writing 

treatise  on  punning,  and  collecting  a  set  of  good  say- 
ings— fighting  3  and  making  love  at  the  same  moment, 
and  willing  to  abandon  both  his  empire  and  his  mis- 
tress for  a  sight  of  the  fountains  of  the  Nile.  Such 
did  Julius  Cresar  appear  to  his  contemporaries,  and  to 
those  of  the  subsequent  ages,  who  were  the  most  in 
clined  to  deplore  and  execrate  his  fatal  genius. 

But  we  must  not  be  so  much  dazzled  with  his  sur- 
passing glory  or  with  his  magnanimous,  his  amiable 
qualities,  as  to  forget  the  decision  of  his  impartial 
countrymen : 

HE   WAS    JUSTLY    SLAIN.* 


Capitolio  videmus."  Olai  Bqrrichii  antiqua  Urbis  Romans 
facies,  cap.  x.  See  also  cap.  xii.  Borrichius  wrote  after  Nar- 
dini in  1687.  Ap.  Grsev.  Antiq.  Rum.  torn.  iv.  p.  1.V22. 

1  Ponatus,  lib.  xi.  cap.  18,  gives  a  medal  representing  on 
one  side  the  wolf  in  the  same  position  as  that  in  the  Capitol; 
and  in  the  reverse  the  wolf  with  the  head  not  reverted.  It  it 
of  the  time  of  Antoninus  Pius. 

jtfneid,  viii.  631.  See  Dr.  Middleton,  in  his  Letter  from 
Rome,  who  inclines  to  the  Ciceronian  wolf,  but  without  ex 
amining  the  subject. 

3  In  his  tenth  book,  Lucan  shows  him  sprinkled  with  tht 
blood  of  Pharsalia  in  the  arms  of  Cleopatra: 

"  Sanguine  Thessalic«e  cladis  perfusus  adulter 
Admisit  Venerem  curia,  et  miscuit  armis." 
After  feasting  with  his  mistress,  he  sits  up  nil  night  to  con- 
verse with  the  Egyptian  sages,  and  tells  Achoreus 

"Spes  sit  mihi  certa  videndi 
Niliacos  forites,  bellum  civile  relinquam :" 
"Sic  velut  in  tuta  seeuri  pace  trahcbant 
Noctis  iter  medium." 

Immediately  afterwards,  he  is  fighting  again  and  defending 
every  position : 

"  Sed  adest  defensor  nbique 
Caesar,  el  hos  aditus  gladiis,  hos  ignibus  arcet. 

Caeca  nocte  carinis 

Insiluit  Caesar  semper  feliciter  usus 
Praecipiti  cursu  bellorum  et  tempore  rapto." 

4  "Jure  ca?sus  existimetur,''   says  Suetonius,  after  n  fair 
stimation  of  his  character,  and  making  use  of  a  phrase  which 

was  a  formula  in  Livy's  time.  "  Melium  jure  cmsum  pronim^ 
tiavit,  etiam  si  resni  crimine  insons  fuerit."  (lib.  iv.  cap.  48.' 
and  which  was  continued  in  the  leenl  judgments  pronounced 
n  justifiable  homicides,  such  as  killing  housebreaker*.  »"« 
Sueton.invit.C.J.  Ctrsaris,  with  the  comment*!*  ^f  Pi'ioctu 
p.  184 


126 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


N<  I  e  48.   Stanza  xciii. 
Whatfon  this  barren  being  do  we  reap  t 
Our  semes  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail 
"  .  .  .  .  Omnes  pene  veteres ;  qui  nihil  cognosci, 
ivhil  percipi,  nihil  sciri  posse  dixerunt ;  angustos  sensus  ; 
irabecilles  animos,  hrevia  curricula  vitae ;  in  profundo 
voritatem  dcmersam  ;  opinionibus   et  institutis  omnia 
tenari;  nihil  veritati  relinqui :  deinceps  omnia  tcnebris 
circumfusa  esse  dixerunt." '     The   eighteen   hundred 
years  which  have  elapsed  since  Cicero  wrote  this  have 
not  removed   any  of  the  imperfections  of  humanity : 
and  the  complaints  of  the  ancient  philosophers  may, 
without  injustice  or  affectation,  be  transcribed  in  a 
poem  written  yesterday. 

Note  49.  Stanza  xcix. 
There  is  a  stern  round  tower  of  other  days. 
Alluding  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  called  Capo 
di  Bove,  in  the  Appian  Way.     See  Historical  Illustra- 
tions of  the  IVth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold. 
Note  50.  Stanza  cii. 


-prophetic  of  the  doom 


Heaven  gives  its  favourites — early  death. 
Ov  of  $cil  <f>t\ovatv,  a-xoOvfjaKct  vto$. 
T   yap  Savclv  oiix  aicr^p&v,  dXX'  ata^pla;  S-avctv. 

Rich.  Franc.  Phil.  Brunck.  Poeta:  Gnomici,  p. 
231.  edit.  1784. 

Note  51.   Stanza  cvii. 
Behold  the  Imperial  Mount ! 

The  Palatine  is  one  mass  of  ruins,  particularly  on  the 
side  towards  the  Circus  Maximus.  The  very  soil  is 
formed  of  crumbled  brick-work.  Nothing  has  been 
told,  nothing  can  be  told,  to  satisfy  the  belief  of  any  but 
a  Roman  antiquary. — See  Historical  Illustrations,  page 
*06. 

Note  52.    Stanza  cviii. 

There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales  ; 
'T  is  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past. 
First  fieedom,  and  then  glory,  etc. 

The  author  of  the  Life  of  Cicero,  speaking  of  the 
opinion  entertained  of  Britain  by  that  orator  and  his 
cotemporary  Romans,  has  the  following  eloquent  pas- 
sage :  "  From  their  railleries  of  this  kind,  on  the  bar- 
barity and  misery  of  our  island,  one  cannot  help  re- 
flecting on  the  surprising  fate  and  revolutions  of  king- 
doms, how  Rome,  once  the  mistress  of  the  world,  the 
seat  of  arts,  empire,  and  glory,  now  lies  sunk  in  sloth, 
ignorance,  and  poverty,  enslaved  to  the  most  cruel  as 
well  as  to  the  most  contemptible  of  tyrants,  superstition, 
and  religious  imposture :  while  this  remote  country, 
anciently  the  jest  and  contempt  of  the  polite  Romans, 
is  become  the  happy  seat  of  liberty,  plenty,  and  letters ; 
flourishing  in  all  the  arts  and  refinements  of  civil  life  ; 
yet  running  perhaps  the  same  course  which  Rome  it- 
self had  run  before  it,  from  virtuous  industry  to  wealth ; 
Irom  wealth  to  luxury ;  from  luxury  to  an  impatience 
of  discipline,  and  corruption  of  morals :  till,  by  a  total 
degeneracy  and  loss  of  virtue,  being  grown  ripe  for 
destruction,  it  fall  a  prey  at  last  to  some  hardy  oppress- 
or, and,  with  the  loss  of  liberty,  losing  every  thing  that 
U  valuable,  sinks  gradually  again  into  its  original  bar- 
bansn.."* 


4  Academ.  I.  13 

8  The  History  of  the  Life  of  M.  Tullius  Cicero,  sect.  vi. 

oL  ii.  pag.  i02.    The  contrast  has  been  reversed  in  a  late 

trcaoidi'iarf  instance.  A  gentleman  was  thrown  into  prison 


Note  53.  Stanza  ex. 


7and  apostolic  statues  climb 


To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime. 
The  column  of  Trajan  is  surmounted  by  St.  Peter 
that  of  Aurelius  by  St.  Paul.  See  Historical  Illustration! 
of  the  IVth  Canto,  etc. 

Note  54.    Stanza  cxi. 
Still  we  Trajan's  name  adore. 

Trajan  was  proverbially  the  best  of  the  Roman 
princes  : '  and  it  would  be  easier  to  find  a  sovereign 
uniting  exactly  the  opposite  characteristics,  than  one 
possessed  of  all  the  happy  qualities  ascribed  to  this 
emperor.  "  When  he  mounted  the  throne,"  says  the 
historian  Dion,2  "  he  was  strong  in  body,  he  was  vigor- 
ous in  mind  ;  age  had  impaired  none  of  his  faculties  ; 
he  was  altogether  free  from  envy  and  from  detraction  ; 
he  honoured  all  the  good  and  he  advanced  them  ;  and 
on  this  account  they  could  not  be  the  objects  of  his  fear 
or  of  his  hate ;  he  never  listened  to  informers  ;  he  gave 
not  way  to  his  anger ;  he  abstained  equally  from  unfair 
exactions  and  unjust  punishments ;  he  had  rather  be 
loved  as  a  man  than  honoured  as  a  sovereign  ;  he  was 
affable  with  his  people,  respectful  to  the  senate,  and 
universally  beloved  by  both ;  he  inspired  none  with 
dread  but  the  enemies  of  his  country." 

Note  55.  Stanza  cxiv. 
Rienzi,  last  of  Romans ! 

The  name  and  exploits  of  Rienzi  must  be  familiar  to 
the  reader  of  Gibbon.  Some  details  and  inedited  man- 
uscripts, relative  to  this  unhappy  hero,  will  be  seen  in 
the  Illustrations  of  the  IVth  Canto. 

Note  50.   Stanza  cxv. 
Eeeria !  sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast. 

The  respectable  authority  of  Flaminius  Vacca  would 
incline  us  to  believe  in  the  claims  of  the  Egerian  grotto.3 
He  assures  us  that  he  saw  an  inscription  on  the  pave- 
ment, stating  that  the  fountain  was  that  of  Egeriadedi 


at  Paris ,  efforts  were  made  for  his  release.  The  French  min- 
ister continued  to  detain  him,  under  the  pretext  that  he  was 
not  nn  Englishman,  but  only  a  Roman.  See  "  Interesting  facts 
relating  to  Joachim  Murat,"  pag.  139. 

1  "  Hujus  tantum  memories  delatum  est,  ut,  usque  ad  nos- 
tram  tetatem  non  aliter  in  Senatu  principibus  acclamatur, 
nisi,  FEUCIOR.  AVGVSTO.  MELIOR.  TRAJANO." 
Eutrop.  Brev.  Hist.  Rom.  lib.  viii.  cap.  v. 

2  Tiji  Tt  yap  aupari  sfiptaro Kai  TJJ  if  v^r;  ?Kfia£c>>, 

uij  jnfiff1  in:3  ynpus  ajj6\\>vs.<:Qai icai  ovr'  \ip66vti, 

ovrt  KaQfipti  TIVO,  aXXa  /cat  rra'vu  rai/raf  rot's  ayaOoii( 
criua  Kai  l/icyuAvW  Kai  iid  TOVTO  OVTC  t^oStlrd  riva 

avriav,   OVT£  ifiiaet Sta8o\a!s  rt  Jjxiora  tnartlit, 

Kai  Apyrj  riKiara  ldov\ovTO.  T&V  Tt  xpiHidriav  r&v  aXXa» 

rpltiiv  too.  KOI  <j>6vij)V  riav  OO/JCIDV  airti%iTo 0iXot!/j£- 

v6;  TC  oi'V  ir'  airoif  jmXXoi/  ';  ri/ioi/icvos  £^ai/)£'  Kai  r$ 
T£  tirjiiu  jitr1  iirit'iKtias  trvvcyivcTO,  Kai  Trj  ynpovcia  atp- 
vorptTrws  &p(\ti'  aya:r»)Td;  fiev  Traaf  (/loScpof  <51  firiScvl, 
i:\rjv  ffoX^u'oit  S>v.  Hist.  Rom.  lib.  Ixviii.  cap.  ii.  vii.  torn, 
ii.  p.  1123,  1124.  eiiit.  Hamb.  1750. 

3  "  Poco  lontano  dal  dctto  luogo  si  gcende  ad  un  casaletto, 
del  quale  ne  sono  Padroni  Ii  Cafarelli,  che  con  questo  nome 
e  chiamato  il  luogo;  vi  6  una  fontana  sotto  una  gran  vnlte 
antica,  che  al  presente  si  gode.  e  Ii  Roinani  vi  vamm  1'estata 
a  ricrearsi ;  nel  pavimento<Ji  essa  fonte  si  leggc  in  nn  epitafflo 
essere  quella  la  fonte  di  Egeria,  dcdicata  alle  nint'o,  e  questa 
dice  1'epitaffio,  essere  la  medesima  fonte  in  cui  fu  cc  nvertil  t.' 
Memorie,  etc.  ap.  Nardini,  pag.  13-  He  does  not  five  Llw 
description. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


fatwl  to  the  nymphs.  The  inscription  is  not  there  at 
ihis  day;  but  Mo  ntfaucon  quotes  two  lines'  of  Ovid 
fiom  a  stone  in  the  Villa  Giustiniani,  which  he  seems 
to  think  had  been  brought  from  the  same  grotto. 

'1  !iis  grotto  and  valley  were  formerly  frequented  in 
summer,  and  particularly ',  he  first  Sunday  in  May,  by 
the  modern  Romans,  who  attached  a  salubrious  quality 
to  the  fountain  which  tackles  from  an  orifice  at  the 
bottom  of  the  vault,  and,  overflowing  the  little  pools, 
creeps  down  the  matted  grass  into  the  brook  below. 
The  brook  is  the  Ovidian  Almo,  whose  name  and  quali- 
ties are  lost  in  the  modern  Aquataccio.  The  valley 
itself  is  called  Valle  di  CafTarelli,  from  the  dukes  of 
that  name,  who  made  over  their  fountain  to  the  Palla- 
vicini,  with  sixty  rubbia  of  adjoining  land. 

There  can  be  little  doubt,  that  this  long  dell  is  the 
Egerian  valley  of  Juvenal,  and  the  pausing  place  of 
Umbricius,  notwithstanding  the  generality  of  his  com- 
mentators have  supposed  the  descent  of  the  satirist  and 
his  friend  to  have  been  into  the  Arician  grove,  where 
the  nymph  met  Hippolitus,  and  where  she  was  more 
peculiarly  worshipped. 

The  step  from  the  Porta  Capena  to  the  Alban  hill, 
fifteen  miles  distant,  would  be  too  considerable,  unless 
we  were  to  believe  in  the  wild  conjecture  of  Vosstus, 
who  makes  that  gate  travel  from  its  present  station, 
where  he  pretends  it  was  during  the  reign  of  the  Kings, 
as  far  as  the  Arican  grove,  and  then  makes  it  recede 
to  its  old  site  with  the  shrinking  city.  2  The  tufo,  or 
pumice,  which  the  poet  prefers  to  marble,  is  the  sub- 
stance composing  the  bank  in  which  the  grotto  is  sunk. 

The  modern  topographers 3  find  in  the  grotto  the 
statue  of  the  nymph  and  nine  niches  for  the  Muses,  and 
a  late  traveller  *  has  discovered  that  the  cave  is  restored 
to  that  simplicity  which  I  he  poet  regretted  had  been 
exchanged  for  injudicious  ornament.  But  the  headless 
statue  is  palpably  rather  a  male  than  a  nymph,  and  has 
none  of  the  attributes  ascribed  •"  it  at  present  visible. 
The  nine  Muses  could  hardly  ha\  x>d  in  six  niches  ; 
and  Juvenal  certainly  does  not  allude  to  any  individual 
cave.  s  Nothing  can  be  collected  from  the  satirist  but 
that  somewhere  near  the  Porta  Capena  was  a  spot  in 
which  it  was  supposed  Numa  held  nightly  consultations 
with  his  nymph,  and  where  there  was  a  grove  and  a 
sacred  fountain,  and  fanes  once  consecrated  to  the 
Muses  ;  and  that  from  this  spot  there  was  a  descent  into 


1  "In  villa  Justiniana  extat  ingens  lapis  quadratus  solidus 
in  quo  sculpta  litec  ciuo  Ovidii  carmina  sunt 

.<Egeria  est  qua?  pra^bnt  aquas  dea  grata  Camoenis. 

Ilia  Nums  conjux  consiliumquc  fuit. 

Qui  lapis  videtur  ex  eodem  Eaeriae  fonte,  aut  ejus  vioinia 
krthuc  comportatus."  Diarium  ItaPc.  p.  153. 

2  lie  magnit.  Vet.  Rom.  up.  Graev.  Ant.  Rom.  torn.  iv.  p. 
1507. 

3  Echinard.  Descrizione  di  Roma  c  dell'  agro  Romano  cor- 
retto  dall'  Abate  Venuti  in  Roma,  1750.    They  bslieve  in  the 
frotto  and  nymph.    "  Simulacra  di  questo  fonte,  essendovi 
iculpito  le  acque  a  pie  di  esso." 

4  Classical  Tour,  chap.  vi.  p.  217.  vol.  ii. 

5  "  Substitit  ad  veteres  arcus,  madidamquc  Capenam, 

Hie  ubi  nocturne  Numa  con-;titiieba  t  arnica), 
Nunc  sacri  fontis  nemus,  et  delubra  locantur 
Judaeis  quorum  cophinum  fcenumque  supellex. 
Omnis  enim  populo  mercedem  pendere  jussa  est 
Arbor,  et  ejectis  mendieat  silva  Camccnis. 
In  vallem  Egeria;  descendimus.  et  speluncas 
Dwsimiles  vcris  ;  quanto  prtrstantius  esset 
Numen  aquae,  viridi  si  margine  clauderet  undag 
Her&i  noc  ingenuum  violarent  marmora  tophum." 

Sat.  UI 


the  valley  of  Egeria,  where  were  several  artificial  ca-.-fs. 
It  is  clear  that  the  statues  of  the  Muses  made  no  pan 
of  the  decoration  which  the  satirist  thought  misplace! 
in  these  caves ;  for  he  expressly  assigns  other  fan*, 
(delubra)  to  these  divinities  above  the  valley,  and  mrre 
over  tells  us,  that  they  had  been  ejected  to  make  roon 
for  the  Jews.  In  fact,  the  little  temple,  now  called  tha 
of  Bacchus,  was  formerly  thought  to  belong  to  th« 
Muses,  and  Nardini '  places  them  in  a  poplar  grove, 
which  was  in  his  time  above  »V>e  valley. 

It  is  probable,  from  the  inscription  and  position,  that 
the  cave  now  shown  may  be  one  of  the  "  artificial  cav- 
erns," of  which,  indeed,  there  is  another  a  little  way 
higher  up  the  valley,  under  a  tuft  of  alder  bushes :  but 
a  single  grotto  of  Egeria  is  a  mere  modern  invention, 
grafted  upon  the  application  of  the  epithet  Egerian  to 
these  nymphea  in  general,  and  which  might  send  us 
to  look  for  the  haunts  of  Numa  upon  the  banks  of  tho 
Thames. 

Our  English  Juvenal  was  not  seduced  into  mistrans- 
lation by  his  acquaintance  with  Pope :  he  carefully  pre- 
serves the  correct  plural — 

"  Thence  slowly  winding  down  the  vale,  we  view 
The  Egerian  grots  ;  oh,  how  unlike  the  true  !" 

The  valley  abounds  with  springs,  2  and  over  these 
springs,  which  the  Muses  might  haunt  from  their  neigh- 
bouring groves,  Egeria  presided  :  hence  she  was  said 
to  supply  them  with  water ;  and  she  was  the  nymph  of 
the  grottos  through  which  the  fountains  were  taught  to 
flow. 

The  whole  of  the  monuments  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Egerian  valley  have  received  names  at  will,  which  have 
been  changed  at  will.  Venuti  3  owns  he  can  see  no 
traces  of  the  temples  of  Jove,  Saturn,  Juno,  Venus, 
and  Diana,  which  Nardini  found,  or  hoped  to  find.  The 
mutatorium  of  Caracalla's  circus,  the  temple  of  Honour 
and  Virtue,  the  temple  of  Bacchus,  and,  above  all,  the 
temple  of  the  god  of  Rediculus,  are  the  antiquaries' 
despair. 

The  circus  of  Caracalla  depends  on  a  medal  of  that 
emperor  cited  by  Fulvius  Ursinus,  of  which  the  reverse 
shows  a  circus,  supposed,  however,  by  some  to  repre- 
sent the  Circus  Maximus.  It  gives  a  very  good  idea  of 
that  place  of  exercise.  The  soil  hxs  been  but  little 
raised,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  small  cellular  structure 
at  the  end  of  the  Spina,  which  was  p'obably  the  chaptJ 
of  the  god  Consus.  This  cell  is  hall  bereith  the  soil, 
as  it  must  have  been  in  th  circus  itse'ij  f">r  Dionysius  4 
could  not  be  persuaded  t«  Dclieve  that  th'"3  divinity  was 
the  Roman  Neptune,  because  his  altar  was  under 
ground. 

Note  57.  Stanza  cxxvii. 
Yet  let  us  ponder  boldly. 

"  At  all  events,"  says  the  author  of  the  Academic*, 
Questions,  "  I  trust,  whatever  may  be  the  fate  of  tnjr 
own  speculations,  that  philosophy  will  regain  that  *i«U- 
mation  which  it  ought  to  possess.  The  free  and  phi- 
losophic spirit  of  our  nation  has  been  the  theme  of  ad- 
miration to  the  world.  This  was  the  proud  distinction 
of  Englishmen,  and  the  luminous  source  of  all  their 
glory.  Shall  we  then  forget  the  manly  snd  dignified 


1  Lib.  iii.  cap.  iii. 

2  "  Undique  e  iolo  aquse  scaturiunt."  Vadiui,  lib  iii.  e»P 
i. 

3  Echinard,  etc.  Cie.  cit.  pp.  297,  2*V* 

4  -\utiq.  Horn  lib.  ii.  cap.  zud 


128 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


sentiments  of  our  ancestors,  to  prate  in  the  language  of 
the  mother  or  the  nurse  about  our  good  old  prejudices  ? 
This  is  not  the  way  to  defend  the  cause  of  truth.  It 
was  not  thus  that  our  fathers  maintained  it  in  the  bril- 
liant periods  of  our  history.  Prejudice  may  be  trusted 
to  guard  the  outworks  for  a  short  space  of  time,  while 
reason  slumbers  in  the  citadel :  but  if  the  latter  sink 
into  a  lethargy,  the  former  will  quickly  erect  a  standard 
for  herself.  Philosophy,  wisdom,  and  liberty,  support 
each  other ;  he  who  will  not  reason,  is  a  bigot ;  he  who 
cannot,  is  a  fool ;  and  he  who  dares  not,  is  a  slave." 
Preface,  p.  xiv.  xv.  vol.  i.  1805. 

Note  58.   Stanza  cxxxii. 


f  real  Nemesis ! 


Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  ilice  homage  long. 

We  read,  in  Suetonius,  that  Augustus,  from  a  warn- 
ing received  in  a  dream,  '  counterfeited  once  a-year  the 
oeggar,  sitting  before  the  gate  of  his  palace,  with  his 
hand  hollowed,  and  stretched  out  for  charity.  A  statue 
formerly  in  the  Villa  Borghese,  and  which  should  be 
now  at  Paris,  represents  the  emperor  in  that  posture  of 
supplication.  The  object  of  this  self-degradation  was 
the  appeasement  of  Nemesis,  the  perpetual  attendant 
on  good  fortune,  of  whose  power  the  Roman  conquerors 
were  also  reminded  by  certain  symbols  attached  to  their 
cars  of  triumph.  The  symbols  were  the  whip  and  the 
crotalo,  which  were  discovered  in  the  Nemesis  of  the 
Vatican.  The  attitude  of  beggary  made  the  above 
statue  pass  for  that  of  Belisarius ;  and  until  the  criti- 
cism of  Winkelmann  -  had  rectified  the  mistake,  one 
fiction  was  called  in  to  support  another.  It  was  the  same 
fear  of  the  sudden  termination  of  prosperity  that  made 
Amasis,  king  of  Egypt,  warn  his  friend  Polycrates  of 
Samos,  that  the  gods  loved  those  whose  lives  were 
chequered  with  good  and  evil  fortunes.  Nemesis  was 
supposed  to  lie  in  wait  particularly  for  the  prudent :  that 
is,  for  those  whose  caution  rendered  them  accessible 
only  to  mere  accidents ;  and  her  first  altar  was  raised 
on  the  banks  of  the  Phrygian  ^Esepus  by  Adrastus, 
probably  the  prince  of  that  name,  who  killed  the  son  of 
Croesus  by  mistake.  Hence  the  goddess  was  called 
Adrastea.  3 

The  Roman  Nemesis  was  sacred  and  august ;  there 
was  a  temple  to  her  in  the  Palatine,  under  the  name  of 
Rhamnusia :  *  so  great  indeed  was  the  propensity  of  the 
ancients  to  trust  to  the  revolution  of  events,  and  to  be- 
lieve in  the  divinity  of  fortune,  that  in  the  same  Pala- 
tine there  was  a  temple  to  the  fortune  of  the  day. 6 
This  is  the  last  superstition  which  retains  its  hold  over 
the  human  heart ;  and  from  concentrating  in  one  ob- 
ject the  credulity  so  natural  to  man,  has  always  appeared 
strongest  in  those  unembarrassed  by  other  articles  of 


1  Sucton.  in  vit.  August!,  cap.  91.    Casaubon,  in  the  note, 
refers  to  Plutarch's  Lives  of  Camillas  and  ^Emilius  Paulus, 
and  also  to  his  apophthegms,  for  the  character  of  this  deily. 
The  hollowed  hand  wns  reckoned  the  last  degree  of  degra- 
dation: and  when  the  dead  body  of  the  prefect  Rufinus  was 
••ome  about  in  triumph  by  the  people,  the  indignity  was  in- 
creased by  putting  his  hand  in  that  position. 

2  Storia  delle  arti,  etc.,  lib.  xii.  cap.  iii.  torn.  ii.  p.  422. 
Viaconti  calls  the  statue,  however,  a  Cybele.    It  is  given  in 
trip   Museo  Pio  Clemeot,  torn.  i.  par.  40.    The  Abate  Fea 
Spiegaziode  dei  Kami.  Storia,  etc.,  torn.  iii.  p.  513.)  calls  it 
•  Chnsippus 

2  Diet,  de  Bayle,  article  Adrastea. 
4  It  is  enumerated  by  the  regionary  Victor. 
i  "  Fortune  liujusce  diei."    Cicero  mentions  her,  de  legib. 
•b  ii. 


beliefl  The  antiquaries  have  supposed  tnis  goddess  to 
be  synonymous  with  fortune  and  with  fate :  '  but  it  was 
in  her  vindictive  quality  that  she  was  worshipped  under 
the  name  of  Nemesis. 

Note  59.  Stanza  cxl. 
I  see  before  me  the  gladiutor  lie. 

Whether  the  wonderful  statue  which  suggested  this 
image,  be  a  laquearian  gladiator,  which  in  spite  ol 
Winkelmann's  criticism,  has  been  stoutly  maintained,  * 
or  whether  it  be  a  Greek  herald,  as  that  great  antiquary 
positively  asserted,  3  or  whether  it  is  to  be  thought  a 
Spartan  or  barbarian  shield-bearer,  according  to  the 
opinion  of  his  Italian  editor, 4  it  must  assuredly  seem  a 
copy  of  that  masterpiece  of  Ctesilaus,  which  repre- 
sented "a  wounded  man  dying,  who  perfectly  expressed 
what  there  remained  of  life  in  him."5  Montfaucon6 
and  Maffei *  thought  it  the  identical  statue ;  but  that 
statue  was  of  bronze.  The  gladiator  was  once  in  the 
villa  Ludovizi,  and  was  bought  by  Clement  XII.  The 
right  arm  is  an  entire  restoration  of  Michael  Angelo. 
Note  60.  Stanza  cxli. 


-he.  their  sire. 


Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday. 
Gladiators  were  of  two  kinds,  compelled  and  volun- 
tary ;  and  were  supplied  from  several  conditions  ;  from 
slaves  sold  for  that  purpose ;  from  culprits  ;  from  bar- 
barian captives,  either  taken  in  war,  and,  after  being 
led  in  triumph,  set  apart  for  the  games,  or  those  seized 
and  condemned  as  rebels  ;  also  from  free  citizens,  some 
fighting  for  hire  (auctorati),  others  from  a  depraved 
ambition :  at  last  even  knights  and  senators  were  ex 
hibited,  a  disgrace  of  which  the  first  tyrant  was  naturally 
the  first  inventos.  9  In  the  end,  dwarfs,  and  even  wo- 
men, fought ;  an  enormity  prohibited  by  Severus.  Of 
these  the  most  to  be  pitied,  undoubtedly,  were  the  bar- 
barian captives  ;  and  to  this  species  a  Christian  writer  10 
justly  applies  the  epithet  "  innocent,"  to  distinguish  them 


1  DEAE  NEMESI 

S1VE  FORTVNAE 

PISTORIVS 

RVGIANVS 

V.  C.  LEGAT. 

LEG.  XIII.  G. 

GORD. 

See  Questiones  Romanae,  etc.,  Ap.  Graev.  Antiq.  Roman 
torn.  v.  p.  942.  See  also  Muratori.  Nov.  Thesaur.  Inscript 
Vet.  torn.  i.  pp.  88,  89.  where  there  are  three  Latin  and  one 
Greek  inscription  to  Nemesis,  and  others  to  Fate. 

2  By  the  Abate  Bracci,  dissertazione  sopra  un  clipeo-votivo, 
etc.  Preface,  pag.  7,  who  accounts  for  the  cord   round  the 
neck,  but  not  for  the  horn,  which  it  does  not  appear  the  gla- 
diators themselves  ever  used.    Note  (A.)  Storia  delle  arti, 
torn.  ii.  p.  205. 

3  Either  Polifontes,  herald  of  Laius,  killed  by  CEclipus  ;  or 
Cepreas,  herald  of  Euritheus,  killed  by  the  Athenians  when 
he  endeavoured  to  drag  the  Heraclidct  from  the  altar  of 
mercy,  and  in  whose  honour  they  instil  ited  annual  gamri, 
continued  to  the  time  of  Hadrian ;  or  Anthemocritus,  the 
Athenian  herald,  killed  by  the  Megarenses,  who  never  recov- 
ered the  impiety.    See  Storia  delle  arti,  etc.,  torn.  ii.  pp.  20H 
204,  205,  206,  207.  lib.  ix.  cap.  ii. 

4  Storia,  etc.,  torn.  ii.  p.  207.  Not.  (A.) 

5  "  Vulneratum   deficientem  fecit  in  quo  possit  intelligl 
quantum  restat  animae."    Plin.  Nat.  Hist,  xxxiv.  cap.  8. 

6  Antiq.  torn.  iii.  par.  2.  tab.  155. 

7  Race.  stat.  tab.  64. 

8  Mus.  Capitol,  torn.  iii.  p.  154.  edit.  1755. 

9  Julius  Caesar,  who  rose  by  the  fall  of  the  aristocracy, 
brought  Furius  Leptinus  ant"  A.  Calenus  upon  tHo  srena. 

10  Tertullian ;  "certe  quirtem  et  innocentcs  g'Hiliiit/ies  ife 
ludum  veniunt,  ut  voluptatu  publicae  liostiae  tail'       •"  Uit 
Nips.  Saturn.  Sermon,  lib.  L    *ap.  iii. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


129 


>om  the  professional  gladiators.  Aurelian  and  Claudius 
supplied  great  numbers  of  these  unfortunate  victims ; 
the  one  after  his  triumph,  and  the  other  on  the  pretext 
of  a  reoetlion.1  No  war,  says  Lipsius,2  was  ever  so  de- 
structive to  the  human  race  as  these  sports.  In  spite 
of  the  laws  of  Constantino  and  Constans,  gladiatorial 
shows  survived  the  old  established  religion  more  than 
seventy  years ;  but  they  owed  their  final  extinction  to 
the  courage  of  a  Christian.  In  the  year  404,  on  the  ka- 
icnds  of  January,  they  were  exhibiting  the  shows  in  the 
Flavian  amphitheatre  before  the  usual  immense  con- 
course of  people.  Almachius  or  Telemachus,  an  eastern 
monk,  who  had  travelled  to  Rome  intent  on  his  holy 
purpose,  rushed  into  the  midst  of  the  area,  and  endea- 
voured to  separate  the  combatants.  The  praetor  Alypius, 
a  person  incredibly  attached  to  these  games,3  gave  instant 
orders  to  the  gladiators  to  slay  him ;  and  Telemachus 
gained  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  and  the  title  of  saint, 
which  surely  has  never,  either  before  or  since,  been 
awarded  for  a  more  noble  exploit.  Honorius  immedi- 
ately abolished  the  shows,  which  were  never  afterwards 
revived.  The  story  is  told  by  Theodoret  *  and  Cassiodo- 
rus,s  and  seems  worthy  of  credit,  notwithstanding  its 
place  in  the  Roman  martyrology.6  Besides  the  torrents 
of  blood  which  flowed  at  the  funerals,  in  the  amphi- 
theatres, the  circus,  the  forums,  and  other  public  places, 
gladiators  were  introduced  at  feasts,  and  tore  each  other 
to  pieces  amidst  the  supper  tables,  to  the  great  delight 
and  applause  oi  the  guests.  Yet  Lipsius  permits  him- 
self to  suppose  the  loss  of  courage,  and  the  evident  de- 
generacy of  mankind,  to  be  nearly  connected  with  the 
abolition  of  these  bloody  spectacles.7 

Note  61.  Stanza  cxlii. 

Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd. 

When  one  gladiator  wounded  another,  he  shouted 
"  he  has  it,"  "  hoc  habet,"  or  "  habet."  The  wounded 
combatant  dropped  his  weapon,  and,  advancing  to  the 
edge  of  the  arena,  supplicated  the  spectators.  If  he  had 
fought  well,  the  people  saved  him ;  if  otherwise,  or  as 
they  happened  to  be  inclined,  they  turned  down  their 
thumbs,  and  he  was  slain.  They  were  occasionally  so 
savage,  that  they  were  impatient  if  a  combat  lasted 
longer  than  ordinary  without  wounds  or  death.  The 
emperor's  presence  generally  saved  the  vanquished :  and 
•t  is  recorded  as  an  instance  of  Caracalla's  ferocity,  that 
*ie  sent  those  who  supplicated  him  for  life,  in  a  spec- 
tacle at  Nicomedia,  to  ask  the  people  ;  in  other  words, 
handed  them  over  to  be  slain.  A  similar  ceremony  is 
observed  at  the  Spanish  bull-fights.  The  Magistrate  pre- 


1  Vopiscus,  in  vit.  Aurel.;  anJ,  in  vit.  Claud,  ibid. 

2  "Credo,  imo  scio,  nullum  bellum  tantam  cladem  vastiti- 
emque   goneri   humane    intulissc.  quam   has  ad  voluptatcm 
"udos."  Just.  Lips.  ibid.  lib.  i.  cap.  xii. 

3  Augustanus,  (lib.  vi.  confess,  cap.  viii.)  "  Aiypium  suum 
«ladiatnrii  ipeclaculi  inhiatu  incredibiliter  abreptum,"  scnbit. 
•bid.  lib.  i.  cap.  xii. 

4  Hist  Eccles.  cap.  xxvi.  lib.  v. 

5  Cossiod.  Tripartita.  1.  x.  c.  xi.    Saturn,  ib.  ib. 

6  Baronius  ad  ann.  et  in  notia  nd  Martyrol.  Rom.  1.  Jan. 
^ec  Maranponi  delle  momorie  sacree  profane  dell'  Amfiteatro 
f'lavio.  p.  25.  edit.  1746. 

7  "  Guod  1  non  tu  Lipsi  momentum  aliquod  habuisse  censes 
\d  virtutcm  1  Maenum.  Tempora  nostra,  nosque  ipsos  videa- 
Oius.    Oppidum  ecce  unum  alterumve  captum.  direptum  est; 

umultus  circa  nos,  non  in  nobis :  et  taincn  concidimus  et  tur- 
tmmur.  Ubi  robur,  ubi  tot  per  annos  meditata  sapienlix  stu- 
dia?  ubi  ille  animus  qui  possit  dicere.  .»i  fractua  illabarur 
erbisl"  etc.  ibid.,  lib.  ii.  cap.  xxy.  The  prototype  of  Mr. 
Windham's  panegyric  on  bull-baiting. 

P  22 


sides  ;  and,  after  the  horsemen  and  piccadores  have 
fought  the  bull,  the  matadore  steps  forward  and  bow» 
to  him  for  permission  to  kill  the  animal.  If  the  bull  has 
done  his  duty  by  killing  two  or  three  horses,  or  a  man, 
which  last  is  rare,  the  people  interfere  with  shouts,  tha 
ladies  wave  their  handkerchiefs,  and  the  animal  is  saved. 
The  wounds  and  death  of  the  horses  are  accompanied 
with  the  loudest  acclamations,  and  many  gestures  oi 
delight,  especially  from  the  female  portion  of  the  audi- 
ence, including  those  of  the  gentlest  blood.  Every  thing 
depends  on  habit.  The  author  of  Childe  Harold,  the 
writer  of  this  note,  and  one  or  two  other  Englishmen, 
who  have  certainly  in  other  days  borne  the  sight  of  a 
pitched  battle,  were,  during  the  summer  of  1809,  in  the 
governor's  box  at  the  great  amphitheatre  of  Santa  Ma- 
ria, opposite  to  Cadiz.  The  death  of  one  or  two  horses 
completely  satisfied  their  curiosity.  A  gentleman  pre- 
sent, observing  them  shudder  and  look  pale,  noticed 
that  unusual  reception  of  so  delightful  a  sport  to  somo 
young  ladies,  who  stared  and  smiled,  and  continued 
their  applauses  as  another  horse  fell  bleeding  to  the 
ground.  One  bull  killed  three  horses  off  his  own  horns. 
He  was  saved  by  acclamations,  which  were  redoubled 
when  it  was  known  he  belonged  to  a  priest. 

An  Englishman,  who  can,  be  much  pleased  with  see- 
ing two  men  beat  themselves  to  pieces,  cannot  bear  to 
look  at  a  horse  galloping  round  an  arena  with  his 
bowels  trailing  on  the  ground,  and  turns  from  the  spec 
tacle  and  spectators  with  horror  and  disgust. 

Note  62.  Stanza  cxliv. 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head. 

Suetonius  informs  us  that  Julius  Cffisar  was  particu 
larly  gratified  by  that  decree  of  the  senate,  which  en- 
abled him  to  wear  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  all  occasions. 
He  was  anxious,  not  to  show  that  he  was  the  conqueror 
of  the  world,  but  to  hide  that  he  was  bald.  A  stranger 
at  Rome  would  hardly  have  guessed  at  the  motive,  nor 
should  we  without  the  help  of  the  historian. 

Note  63.  Stanza  cxlv. 
"While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand,"  etc. 

This  is  quoted  in  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire :  and  a  notice  on  the  Coliseum  may  be  seen  in 
the  Historical  Illustrations  to  the  IV th  Canto  of  Childe 
Harold. 

Note  64.  Stanza  cxlvi. 
spared  and  blest  by  time. 

"  Though  plundered  of  all  its  brass,  except  the  ring 
which  was  necessary  to  preserve  the  aperture  above, 
though  exposed  to  repeated  fires,  though  sometimes 
flooded  by  the  river,  and  always  open  to  the  rain,  no 
monument  of  equal  antiquity  is  so  well  preserved  as 
this  rotunda.  It  passed  with  little  alteration  from  the 
Pagan  into  the  present  worship ;  and  so  convenient  were 
its  niches  for  the  Christian  altar,  that  Michael  Angelo, 
ever  studious  of  ancient  beauty,  introduced  their  de- 
sign as  a  model  of  the  Catholic  church." 

Forsyth's  Remarks,  etc.,  on  Italy,  p.  137.  se.:.  edit. 
Note  65.  Stanza  cxlvii. 

And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honour'd  forirs,  whose  buiU  around  them  cioso 

The  Pantheon  has  been  made  a  receptacle  for  tho 
busts  of  modern  great,  or,  at  least,  distinguished  men. 
The  flood  of  light  which  once  fell  through  the  large  orn 
above  on  the  whole  circle  of  divinities,  now  shines  <w 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


a  numerous  ass-jublagc  of  mortals,  some  one  or  two  o 
whom  have  been  almost  deified  by  the  veneration  o 
their  countryman. 

Note  66.  Stanza  cxlviii. 
There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light. 
This  and  the  three  next  stanzas  allude  to  the  story  o! 
the  Roman  Daughter,  which  is  recalled  to  the  traveller, 
by  the  site  or  pretended  site  of  that  adventure  now 
*hown  at  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas  in  carcere.  The  dif- 
ficulties attending  the  full  belief  of  the  tale,  are  statec 
n  Historical  Illustrations,  etc. 

Note  67.  Stanza  clii. 

Turn  to  the  mole  which  Hadrian  rear'd  on  high. 
The  castle  of  St.  Angelo.    See  Historical  Illustra- 
tions. 

Note  68.  Stanza  cliii. 

But  lo !  the  dome — the  vast  and  wondrous  dome. 
This  and  the  six  next  stanzas  have  a  reference  to  the 
cnurch  of  St.  Peter.  For  a  measurement  of  the  com- 
parative length  of  this  basilica,  and  the  other  great 
churches  of  Europe,  see  the  pavement  of  St.  Peter's, 
and  the  Classical  Tour  through  Italy,  vol.  ii.  page  125, 
et  seq.  chap.  iv. 

Note  C9.  Stanza  clxxi. 


-the  strange  fate 


Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns. 
Mary  died  on  the  scaffold ;  Elizabeth  of  a  broken 
heart;  Charles  V.  a  hermit;  Louis  XIV.  a  bankrupt  in 
means  and  glory  ;  Cromwell  of  anxiety ;  and, — "  the 
greatest  is  behind," — Napoleon  lives  a  prisoner.  To  these 
sovereigns  a  long  but  superfluous  list  might  be  added 
of  names  equally  illustrious  and  unhappy. 

Note  70.  Stanza  clxxiii. 

Lo,  Nemi !  navell'd  in  the  woody  hills. 

The  village  of  Nemi  was  near  the  Arician  retreat  of 

Egeria,  and,  from  the  shades  which  embosomed  the 

temple  of  Diana,  has  preserved  to  this  day  its  distinctive 

appellation  of  The  Grove,     Nemi  is  but  an  evening's 

ride  from  the  comfortable  inn  of  Albano. 

Note  71.  Stanza  cbcxiv. 


-and  afar 


The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast,  etc.  etc. 

The  whole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of  unrivalled 
beauty,  and  from  the  convent  on  the  highest  point, 
which  has  succeeded  to  the  temple  of  the  Latian  Jupiter, 
the  prospect  embraces  all  the  objects  alluded  to  in  the 
cited  stanza  :  the  Mediterranean ;  the  whole  scene  of 
the  latter  half  of  the  ^Eneid  ;  and  the  coast  from  beyond 
the  mouth  of  the  Tiber  to  the  neadland  of  Circaeum 
and  the  Cape  of  Terracina. 

The  site  of  Cicero's  villa  may  be  supposed  either  at 
the  Grotta  Ferrata,  or  at  the  Tusculum  of  Prince  Lucien 
Buonaparte. 

The  former  was  thought  some  years  ago  the  actual 
site,  as  may  be  seen  from  Middleton's  Life  of  Cicero. 
At  present  it  has  lost  something  of  its  credit,  except  for 
one  Domenichinos.  Nine  monks,  of  the  Greek  order, 
Jive  there,  and  the  adjoining  villa  is  a  cardinal's  sum- 
mer-house. The  other  villa,  called  Rufinella,  is  on  the 
kummit  of  the  hill  above  Frascati,  and  many  rich  re- 
mains of  Tusculum  have  been  found  there,  besides 
•eventy-two  statues  of  different  merit  and  preservation, 
tod  seven  busk.. 


From  the  same  eminence  are  seen  the  Sabine  hills, 
embosomed  in  which  lies  the  long  valley  of  Rustics. 
There  are  several  circumstances  which  tend  to  osuihlisf 
the  identity  of  this  valley  with  the  "  Ustica"  of  Horace . 
and  k  seems  possible  that  the  mosaic  pavement  which 
the  peasants  uncover  by  throwing  up  the  earth  of  a  vine- 
yard, may  belong  to  his  villa.  Rustica  is  pronounced 
short,  not  according  to  our  stress  upon — "  Ustica 
cuoonto's." — It  is  more  rational  to  think  that  we  are 
wrong,  than  that  the  inhabitants  of  this  secluded  valley 
have  changed  their  tone  in  this  word.  The  addition  of 
the  consonant  prefixed  is  nothing :  yet  it  is  necessary  to 
be  aware  that  Rustica  may  b.3  a  modern  name  which 
the  peasants  may  have  caught  from  the  antiquaries. 

The  villa,  or  the  mosaic,  is  in  a  vineyard  on  a  knoll 
covered  with  chesnut  trees.  A  stream  runs  down  tho 
valley,  and  although  it  is  not  true,  as  said  in  the  guide- 
books, that  this  stream  is  called  Licenza,  yet  there  is  a 
village  on  a  rock  at  i'^e  head  of  the  vallev  which  is  s« 
denominated,  and  which  may  have  taken  its  name  from 
the  Digentia.  Licenza  contains  700  inhabitants.  On  a 
peak  a  little  way  beyond  is  Civitella,  containing  SCO. 
On  the  banks  of  the  Anio,  a  little  before  you  turn  up 
into  Valle  Rustica,  to  the  left,  about  an  hour  from  the 
villa,  is  a  town  called  Vico-varo,  another  favourable 
coincidence  with  the  Varia  of  the  poet.  At  the  end 
of  the  valley,  towards  the  Anio,  there  is  a  bare  hill 
crowned  with  a  little  town  called  Bardela.  At  the  fool 
of  this  hill  the  rivulet  of  Licenza  flows,  and  is  almost 
absorbed  in  a  wide  sandy  bed  before  it  reaches  the  Anio. 
Nothing  can  be  more  fortunate  for  the  lines  of  the  poet, 
whether  in  a  metaphorical  or  direct  sense : 

"  Me  (motions  roficit  gelidus  Digentia  rivus. 
Quern  Mandela  bibit  rugosus  frigorepagus. 

The  stream  is  clear  high  up  the  valley,  but  before  it 
reaches  the  hill  of  Bardela  looks  green  and  yellow  like 
a  sulphur  rivulet. 

Rocca  Giovane,  a  ruined  village  in  the  hills,  half  an 
hour's  walk  from  the  vineyard  where  the  pavement  is 
shown,  does  seem  to  be  the  site  of  the  fane  of  Vacuna, 
and  an  inscription  found  there  tells  that  this  temple  of 
the  Sabine  victory  was  repaired  by  Vespasian. '  With 
these  helps,  and  a  position  corresponding  exactly  t»> 
every  thing  which  the  poet  has  told  us  of  his  retreat, 
we  may  feel  tolerably  secure  of  our  site. 

The  hill  which  should  be  Lucretilis  is  called  Cam- 
panile,  and  by  following  up  the  rivulet  to  the  pretended 
Bandusia,  you  come  to  the  roots  of  'he  higher  mountain 
Gennaro.  Singularly  enough,  the  only  spot  of  ploughed 
and  in  the  whole  valley  is  on  the  knoll  where  this 
Bandusia  rises, 

" Tu  frigus  amabile 

Fessis  voiiiriB  tauris 

Prtcbes,  et  pecori  vago." 

The  peasants  show  another  spring  nea*  the  mosaic  pave- 
ment, which  they  call  "  Oradina,"  and  which  flows  down 
the  hills  into  a  tank,  or  mill-dam,  and  thence  trickles 
over  into  the  Digentia.  But  we  must  not  hope 

"  To  trace  the  Musos  upwards  to  their  spring," 
exploring  the  windings   of  the  romantic  valley  in 
search  of  the  Bandusian  fountain.  It  seems  strange  that 


1  IMP.  CAESAR  VF.SPASTANVS 
PONTIFEX  MAXIM  VS.  TRIB. 

POTEST.  CENSOR.  /EDEM 

VICTORIA.  VETVSTATE  ILLAPSYM 

SVA.  1MPENSA,  BEariTVJT. 


CHILDE  HAROLD  S  PILGRIMAGE. 


13 


anyone  should  have  thought  Bandusia  a  fountain  of  the 
Digentia — Horace  has  not  let  drop  a  word  of  it ;  and 
this  immortal  spring  has,  in  fact,  been  discovered  in  pos- 
session of  the  holders  of  many  good  things  in  Italy,  the 
monks.  It  was  attached  to  the  church  of  St.  Gervais 
and  Protais,  near  Venusia,  where  it  was  most  likely  to 
oe  found.1  We  shall  not  be  so  lucky  as  a  late  traveller 
in  finding  the  occasional  pine  still  pendant  on  the  poetic 
villa.  There  is  not  a  pine  in  the  whole  valley,  but  there 
are  two  cypresses,  which  he  evidently  took,  or  mistook, 
for  the  tree  in  the  ode.  a  The  truth  is,  that  the  pine  is 
now,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  Virgil,  a  garden  tree,  and 
it  was  not  at  all  likely  to  be  found  in  the  craggy  accliv- 
ities of  the  valley  of  Rustica.  Horace  probably  had  one 
of  them  in  the  orchard  close  above  his  farm,  immediately 
overshadowing  his  villa,  not  on  the  rocky  heights  at  some 
distance  from  his  abode.  The  tourist  may  have  easily 
supposed  himself  to  have  seen  this  pine  figured  in  the 
above  cypresses,  for  the  orange  and  lemon- trees  which 
throw  such  a  bloom  over  his  description  of  the  royal 


exhortations  of  the  moralist,  may  haw>  niade  this  wort 
something  more  and  better  than  a  oook  of  'ravels  bui 
they  have  not  made  it  a  book  of  travels  ;  and  this  OD- 
serration  applies  more  especially  to  that  enticing  meth  *. 
of  instruction  conveyed  by  the  perpetual  introductioh 
of  the  same  Gallic  Helot  to  reel  and  bluster  before  the 
rising  generation,  and  terrify  it  into  decency  by  >hr 
display  of  all  the  excesses  of  the  revolution.  An  am 
mosity  against  atheists  and  regicides  in  general,  an 
Frenchmen  specifically,  may  be  honourable,  and  maj 
be  useful,  as  a  record  ;  but  that  antidote  should  eithei 
be  administered  in  any  work  rather  than  a  tour,  or,  a. 
least,  should  be  served  up  apart,  and  not  so  mixed  witX 
the  whole  mass  of  information  and  reflection,  as  10  give 
a  bitterness  to  every  page :  for  who  would  choose  to 
have  the  antipathies  of  any  man,  however  just,  for  his 
travelling  companions  ?  A  tourist,  unless  he  aspires  to 
the  credit  of  prophecy,  is  not  answerable  for  the  changes 
which  may  take  place  in  the  country  which  he  describes  : 
but  his  reader  may  very  fairly  esteem  all  his  political 


gardens  at  Naples,  unless  they  have  been  since  displaced,  portraits  and  deductions  as  so  much  waste  paper,  the 
were  assuredly  only  acacias  and  other  common  garden  j  moment  they  cease  to  assist,  and  more  particularly  if 
shrubs.  3  The  extreme  disappointment  experienced  by*  they  obstruct,  his  actual  survey. 


choosing  the  Classical  Tourist  as  a  guide  in  Italy,  must 
be  allowed  to  find  vent  in  a  few  observations,  which,  it 
is  asserted  without  fear  of  contradiction,  will  be  con- 
firmed by  every  one  who  has  selected  the  same  con- 
ductor through  the  same  country.  This  author  is,  in  fact, 
one  of  the  most  inaccurate,  unsatisfactory  writers  that 
have  in  our  times  attained  a  temporary  reputation,  and  is 
very  seldom  to  be  trusted  even  when  he  speaks  of  ob- 
jects which  he  must  be  presumed  to  have  seen.  His 
errors,  from  the  simple  exaggeration  to  the  downright 
misstatement,  are  so  frequent  as  to  induce  a  suspicion 
that  he  had  either  never  visited  the  spots  described,  or 
nad  trusted  to  the  fidelity  of  former  writers.  Indeed  the 
Classical  Tour  has  every  characteristic  of  a  mere  com- 
pilation of  former  notices,  strung  together  upon  a  very 
slender  thread  of  personal  observation,  and  swelled  out 
by  fnose  decorations  which  are  so  easily  supplied  by  a 
systematic  adoption  of  all  the  commonplaces  of  praise, 
applied  to  every  thing,  and  therefore  signifying  nothing. 

The  style  which  one  person  thinks  cloggy  and  cum- 
brous, and  unsuitable,  may  be  to  the  taste  of  others, 
and  such  may  experience  some  salutary  excitement  in 
ploughing  through  the  periods  of  the  Classical  Tour. 
It  must  be  said,  however,  that  polish  and  weight  are 
apt  to  beget  an  expectation  of  value.  It  is  amongst  the 
pains  of  the  damned  to  toil  up  a  climax  with  a  huge 
round  stone. 

The  tourist  had  the  choice  of  his  words,  but  there 
was  no  such  latitude  allowed  to  that  of  his  sentiments. 
The  love  of  virtue  and  of  liberty,  which  must  have  dis- 
tinguished the  character,  certainly  adorns  the  pages  of 
Mr.  Eustace,  and  the  gentlemanly  spirit,  so  recom- 
mendatory either  in  an  author  or  his  productions,  is  very 
conspicuous  throughout  the  Classical  Tour.  But  these 
generous  qualities  are  the  foliage  of  such  a  performance, 
and  may  be  spread  about  it  so  prominently  and  pro- 
rusely,  as  to  embarrass  those  who  wish  to  see  and  find 
the  fruit  at  hand.  The  unction  of  the  divine,  and  the 


1  See  Historical  Illustrations  of  the  Fourth  Canto,  p.  43. 

2  See  Classical  Tour,  etc.  chap.  vii.  p.  250.  vol.  ii. 

3  "  Under  our  windows,  and  bordering  on  the  beach,  is  the 
rnyfii  garden,  laid  out.  in  parterres,  and  walks  shuded  by  rows 
»furane«  uees  "  Classical  Tour,  etc..  chap.  xi.  vul  ii  ocL 

m 


Neither  encomium  nor  accusation  of  any  government, 
or  governors,  is  meant  to  be  here  offered ;  but  it  is 
stated  as  an  incontrovertible  fact,  that  the  change  ope- 
rated, either  by  the  address  of  the  late  imperial  system, 
or  by  the  disappointment  of  every  expectation  by  those 
who  have  succeeded  to  the  Italian  thrones,  has  been  so 
considerable,  and  is  so  apparent,  as  not  only  to  put  Mr. 
Eustace's  Antigallican  philippics  entirely  out  of  date, 
but  even  to  throw  some  suspicion  upon  the  competency 
and  candour  of  the  author  himself.  A  remarkable  ex- 
ample may  be  found  in  the  instance  of  Bologna, _over 
whose  papal  attachments,  and  consequent  desolation, 
the  tourist  pours  forth  such  strains  of  condolence  and 
revenge,  made  louder  by  the  borrowed  trumpet  of  Mr. 
Burke.  Now,  Bologna  is  at  this  moment,  and  has 
been  for  some  years,  notorious  amongst  the  states  of 
Italy  for  its  attachment  to  revolutionary  principles,  and 
was  almost  the  only  city  which  made  any  demonstra  • 
tions  in  favour  of  the  unfortunate  Murat.  This  change 
may,  however,  have  been  made  since  Mr.  Eustaco 
visited  this  country ;  but  the  traveller  whom  he  has 
thrilled  with  horror  at  the  projected  stripping  of  the 
copper  from  the  cupola  of  St.  Peter's,  must  be  much 
relieved  to  find  that  sacrilege  out  of  the  power  of  the 
French,  or  any  other  plurjderers,  the  cupola  being  cov- 
ered with  If.ad.  ' 

If  the  conspiring  voice  of  otherwise  rival  critics  had 
not  given  considerable  currency  to  the  Classical  Tour, 
it  would  have  been  unnecessary  to  warn  the  reader, 
that,  however  it  may  adorn  his  library,  it  wili  DC  of  little 
or  no  service  to  him  in  his  carriage  ;  and  if  the  judgment 
of  those  critics  had  hitherto  been  suspended,  no  attempt 
would  have  been  made  to  anticipate  their  decision.  At 
it  is,  those  who  stand  in  the  relation  of  posterity  to 
Mr.  Eustace,  may  be  permitted  to  appeal  from  cotem- 
porary  praises,  and  are  perhaps  more  likely  to  b<!  ;ust 


1  "What,  then,  will  be  the  astonishment,  or  rather  Ih*  hor- 
ror of  my  reader,  when  1  inform  him the  Flench 

Committee  turned  its  attention  to  Saint  Peter's,  and  employed 
a  company  of  Jews  to  estimate  and  purchase  the  gold.si'ver 
and  bronze,  that  adorn  the  inside  of  the  edifice,  us  well  a* 
the  copper  that  covers  the  vaults  and  dome  on  th«!  outside. 
Chap.  iv.  p.  130.  vol.  ii.  The  siory  about  the  Juws  u  uoo 
lively  denied  at  Home, 


132 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


tii  proportion  as  the  causes  of  love  and  hatred  are  the 
.dither  removed.  This  appeal  had,  in  some  measure, 
oi-en  made  before  the  above  remarks  were  written ;  for 
one  of  the  most  respectable  of  the  Florentine  publishers, 
who  had  been  persuaded  by  the  repeated  inquiries  of 
Uwie  on  their  journey  southwards,  to  reprint  a  cheap 
eu  uon  of  the  Classical  Tour,  was,  by  the  concurring 


advice  of  returning  travellers,  induced  '.o  aoandon  his 
design,  although  he  had  already  arranged  his  types  awl 
paper,  and  had  struck  off  one  or  two  of  the  first  sneeu. 
The  writer  of  these  notes  would  wish  to  part  (like 
Mr.  Gibbon)  on  good  terms  with  the  Pope  and  the  Car- 
dinals, but  he  does  not  think  it  necessary  lo  extend  the 
same  discreet  silence  to  their  humble  partisans. 


(Kiaour; 

A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  TURKISH  TALE. 


One  fatal  remembrance — one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes—- 
To which  life  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring. 
For  which  joy  hath  no  balm,  and  affliction  no  sting. 

MOORE. 


TO  SAMUEL  ROGERS,  ESQ. 

AS  A   SLIGHT  BUT   MOST   SINCERE  TOKEN   OF  ADMIRATION  OF  HIS  GENIUS 
RESPECT  FOR  HIS  CHARACTER,  AND  GRATITUDE  FOR  HIS  FRIENDSHIP; 

THIS  PRODUCTION  IS   INSCRIBED, 
BY  HIS  OBLIGED  AND  AFFECTIONATE  SERVANT, 

BYRON. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  Tale  which  these  disjointed  fragments  present,  is 
founded  upon  circumstances  now  less  common  in  the 
East  than  formerly;  either  because  the  ladies  are 
more  circumspect  than  in  the  "  olden  time ;"  or  be- 
cause the  Christians  have  better  fortune,  or  less  en- 
terprise. The  story,  when  entire,  contained  the 
adventures  of  a  female  slave,  who  was  thrown,  in  the 
Mussulman  manner,  into  the  sea  for  infidelity,  and 
avenged  by  a  young  Venetian,  her  lover,  at  the  time 
the  Seven  Islands  were  possessed  by  the  Republic  of 
Venice,  and  soon  aflerthe  Arnaouts  wore  beaten  back 
from  the  Morea,  which  they  had  ravaged  for  some 
time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  invasion.  The  deser- 
tion of  the  Mainotes,  on  being  refused  the  plunder  of 
Misitra,  led  to  the  abandonment  of  that  enterprise, 
and  to  the  desolation  of  the  Morea,  during  which  the 
cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides  was  unparalleled  even 
in  the  annals  of  the  faithful. 


THE   GIAOUR. 


No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
Tha,  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave, 
That  tomb '  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff, 
First  greets  the  homeward-veering  skifF, 
High  o  cr  tne  land  he  saved  in  vain : 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again  ? 
****** 


Fair  clime !  where  every  season  smiles 
Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 
Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height, 
Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight, 
And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 
There,  mildly  dimpling,  Ocean's  cheek 
Reflects  the  tints  of  many  a  peak 
Caught  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave  ; 
And  if,  at  times,  a  transient  breeze 
Break  the  blue  crystal  of  the  seas, 
Or  sweep  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 
How  welcome  is  each  gentle  air 
That  wakes  and  wafts  the  odours  there ' 
For  there — the  rose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 
Sultana  of  the  nightingale,2 
The  maid  for  whom  his  melody, 
His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high, 
Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover's  tale : 
His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  rose, 
Unbent  by  winds,  unchill'd  by  snows, 
Far  from  the  winters  of  the  west, 
By  every  breeze  and  season  blest, 
Returns  the  sweets  by  Nature  given, 
In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven  ; 
And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 
Her  fairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. 
And  many  a  summer  flower  is  there, 
And  many  a  shade  that  love  might  sha  /a. 
And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest, 
That  holds  the  pirate  for  a  guest ; 
Whose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 
Lurks  for  the  passing  peaceful  p:ow 
Till  the  gay  mariner's  gu/tar  " 
1 1  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  SMU  ; 


THE  GIAOUR. 


133 


ITien  stealing  with  the  muffled  oar, 

Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore, 

Rush  the  night-prowlers  on  the  prey, 

And  turn  to  groans  liis  foundelay. 

Strange — that  where  Nature  loved  to  trace, 

As  if  for  gods,  a  dwelling-place, 

And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mix'd 

Within  the  paradise  she  fix'd, 

There  man,  enamour'd  of  distress, 

Should  mar  it  into  wilderness, 

And  trample,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 

That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour; 

Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 

To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land, 

But  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care, 

And  sweetly  woos  him — but  to  spare ! 

Strange — that  where  all  is  peace  beside 

There  passion  riots  in  her  pride, 

And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign 

To  darken  o'er  the  fair  domain. 

It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevail'd 

Against  the  seraphs  they  assail'd, 

And,  fix'd  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 

The  freed  inheritors  of  hell ; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  form'd  for  joy, 

So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy ! 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers), 
And  mark'd  the  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there, 
The  fix'd,  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek, 
And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 

That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 
Where  cold  obstruction's  apathy* 
Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon ; 
Yes,  but  for  these,  and  these  alone, 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power ; 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal'd, 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd !  * 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore ; 
'T  is  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more ! 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 
We  start,  for  soul   is  wanting  there. 
Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 
That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath  ; 
But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 
That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 
The  farewell  beam  of  feeling  past  away ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth ! 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
P2 


Was  freedom's  home  or  glory's  grave ' 
Shrine  of  the  mighty  !  can  it  be, 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 
Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  sin  o~ 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ? 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

Oh  servile  offspring  of  the  free — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this  . 
The  gulf,  the  rock  pf  Salamis ! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown. 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own  ; 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires  ; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  feai 
That  tyranny  shall  quake  to  heat, 
And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame  : 
For  freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeath'd  by  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled  oft,  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age  ! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid, 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb; 
A  mightier  monument  command, 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land ! 
There  points  thy  muse  to  stranger's  eyo 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die ! 
'T  were  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace, 
Each  step  from  splendour  to  disgrace ; 
Enough — no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell ; 
Yes  !  self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot-sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore  ? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time, 
No  theme  on  which  the  muse  might  soar, 
High  as  thine  own  in  days  of  yore, 

When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 
The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred, 
The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime, 
Now  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Slaves — nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave, 

And  callous,  save  to  crime ; 
Stain'd  with  each  evil  that  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes  , 
Without  even  savage  virtue  blest, 
Without  one  free  or  valiant  breast. 
Still  to  the  neighbouring  ports  they  waA 
Proverbial  wiles,  and  ancient  craft ; 
In  this  the  subtle  Greek  is  found, 
For  this,  and  this  alone,  renown'd. 
In  vain  might  liberty  invoke 
The  spirit  to  its  bondage  broke, 
Or  raise  the  neck  that  courts  the  yok«t 
No  more  her  sorrows  I  bewail, 
Yet  this  will  be  a  mournful  tale, 
And  they  who  listen  may  believe, 
Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  gnero. 


134 


BYRON  S  WORKS. 


Far,  dark,  along  the  blue-sea  glancing, 
The  shadows  of  the  rocks  advancing, 
Start  on  the  fisher's  eye  like  boat 
Of  island-pirate  or  Mainote  ; 
And,  fearful  for  his  light  caique, 
He  shuns  the  near,  but  doubtful  creek : 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil, 
And  cumber'd  with  his  scaly  spoil, 
Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  o:.r, 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  light 
That  best  becomes  an  eastern  night. 

******* 

Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest  steed, 
With  slacken'd  bit,  and  hoof  of  speed? 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron's  sound, 
The  cavern'd  echoes  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound ; 
The  foam  that  streaks  the  courser's  side 
Seems  gather'd  from  the  ocean-tide ; 
Though  weary  waves  are  sunk  to  rest, 
There 's  none  within  his  rider's  breast ; 
And  though  to-morrow's  tempest  lower, 
'T  is  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaour !  * 
I  know  thee  not,  I  loathe  thy  race, 
But  in  thy  lineaments  I  trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  efface : 
Though  young  and  pale,  that  sallow  front 
Is  scathed  by  fiery  passion's  brunt; 
Though  bent  on  earth  thine  evil  eye, 
As  meteor-like  thou  glidest  by, 
Right  well  I  view  and  deem  thee  one 
Whom  Olhman's  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On — on  he  hastened,  and  he  drew 
My  gaze  of  wonder  as  he  flew : 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  pass'd  and  vanish'd  from  my  sight, 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impress'd 
A  troubled  memory  on  my  breast, 
And  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  spurs  his  steed  ;  he  nears  the  steep, 
That,  jutting,  shadows  o'er  the  deep ; 
He  winds  around  ;  he  hurries  by  ; 
The  rock  relieves  him  from  mine  eye ; 
For  well  I  ween  unwelcome  he 
Whose  glance  is  fix'd  on  those  that  flee ; 
And  not  a  star  but  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight. 
He  wound  along ;  but,  ere  he  pass'd, 
One  glance  he  snatch'd,  as  if  his  last, 
A  moment  check'd  his  wheeling  steed, 
A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed, 
A  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood — 
Why  looks  he  o'er  the  olive-wood  ? 
The  crescent  glimmers  on  the  lull, 
The  mosque's  high  lamps  are  quivering  still : 
Though  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 
In  echoi  s  of  the  far  tophaike,  * 
Tl  e  flashes  of  each  joyous  >eal 
Are  seen  to  prove  the  Mos.ein's  zeal. 
To-night,  set  Rhamazani's  sun; 
10  »ight  the   Bairatn  feast 's  begun  ; 
To-  night — bul  wno  and  what  art  thou, 
O'  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow  7 


And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  tiiec, 

That  th'.u  shouldst  either  pause  or  flee? 

He  stood — some  dread  was  on  h'.s  face, 

Soon  hatred  settled  in  its  pluc-j: 

It  rose  not  with  the  reddening  flush 

Of  transient  anger's  darkening  blush, 

But  pale  as  marble  o'er  the  tomb, 

Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 

His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed, 

He  raised  his  arm,  and  fiercely  raised, 

And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high, 

As  doubting  to  return  or  fly : 

Impatient  of  his  flight  delay'd, 

Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neigh'd — 

Down  glanced  that  hand,  and  grasp'd  his  blart 

That  sound  had  burst  his  waking  dream, 

As  slumber  starts  at  owlet's  scream. 

The  spur  hath  lanced  his  courser's  sicks  t 

Away,  away,  for  life  he  rides ; 

Swift  as  the  hurl'd  on  high  jerreed, ' 

Springs  to  the  touch  his  startled  steed  ; 

The  rock  is  doubled,  and  the  shore 

Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  mor« ; 

The  crag  is  won,  no  more  is  seen 

His  Christian  crest  and  haughty  mien. 

'T  was  but  an  instant  he  restrain'd 

That  fiery  barb  so  sternly  rem'd : 

'T  was  but  a  moment  that  he  stood, 

Then  sped  as  if  by  death  pursued  ; 

But  in  that  instant  o'er  his  soul 

Winters  of  memory  seem'd  to  roll, 

And  gather  in  that  Jrop  of  time 

A  life  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 

O'er  him  who  loves,  or  hates,  or  fears, 

Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years : 

What  felt  he  then,  at  once  opprest 

By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast  ? 

That  pause,  which  ponder'd  o'er  his  fate, 

Oh,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date  ! 

Though  in  time's  record  nearly  nought, 

It  was  eternity  to  thought ! 

For  infinite  as  boundless  space 

The  thought  that  conscience  must  embrace, 

Which  in  itself  can  comprehend  " 

Woe  without  name,  or  hope,  or  end. 

The  hour  is  past,  the  Giaour  is  gone  ; 
And  did  he  fly  or  fall  alone? 
Woe  to  that  hour  he  came  or  went ! 
The  curse  for  Hassan's  sin  was  sent, 
To  turn  a  palace  to  a  tomb : 
He  came,  he  went,  like  the  simoom, 10 
That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom, 
Beneath  whose  widely-wasting  breath 
The  very  cypress  droops  to  death — 
Dark  tree,  still  sad  when  others'  grief  is  floJ, 
The  only  constant  mourner  o'er  the  dead ! 

The  steed  is  vanish'd  from  the  stall ; 
No  serf  is  seen  in  Hassan's  hall ; 
The  lonely  spider's  thin  gray  pall 
Waves  slowly  widening  o'er  the  wall ; 
The  ba».  builds  in  his  haram  bower ; 
And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 
The  owl  usurps  the  bcacon-towei ; 
The  wild-dog  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  ^ir'-m 
With  baffled  thirst,  and  famine  prim: 


THE  GIAOUR. 


For  the  stream  has  shrunk  from  its  marble  bed, 

Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are  spread, 

'T  was  sweet  of  yore  to  see  it  play 

And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day, 

As,  springing  high,  the  silver  dew 

In  whirls  fantastically  flew, 

And  flung  luxurious  coolness  round 

The  air,  and  verdure  o'er  the  ground. 

*T  was  sweet,  when  cloudless  stars  were  bright, 

To  view  the  wave  of  watery  light, 

And  hear  its  melody  by  night, 

And  oft  had  Hassan's  childhood  play'd 

Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade ; 

And  oft  upon  his  mother's  breast 

That  sound  had  harmonized  his  rest ; 

And  oft  had  Hassan's  youth  along 

Its  bank  been  soothed  by  beauty's  song ; 

And  softer  seem'd  each  melting  tone 

Of  music  mingled  with  its  own. 

But  ne'er  shall  Hassan's  age  repose 

Along  the  brink  at  twilight's  close : 

The  stream  that  fill'd  that  font  is  fled — 

The  blood  that  warm'd  his  heart  is  shed ! 

And  here  no  more  shall  human  voice 

Be  heard  to  rage,  regret,  rejoice  ; 

The  last  sad  note  that  swell'd  the  gale 

Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail : 

That  quenched  in  silence,  all  is  still, 

But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill : 

Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  ram, 

No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again. 

On  desert  sands 't  were  joy  to  scan 

The  rudest  steps  of  fellow  man — 

So  here  the  very  voice  of  grief 

Might  wake  an  echo  like  relief; 

At  least 't  would  say,  "  all  are  not  gone ; 

"  There  lingers  life,  though  but  in  one — " 

For  many  a  gilded  chamber 's  there, 

Which  solitude  might  well  forbear ; 

Within  that  dome  as  yet  decay 

Hath  slowly  work'd  her  cankering  way— 

But  gloom  is  gathered  o'er  the  gate, 

Nor  there  the  fakir's  self  will  wait ; 

Nor  there  will  wandering  dervise  stay, 

For  bounty  cheers  not  his  delay ; 

Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 

To  bless  the  sacred  "  bread  and  salt."  " 

Alike  must  wealth  and  poverty 

Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by, 

For  courtesy  and  pity  died 

With  Hassan  on  the  mountain  side. 

His  roof,  that  refuge  unto  men, 

Is  desolation's  hungry  den. 

The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassals  from  labour, 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's  sabre! la 


I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet ; 
More  near — each  turban  I  can  scan, 
And  silver-sheathed  ataghan  ;  l3 
The  foremost  of  the  band  is  seen, 
An  emir  by  his  garb  of  green. :  '* 
"Ho!  who  art  thou? — this  low  salad-* 
Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am. 


The  burthen  ye  so  gently  bear, 
Seems  one  that  claims  your  utmost  care, 
And,  doubtless,  nolds  some  precious  freight, 
My  humble  bark  would  gladly  wait." 

"Thou  speakest  sooth,  thy  skiff  unmoor. 
And  waft  us  from  the  silent  shore ; 
Nay,  leave  the  sail  still  furl'd,  and  ply 
The  nearest  oar  that 's  scattcr'd  by  ; 
And  midway  to  those  rocks  where  sleep 
The  channeled  waters  dark  and  deep, 
Rest  from  your  task — so— bravely  done, 
Our  course  has  been  right  swiftly  run ; 
Yet 't  is  the  longest  voyage,  I  trow, 
That  one  of " 


Sullen  it  plunged,  and  slowly  sank, 
The  calm  wave  rippled  to  the  bank  ; 
I  watch'd  it  as  it  sank,  methought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 
Bestirr'd  it  more, — 't  was  but  the  beam 
That  cliequer'd  o'er  the  living  stream : 
I  gazsd,  till  vanishing  from  view, 
Like  lessening  pebble  it  withdrew ; 
Still  less  and  less,  a  speck  of  white 
That  gemm'd  the  tide,  then  mock'd  the  sigh1 
And  all  its  hidden  secrets  sleep, 
Known  but  to  genii  of  the  deep, 
Which,  trembling  in  their  coral  caves 
They  dare  not  whisper  to  the  waves. 


As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect-queen16  of  eastern  spring, 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Kashmeer 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near, 
And  leads  him  on  from  flower  to  flower 
A  weary  chase  and  wasted  hour, 
Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  hign. 
With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye : 
So  beauty  lures  the  full-grown  chad, 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild , 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 
Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 
If  won,  to  equal  ills  betray'd, 
Woe  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid , 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
From  infant's  play,  and  man's  caprice  • 
The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught. 
For  every  touch  that  wooed  its  stay 
Hath  brush'd  its  brightest  hues  away, 
Till,  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauiy  gone, 
'T  is  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 
With  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast. 
Ah!  where  shall  either  victim  rest? 
C?n  this  with  faded  pinion  soar 
Froin  rose  to  ttili|>  -\s  before  1 
Or  beauty,  blighted  in  an  houi, 
Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower  ! 
No :  gayer  insects  fluttering  by 
Ne'er  droop  the  wing  o'er  those  that  d.e. 
And  lovelier  things  have  mercy  shown 
To  every  failing  but  their  own, 


136 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


And  everv  woe  a  tear  can  claim 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame. 

The  mind,  that  broods  o'er  guilty  woes, 

Is  like  the  scorpion  girt  by  fire, 
In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows, 
The  flames  around  their  captive  close, 
Till,  inly  search'd  by  thousand  throes, 

And  maddening  in  her  ire, 
One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 
The  sting  she  nourish'd  for  her  foes, 
Whose  venom  never  yet  was  vain, 
Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain, 
And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain : 
So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire, 
Or  live  like  scorpion  girt  by  fire ; |f 
So  writhes  the  mind  remorse  hath  riven, 
Unfit  for  earth,  undoom'd  for  heaven, 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath, 
Around  it  flame,  within  it  death ! 

Black  Hassan  from  the  haram  flies, 
Nor  hends  on  woman's  form  his  eyes ; 
The  unwonted  chase  each  hour  employs, 
Yet  shares  he  not  the  hunter's  joys. 
Not  thus  was  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwelt  in  his  Serai. 
Doth  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell? 
That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tefl : 
Strange  rumours  in  our  city  say 
Upon  that  eve  she  fled  away, 
When  Rhamazan's  "  last  sun  WES  set, 
And,  flashing  from  each  minaret, 
Millions  of  lamps  proclaim'd  the  feast 
Of  Bairam  through  the  boundless  east. 
<T  was  then  she  went  as  to  the  bath, 
Which  Hassan  vainly  search'd  in  wrath  ; 
For  she  was  flown  her  master's  rage, 
In  likeness  of  a  Georgian  page, 
And  far  beyond  the  Moslem's  power 
Had  wrong'd  him  with  the  faithless  Giaour. 
Somewhat  of  this  had  Hassan  deem'd ; 
But  still  so  fond,  so  fair  she  seem'd, 
Too  well  he  trusted  to  the  slave 
Whose  treachery  deserved  a  grave  : 
And  on  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque, 
And  thence  to  feast  in  his  kiosk. 
Such  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell, 
Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well ; 
But  others  sav,  that  on  that  night, 
By  pale  Phingari's19  trembling  light, 
The  Giaour  upon  his  jet-black  steeJ 
Was  seen,  but  seen  alone  to  speed 
With  bloody  spur  along  the  shore, 
Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 


Her  eye's  dark  charm 't  were  vain  to  teO, 
But  gaze  on  that  of  the  gazelle, 
(t  will  ass\s>  thv  fancy  well ; 
As  .arge,  as  languishingly  dark, 
tut  mtu\  beam'd  forth  in  every  spark 
That  Parted  from  beneath  the  lid, 
Bright  as  '.he  jewel  of  G'amschid.90 


Yea,  soul,  and  should  our  prophet  sav 

That  form  was  nought  but  breathing  clay. 

By  Alia !  I  would  answer  nay  ; 

Though  on  Al-Sirat's21  arch  I  stood, 

Which  totters  o'er  the  fiery  flood, 

With  paradise  within  my  view, 

And  all  his  houris  beckoning  through. 

Oh!  who  young  Leila's  glance  could  lead, 

And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed  a* 

Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dust, 

A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lust? 

On  her  might  mufiis  gaze,  and  own 

That  through  her  eye  the  Immortal  shone ; 

On  her  fair  cheek's  unfading  hue 

The  young  pomegranate's23  blossoms  strew 

Their  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new  ; 

Her  hair  in  hyacinthine  34  flow, 

When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below, 

As  'midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 

She  stood  superior  to  them  all, 

Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 

Gleam'd  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet, 

Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 

It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 

The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water  ; 

So  moved  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter, 

The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan  ! " 

As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffled  swan, 

And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride, 
When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 

Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide  ; 
Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whiter  neck  : — 
Thus  arm'd  with  beauty  would  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  folly's  gaze 
Shrunk  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise. 
Thus  high  and  graceful  was  her  gait ; 
Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate  ; 
Her  male — stem  Hassan,  who  was  he' 
Alas !  that  name  was  not  for  thee ! 

»***»» 

Stem  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en, 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 
Each  arm'd,  as  best  becomes  a  man, 
With  arquebuss  and  ataghan  ; 
The  chief  before,  as  deck'd  for  war, 
Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 
Stain'd  with  the  best  of  Arnaut  blood, 
When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood, 
And  few  return'd  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  what  befell  in  Fame's  vale. 
The  pistols  which  his  girdle  bore 
Were  those  that  once  a  pacha  wore, 
Which  still,  though  gemm'd  and  boss'd  with  goia. 
Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 
'T  is  said  he  goes  to  woo  a  bride 
More  true  than  her  who  left  his  side  ; 
The  faithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower, 
And,  worse  than  faithless,  for  a  Giaour ' 

The  sun's  last  rays  are  on  the  hill, 
And  sparkle  in  the  fountain  rill, 
Whose  welcome  waters,  cool  and  clear, 
Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer : 
Here  may  the  loitering  merchant  Greek 
Find  that  repose  'twere  vain  to  seek 


THE  GIAOUR. 


13? 


In  cities  lodged  too  near  his  lord, 
And  trembling  for  his  secret  hoard- 
Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see, 
In  crowds  a  slave,  in  deserts  free ; 
And  with  forbidden  wine  may  stain 
The  bowl  a  Moslem  /dust  tiot  drain. 


The  foremost  Tartar's  in  the  gap, 
Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  cap ; 
The  rest  in  lengthening  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  through  the  long  defile : 
Above,  the  mountain  rears  a  peak, 
Where  vultures  whet  the  thirsty  beak, 
And  theirs  may  be  a  feast  to-night, 
Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow's  light , 
Beneath,  a  river's  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer  beam, 
And  .eft  a  channel  bleak  and  bare, 
Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  there  : 
Each  side  the  midway  path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  gray, 
By  time,  or  mountain  lightning,  riven 
From  summits  clad  in  mists  of  heaven ; 
For  where  is  he  that  hath  beheld 
The  peak  of  Liakura  unveil'd  ? 


Thev  reach  the  grove  of  pine  at  last : 
"  Bismillah !  ss  now  the  peril 's  past ; 
For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 
And  there  we  '11  prick  our  steeds  amah) :" 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head ; 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground ! 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein, 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound ; 

But  three  shall  never  mount  again: 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound, 

The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 
With  steel  unsheathed,  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o'er  their  coursers'  harness  leant, 

Half  shelter'd  by  the  steed ; 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock, 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock, 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  bleed 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen, 
Who  dare  not  quit  their  craggy  screen. 
Stern  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  course, 
TIB  fiery  flashes  in  the  van 
Proclaim  too  sure  the  robber-clan 
Have  well  secured  the  only  way 
Could  now  avail  the  promised  prey ; 
Then  curl'd  his  verv  beard  *T  with  ire, 
And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire  : 
"  Though  far  and  near  the  bullets  hiss, 
I  've  scaped  a  bloodier  hour  than  this," 
And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit, 
And  call  his  vnssals  to  submit ; 
But  Hassan's  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword, 
Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 
Resign'd  carbine  nr  aUghan, 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun !  ** 


In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near, 
The  lately  ambush'd  foes  appear, 
And,  issuing  from  the  grove,  advance 
Some  who  on  battle-charger  prance. 
Who  leads  them  on  with  foreign  brand, 
Far  flashing  in  his  red  right  hand  ? 
"Ti»  he!  'tis  he!  I  know  him  now; 
I  know  him  by  his  pallid  brow ; 
I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye  *• 
That  aids  his  envious  treachery ; 
I  know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb : 
Though  now  array'd  in  Arnaut  garb, 
Apostate  from  his  own  vile  faith, 
It  shall  not  save  him  from  the  death : 
'Tk  he!  well  met  in  any  hour ! 
Lost  Leila's  love,  accursed  Giaour!" 

As  rolls  the  river  into  ocean, 
In  sable  torrent  wildly  streaming  ; 

As  the  sea-tide's  opposing  motion, 
In  azure  column  proudly  gleaming, 
Beats  back  the  current  many  a  rood. 
In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood, 
While  eddying  whirl,  and  breaking  wave, 
Roused  by  the  blast  of  winter,  rave ; 
Through  sparkling  spray,  in  thundering  clam, 
The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 
In  awful  whiteness  o'er  the  shore, 
That  shines  and  shakes  beneath  the  roar : 
Thus — as  the  stream  and  ocean  greet, 
With  waves  that  madden  as  they  meet — 
Thus  join  the  bands,  whom  mutual  wrong. 
And  fate,  and  fury,  drive  along. 
The  bickering  sabres'  shivering  jar, 

And  pealing  wide  or  ringing  near 

Its  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear, 
The  death-shot  hissing  from  afar, 
The  shock,  the  shout,  the  groan  of  war 

Reverberate  along  that  vale, 

More  suited  to  the  shepherd's  tale : 
Though  few  the  numbers — theirs  the  strife 
That  neither  spares  nor  speaks  for  fife ! 
Ah !  fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press, 
To  seize  and  share  the  dear  caress ; 
But  love  itself  could  never  pant 
For  all  that  beauty  sighs  to  grant 
With  half  the  fervour  hate  bestows 
Upon  the  last  embrace  of  foes, 
When  grappling  in  the  fight  they  fold 
Those  arms  that  ne'er  shall  loose  their  btki 
Friends  meet  to  pan ;  love  laughs  at  faith. 
True  foes,  once  met,  are  join'd  till  death ! 

With  sabre  shiverM  to  the  hilt, 
Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spil» ; 
Yet  strain'd  within  the  severed  hand 
Which  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand ; 
His  turban  far  behind  him  rolPd, 
And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold  ; 
His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn, 
And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  morn 
That,  streak'd  with  dusky  red,  portend 
The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end ; 
A  stain  on  every  bush  that  bore 
A  fragment  of  his  Dalampore,'" 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


His-  breast  with  wounds  unnurnber'd  riven, 
His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 
Fallen  Hassan  lies — his  unclosed  eye 
Yet  lowering  on  his  enemy, 
As  if  the  hour  that  seal'd  his  fate 
Surviving  left  hid  quenchless  hate  ; 
And  o'er  him  bends  that  foe  with  brow 
As  dark  as  his  that  bled  below. — 


"  Yes,  Leila  sleeps  beneath  the  wave, 
But  his  shall  be  a  redder  grave  ; 
Her  spirit  pointed  well  the  sleel 
Which  taught  that  felon  heart  to  feel. 
He  call'd  the  Prophet,  but  his  power 
Was  vain  against  the  vengeful  Giaour 
He  call'd  on  Alia — but  the  word 
Arose  unheeded  or  unheard. 
Thou  Paynim  fool !  could  Leila's  prayer 
Be  pass'd,  and  thine  accorded  there  ? 
I  watch'd  my  lime,  I  leagued  with  these, 
The  traitor  in  his  turn  to  seize ; 
My  wrath  is  wreak'd,  the  deed  Is  done, 
And  now  I  go— but  go  alone." 


The  browzing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling : 
His  mother  look'd  from  her  lattice  high — 

She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkling 
The  pasture  green  beneath  her  eye, 

She  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling : 
•'  'T  is  twilight — sure  his  train  is  nigh." 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower, 
But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest  towet 
'  Why  comes  he  not  ?  his  steeds  are  fleet, 
Nor  shrinx  they  from  the  summer  heat; 
Why  sends  not  the  bridegroom  his  promised  gift  ? 
Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift  ? 
Oh,  false  reproach  !  yon  Tartar  now 
Has  gain'd  our  nearest  mountain's  brow, 
And  warily  the  steep  descends, 
And  now  within  the  valley  bends; 
And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle-bow — 
How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow? 
Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 
The  Tartar  lighted  at  the  gate, 
But  scarce  upheld  his  fainting  weight: 
His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress, 
But  this  might  be  from  weariness ; 
His  garb  with  sanguine  spots  was  dyed, 
But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side  ; 
He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest — 
Angel  of  Death !  't  is  Hassan's  cloven  crest ! 
His  calpac  "  rent — his  caftan  red — 
"  Lady,  a  fearful  bride  thy  son  hath  ved : 
Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare, 
But  this  empurpled  pledge  to  bea.. 
Peace  to  the  brave  !  whose  blood  is  spilt' 
Woe  to  the  Giaour !  for  his  the  guilt." 


A  turban  **  carved  in  coarsest  stone, 
A  pillar  with  rank  weeds  o'ergrown, 


Whereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 

The  Koran  verse  that  mourns  the  d^a<l. 

Point  out  the  spot  where  Hassan  fell 

A  victim  in  that  lonely  dell. 

There  sleeps  as  true  an  Osmanli 

As  e'er  at  Mecca  bent  the  knee  ; 

As  ever  scorn'd  forbidden  wine, 

Or  pray'd  with  face  towards  the  shrine, 

In' orisons  resumed  anew 

At  solemn  sound  of  "  Alia  Hu  !  "  " 

Yet  died  he  by  a  stranger's  hand, 

And  stranger  in  his  native  land  ; 

Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood, 

And  unavenged,  at  least  in  blood. 

But  him  the  maids  of  paradise 

Impatient  to  their  halls  invite, 
And  the  dark  heaven  of  Houri's  eyes 

On  him  shall  glance  for  ever  bright ; 
They  come — their  kerchiefs  green  they 
And  welcome  with  a  kiss  the  brave ! 
Who  falls  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour 
Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 


But  thou,  false  infidel !  shall  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's  3i  scythe  ; 
And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis' 36  throne  ; 
And  fire  unquench'd,  unquenchable, 
Around,  within,  thy  heart  shall  dwell ; 
Nor  ear  can  hear  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  hell ! 
But  first,  on  earth  as  vampire 3*  sent, 
Thy  corse  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent : 
Then  ghastly  haunt  thy  native  place, 
And  suck  the  blood  of  all  thy  race  ; 
There  from  thy  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
Al  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life  ; 
Yet  loathe  the  banquet  which  perforce 
Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse  : 
Thy  victims  ere  they  yet  expire 
Shall  know  the  demon  for  their  sire, 
As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them, 
Thy  flowers  are  wither'd  on  ihe  stem. 
But  one  that  for  thy  crime  musl  fall, 
The  youngest,  most  beloved  of  all, 
Shall  bless  thee  with  a  father's  name — 
That  word  shall  wrap  thy  heart  in  flame  ! 
Yet  must  thou  end  thy  task,  and  mark 
Her  check's  last  tinge,  her  eye's  last  spark, 
And  the  last  gls.ssy  glance  must  view 
Which  freezes  o'er  its  lifeless  blue  ; 
Then  wilh  unhallow'd  hand  shall  tear 
The  tresses  of  her  yellow  hair, 
Of  which  in  life  a  lock,  when  shorn, 
Affection's  fondest  pledge  was  worn  ; 
But  now  is  borne  away  by  thee, 
Memorial  of  thine  agony ! 
Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  urip  " 
Thy  gnashing  tooth  and  haggard  lip  ; 
Then,  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave, 
Go — and  wilh  Gouls  and  Afrils  rave  ; 
Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  spectre  more  accursed  than  tKev  ' 


THE  GIAOUR. 


"  How  name  ye  yon  lone  Caloyer? 

His  features  I  have  scann'd  before 
In  mine  own  land :  't  is  many  a  year, 

Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  shore, 
I  saw  him  urge. as  fleet  a  steed 
As  ever  served  a  horseman's  need. 
But  once  I  saw  that  face,  yet  then 
It  was  so  mark'd  with  inward  pain, 
I  could  not  pass  it  by  again  ; 
.t  breathes  the  same  dark  spirit  now, 
As  death  were  stamp'd  upon  his  brow." 

"  'T  is  twice  three  years  at  summer-tide 
Since  first  among  our  freres  he  came  ; 
And  here  it  soothes  him  to  abide 

For  some  dark  deed  he  will  not  name. 
But  never  at  our  vesper  prayer, 
Nor  e'er  before  confession  chair 
Kneels  he,  nor  recks  he  when  arise 
Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies, 
But  broods  within  his  cell  alone, 
His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 
The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  crost, 
And  here  ascended  from  the  coast ; 
Yet  seems  he  not  of  Othman  race, 
But  only  Christian  in  his  face : 
I  'd  judge  him  some  stray  renegade. 
Repentant  of  the  change  he  made, 
Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine, 
Nor  tastes  the  sacred  bread  and  wine. 
Great  largess  to  these  walls  he  brought, 
And  thus  our  abbot's  favour  bought: 
But,  were  I   prior,  not  a  day 
Should  brook  such  stranger's  further  stay, 
Or,  pent  within  our  penance  cell, 
Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  dwelL 
Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 
Of  maiden  whelm'd  beneath  the  sea ; 
Of  sabres  clashing,  foemen  flying, 
Wrongs  avenged,  and  Moslem  dying. 
On  cliff"  he  hath  been  known  to  stand, 
And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 
Fresh  sever'd  from  its  parent  limb, 
Invisible  to  all  but  him, 
Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave, 
And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wav«\" 


Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl 

That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl: 

The  flash  of  that  dilating  eye 

Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by ; 

Though  varying,  indistinct  its  hue, 

Oft  will  his  glance  the  gazer  rue, 

For  in  it  lurks  that  narneiess  spell 

Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 

A  spirit  yet  unquell'd  and  high, 

That  claims  and  keeps  ascendancy ; 

And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake, 

But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake, 

Will  others  quail  beneath  his  look, 

Nor  'scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  brook. 

From  him  the  half-aftrighted  friar 

When  met  alone,  would  fain  retire, 

As  if  that  eyu  and  bitter  smile 

Triinsferr'd  to  others  fear  and  guile : 


Not  oft  to  smile  descendeth  he, 

And  when  he  doth  't  is  sad  to  so* 

That  he  but  mocks  at  misery. 

How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quivei . 

Then  fix  once  more  as  if  for  ever : 

As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 

Forbade  him  e'er  to  smile  again. 

Well  were  it  so — such  ghastly  mirth 

From  joyaunce  ne'er  derived  its  birth. 

But  sadcler  still  it  were  to  trace 

What  once  were  feelings  in  that  face : 

Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  fix'd, 

But  brighter  traits  with  evil  mix'd  ; 

And  there  are  hues  not  alwavs  faded, 

Which  speak  a  mind  not  all  degraded, 

Even  by  the  crimes  through  which  it  waded : 

The  common  crowd  but  see  the  gloom 

Of  wayward  deeds,  and  fitting  doom ; 

The  close  observer  can  espy 

A  noble  soul,  and  lineage  high : 

Alas !  though  both  bestow'd  in  vain, 

Which  grief  could  change,  and  guilt  could  stuift, 

It  was  no  vulgar  tenement 

To  which  such  lofty  gifts  were  lent, 

And  still  with  little  less  than  dread 

On  such  the  sight  is  riveted. 

The  roofless  cot,  decay'd  and  rent, 

Will  scarce  delay  the  passer-by ; 
The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement, 

Demands  and  daunts  the  stranger's  eye  • 
Each  ivied  arch,  and  pillar  lone, 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone ! 
"  His  floating  robe  around  him  folding, 

Slow  sweeps  he  through  the  column'd  aisle' 
With  dread,  beheld,  with  gloom  beholding 

The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 
But  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir, 
And  kneel  the  monks,  his  steps  retire ; 
By  yonder  lone  and  wavering  torch 
His  aspect  glares  within  the  porch ; 
There  will  he  pause  till  all  is  done — 
And  hear  the  prayer,  but  utter  none. 
See — by  the  half-illumined  wall 
His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall, 
That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round, 
As  if  the  Gorgon  there  had  bound 
The  sablest  of  the  serpent-braid 
That  o'er  her  fearful  forehead  stray'd  : 
For  he  declines  the  convent  oath, 
And  leaves  those  locks'  unhallow'd  growth. 
But  wears  our  garb  in  all  beside  ; 
And,  not  from  piety  but  pride, 
Gives  wealth  to  walls  that  never  heard 
Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word. 
Lo ! — mark  ye,  as  the  harmony 
Peals  louder  praises  to  the  sky. 
That  livid  cheek,  that  stony  air 
Of  mix'd  defiance  and  despair! 
Saint  Francis,  keep  him  from  the  shrintj 
Else  may  we  dread  the  wrath  divine 
Made  manifest  by  awful  sign. 
If  ever  evil  angel  bore 
The  form  of  mortal,  such  he  woit: 
By  all  my  hope  of  sins  forgiven. 
Such  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heaven  \r 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


To  love  the  softest  hearts  arc  pr  >ne, 

But  such  can  ne'er  be  all  his  own ; 

Too  timid  in  his  woes  to  share, 

Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair ; 

And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 

The  wound  that  time  can  never  heal. 

The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine 

Must  burn  before  its  surface  shine, 

But  plunged  within  the  furnace-flame, 

It  bends  and  melts — though  still  the  same ; 

Then  temper'd  to  thy  want,  or  will, 

T  will  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kill ; 

A  breastplate  for  thine  hour  of  need, 

Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed  ; 

But  if  a  dagger's  form  it  bear, 

Let  those  who  shape  its  edge  beware ! 

Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  art, 

Can  turn  and  tame  the  sterner  heart ; 

From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta'en, 

And  what  they  make  it,  must  remain, 

But  break — before  it  bend  again. 


If  solitude  succeed  to  grief, 
Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief; 
The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 
Might  thank  the  pang  that  made  it  less. 
We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share : 
Even  bliss — 'twere  woe  alone  to  bearj 
The  heart  once  left  thus  desolate 
Must  fly  at  last  for  ease — to  hate. 
It  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 
The  icy  worm  around  them  steal, 
And  shudder,  as  the  reptiles  creep 
To  level  o'er  their  rotting  sleep, 
Without  the  power  to  scare  away 
The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay ! 
It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird,39 

Whose  beal    inlocks  her  bosom's  stream 

To  still  her  'Amish'd  nestlings'  scream, 
Nor  mourns  a  life  to  them  transferr'd, 
Should  rend  her  rash  devoted  breast, 
And  find  them  flown  her  empty  nest. 
The  keenest  pangs  the  wretched  find 

Are  rapture  to  the  dreary  vtid, 
The  leafless  desert  of  the  mir  d, 

The  waste  of  feelings  unemploy'd. 
Who  would  be  doom'd  to  gaze  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  or  sun  ? 
I, ess  hideous  far  the  tempest's  roar 
Than  ne'er  to  brave  the  billorvs  more — 
Thrown,  when  the  war  of  winds  is  o'er, 
A  lonely  wreck  on  fortune's  shore, 
'Mid  sullen  calm,  and  silent  bay, 
Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay : — 
Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock, 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock ! 

****** 

"  Father !  thy  days  have  pass'd  in  peace, 
'Mid  counted  beads,  and  countless  prayer 

To  bid  the  sins  of  others  cease, 
Thyself  without  a  crime  or  care, 

Save  transient  ills  that  all  must  bear, 

Has  oeen  thy  lot  from  youth  to  age ; 

And  thou  wi'«.  bless  thee  from  the  rage 


Of  passions  fierce  and  uncontrtll'd, 

Such  as  thy  penitents  unfold, 

Whose  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest 

Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 

My  days,  though  few,  have  pass'd  brlow 

In  much  of  joy,  but  more  of  woe  ; 

Yet  still  in  hours  of  love  or  strife, 

I  've  'scaped  the  weariness  ol  life : 

Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foes, 

I  loathed  the  languor  of  repose. 

Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate, 

No  more  with  hope  or  pride  elate, 

I  'd  rather  be  the  thing  that  crawls 

Most  noxious  o'er  a  dungeon's  walls, 

Than  pass  my  dull,  unvarying  days, 

Condemn'd  to  meditate  and  gaze. 

Yet,  lurks  a  wish  within  my  breast 

For  rest — but  not  to  feel 't  is  rest. 

Soon  shall  my  fate  that  wish  fulfil ; 

And  I  shall  sleep  without  the  dream 
Of  what  I  was,  and  would  be  still, 

Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem  : 
My  memory  now  is  but  the  tomb 
Of  joys  long  dead  ;  my  hope,  their  doom : 
Though  better  to  have  died  with  those 
Than  bear  a  life  of  lingering  woes. 
My  spirits  shrunk  not  to  sustain 
The  searching  throes  of  ceaseless  pain ; 
Nor  sought  the  self-accorded  grave 
Of  ancient  fool  and  modern  knave : 
Yet  death  I  have  not  fear'd  to  meet ; 
And  in  the  field  it  had  been  sweet. 
Had  danger  woo'd  me  on  to  move 
The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 
I  've  braved  it — not  for  honour's  boast , 
I  smile  at  laurels  won  or  lost ; 
To  such  let  others  carve  their  way, 
For  high  renown,  or  hireling  pay: 
But  place  again  before  my  eyes 
Aught  that  I  deem  a  worthy  prize  ; 
The  maid  I  love,  the  man  I  hate, 
And  I  will  hunt  the  steps  of  fate, 
To  save  or  slay,  as  these  require, 
Through  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire : 
Nor  need's!  thou  doubt  this  speech  from  one 
Who  would  but  do — what  he  hath  done. 
Death  is  but  what  the  haughty  brave, 
The  weak  must  bear,  the  wretch  must  crave  j 
Then  let  life  go  to  him  who  gave : 
I  have  not  quail'd  to  danger's  brow 
When  high  and  happy — need  I  now  ? 

"I  loved  her,  friar!  nay,  adored— - 

But  these  are  words  that  all  can  use— 
I  proved  it  more  in  deed  than  word  ; 
There's  blood  upon  that  din'.ed  sword, 

A  stain  ils  steel  can  never  lose: 
'T  was  shed  for  her,  who  died  for  me, 

It  warm'd  the  heart  of  one  abhorr'd : 
Nay,  start  not — no— nor  bend  thy  knee, 

Nor  midst  my  sins  such  act  record : 
Thou  wilt  absolve  me  from  the  deed, 
For  he  was  hostile  to  thy  creed  ! 
The  very  name  of  Nazarene 
Was  wormwood  to  his  Pavn'in  spleen. 


THE  GIAOUR. 


14 


Ungrateful  fool !   since  '.ut  for  brands 
Well  wielded  in  some  hard}'  hands, 
\jid  wounds  by  Galileans  given, 
The  surest  pass  to  Turkish  heaven, 
For  him  his  Houris  still  might  wait 
Impatient  at  the  prophet's  gate. 
I  loved  her — love  wijtfiiid  its  way 
Through  paths  where  wolves  would  fear  to  prey, 
l.nd  if  it  dares  enough,  't  were  hard 
«f  passion  met  not  some  reward — 
No  matter  how,  or  where,  or  why, 
I  did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh : 
Vet  sometimes,  with  remorse,  in  vain 
I  wish  she  had  not  loved  again. 
She  died — I  dare  not  tell  thee  how ; 
But  look — 't  is  written  on  my  brow ! 
There  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime 
In  characters  unworn  by  time : 
Still,  ere  thou  dost  condemn  me,  pause ; 
Not  mine  the  act,  though  I  the  cause. 
Yet  did  he  but  what  I  had  done 
Had  she  been  false  to  more  than  one. 
Faithless  to  him,  he  gave  the  blow  ; 
But  true  to  me,  I  laid  him  low : 
Howe'er  deserved  her  doom  might  be, 
Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me  ; 
To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 
Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  enthral ; 
And  I,  alas !  too  late  to  save  ! 
Yet  all  I  then  could  give,  I  gave, 
'T  was  some  relief,  our  foe  a  grave. 
His  death  sits  lightly ;  but  her  fate 
Has  made  me — what  thou  well  may'st  hate. 

His  doom  was  seal'd — he  knew  it  well, 
/\Tam'd  by  the  voice  of-  stern  Taheer, 
Deep  in  whose  darkly-boding  ear40 
The  death-shot  peal'd  of  murder  near, 

As  filed  the  troop  to  where  they  fell ! 
He  died  too  in  the  battle  broil, 
A  time  that  heeds  nor  pain  nor  toil ; 
One  cry  to  Mahomet  for  aid, 
One  prayer  to  Alia  all  he  made  : 
He  knew  and  cross'd  me  in  the  fray— 
I  gazed  upon  him  where  he  lay, 
And  watch'd  his  spirit  ebb  away : 
Though  pierced  like  pard  by  hunters'  steel, 
He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  \'eel. 
I  search'd,  but  vainly  search'd,  to  find 
The  workings  of  a  wounded  mind  ; 
Each  feature  of  that  sullen  corse 
Betray'd  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 
Oh,  what  had  vengeance  given  to  trace 
Despair  upon  his  dying  face ! 
The  late  repentance  of  that  hour, 
When  penitence  hath  lost  her  power 
To  tear  one  terror  from  the  grave, 
And  will  not  soothe,  and  cannot  save. 

***»»* 
"  The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood, 

Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name ; 
But  mine  was  like  the  lava  flood 

That  boils  in  ^Etna's  breast  of  flame. 
I  cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 
Of  ladye-lovo,  and  beauty's  chain : 
If  changing  cheek,  and  scorching  vein, 

Q 


Lips  taught  to  writhe,  but  not  complain, 
If  bursting  heart,  and  madd'ning  brain, 
And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel, 
And  all  that  I  have  felt,  and  feel, 
Betoken  love — that  love  was  mine, 
And  shown  by  many  a  bitter  sign. 
'T  is  true  I  could  not  whine  nor  sigh, 
I  knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 
I  die — but  first  I  have  possess' d, 
And,  come  what  may,  I  have  been  blest. 
Shall  I  the  doom  I  sought  upbraid  1 
No — reft  of  all,  yet  undismay'd 
But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 
Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain, 
So  would  I  live  and  love  again. 
I  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide  ! 
For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died : 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  wave — 
Ah !   had  she  but  an  earthly  grave, 
This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed. 
She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light, 
That,  seen,  became  a  part  of  sight ; 
And  rose  where'er  I  turn'd  mine  eye, 
The  morning-star  of  memory ! 


"  Yes,  love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven  \ 

A  spark  of  that  immortal  fire 
With  angels  shared,  by  Alia  given, 

To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above, 
But  heaven  itself  descends  in  love  ; 
A  feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 
To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought ; 
A  ray  of  him  who  form'd  the  whole  ; 
A  glory  circling  round  the  soul ! 
I  grant  my  love  imperfect,  all 
That  mortals  by  the  name  miscall ; 
Then  deem  it  evil,  what  thou  wilt ; 
But  say,  oh  say,  hers  was  not  guilt ' 
She  was  my  life's  unerring  light ; 
T."iat  quench'd,  what  beam  shall  break  my  nijjU  \ 
Oh  !  would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still, 
Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill ! 
Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 

This  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 

No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope ; 
In  phrensy  then  their  fate  accuse  : 
In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

That  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  woe  ( 
Alas  !  the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

Hath  nought  to  dread  from  outward  blow  , 
Who  falls  from  all  he  knows  of  bliss, 
Cares  little  into  what  abyss. 
Fierce  as  the  gloomy  vulture's  now 

To  thee,  old  man,  my  deeds  appear : 
I  read  abhorrence  on  thy  brow, 

And  this  too  was  I  born  to  bear ! 
'T  is  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey, 
With  havoc  have  I  mark'd  my  way . 
But  this  was  taught  me  by  the  dov«. 
To  die — and  know  no  second  love. 
This  lesson  yet  hath  man  to  learn, 
Taught  by  the  thing  he  dares  to  smun. 


142 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Tim  kid  lhat  sings  within  the  brake, 
The  swan  tiiat  swims  upon  the  lake, 
One  mate,  and  one  alone,  will  take. 
And  let  the  fool  still  prone  to  range, 
And  sneer  on  all  who  cannot  change, 
Partake  his  jest  with  boasting  boys ; 
I  envy  not  his  varied  joys, 
But  deem  such  feeble,  heartless  man, 
Less  than  yon  solitary  swan  ; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  shallow  maid 
He  left  believing  and  betray'd. 
Such  shame  at  least  was  never  mine — 
Leila  !  each  thought  was  only  thine ! 
My  good,  my  guilt,  my  weal,  my  woe, 
My  hope  on  high — my  all  below. 
Earth  holds  no  other  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  it  doth,  in  vain  for  me  : 
For  worlds  I  dare  not  view  the  dame 
Resembling  thee,  yet  not  the  same. 
The  very  crimes  that  mar  my  youth, 
This  bed  of  death — attest  my  truth  ! 
T  is  all  too  late — thou  wert,  thou  art 
The  cherish'd  madness  of  my  heart ! 
"  And  she  was  lost — and  yet  I  breathed, 

But  not  the  breath  of  human  life  : 
A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed, 

And  stung  my  every  thought  to  strife. 
Alike  all  time,  abhorr'd  all  place, 
Shuddering  I  shrunk  from  nature's  face, 
Where  every  hue  that  charm'd  before 
The  blackness  of  my  bosom  wore. 
The  rest  thou  dost  already  know, 
And  all  my  sins,  and  half  my  woe. 
But  talk  no  more  of  penitence ; 
Thou  see'st  I  soon  shall  part  from  hence  : 
And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true, 
The  deed  that 's  done  can'st  thou  undo  ? 
Think  me  not  thankless — but  this  grief 
Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief.*' 
My  soul's  estate  in  secret  guess  : 
Hut  wouldst  thou  pity  more,  say  less. 
When  thou  canst  bid  my  Leila  live, 
Then  will  I  sue  thee  to  forgive  ; 
Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  high  place 
Where  purchased  masses  proffer  grace. 
Go,  when  the  hunter's  hand  hath  wrung 
From  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young, 
And  calm  the  lonely  lioness  : 
But  soothe  not — mock  not  my  distress  ! 

"  In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours, 

When  heart  with  heart  delights  to  blend, 
Where  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers 

I  had — ah  !  have  I  now  ? — a  friend ! 
To  him  this  pledge  I  charge  thee  send, 

Memorial  of  a  youthful  vow  ;  , 
I  would  remind  him  of  my  end  : 

Though  souls  absorb'd  like  mine  allow 
Brief  thought  to  distant  friendship's  claim, 
Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 
T  is  strange — he  prophesied  my  doom, 

And  I  have  smiled — I  then  could  smile — 
When  prudence  would  his  voice  assume, 

Ana  warn — I  reck'd  not  what — the  while  : 
But  now  remembrance  whispers  o'er 
Tho»«  IKWODI*  scarcely  mark'd  before. 


Say — that  his  bodings  came  to  pass, 
And  he  will  start  to  hear  their  truth, 
And  wish  his  words  had  not  been  sooth  : 
Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I  was, 

Through  many  a  busy  bitter  scene 
Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been, 
In  pain,  my  faltering  tongue  had  tried 
To  bless  his  memory  ere  I  died  ; 
But  Heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  away, 
If  guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray. 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame, 
Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name  ; 
And  what  have  I  to  do  with  fame  ? 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn, 
Such  cold  request  might  sound  like  scuri  r 
And  what  than  friendship's  manly  tear 
May  better  grace  a  brother's  bier  ? 
But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old, 
And  tell  him — what  thou  dost  behold  ! 
The  wither'd  frame,  the  ruin'd  mind, 
The  wreck  by  passion  left  behind, 
A  shrivell'd  scroll,  a  scatter'd  leaf, 
Sear'd  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief! 

"  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam, 
No,  father,  no,  't  was  not  a  dream  ; 
Alas  !  the  dreamer  first  must  sleep, 
I  only  watch'd,  and  wish'd  to  weep, 
But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
Throbb'd  to  the  very  brain  as  now  : 
I  wisli'd  but  for  a  single  tear, 
As  something  welcome,  new,  and  dear  . 
I  wish'd  it  then,  I  wish  it  still — 
Despair  is  stronger  th^n  my  will. 
Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair 
Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer  : 
I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest ; 
I  want  no  paradise,  but  rest. 
'T  was  then,  I  tell  thee,  father  !  then 
I  saw  her ;  yes,  she  lived  again  ; 
And  shining  in  her  white  symar,*1 
As  through  yon  pale  gray  cloud  the  star 
Which  now  I  gaze  on,  as  on  her, 
Who  look'd  and  looks  far  lovelier  ; 
Dimly  I  view  its  trembling  spark : 
To-morrow's  night  shall  be  more  dark , 
And  I,  before  its  rays  appear, 
That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 
I  wonder,  father  !  for  my  soul 
Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goal. 
I  saw  her,  friar !  and  I  rose 
Foigetful  of  our  former  woes ; 
And  rushing  from  my  couch,  I  dart, 
And  clasp  her  to  my  desperate  heart  • 
I  clasp — what  is  it  that  I  clasp  ? 
No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp, 
No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine. 
Yet,  Leila !  yet  the  form  is  thine  ! 
And  art  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  much, 
As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch? 
Ah  !  were  thy  beauties  e'er  so  cnJd 
I  care  not ;  so  my  arms  enfold 
The  all  they  ever  wish'd  to  hold 
Alas !  around  a  shadow  prest, 
They  shrink  upon  my  lonely  brea»» ; 


THE  GIAOUR. 


143 


Vet  still 't  is  ihcre !  in  silence  stands, 
And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands ! 
With  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye — 
I  knew  't  was  false — she  could  not  ilie ! 
But  he  is  dead  !   within  the  dell 
I  saw  him  buried  where  he  fell ; 
He  comes  not,  for  he  cannot  break 
From  earth  ;  why  then  art  thou  awake  7 
They  told  me  wild  waves  roll'd  above 
The  fac«  I  view,  the  form  I  love ; 
They  told  me — 't  was  a  hideous  tale  ! 
I  'd  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail : 
If  true,  and  from  thine  ocean-cave 
Thou  com'st  to  claim  a  calmer  grave, 
Oh !  pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 
This  brow  that  then  will  burn  no  more ; 
Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart : 
But,  shape  or  shade !   whate'er  thou  art, 
In  mercy  ne'er  again  depart ! 
Or  farther  with  thec  bear  my  soul, 
Than  winds  can  waft,  «••«•  Waters  roll ! 


"  Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 

Confessor !  to  thy  secret  ear 
I  breathe  the  sorrows  I  bewail, 

And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
This  glazing  eye  could  never  shed. 
Then  lay  me  with  the  humblest  dead, 
And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head, 
Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread, 
By  prying  stranger  to  be  read, 
Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread." 
He  pass'd — nor  of  his  name  and  race 
Hath  left  a  token  or  a  trace, 
Save  what  the  father  must  not  say 
Who  shrived  him  on  his  dying  day : 
This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 
Of  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew.  4J 


NOTES. 

Note  1.  Page  132,  line  3. 
That  tomb  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff. 
A  tomb  above  the  rocks  on  the  promontory,  by  some 
supposed  the  sepulchre  of  Themistocles. 
Note  2.  Page  132,  line  22. 

Sultana  of  the  nightingale. 

The  attachment  of  the  nightingale  to  the  rose  is  a 
well-known  Persian  fable.  If  I  mistake  not,  the  "  Bul- 
bul  of  a  thousand  tales"  is  one  of  his  appellations. 

Note  3.  Page  132,  line  40. 
Till  the  gay  mariner's  guitar. 

The  guitar  is  the  constant  amusement  of  the  Greek 
sailor  by  night :  with  a  steady  fair  wind,  and  during  a 
calm,  it  is  accompanied  always  by  the  voice,  and  often 
tv  dancing. 

Note  4.  Page  133,  line  40. 
Where  cold  obstruction's  apathy. 
"  \y,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where, 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction." 

Mcarxrcfor  Measure,  Act  III.  130.  Sc.  2. 


Note  5.  Page  133,  line  48. 
The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd. 
1  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an  op 
portunity  of  witnessing  what  is  here  attempted  in  do-, 
scription,  but  those  who  have, -will  probably  retain  a 
painful  remembrance  of  that  singular  beauty  whici 
pervades,  with  few  exceptions,  the  features  of  the  deaa 
a  few  hours,  and  but  for  a  few  hours,  after  "  the  spirit 
is  not  there."  It  is  to  be  remarked,  in  cases  of  violent 
death  by  gun-shot  wounds,  the  expression  is  always 
that  of  languor,  whatever  the  natural  energy  of  tnti 
sufferer's  character ;  but  in  death  from  a  stab  the  coun 
tcnance  preserves  its  traits  of  feeling  or  ferocity,  and 
the  mind  its  bias  to  the  last. 

Note  6.  Page  133,  line  110. 
Slaves— nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave. 
Athens  is  the  property  of  the  Kislar  Aga  (the  slave 
of  the  seraglio,  and  guardian  of  the  women),  who  ap- 
points the  Waywode.     A  pander  and  eunuch — those 
are  not  polite,  yet  true  appellations — now  governs  the 
governor  of  Athens ! 


Ti 

Infidel. 


Note  7.  Page  134,  line  23. 
calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaour 


Note  8.  Page  134,  line  58. 

In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike. 

"Tophaike,"  musket — The  Bairam  is  announce* 
by  the  cannon  at  sunset;  the  illumination  of  the  Mosques, 
and  the  firing  of  all  kinds  of  small  arms,  loaded  with 
ball,  proclaim  it  during  the  night. 

Note  9.  Page  134,  line  84. 
Swift  as  the  hurl'd  on  high  jcrrued. 
Jerreed,  or  Djerrid,  a  blunted  Turkish  javelin,  which 
is  darted  from  horseback  with  great  force  and  precision. 
It  is  a  favourite  exercise  of  the  Mussulmans ;  but  1 
know  not  if  it  can  be  called  a  manly  one,  since  the  most 
expert  in  the  art  are  the  Black  Eunuchs  of  Constanti- 
nople— I  think,  next  to  these,  a  Mamlouk  at  Smvrna  was 
the  most  skilful  that  came  within  my  observation. 

Note  10.  Page  134,  line  115. 
He  came,  he  went,  like  the  simoom. 
The  blast  of  the  desert,  fatal  to  every  thing  living, 
and  often  alluded  to  in  eastern  poetry. 

Note  11.  Page  135,  line  47. 
To  bless  the  sacred  "  bread  and  salt." 
To  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  sail  with 
your  host,  insures  the  safety  of  the  guest;  even  though 
an  enemy,  his  person  from  that  moment  is  sacred. 

Note  12.  Page  135,  line  55. 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's  sabre. 
I  need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality 
are  the  first  duties  enjoined  by  Mahomet ;  and,  to  saj 
truth,  very  generally  practised  by  his  disciples.     Tli* 
first  praise  that  can  be  bestowed  on  a  chief  is  a 
gyric  on  his  bounty  ;  the  next  on  his  valour. 

Note  13.  Page  135,  line  J>9. 
And  silver-sheathed  atagnau. 

The  ataghan,  a  long  dagger  worn  with  pistols  in  um 
belt,  in  a  metal  scabbard,  generally  of  silver;  ami. 
among  the  wealthier,  gilt  or  of  gold, 


144 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Note.  14.  Page  135,  line  61. 
'\n  emir  by  his  garb  of  greon. 

Green  is  the  privileged  colour  of  the  prophet's  nu- 
merous pretended  descendants ;  with  them,  as  here, 
faith  (the  family  inheritance)  is  supposed  to  supersede 
ihe  necessity  of  good  works  :  they  are  the  worst  of  a 
very  indirferent  brood. 

Note  15.  Page  135,  line  62. 
'Ho  !  who  art  (hou? — this  low  salam,"  etc. 
Salam  ateiKoum !  aleikoum  salam !  peace  be  with  you  ; 
oe  with  you  peace — the  salutation  reserved  for  the 
faithful : — to  a  Christian,  "  Urlarula,"  a  good  journey ; 
or  saban  hiresem,  saban  serula ;  good  morn,  good  even ; 
and  sometimes,  "  may  your  end  be  happy  j"  are  the 
usual  salutes. 

Note  16.  Page  135,  line  93. 
The  insect-queen  of  eastern  spring. 
The  blue-winged  butterfly  of  Kashmeer,  the  most 
rare  and  beautiful  of  the  species. 

Note  17.  Page  136,  line  15. 
Or  live  like  scorpion  girt  by  fire. 

Alluding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion,  so 
placed  for  experiment  by  gentle  philosophers.  Some 
maintain  that  the  position  of  the  sting,  when  turned 
towards  the  head,  is  merely  a  convulsive  movement : 
but  others  have  actually  brought  in  the  verdict,  "Felo 
de  so."  The  scorpions  are  surely  interested  in  a  speedy 
decision  of  the  question  ;  as,  if  once  fairly  established 
as  insect  Catos,  they  will  probably  be  allowed  to  live 
as  long  as  they  think  proper,  without  being  martyred 
for  the  sake  of  a  hypothesis. 

Note  18.  Page  136,  line  30. 
When  Rharr-azan's  last  sun  was  set 
The  cannon  at  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan.     See 
note  8. 

Note  19.  Page  136,  line  49. 
By  pa/e  Pliingari's  trembling  lighf 
Phingari,  the  moon. 

Note  20.  Page  136,  line  60. 
B'ip'it  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid. 

The  celebrated  fabulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Giamschid, 
the  embellisher  of  Istakhar ;  from  its  splendour,  named 
Sehebgerr.g,  "the  torch  of  night ;"  also,  "the  cup  of 
the  sun,"  etc. — In  the  first  editions,  "  Giamschid  "  was 
written  as  a  word  of  three  syllables,  so  D'Herbelot 
hae  it ;  but  I  am  told  Richardson  reduces  it  to  a  dis- 
syllable, and  writes  "Jamshid."  I  have  left  in  the 
ext  the  orthography  of  the  one  with  the  pronunciation 
3f  the  other. 

Note  21.  Page  136,  line  64. 
Though  on  Al-Sirat's  nrch  I  stood. 
Al-Sirat,  the  bridge,  of  breadth  less  than  the  thread 
of  a  famished  spider,  over  which  the  Mussulmans  must 
tkate  into  paradise,  to  which  it  is  the  only  entrance ; 
but  this  is  not  the  worst,  the  river  beneath  being  hell 
Itself,  into  which,  as  may  be  expected,  the  unskilful 
and  tender  of  foot  contrive  to  tumble  with  a  "facilis 
iliscen«js  Averni,"  not  very  pleasing  in  prospect  to  the 
next  passenger.  There  is  a  shorter  cut  downwards  for 
•ne  Jews  and  Christians. 

Note  22.  Page  136,  line  69. 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed. 
A  iu!gar  error'  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  ,lur<\  of 


paradise  to  well-behaved  women :  but  by  far  trie  greater 
number  of  Mussulmans  interpret  the  text  their  own 
way,  and  exlude  their  moieties  from  heaven.  Being 
enemies  to  Platonics,  they  cannot  discern  "  any  fitness 
of  things "  in  the  souls  of  the  other  sex,  conceiving 
them  to  ba  superseded  hy  the  Houris. 

Note  23.  Page  136,  line  75. 
The  young  pomegranate's  blossoms  strew. 
An  oriental  simile,  which  may,  perhaps,  though  fairly 
stolen,  be  deemed  "plus  Arabe  qu'en  Arabic." 

Note  24.  Page  136,  line  77. 
Her  hair  in  hyacinthino  flow. 

Hyacinthine,  in  Arabic,  "  Sunbul ;"  r.s  common  a 
thought  in  the  eastern  poets,  as  it  wrvs  among  the 
Greeks. 

Note  25.  Page  136,  line  87. 
The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan. 
"Franguestan,"  Circassia. 

Note  26.  Page  137,  line  26. 
"  Bismillah  !  now  the  peril  'g  past,"  etc. 
Bismillah — "  In  the  name  of  God  ;"  the  commence- 
ment of  all  the  chapters  of  the  Koran  but  one,  and  of 
prayer  and  thanksgiving. 

Note  27.  Page  137,  line  51. 
Then  curl'd  his  very  heard  with  ire. 
A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angry  Mussul- 
man. In  1809,  the  Capitan  Pacha's  whiskers  at  a 
diplomatic  audience,  were  not  less  lively  with  indigna- 
tion than  a  tiger  cat's,  to  the  horror  of  all  the  drago- 
mans ;  the  portentous  mustachios  twisted,  they  stood 
erect  of  their  own  accord,  and  were  expected  every 
moment  to  change  their  colour,  but  at  last  condescended 
to  subside,  which  probably  saved  more  heads  than  they 
contained  hairs. 

Note  28.  Page  137,  line  61. 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun  ! 
"  Amaun,"  quarter,  pardon. 

Note  29.  Page  137,  line  70. 

I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye. 

The  "  evil  eye,"  a  common  superstition  in  the  Le- 
vant, and  of  which  the  imaginary  effects  ure  yet  very 
singular,  on  those  who  conceive  themselves  affected 

Note  30.  Page  137,  line  124. 

A  fragment  of  his  palnmpore. 

The  flowered  shawls,  generally  worn  by  persons  of 
rank. 

Note  31.  Page  138,  line  51. 
His  calpac  rent — his  caftan  red. 

The  "  Calpac"  is  the  solid  cap  or  centre  part  of  the 
head-dress ;  the  shawl  is  wound  round  it,  and  forms 
the  turban. 

Note  32.  Page  138,  line  57. 
A  turban  carved  in  conrsc  *t  stone. 

The  turban,  pihar,  and  inset  iptive  verse,  decori!e 
the  tombs  of  the  Osmanlies,  whether  in  the  cemetery 
or  the  wilderness.  In  the  mojntains  you  frequently 
pass  similar  mementos  ;  and,  on  inquiry,  you  arc  in- 
formed, that  they  record  some  victim  ot  rebellion, 
plunder,  or  revenge. 

Note  33.  Page  138,  foie  fA 
At  solemn  sound  of  "All  i  Hu  ' 
'Ali  Hu ."  the  concluding  w  jrds  of  ..-e  M.mzzn'f 


THE  GIAOUR. 


143 


call  to  prayer  from  the  highest  gallery  on  the  exterior 
ot  the  minaret.  On  a  still  evening,  when  the  Muezzin 
has  a  fine  voice,  which  is  frequently  the  case,  the  ef- 
fact  is  solemn  and  beautiful  beyond  all  the  bells  in 
Christendom. 

Note  34.  Page  138,  line  77. 
They  come — their  kerchiefs  green  they  wave. 
The  following  is  part  of  a  battle-song  of  the  Turks : 
— "  I  see — I  see  a  dark-eyed  girl  of  paradise,  and  she 
wares  a  handkerchief,  a  kerchief  of  green ;  and  cries 
aloud,  Come,  kiss  me,  for  I  love  thee,"  etc. 

Note  35.  Page  138,  line  82. 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's  scythe. 
Monkir  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead, 
before  whom  the  corpse  undergoes  a  slight  noviciate 
and  preparatory  training  for  damnation.  If  the  an- 
swers are  none  of  the  clearest,  he  is  hauled  up  with  a 
scythe  and  thumped  down  with  a  red-hot  mace  till  prop- 
erly seasoned,  with  a  variety  of  subsidiary  probations. 
The  office  of  these  angels  is  no  sinecure  ;  there  are  but 
two,  and  the  number  of  orthodox  deceased  being  in  a 
small  proportion  to  the  remainder,  their  hands  are  al- 
ways full. 

Note  36.  Page  138,  line  84. 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis'  throne. 
Eblis,  the  Oriental  Prince  of  Darkness. 

Note  37.  Page  138,  line  89. 
But  first,  on  earth,  as  vampire  sent. 

The  Vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the  Le- 
vaiu.  Honest  Tournefort  tells  a  long  story,  which  Mr. 
Southey,  in  the  notes  on  Thalaba,  quotes  about  these 
"  Vroucolochas,"  as  he  calls  them.  The  Romaic  term  is 
"Vardoulacha."  I  recollect  a  whole  family  being  terri- 
fied by  the  scream  of  a  child,  which  they  imagined 
must  proceed  from  such  a  visitation.  The  Greeks 
never  mention  the  word  without  horror.  I  find  that 
"  Broucolokas"  is  an  old  legitimate  Hellenic  appellation 
—at  least  is  so  applied  to  Arsenius,  who,  according  to 
the  Greeks,  was  after  his  death  animated  by  the  Devil. 
The  moderns,  however,  use  the  word  I  mention. 

Note  38.  Page  138,  line  115. 
Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip. 

The  freshness  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of  the  lip 
with  blood,  are  the  never-failing  signs  of  a  Vampire. 
The  stories  told  in  Hungary  and  Greece  of  these  foul 
feeders  are  singular,  and  some  of  them  most  incredibly 
attested. 

Note  39.  Page  140,  line  36. 

It  ia  as  if  the  desert-bird. 

1  he  pelican  is,  I  believe,  the  bird  so  libelled,  by  the 
•mputation  of  feeding  her  chickens  with  her  blood. 

Note  40.  Page  141,  line  36. 
Deep  in  whose  darkly-boding  ear. 

This  superstition  of  a  second-hearing  (for  I  never  met 

with  downright  second-sight  in  the  east)  fell  once  under 

*iy  own  ooservation — On  my  third  journey  to  Cape 

Jolonna  early  in  1811,  as  we  passed  through  the  defile 

•hat.  leads  from  the  hamlet  between  Keratia  and  Colonna, 

observed  Dervish  Tahiri  riding  rather  out  of  the  path, 

and  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  as  if  in  pain.  I  rode 

up  and  inquired.     "  We  are  in  peril,"  he  answered. 

"  What  peril  ?  we  are  not  now  in  Albania,  nor  in  the 

a  2  24 


passes  to  Ephesus,  Messalunghi,  or  Lepanto ;  there  are 
plenty  of  us,  well  armed,  and  the  Choriates  have  no. 
courage  to  be  thieves." — "  True,  Affendi ;  but  never 
theless  the  shot  is  ringing  in  my  ears." — "  The  shot  !• 
not  a  tophaike  has  been  fired  this  morning." — "I  hear  it 
notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — as  plainly  as  I  hear  yom 
voice." — "Psha." — "As  you  please,  Affendi;  ¥,'  it  is 
written,  so  will  it  be." — I  left  this  quick-eared  predesti 
narian,  and  rode  up  to  Basili,his  Christian  compatriot 
whose  ears,  though  not  at  all  prophetic,  by  no  means 
relished  the  intelligence.  We  all  arrived  at  Colonna,  re- 
mained a  few  hours,  and  returned  leisurely,  saying  a  var 
riety  of  brilliant  things,  in  more  languages  than  spoiled 
the  building  of  Babel,  upon  the  mistaken  seer ;  Romaic, 
Arnaout,  Turkish,  Italian,  and  English  were  all  exercised, 
in  various  conceits,  upon  the  unfortunate  Mussulman. 
While  we  were  contemplating  the  beautiful  prospect, 
Dervish  was  occupied  about  the  columns.  I  thought  he 
was  deranged  into  an  antiquarian,  and  asked  him  if  he 
had  become  a  " Palaocastro "  man.  "No,"  said  he, 
"  but  these  pillars  will  be  useful  in  making  a  stand ;" 
and  added  other  remarks,  which  at  least  evinced  his  own 
belief  in  his  troublesome  faculty  oifure-heanng.  On  oar 
return  to  Athens,  we  heard  from  Leone  (a  prisoner  se* 
ashore  some  days  after)  of  the  intended  attack  of  the 
Mainotcs,  mentioned,  with  the  cause  of  its  not  taking 
place,  in  the  notes  to  Childe  Harold,  Canto  2d.  I  wa« 
at  some  pains  to  question  the  man,  and  he  described  the 
dresses,  arms,  and  marks  of  the  horses  of  our  party  ss 
accurately,  that,  with  other  circumstances,  we  could  not 
doubt  of  his  having  been  in  "  villanous  company,"  and 
ourselves  in  a  bad  neighbourhood.  Dervish  became  a 
soothsayer  for  life,  and  I  dare  say  is  now  hearing  more 
musketry  than  ever  will  be  fired,  to  the  great  refresh- 
ment of  the  Arnaouts  of  Berat,  and  his  native  moun- 
tains.— I  shall  mention  one  trait  more  of  this  singular 
race.  In  March  1811,  a  remarkably  stout  and  active 
Arnaout  came  (I  believe  the  50th  on  the  same  errand) 
to  offer  himself  as  an  attendant,  which  was  declined : 
"Well,  Affendi,"  quoth  he,  "may  you  live! — you 
would  have  found  me  useful.  I  shall  leave  the  town  foi 
the  hills  to-morrow  ;  in  the  winter  I  return,  perhaps  you 
will  then  receive  me." — Dervish,  who  was  present, 
remarked,  as  a  thing  of  course,  and  of  no  consequence, 
"  in  the  mean  time  he  will  join  the  Klephtes"  (rob- 
bers), which  was  true  to  the  letter — If  not  cut  off",  they 
came  down  in  the  winter,  and  pass  it  unmolested  in 
some  town,  where  they  are  often  as  well  known  as  their 
exploits. 

Note  41.  Page  142,  line  36. 

Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief. 

The  monk's  sermon  is  omitted.  It  seems  to  have  had 

so  little  effect  upon  the  patient,  that  it  could  have  nc 

hopes  from  the  reader.  It  may  be  sufficient  to  say,  that 

it  was  of  a  customary  length  (as  may  be  perceived  from 

the  interruptions  and  uneasiness  of  the  penitent),  ana 

was  deli vered  in  the  nasal  tone  of  all  orthodox  preachem 

Note  42.  Page  142,  line  102. 
And  shining  in  her  white  symar. 
"  Symar" — shroud. 

Note  43.  Page  143,  line  37 

The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  story  remits 
was  not  very  uncommon  in  Turkey.  A  few  years  ago 
the  wife  of  Muchtar  Pacha  comulaineu  to  i«.s  father  <* 


146 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


his  son's  «vt)pose<-'  infiinlity ;  he  asked  with  whom,  and 
she  had  vhe  bartwity  to  give  in  a  list  of  the  twelve 
handsomest  women  in  Yanina.  They  were  seized,  fast- 
ened up  in  sacks,  and  drowned  in  the  lake  the  same 
night !  One  of  the  guards  who  was  present  informed 
me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims  uttered  a  cry,  or  showed 
a  symptom  of  terror  at  so  sudden  a  "  wrench  from  all 
we  know,  from  all  we  love."  The  fate  of  Phrosine,  the 
fairest  of  this  sacrifice,  is  the  subject  of  many  a  Romaic 
and  Arnaout  ditty.  The  story  in  the  text  is  one  told  of 
a  young  Venetian  many  years  ago,  and  now  nearly  for- 
gotten. I  heard  it  by  accident  recited  by  one  of  the 
coffee-house  story-tellers  who  abound  in  the  Levant, 
and  sing  or  recite  their  narratives.  The  additions  and 
interpolations  by  the  translator  will  be  easily  distin- 
guished from  the  rest  by  the  want  of  Eastern  imagery ; 


and  I  regret  that  my  memory  has  retained  so  few  frag' 
ments  of  the  original. 

For  the  contents  of  some  of  the  notes  I  am  indebted 
partly  to  D'Herbelot,  and  part  y  to  that  most  eastern, 
and,  as  Mr.  Weber  justly  entitles  it,  "sublime  tale,"  the 
"Caliph  Vathek."  I  do  not  know  from  what  source 
the  author  of  that  singular  volume  may  have  drawn  his 
materials ;  some  of  his  incidents  are  to  be  found  in  the 
"  Bibliotheque  Orientate  ;"  but  for  correctness  of  cos- 
tume, beauty  of  description,  and  power  of  imagination, 
it  far  surpasses  all  European  imitations  ;  ana  bears  s'ich 
marks  of  originality,  that  those  who  have  visited  the  East 
will  find  some  difficulty  in  believing  it  to  be  more  than 
a  translation.  As  an  Eastern  tale,  even  Rasselas  must 
bow  before  it ;  his  "  Happy  Valley "  will  not  bear  a 
comparison  with  the  "  Hall  of  Eblis." 


SBrUjre  of 

A  TURKISH  TALE. 


Had  we  never  loved  go  kindly. 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly. 
Never  met  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

BURNS. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  LORD  HOLLAND, 
THIS  TALE  IS  INSCRIBED, 

WITH    EVERY    SENTIMENT    OF    REGARD    AND    RESPECT,    BV    HIS    GRATEFULLY    OBLIGED 


AND    SINCERE    FRIEND, 


BYRON. 


CANTO  I. 


I. 

Rtrow  ys  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 

Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime  ? 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 

N*w  meh  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime ! 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine; 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppress'd  with  perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gull '  in  her  bloom  ; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute ; 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  colour  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye ; 
Where  the  virgins  a>e  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ? 
T  is  the  clime  of  the  east ;  't  is  the  land  of  the  sun — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done?2 
Oh !  w:M  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  talrr  which  they 


II. 

Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 

Apparell'd  as  becomes  the  brave, 

Awaiting  each  his  lord's  behest, 

To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest, 

Old  GiafHr  sate  in  his  Divan : 
Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye  ; 

And  though  the  face  of  Mussulman 
Not  oft  betrays  to  slanders  by 

The  mind  within,  well  skill'd  to  hide 

All  but  unconquerable  pride, 

His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brow 

Did  more  than  he  was  wont  avow. 

III. 
"Let  the  chamber  be  clear'd." — The  train  disappear''))— 

"Now  call  me  the  chief  of  the  Haram  guard." 
With  Giaffir  is  none  but  his  only  son, 

And  the  Nubian  awaiting  the  sire's  aware 

"  Haroun — when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 

Are  pass'd  beyond  the  outer  gate 

(Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 

My  child  Zulcika's  face  unveil'd !) 

Hence,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  tow«>« ; 

Her  fate  is  fix'd  this  very  hour : 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


i'et  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought ; 
By  me  alone  be  duty  taught !" 

"  Pacha  !   to  hear  is  to  obey." 
No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say- 
Then  to  the  tower  had  ta'en  his  way, 
Hut  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 

First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet: 
And  downcast  look'd,  and  gently  spake, 

Sti  1  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet : 
For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire, 
Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire ! 

"  Father !  for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  chide 
My  sister,  or  her  sable  guide, 
Know — for  the  fault,  if  fault  there  be, 
Was  mine ;  then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me — 
So  lovelily  the  morning  shone, 

That — let  the  old  and  weary  sleep — 
I  could  not ;  and  to  view  alone 

The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep, 
With  none  to  listen  and  reply 
To  thoughts  with  which  my  heart  beat  high, 
Were  irksome — for,  whate'er  my  mood, 
In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude ; 
I  on  Zuleika's  slumber  broke, 

And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 

Soon  turns  the  Haram's  grating  key, 
Before  the  guardian  slaves  awoke, 
We  to  the  cypress  groves  had  flown, 
And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  own ! 
There  linger'd  we,  beguiled  too  long 
With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song;* 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour  * 
Beat  thy  Divan's  approaching  hour, 
To  thee  and  to  my  duty  true, 
Warn'd  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew : 
But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet — 
Nay,  father,  rage  not — nor  forget 
That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 
But  those  who  watch  the  women's  tower." 

IV. 

"  Son  of  a  slave  !" — the  Pacha  said — 

"From  unbelieving  mother  bred, 

Vain  were  a  father's  hope  to  see 

Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 

Thou,  when  thine  arm  should  bend  the  bow, 
And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 
Thou,  Greek  in  soul  if  not  in  creed, 

Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 

And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow. 

Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 

Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire, 

Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire ! 

Thou,  who  wouldst  see  this  battlement 

By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent;  w 

Nay,  tamely  view  old  Stambol's  wall 

Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall, 

Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 

Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth! 

Uo — let  thy  less  than  woman's  hand 

Assume  the  distaff— no',  the  brand. 

But,  Haroun  ! — to  my  daughter  speed: 

And  hark — of  thine  own  head  take  heed — 

If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing — 

Thou  seeSt  yon  bow — it  hath  a  atnng!" 


V. 

No  sound  from  Selim's  lip  was  neard, 

At  least  that  met  old  Giaffir's  ear, 
But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword. 

"  Son  of  a  slave ! — reproach'd  with  fear ! 

Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear. 
Son  of  a  slave  ! — and  who  my  sire  ?" 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career 
And  glances  even  of  more  than  ire 

Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giaffir  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started ;  for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  had  done  ; 
He  saw  rebellion  there  begun : 

"  Come  hither,  boy — what,  no  reply  ? 
I  mark  thee — and  I  know  thee  too ; 
But  there  be  deeds  thou  daresl  not  do : 
But  if  thy  beard  had  manlier  length, 
And  if  thy  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 
I  'd  jov  to  see  thee  break  a  lance, 
Albeit  against  my  own  perchance." 
As  sneeringly  these  accents  fell, 
On  Selim's  eyes  he  fiercely  gazed : 

That  eye  return'd  him  glance  for  glance. 
That  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised, 

Till  Giaffir's  quail'd  and  shrunk  askance— 
And  why — he  felt,  but  durst  not  tell. 
"  Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy; 
I  never  loved  him  from  his  birth, 
And — but  his  arm  is  little  worth, 
And  scarcely  in  the  chase  could  cope 
With  timid  fawn  or  antelope, 
Far  less  would  venture  into  strife 
Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life— 
I  would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone : 
No— nor  the  blood  so  near  my  own. 
That  blood — he  hath  not  heard — no  more— 
I  '11  watch  him  closer  than  before. 
He  is  an  Arab  *  to  my  sight, 
Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight — 
But  hark! — I  hear  Zuleika's  voice  ; 

Like  Houris'  hymn  it  meets  mine  ear : 
She  is  the  offspring  of  my  choice ; 

Oh !  more  than  even  her  mother  dear, 
With  all  to  hope,  and  nought  to  fear — 
My  Peri !  ever  welcome  here ! 
Sweet,  as  the  desert-fountain's  wave 
To  lips  just  cool'd  in  time  to  save — 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou  ; 
Nor  can  they  waft  to  Mecca's  shrine 
More  thanks  for  life,  than  I  for  thine, 

Who  blest  thy  birth,  and  bless  thee  no^f . 

VI. 
Fair,  as  the  first  that  fell  of  womankind, 

When  on  that  dread  yet  lovely  serpent  smiling. 
Whose  image  tiien  was  stamp'd  upon  her  mind- 
But  once  beguiled — and  ever  more  beguiling  ; 
Daz'ling,  as  that,  oh  !   too  transcendent  vision 
To  S'HTOW'S  phantom-peopled  slumber  given, 
When  heart  meets  heart  again  in  dreams  Elysian. 
And  paints  the  lost  on  earth  reviveo  in  heaven  . 
Soft,  as  the  memory  of  buried  love  ; 
Pure,  as  the  prayer  which  childhood  waits  »U'»» 


.48 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Was  »ne — the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  chief, 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears — but  not  of  grief. 

Who  hath  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay 
To  fix  one  spark  of  beauty's  heavenly  ray  7 
Who  doth  not  feel,  until  his  failing  sight 
Faints  into  dimness  with  its  own  delight, 
His  changing  cheek,  his  sinking  heart  confess 
The  might — the  majesty  of  loveliness  ? 
Such  was  Zuleika — such  around  her  shone 
The  nameless  charms  unmark'd  by  her  alone : 
The  light  of  iove,  the  purity  of  grace, 
The  mind,  the  music  breathing  from  her  face,' 
The  heart  whose  softness  harmonized  the  whole — 
And,  oh !  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  soul ! 

Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bending 
Across  her  gently-budding  breast ; 

At  one  kind  word,  those  arms  extending, 
To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  blest 
His  child  caressing  and  carest, 
Zuleika  came — and  Giaflir  felt 
His  purpose  half  within  him  melt : 
Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 
His  heart,  though  stern,  could  ever  feel ; 
Affection  chain'd  her  to  that  heart ; 
Ambition  tore  the  links  apart. 

VII. 

"  Zuleika !  child  of  gentleness ! 

How  dear  this  very  day  must  tell, 
When  I  forget  my  own  distress, 

fci  losing  what  I  love  so  well, 

To  bid  thee  with  another  dwell : 

Another !  and  a  braver  man 

Was  never  seen  in  battle's  van. 
We  Moslem  reck  not  much  of  blood  ; 

But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman* 
Unchanged,  unchangeable  hath  stood 
First  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 
Thai  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 
EnoMgh  that  he  who  comes  to  woo 
Is  kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou  : 
His  years  need  scarce  a  thought  employ: 
I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy. 
And  thou  shall  have  a  noble  dower : 
And  his  and  my  united  power 
Will  laugh  to  scorn  the  death-firman, 
Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan, 
And  teach  the  messenger8  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait. 
And  now  thou  know'st  thy  father's  will: 

All  that  thy  sex  hath  need  to  know : 
'  F  was  mine  to  teach  obedience  still — 

The  way  to  love  thy  lord  may  show." 

VIII. 

i'i  silence  bow'j  the  virgin's  head; 

And  if  hei  eye  was  fill'd  with  tears, 
That  stifled  teeling  dare  not  shed, 
And  changed  her  cheek  from  pale  to  red, 

And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  cars 
Those  win?eu  wonis  .IKO  arrows  sped, 

Whai  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears? 
So  bright  the  tear  in  beauty's  eye, 
Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry ; 


So  sweet  the  blush  of  bashfulness, 

Even  pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less ! 

Whate'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot ; 

Or,  if  remember'd,  mark'd  it  not ; 

Thrice  clapp'd  his  hands,  and  call'd  Ins  steoi 
Resign'd  his  gem-adorn'd  Chibouke,10 

And  mounting  featly  for  the  mead, 
With  Maugrabee  ' '  and  Mamaluke, 
His  way  amid  his  Delis  took,12 

To  witness  many  an  active  deed 

With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 

The  Kislar  only  and  his  Moors 

Watch'd  well  the  Haram's  massy  doors. 

IX. 

His  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand, 

His  eye  look'd  o'er  the  dark-blue  water 
That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 
Between  the  winding  Dardanelles  ; 
But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand 
Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turban'd  band 

Mix  in  the  game  of  mimic  slaughter, 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt l3 
With  sabre  stroke  right  sharply  dealt ; 
Nor  mark'if  the  javelin-darting  crowd, 
Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  14  wild  and  loua — 

He  thought  but  of  old  Giaffir's  daughter ! 

X. 

No  word  from  Selim's  bosom  broke ; 
One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke : 
Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate, 
Pale,  mute,  and  mournfully  sedate. 
To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  turn'd, 
But  little  from  his  aspect  learn'd  : 
Equal  her  grief,  yet  not  the  same  ; 
Her  heart  confess'd  a  gentler  flame : 
But  yet  that  heart  alarm'd  or  weak, 
She  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak, 
Yet  speak  she  must — but  when  essay  ? 
"  How  strange  he  thus  should  turn  awav  ' 
Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met ; 
Not  thus  shall  be  our  parting  yet." 
Thrice  paced  she  slowly  through  the  room 

And  watch'd  his  eye — it  still  was  fix'd  : 

She  snatch'd  the  urn  wherein  was  mix'd 
The  Persian  Atar-gul's  ' s  perfume, 
And  sprinkled  all  its  odours  o'er 
The  pictured  roof16  and  marble  floor: 
The  drops,  that  through  his  glittering  vest 
The  playful  girl's  appeal  addrest, 
Unheeded  o'er  his  bosom  flew, 
As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too. 
"What,  sullen  yet?  it  must  not  be — 
Oh  !  gentle  Selim,  this  from  thee  !" 
She  saw  in  curious  order  set 

The  fairest  flowers  of  Eastern  land — 
'"  He  loved  them  once  ;  may  touch  them  y« 

If  offer' d  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was  hardly  breath' d 
Before  the  rose  was  pluck'd  and  wreall  ed  ; 
The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 
Her  fairy  form  at  Selim's  feet : 
"This  rose  to  calm  rr.y  brother's  carei 
A  message  from  the  Bulbul 1T  bears  , 
It  says  to-night  he  will  prolong 
For  Selim's  ear  his  s wee'.est  song ; 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


19 


And  though  his  note  is  somewhat  sad, 
He  11  try  for  once  a  strain  more  glad, 
With  some  faint  hope  his  alter'd  lay 
May  sing  these  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

XI. 
"  What !  not  receive  my  foolish  flower  ? 

Nay  then  I  am  indeed  unblest: 
On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower? 

And  know'st  thou  not  who  loves  the*  best  ? 
Oh,  Selim  dear !  oh,  more  than  dearest ! 
Say,  is  it  me  thou  hat'st  or  fearest  ? 
Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  into  rest, 
Since  words  of  mine,  and  songs  must  faX 
Even  from  my  fabled  nightingale. 
I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stern, 
But  this  from  thce  had  yet  to  learn : 
Too  well  I  know  he  loves  thee  not ; 
But  is  Zuleika's  love  forgot  ? 
Ah  !  deem  I  right  ?  the  Pacha's  plan — 
This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasman 
Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine. 
If  so,  I  swear  by  Mecca's  shrine, 
If  shrines  that  ne'er  approach  allow 
To  woman's  step  admit  her  vow, 
Without  thy  free  consent,  command, 
The  Sultan  should  not  have  my  hand ! 
Think'st  thou  that  I  could  bear  to  part 
With  thee,  and  learn  to  "halve  my  heart? 
Ah  !  were  I  sever'd  from  thy  side, 
Where  were  thy  friend — and  who  my  guide  ? 
Years  have  not  seen,  time  shall  not  see, 
The  hour  that  tears  my  soul  from  thee : 
Even  Azrael,18  from  his  deadly  quiver 

When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 
That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  for  ever 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust!" 

XII. 

He  lived — he  breathed — he  moved — he  felt ; 
He  raised  the  maid  from  where  she  knelt : 
His  trance  was  gone — his  keen  eye  shone 
Wi'h  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt ; 
With  thoughts  that  burn — in  rays  that  melt. 
As  the  stream  late  conceal'd 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows ; 
When  it  rushes  reveal'd 

In  the  light  of  its  billows ; 
As  the  bolt  bursts  on  high 

From  the  black  cloud  that  bound  it, 
Flash'd  the  soul  of  that  eye 

Through  the  long  lashes  round  it. 
A  war-horse  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 
A  lion  roused  by  heedless  hound, 
A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 
By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife, 
Starts  not  to  more  convulsive  life 
Than  he,  who  heard  that  vow,  display'd, 
And  all,  before  repress'd,  betray'd : 
"  Now  thou  art  mine,  for  ever  mine, 
Witn  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign  ; 
Now  thou  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath, 
Though  sworn  by  one,  hath  bound  us  both. 
Yes,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  done ; 
That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than  vie : 
But  blench  not  thou — thy  simplest  tress 
Claims  more  1'om  me  than  tenderness  ; 


I  would  not  wrong  the  slenderest  hair 

That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fair, 

For  all  the  treasures  buried  far 

Within  the  caves  of  Istakar." 

This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lower'd, 

Reproaches  on  my  head  were  shower'd, 

And  Giaffir  almost  called  me  coward  ! 

Now  I  have  motive  to  be  brave  ; 

The  son  of  his  neglected  slave — 

Nay,  start  not,  't  was  the  term  he  gave- 

May  show,  though  little  apt  to  vaunt, 

A  heart  his  words  nor  deeds  can  daunt. 

His  son,  indeed  ! — yet  thanks  to  thee, 

Perchance  I  am,  at  least  shall  be  ; 

But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 

Be  only  known  to  us  as  now. 

I  know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 

From  Giaffir  thy  reluctant  hand  ; 

More  ill-got  wealth,  a  meaner  soul, 

Holds  not  a  Musselim's  20  control : 

Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo?  21 

A  viler  race  let  Israel  show ! 

But  let  that  pass — to  none  be  told 

Our  oath  ;  the  rest  shall  time  unfold 

To  me  and  mine  leave  Osman  Bey ; 

I  've  partisans  for  peril's  day  : 

Think  not  I  am  what  I  appear ; 

I  've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near, 

XIII. 

"  Think  not  thou  art  what  thou  appearest ! 

My  Selim,  thou  art  sadly  changed : 
This  mom  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  dearest ; 

But  now  thou  'rt  from  thyself  estranged. 
My  love  thou  surely  knew'st  before, 

It  ne'er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay. 

And  hate  the  night  I  know  not  why, 
Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day ; 

With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die. 

I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny : 
Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss, 
Like  this — and  this — no  more  than  this ; 
For,  Alia  !  sure  thy  lips  are  flame  : 

What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushing  ? 
My  own  have  nearly  caught  the  same, 

At  least  I  feei  my  cheek  too  blushing. 
To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  health, 
Partake,  but  never  waste,  thy  wealth, 
Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by, 
And  lighten  half  thy  poverty ; 
Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye, 
For  that  I  could  not  live  to  try  ; 
To  these  alone  my  thoughts  aspire : 
More  can  I  do,  or  thou  require  ? 
But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 
We  need  so  much  of  mystery  ? 
The  cause  I  cannot  dream  nor  tell, 
But  be  it,  since  thou  say'st  't  is  well ; 
Yet  what  thou  mean'st  by  '  arms '  and  '  frieon* 
Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 
I  meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 

The  very  vow  I  plighted  thee  ; 
His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word 

But  s-irely  he  would  leave  me  fre«. 

Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  in  one. 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


To  be  what  I  have  ever  been  7 
What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen 
From  simple  childhood's  earliest  hour  7 

What  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
Th»"  thee,  companion  of  her  bower, 

The  partner  of  her  infancy  ? 
These  cherish'd  thoughts  with  life  begun, 

S?.y,  why  must  I  no  more  avow  7 
What  change  is  wrought  to  make  me  shun 

The  truth  ;  my  pride,  and  thine  till  now? 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  stranger's  eyes 
Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies  ; 
Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 
At  such,  our  Prophet's  will,  repine  : 
No  !  happier  made  by  that  decree  ! 
He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 
Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compell'd 
To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld : 
This  wherefore  should  I  not  reveal  7 
Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal  7 
I  know  the  Pacha's  haughty  mood 
To  thee  hath  never  boded  good  ; 
And  he  so  often  storms  at  nought, 
Allah  !  forbid  that  e'er  he  ought ! 
And  why  I  know  not,  but  within 
My  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sin. 
If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime, 

And  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here ; 
Oh,  Selim  !  tell  me  yet  in  time, 

Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear. 
Ah  !  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar,19 
My  father  leaves  the  mimic  war ; 
I  tremble  now  to  meet  his  eye—- 
Say, Selim,  canst  thou  tell  me  why  7" 

XIV. 

"  Zuleika !  to  thy  tower's  retreat 
Betake  thee — Giaffir  I  can  greet ; 
And  now  with  him  I  fain  must  prate 
Of  firmans,  imposts,  levies,  state. 
There 's  fearful  news  from  Danube's  banks  ; 
Our  Vizier  nobly  thini.  his  ranks, 
For  which  the  Giaour  may  give  him  thanks! 
Our  Sultan  hath  a  shorter  way 
Such  costly  triumph  to  repay. 
But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight  drum 

Hath  warn'd  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep, 
Unto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come : 

Then  softly  from  the  Haram  creep 

Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep : 

Our  garden-battlements  are  steep ; 
Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 
To  list  o-w  words,  or  stint  our  time, 
And  .  ue  doth,  I  want  not  steel 
Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel. 
Then  shall  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 
Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before  j 
Trust  me,  Zuleika — fear  not  me  ! 
Thou  know'st  I  hold  a  Haram  key.  * 
•'  Fear  thee,  my  Selim !  ne'er  till  now 

Did  word  like  this " 

•  Delay  not  tbou ; 

I  ktop  tne  Key — and  Haroun's  guard 
Have  same,  and  hope  of  more  reward. 
To-ni^h?,  Zuleika,  thou  shall  hear 
My  talf,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear: 
I  <mi  no*,  love !  what  I  appear." 


CANTO  II. 


I. 

THE  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter 
Oh !  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret-torch  was  blazing  high, 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam, 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  warn'd  him  home ; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below, 
With  signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go ; 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear ; 
His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love, 
The  only  star  it  hail'd  above  ; 
His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 
"  Ye  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long !" 
That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 
May  nerve  young  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 

II. 

The  winds  are  high,  and  Helle's  tide 

Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main  ; 
And  night's  descending  shadows  hide 

That  field  with  blood  bedew'd  in  vain, 
The  desert  of  old  Priam's  pride  ; 
The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 
All — save  immortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle ! 

III. 

Oh !  yet — for  there  my  steps  have  been ; 

These  feet  have  press'd  the  sacred  shore, 
These  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne — 
MinstreH  with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn, 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore, 
Believing  every  hillock  green 

Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes, 
And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 

Thine  own  "  broad  Hellespont"  21  still  dashea, 
Be  long  my  lot !  and  cold  were  he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee ! 

IV. 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme  : 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam, 

But  conscious  shepherds  bless  it  stilL 
Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 

Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow  . 
That  mighty  heap  of  gatherd  ground 
Which  Ammon's 2*  son  ran  proudly  round, 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarchs  crown'd, 

Is  now  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow  I 

Within — thy  dwelling-place  how  nanon 
Without — can  only  strangers  breatKo 
The  name  of  him  that  teas  beneath  • 
Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone, 
But  thou — thy  very  dust  is  gone ! 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


fol 


V. 

Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  cheer 

The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman's  fear; 

Till  then — no  beacon  on  the  cliff 

May  shape  the  course  ot  struggling  skiff; 

The  scatter'd  lights  that  skirt  the  bay, 

All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away ; 

The  only  lamp  of  tnis  lone  hour 

Is  glimmering  in  Zuleika's  tower. 

Yes !  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber, 

And  o'er  her  silken  ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber, 

O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran ;  " 
Near  these,  with  emerald  rays  beset, 
(How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget?) 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet,26 
Whereon  engraved  the  Koorsee  text, 
Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next ; 
And  by  her  Comboloio  s'  lies 
A  Koran  of  illumined  dyes  ; 
And  many  a  bright  emblazon'd  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  redeem'd  from  time; 
And  o'er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute, 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute ; 
And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China's  mould; 
The  richest  work  of  Iran's  loom, 
And  Sheeraz'  tribute  of  perfume  ; 
All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 

Are  gathcr'd  in  that  gorgeous  room : 

But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloom. 
She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sprite, 
What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a  night  ? 

VI. 

Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest, 

Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear, 
To  guard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 

As  heaven  itself  to  Selim  dear, 
With  cautious  steps  the  thicket  threading, 

And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 

The  gust  its  hollow  meanings  made, 
Till  on  the  smoother  pathway  treading, 
More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat, 

The  maid  pursued  her  silent  guide ; 
And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 

How  could  she  quit  her  Selim's  side? 

How  teach  her  tender  lips  to  chide  7 

VII. 

They  reach'd  at  length  a  grotto,  hewn 

By  Nature,  but  enlarged  by  art, 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune, 

And  oft  her  Koran  conn'd  apart ; 
And  oft  in  youthful  reverie 
She  dream'd  what  Paradise  might  be  : 
Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  prophet  had  disdain'd  to  show ; 
But  Selim's  mansion  was  secure, 
Nor  deem'd  she,  could  he  long  endure 
ll\j  l»ovver  in  other  worlds  of  bliss, 
Without  her,  mo»v  beloved  in  this! 
Oh  !   who  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell? 
Wliat  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well? 


VIII. 

Since  last  she  visited  the  spot 

Some  change  seem'd  wrought  witnm  the  grot 

It  might  be  only  that  the  night 

Disguised  things  seen  by  better  light : 

That  brazen  lamp  but  dimly  threw 

A  ray  of  no  celestial  hue ; 

But  in  a  nook  within  the  cell 

Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell. 

There  arms  were  piled,  not  such  as  wield 

The  turban'd  Delis  in  the  field ; 

But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt, 

And  one  was  red — perchance  with  guut ! 

Ah !  how  without  can  blood  be  spilt? 

A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 

That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet. 

What  may  this  mean  ?  she  turn'd  to  see 

Her  Selim— "  Oh !  can  this  be  he  ?" 

IX. 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside, 

His  brow  no  high-crown'd  turban  bore, 
But  in  its  stead  a  shawl  of  red, 

Wreathed  lightly  round,  his  temples  wore 
That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 
Were  worthy  of  a  diadem, 
No  longer  glitter'd  at  his  wais', 
Where  pistols  unadorn'd  were  braced  ; 
And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung, 
And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung 
The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 
That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote. 
Beneath — his  golden-plated  vest 
Clung  like  a  cuirass  to  his  breast ; 
The  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wound 
With  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and  bcuna 
But  were  it  not  that  high  command 
Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand, 
All  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 
In  him  was  some  young  Galiongee.8* 

X. 

"  I  said  I  was  not  what  I  seem'd ; 

And  now  thou  seest  my  words  were  true 
I  have  a  tale  thou  hast  not  dream'd, 

If  sooth — its  truth  must  others  rue. 
My  story  now  't  were  vain  to  hide ; 
I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride  : 
But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 
How  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared,    • 
I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love ; 
That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove : 
But  first — Oh  !  never  wed  another — 
Zuleika !  I  am  not  thy  brother ! " 

XI. 

"  Oh !  not  my  brother ! — yet  unsay—- 
God !  am  I  left  alone  on  earth 

To  mourn — I  dare  not  curse — the  day 
That  saw  my  solitary  birth  ? 

Oh !  thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more ! 
My  sinking  heart  foreboded  ill; 

But  know  me  all  I  was  br.fore, 
Thy  lister — friend — Zuleika  still. 


152 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Thou  led'st  me  here  perchance  to  kill ; 
.   If  thou  hast  cause  for  vengeance,  see . 
My  breast  is  ofler'd — take  thy  fill ! 
Far  better  with  the  dead  to  be 
Than  live  thus  nothing  now  to  thee : 
Perhaps  far  worse,  for  now  I  know 
Why  Giaffir  always  seem'd  thy  foe ; 
And  I,  alas  !   am  Giaffir's  child, 
For  whom  thou  wert  contemn'd,  reviled. 
If  not  thy  sister — vvouldst  thou  save 
My  life,  Oh !  bid  me  be  thy  slave !" 

XII. 

"My  slave,  Zuleika  ! — nay,  I'm  thine-- 

Rut,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm. 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  link'd  with  mine ; 
I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  shrine, 

And  be  that  thought  thy  sorrow's  balm. 
So  may  the  Koran  29  verse  display'd 
Upon  its  steel  direct  my  blade, 
In  danger's  hour  to  guard  us  both, 
As  I  preserve  that  awful  oath ! 
The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  prided 

Must  change  ;  but,  my  Zuleika,  know, 
That  tic  is  widen'd,  not  divided, 

Although  thy  sire 's  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giaffir  all 

That  Selim  late  was  deem'd  to  thee  ; 
That  brother  wrought  a  brother's  fall, 

But  spared,  at  least,  my  infancy  ; 
And  lull'd  me  with  a  vain  deceit 
That  yet  a  like  return  may  meet. 
He  rear'd  me,  not  with  tender  help, 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain ;  J0 
lie  watch'd  me  like  a  lion's  whelp, 

That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  his  chain. 

My  father's  blood  in  every  vein 
Is  boiling  ;  but  for  thy  dear  sake 
No  present  vengeance  will  I  take  ; 

Though  here  I  must  no  more  remain. 
But  first,  beloved  Zuleika !  hear 
How  Gaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 

XIII. 

"  How  first  their  strife  to  rancour  grew, 

If  love  or  envy  made  them  iocs, 
It  matters  little  if  I  knew  ; 
In  fiery  spirits,  slights,  though  few 

And  thoughtless,  will  disturb  repose. 
In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong, 
Remember'd  yet  in  Bosniac  song, 
And  Paswan's31  rebel  hordes  attest 
How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest: 
His  death  is  all  I  need  relate, 
The  stern  effect  of  Giaffir's  hate  • 
^nd  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 
What'er  beside  it  makes,  hath  made  me  free. 

XIV. 

"  When  Pdswan,  after  years  of  strife, 
At  last  for  power,  but  first  for  life, 
In  Widin's  walls  too  proudly  sate, 
Our  Pachas  rallied  round  the  state ; 
Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command 
Each  brother  led  a  separate  band ; 


They  gave  their  horsetails  '2  to  the  wind, 

And,  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain, 
Their  tents  were  pitch'd,  their  post  assign "d  ; 

To  one,  alas  !  assign'd  in  vain  ! 
What  need  of  words '/  the  deadly  bowl, 

By  Giaffir's  order  drugg'd  and  given, 
With  venom,  sub'-le  as  his  soul, 

Dismiss'd  Abdallah's  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 

He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  up, 
But  little  deem'd  a  brother's  wrath 

To  quench  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup : 
The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore  ; 
He  drank  one  draught,33  nor  needed  more ! 
If  thou  my  tale,  Zuleika,  doubt, 
Call  Haroun — he  can  tell  it  out. 

XV. 

"The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 

In  part  suppress'd,  though  ne'er  subdued, 

Abdallah's  pachalick  was  gain'd  : 

Thou  know'st  not  what  in  our  Divan 

Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man— 

Abdallah's  honours  were  obtain'd 

By  him  a  brother's  murder  stain'd  ; 

'T  is  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drain'd 

His  ill-got  treasure,  soon  replaced. 

Would'st  question  whence?  Survey  the  waste, 

And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 

His  gains  repay  his  broiling  brow  ? 

Why  me  the  stern  usurper  spared, 

Why  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 

I  know  not.     Shame,  regret,  remorse, 

And  little  fear  from  infant's  force  ; 

Besides,  adoption  as  a  son 

By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none, 

Or  some  unknown  cabal,  caprice, 

Preserved  me  thus  ; — but  not  in  peace : 

He  cannot  curb  his  haughty  mood, 

Nor  I  forgive  a  father's  blood. 

XVI. 

"  Within  thy  father's  house  are  foes  5 

Not  all  who  break  his  bread  are  true  : 
To  these  should  I  my  birth  disclose, 

His  days,  his  very  hours  were  few. 
They  only  want  a  heart  to  lead, 
A  hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 
But  Haroun  only  knows,  or  knew 

This  tale,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh : 
He  in  Abdallah's  palace  grew, 

And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 

Which  holds  he  here — he  saw  him  die 
But  what  could  single  slavery  do  ? 
Avenge  his  lord !  alas !  too  late  ; 
Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate  ? 
He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elale 

Wilh  foes  subdued,  or  friends  betray'd 
Proud  Giaffir  in  high  triumph  sate, 
He  led  me  helpless  to  his  gate, 

And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essay'd 

To  save  the  life  for  which  he  pray  d. 
The  knowledge  of  mv  birth  secured 

From  all  and  each,  but  most  from  m« , 
Thus  Giaffir's  safety  was  ensured. 

Removed  he  too  from  Roumebe 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


153 


To  this  our  Asiatic  side, 

Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide, 

With  none  but  Haroun,  who  retains 
Such  knowledge  —  and  the  Nubian  feels 

A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains 
From  which  the  captive  gladly  steals, 
And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals: 
Such  still  to  guilt  just  Alia  sends  — 
Slaves,  tools,  accomplices  —  no  friends! 

XVII. 
"All  this,  Zuleika,  harshly  sounds; 

But  harsher  still  my  tale  must  be: 
Howe'er  my  tongue  thy  softness  wounds, 

Yet  I  must  prove  all  truth  to  thee. 

I  saw  thee  start  this  garb  to  see, 
Yet  is  it  one  I  oft  have  worn, 

And  long  must  wear:  this  Galionge'e, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn, 

Is  leader  of  those  pirate  hordes, 
"Whose  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  swords 
To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
Would  make  thy  waning  check  more  pale: 
Those  arms  thou  see'st  my  band  have  brought, 
The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote; 
This  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

Is  fill'd  —  once  quaflPd,  they  ne'er  repine: 
Our  Prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves; 

They're  only  infidels  in  wine. 

XVIII. 

"What  could  I  be?    Proscribed  at  home, 
And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam ; 
And  listless  left  — for  Giafflr's  fear 
Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear  — 
Though  oft— Oh,  Mahomet!  how  oft!— 
In  full  Divan  the  despot  scofTd, 
As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 
Kefused  the  bridle  or  the  brand; 
He  ever  went  to  war  alone, 
And  pent  me  here  untried,  unknown; 
To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left, 
By  hope  unblest,  of  fame  bereft. 
While  thou — whose  softness  long  endearM, 
Though  it  unmanned  me,  still  had  cheer'd  — 
To  Brusa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 
Awaited'st  there  the  field's  event. 
Haroun,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 

Beneath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke, 
His  captive,  though  with  dread  resigning, 

My  thraldom  for  a  season  broke, 
On  promise  to  return  before 
The  day  when  Giafflr's  charge  was  o'er, 
'Tis  vain— my  tongue  cannot  impart 
My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart, 
When  first  this  liberated  eye 
Survey'd  earth,  ocean,  sun,  and  sky, 
As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through, 
And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew  I 
One  word  alone  can  paint  to  thee 
That  more  than  feeling— I  was  free! 
E'en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine ; 
The  world— nay— heaven  itself  was  mine  I 

XIX. 

"The  shallop  of  a  trusty  Mocr 
Convey'd  me  from  this  idle  shore; 

R  25 


I  longM  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 

Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem  : 

I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  nil ;  '« 

But  when  and  where  I  join'd  the  crew, 
With  whom  I'm  pledged  to  rise  or  fall 

When  all  that  we  design  to  do 
Is  done,  't  will  then  be  time  more  meet 
To  tell  thee  when  the  tale's  complete. 

XX. 

"'Tis  true,  they  are  a  lawless  brood, 
But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  mood; 
And  every  creed,  and  every  race, 
With  them  hath  found — may  find  a  place 
But  open  speech,  and  ready  hand, 
Obedience  to  their  chief's  command; 
A  soul  for  every  enterprise, 
That  never  sees  with  terror's  eyes; 
Friendship  for  each,  and  faith  to  all, 
And  vengeance  vow'd  for  those  who  fall, 
Have  made  them  fitting  instruments 
For  more  than  even  my  own  intents. 
And  some — and  I  have  studied  all 

Distinguish1!.!  from  the  vulgar  rank, 
But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 

The  wisdom  of  the  cautious  Frank — 
And  some  to  higher  thoughts  aspire, 
The  last  of  Lambro's  '•  patriots  there 
Anticipated  freedom  share; 
And  oft  around  the  cavern  fire 
On  visionary  schemes  debate 
To  snatch  the  Kayabs  *  from  their  fate. 
So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  man  ne'er  knew ; 
I  have  a  love  for  freedom  too. 
Ay !  let  me  like  the  ocean-patriarch  11  ronm, 
Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home!" 
My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea, 
Are  more  than  cities  and  serais  to  me: 
Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail, 
Across  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale, 
Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb!  or  glide,  my  prow 
But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer,  thou! 
Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark; 
The  dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark ! 
Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 
Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life! 
The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away, 
And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray! 
Blest — as  the  Muezzin's  strain  from  Mecca's  wall 
To  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call: 
Soft — as  the  melody  of  j'outhfnl  days, 
That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speechless  praise ; 
Dear — as  his  native  song  to  exile's  ears, 
Shall  sound  each  tone  thy  long-loved  voice  endears. 
For  thee  in  those  bright  isles  is  built  a  bower 
Blooming  as  Aden  ™  in  its  earliest  hour. 
A  thousand  swords,  with  Selim's  heart  and  band, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at  thy  command : 
Girt  by  my  band,  Zuleika  at  my  side, 
The  spoil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride, 
The  haram's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 
Are  well  resign'd  for  cares — for  joys  like  these : 
Not  blind  to  fate,  I  see,  where'er  I  rove, 
UnnumberM  perils— but  one  only  love! 


BYRON'S  \VORKS. 


Vt  t  wt/.l  in  ;  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay, 

Though  fortune  frown,  or  lalser  friends  betray. 

flow  ilear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill, 

Should  all  be  changed,  to  And  thee  faithful  still ! 

Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown  ; 

To  thee  be  Selim's  tender  as  thine  own  ; 

To  soothe  each  sorrow,  share  in  each  delight, 

Blend  ^very  thought,  do  all — but  disunite ! 

Once  free,  't  is  mine  our  horde  again  to  guide  : 

Friends  to  each  other,  foes  to  aught  beside  : 

Yet  there  we  follow  but  the  bent  assign'd 

By  fatal  nature  to  man's  warring  kind  : 

Mark  !  where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests  cease  ! 

lie  makes  a  solitude,  and  calls  it — peace  ! 

I,  like  the  rest,  must  use  my  skill  or  strength, 

But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre's  length : 

Power  sways  but  by  division — her  resource 

The  blest  alternative  of  fraud  or  force  ! 

Ours  be  the  last :  in  time  deceit  may  come, 

When  cities  cage  us  in  a  social  home : 

There  even  thy  sou!  might  err — how  oft  the  heart 

Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not  part ! 

And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  death  or  woe 

Or  even  disgrace  would  lay  her  lover  low, 

Sunk  in  the  lap  of  luxury  will  shame — 

Away  suspicion ! — not  Zuleika's  name  ! 

But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best ;  and  here 

No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to  fear : 

Yes,  fear  ! — the  doubt,  the  dread  of  losing  thee, 

By  Osman's  power  and  Giaffir's  stern  decree. 

That  dread  shall  vanish  with  the  favouring  gale, 

Which  love  to-i:»ht  hath  promised  to  mv  sail : 

No  danger  daunts  Uie  pair  his  smile  hath  blest. 

Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest. 

With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet,  each  clime  hath  charms  ; 

Earth — sea  alike — our  world  within  our  arms  ! 

Ay — let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o'er  the  deck, 

So  that  those  arms  cling  closer  round  my  neck : 

The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be 

No  sigh  for  safety,  but  a  prayer  for  thee  ! 

The  wars  of  elements  no  fears  impart 

To  love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  art : 

There  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  can  check  ; 

Here  moments  menace — there  are  years  of  wreck  ! 

But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  horror's  shape  ! 

This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 

Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close  ; 

Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from  our  foes  ; 

Yen — foes — to  me  will  Giaffir's  hate  decline  ? 

And  is  not  Osman,  who  would  part  us,  thine  ? 

XXI. 

"  1  [is  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and  death 
Return'd  in  time  my  guard  to  save  ; 
Few  heard,  none  told,  that  o'er  the  wave 

From  isle  to  isle  I  roved  the  while : 

And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band, 

Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land, 

No  deed  they  've  done,  nor  deed  shall  do, 

Ere  I  have  heard  and  doom'd  it  too : 

I  form  the  plan,  decree  the  spoil, 

'T  is  fit  I  oflener  share  the  toil. 

But  now  too  long  I  've  held  thine  ear ; 

Time  presses,  floats  my  bark,  and  here 

<Ve  leave  behind  bu>  hate  and  fear 


To-morrow  Osman  with  his  train 
Arrives — to-night  must  break  thy  chain: 
And  wouldst  thou  save  that  haughty  Bev, 

Perchance  his  life  who  gave  thee  thine, 
With  me  this  hour  away — away ! 

But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine, 
Wouldst  thou  recall  thy  willing  vow, 
Appall'd  by  truths  imparted  now, 
Here  rest  I — not  to  see  thee  wed  : 
But  be  that  peril  on  my  head  !" 

XXII. 

Zuleika,  mute  and  motionless, 

Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress, 

VN  hrn,  her  last  hope  for  ever  gone, 

The  mother  harden'd  into  stone  ; 

All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 

Was  but  a  younger  NioW. 

But  ere  her  lip,  or  even  her  eye. 

Essay *d  to  speak,  or  look  reply, 

Beneath  the  garden's  wicket  porch 

Far  flash'd  on  high  a  blazing  torch ! 

Another — and  another — and  another — 

"  Oh  !  fly — no  more — yet  now  my  more  than  brcthar ' 

Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread, 

The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red  ; 

Nor  these  alone — for  each  right  hand 

Is  ready  w-ith  a  sheathless  brand. 

They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 

With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel; 

And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 

Stern  Giaffir  in  his  fury  raving : 

And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave — 

Oh  !  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless  he  stood — "  'tis  come — soon  past- 
One  kiss,  Zuleika — 't  is  my  last : 

But  yet  my  band  not  far  from  shore 
May  hear  this  signal,  see  the  flash  ; 
Yet  now  too  few — the  attempt  were  rash : 

No  matter — yet  one  effort  more." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  slept ; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high. 
Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 

Despair  benumb'd  her  breast  and  eye  !— 
"  They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars,  't  is  but  to  see  me  die ; 
That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 
Then  forth  my  father's  scimitar, 
Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  less  equal  war ! 

Farewell,  Zuleika! — Sweet!  reljr*. 
Yet  stay  within — here  linger  safe, 
At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chafe. 
Stir  not — lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance. 

Fear'st  thou  for  him  ? — may  I  expire 

If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire  ! 
No — though  by  him  that  poison  pour'd  ; 
No— though  again  he  call  me  coward  ! 
But  tamely  shall  I  meet  their  steel'.' 
No— as  each  crest  save  his  may  fet.    ' 

XXIV. 

One  bound  he  made,  and  gain'd  the  land : 
Already  at  his  feet  hatk  sunk 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


The  foremost  of  the  prying  band, 

A  gasping  head,  a  quivering  trunk : 
Anotrier  falls — but  round  him  close 
A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes  ; 
From  right  to  left  his  path  he  cleft, 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave : 
His  boat  appears — not  five  oars'  length— 
His  comrades  strain  with  desperate  strength — 

Oh  !  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save  ? 

His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave ; 
His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 
Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray  ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle— now  they  touch  the  land  ! 
They  come — 't  is  but  to  add  to  slaughter — 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water ! 

XXV. 

Escaped  from  shot,  unharm'd  by  steel, 

Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel, 

Had  Selim  won,  betray'd,  beset, 

To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met : 

There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land, 

And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand — 

Ah  !  wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 

For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain  ? 
That  pause,  that  fatal  gaze  he  took, 

Hath  doom'd  his  death,  or  fix'd  his  chain. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain, 
How  late  win  lover's  hope  remain ! 
His  back  was  to  the  dashing  spray; 
Behind,  but  close,  his  comrades  lay, 
When,  at  the  instant,  hiss'd  the  ball — 
"  So  may  the  foes  of  Giaffir  fall !" 
Whose  voice  is  heard  ?  whose  carbine  rang  7 
Whose  bullet  through  the  night-air  sang, 
Too  nearly,  deadly  aim'd  to  err  ? 
T  is  thine — Abdallah's  murderer  ! 
The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate, 
The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fate : 
Fast  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubbling, 
The  whiteness  of  the  sea-roam  troubling — 
If  aught  his  lips  essay'd  jo  groan, 
The  rushing  billows  choak'd  the  tone ! 

XXVI. 
Morn  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away ; 

Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are  there : 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight  bay 
Are  silent ;  but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear, 
And  fragments  of  each  shiver'd  brand  : 
Steps  stamp'd  ;  and  dash'd  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand 

May  there  bo  mark'd  ;  nor  far  remote 

A  broken  torch,  an  oarless  boat ; 
And  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 

Tnere  lies  a  white  capote  ! 
T  is  rent  in  twain— one  dark-red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain  : 
But  where   s  he  who  wore  ? 
Ye !  who  wonl-1  o'er  his  relics  weep 
Go,  neek  them  where  the  surges  sweep 
Tlieir  nurtnen  round  Sjg:r;um's  steep, 
And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore : 


The  sea-birds  shriek  above  ihe  prey, 
O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 
As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  bilW  , 
That  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life, 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife, 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 
Then  levell'd  with  the  wave — 
What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shal.  lie 

Within  a  living  grave? 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robb'd  the  meaner  worm  ; 
The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 
Had  seen  those  scatter'd  limbs  composed, 
And  mourn'd  above  his  turban-stone,  *° 
That  heart  hath    urst — that  eye  was  closed- 
Yea — closed  before  his  own  ! 

XXVII. 

By  Helle's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  wail ! 
And  woman's  eye  is  wet — man's  cheek  is  pale : 
Zuleika!  last  of  Giaffir's  race, 

Thy  destined  lord  is  come  too  late  ; 
He  sees  not — ne'er  shall  see  thy  face ! 

Can  he  not  hear 

The  loud  Wul-wulleh41  warn  his  distant  ear? 
Thy  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate, 
The  Koran-chaunters  of  the  hymn  of  fate, 
The  silent  slaves  with  folded  arms  that  wait 
Sighs  in  the  hall,  and  shrieks  upon  the  gale, 

Tell  him  thy  tale ! 
Thou  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  fall ! 

That  fearful  moment  when  he  left  the  cave 

Thy  heart  grew  chill : 

He  was  thy  hope — thy  joy — thy  love — thine  aft— 
And  that  last  thought  on  him  thou  couldst  not  ?avo 

Sufficed  to  kill ; 
Burst  forth  in  one  wild  cry — and  all  was  still. 

Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave ! 
Ah  !  happy  !  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst ! 
That  grief — though  deep — though  fatal — was  thy  fir^l 
Thrice  happy !  ne'er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 
Of  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge,  remorse ! 
And,  oh  !  that  pang  where  more  than  madness  lies 
The  worm  that  will  not  sleep — and  never  dies ; 
Thought  of  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly  night, 
That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  the  light, 
That  winds  around,  and  tears  the  quivering  heart ! 
Ah !  wherefore  not  consume  it — and  depart ! 
Woe  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief! 
Vainly  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy  head, 
Vainly  the  sackcloth  o'er  thy  limbs  doth  spread  • 
By  that  same  hand  Abdallah — Selim  bled. 
Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief: 
Thy  pride  of  heart,  thv  bride  for  Osman's  bed, 
She,  whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed, 

Thy  daughter 's  dead ! 

Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight's  lonely  beam, 
The  star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Helle's  stream. 
What  qnench'd  its  ray  ? — the  blood  that  thou  hast  xht  d ! 
ETark  !  to  the  hurried  question  of  despair : 
"Where  is  my  child  ?"  an  echo  answers—*'  Wher«  '"" 

xxvm. 

Within  the  place  of  thousand  tombs 
That  shine  beneath,  while  dark  abrr» 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  sad  but  living  cypress  glooms 
And  withers  not,  though  branch  and  leaf 
Are  stamp'd  with  an  eternal  grief, 

Like  early  unrequited  love, 
One  spot  exists,  which  ever  blooms 

Even  in  that  deadly  grove — 
A  single  rose  is  shedding  there 

Its  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale : 
It  looks  as  planted  by  despair — 

So  white — so  faint — the  slightest  gale 
Might  whirl  the  leaves  on  high  ; 

And  yet,  though  storms  and  blight  assail, 
And  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 

May  wring  it  from  the  stem — in  vain — 

To-morrow  sees  it  bloom  again ! 
The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears, 
And  waters  with  celestial  tears ; 

For  well  may  maids  of  Helle  deem 
That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower, 
Which  mocks  the  tempest's  withering  hour, 
And  buds  unshelter'd  by  a  bower  ; 
Nor  droops,  though  spring  refuse  her  shower, 

Nor  woos  the  summer  beam : 
To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 

A  bird  unseen — but  not  remote : 
Invisible  his  airy  wings, 
But  soft  as  harp  that  Houn  strings 

His  long  entrancing  note ! 
It  were  the  bulbul ;  but  his  throat, 

Though  mournful,  pours  not  such  a  strain : 
For  they  who  listen  cannot  leave 
The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  grieve 

As  if  they  loved  in  vain  ! 
And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 
T  is  sorrow  so  unmix' d  with  dread, 
They  scarce  can  bear  the  morn  to  break 

That  melancholv  spell, 
And  longer  yet  would  weep  and  wake, 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 
But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high, 
Expires  that  magic  melody. 
And  some  have  been  who  could  believe 
(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 

Yet  harsh  be  they  that  blame) 
That  note  so  piercing  and  profound 
Will  inape  and  syllable  its  sound 

Into  Zuleika's  name.*3 
T  is  from  her  cypress'  summit  heard, 
That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word : 
T  is  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 
That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 
There  late  wag  laid  a  marble  stone ; 
Eve  saw  it  placed — the  morrow  gone ! 
It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 
That  deep-fix'd  pillar  to  the  shore  ; 
For  there,  as  Helle's  legends  tell, 
Next  morn  't  was  found  where  Selim  fell ; 
Lash'd  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 
Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave : 
And  there,  by  night,  reclined,  't  is  said. 
Is  seen  a  ghastly  turban'd  head : 
And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 
T  is  named  the  "  Pirate-phantom's  pillow !" 
Where  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 
Hath  tiourish'd  ;  flourjsheth  this  hour, 
Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale ; 
\f  weening  beauty's  clicek  at  sorrow's  tale ! 


NOTES. 


Note  1.  Page  146,  line  8. 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom 
"Gul,"  the  rose. 

Note  2.  Page  146,  line  17. 
Can  be  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  7 

"  Souls  made  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  sun. 
With  whom  revenge  is  virtue." 

Young'*  Revengt. 

Note  3.  Page  147,  bne  31. 
With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song. 
Mejnoun  and  Leila,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  tn« 
East.     Sadi,  the  moral  poet  of  Persia. 

Note  4.  Page  147,  line  32. 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour. 
Tambour,  Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunrise, 
noon,  and  twilight 

Note  5.  Page  147,  line  108. 

He  a  an  Arab  to  my  sight. 

The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compli- 
ment a  hundred  fold),  even  more  than  they  hate  the 
Christians. 

Note  6.  Page  148,  line  12. 
The  mind,  the  music  breathing  from  her  face. 
This  expression  has  met  with  objections.  I  will  not 
refer  to  "him  who  hath  not  Music  in  his  soul,"  but 
merely  request  the  reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  seconds,, 
the  features  of  the  woman  whom  he  believes  to  be  the 
most  beautiful ;  and  if  he  then  does  not  comprehend 
fully  what  is  feebly  expressed  in  the  above  line,  I  shall 
be  sorry  for  us  both.  For  an  eloquent  passage  in  the 
latest  work  of  the  first  female  writer  of  this,  perhaps 
of  any  age,  on  the  analogy  (and  the  immediate  com- 
parison excited  by  that  analogy),  between  "  painting 
and  music,"  see  vol.  iii.  cap.  10.  DE  L'ALLEMAGKE. 
And  is  not  this  connexion  still  stronger  with  the  original 
than  the  copy  ? — with  the  colouring  of  nature  than  of 
art  ?  After  all,  this  is  ratber  to  be  felt  tnan  described  ; 
still  I  think  there  are  some  who  will  understand  it,  at 
least  they  would  have  done,  had  they  beheld  the  coun- 
tenance whose  speaking  harmony  suggested  the  idea ; 
for  this  passage  is  *iot  drawn  from  imagination,  but 
memory,  that  mirror  which  affliction  dashes  to  the 
earth,  and  looking  down  upon  the  fragments,  only  be- 
holds the  reflection  multiplied ! 

Note  7.  Page  148,  line  34. 

But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman. 

Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osman  Oglou,  is  tne 
principal  landholder  in  Turkey :  he  governs  Magnesia: 
those  who,  by  a  kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on 
condition  of  service,  are  called  Timariots :  they  serve 
as  Spah'is,  according  to  the  extent  of  territory,  and 
bring  a  certain  number  into  the  field,  generally  cavalry. 

Note  8.  Page  148,  line  46. 
And  teach  the  messenger  what  fate. 
When  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the 
single  messenger,  who  is  always  the  first  bearer  of  the 
order  for  his  death,   is  strangled  instead,  und  some- 
times five  or  six,  one  after  the  other,  on  the  same 
errand,  by  command  of  the  refractory  patient ;  if,  on 
the  contrary,  he  is  weak  or  loyal,  he  bows,  kLs»&»  the 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


157 


Sultan's  rerpectable  signuiure,  and  is  bowstrung  with 
groat  complacency.  In  1810,  several  of  these  presents 
were  exhibited  in  the  niche  of  the  Seraglio  gate ; 
uno^a  oihcis,  the  head  of  the  Pacha  of  Bagdat,  a 
orave  voung  man,  cut  off  by  treachery,  after  a  despe- 
tate  resistance. 

Note  9.  Page  148,  line  65. 
Thrice  elapp'd  his  bands,  and  call'd  bin  Bleed. 
Clapping  of  hands  calls  the  servants.     The  Turks 
nate  a  superfluous  expenditure  of  voice,  and  they  have 
no  bells. 

Note  10.  Page  148,  line  66. 
Resign'd  his  gem-adoro'd  chibouque. 
Chibouque,  the  Turkish  pipe,  of  which  the  amber 
mouth-piece,  and  sometimes  the  ball  which  contains  the 
leaf,  is  adorned  with  precious  stones,  if  in  possession 
of  the  wealthier  orders. 

Note  11.  Page  148,  line  68. 
With  Maugrabee  and  Mamaluke. 
Maugrabee,  Moorish  mercenaries. 

Note  12.  Page  148,  line  69. 
His  way  amid  his  Delis  took. 

Deli,  bravos  who  form  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  cavalry, 
and  always  begin  the  action. 

Note  13.  Page  148,  line  81. 

Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt. 

A  twisted  fold  of  felt  is  used  for  scimitar  practice  by 
he  Turks,  and  few  but  Mussulman  arms  can  cut  through 
tt  at  a  single  stroke :  sometimes  a  tough  turban  is  used 
for  the  same  purpose.  The  jerreed  is  a  game  of  blunt 
javelins,  animated  and  graceful. 

Note  14.  Page  148,  line  84. 
Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  wild  and  loud — 
"  Ollahs,"  Alia  il  Allah,  the  "  Leilies,"  as  the  Spanish 
poets  call  them,  the  sound  is  OUah  ;  a  cry  of  which  the 
Turks,  for  a  silent  people,  are  somewhat  profuse,  par- 
ticularly during  the  jerreed,  or  in  the  chase,  but  mostly 
in  battle.     Their  animation  in  the  field,  and  gravity  in 
the  chamber,  with  their  pipes  and  comboloios,  form  an 
amusing  contrast. 

Note  15.  Page  148,  line  103. 
The  Persian  Atar-gul'i  perfume. 
"Atar-gul,"  ottar  of  roses.     The   Persian  is  the 

finest. 

• 

Note  16.  Page  148,  line  105. 
The  pictured  roof  and  marble  floor. 
The  ceiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls,  of  the 
Mussulman  apartments  arc  generally  painted,  in  great 
houses,  with  one  eternal  and  highly  coloured  view  of 
Constantinople,  wherein  the  principal  feature  is  a  noble 
contempt  of  perspective ;  below,  arms,  scimitars,  etc., 
are  in  general  fancifully  and  not  inelegantly  disposed. 

Note  17.  Page  148,  line  121. 
A  message  from  the  Bulbul  bears. 
It  has  been  much  doubted  whether  the  notes  of  this 
"Lover  of  the  rose,"  are  sad  or  merry ;  and  Mr.  Fox's 
remarks  on  the  subject  have  provoked  some  learned 
controversy  is  to  the  opinions  of  the  ancients  on  the 
"ibjecL     I  dare  not  venture  a  conjecture  on  the  point, 
though  a  little  inclined  to  the  "  errare  mallem,"  etc., 
«/°  Mr.  Fox  was  mistaken. 
B  2 


Note  18.  Page  149,  line  34. 
Even  Azrael,  from  his  deadly  quiver. 
"  Azrael" — the  angel  of  death. 

Note  19.  Page  149,  line  67. 
Within  the  caves  of  Ictakar. 

The  treasures  of  the  Preadamite  Sultans.  SeeD'Usa 
BELOT,  article  Istakar. 

Note  20.  Page  149,  line  83. 
Holds  not  a  Musselira's  control. 

Musselim,  a  governor,  the  next  in  rank  after  a  Pacha; 
a  Waywode  is  the  third ;  and  then  come  the  Agas. 

Note  21.  Page  149,  line  84. 
Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo  ? 

Egripo— the  Negropont.  According  to  the  proverb, 
the  Turks  of  Egripo,  the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  tho 
Greeks  of  Athens,  are  the  warst  of  their  respective 
races. 

Note  22.  Page  150,  line  31. 
Ah !  yonder  see  the  Tcbocadar. 

"  Tchocadar" — one  of  the  attendants  who  precuks 
a  man  of  authority. 

Note  23.  Page  150,  line  101. 
Thine  own  "  broad  Hellespont  "  still  dashes 
The  wrangling  about  this  epithet,  "the  broad  Hel- 
lespont "  or  the  "  boundless  Hellespont,"  whether  it 
means  one  or  the  other,  or  what  il  means  at  all,  has 
been  beyond  all  possibility  of  detail.  I  have  even  !._^.u 
it  disputed  on  the  spot ;  and,  not  foreseeing  a  speedy 
conclusion  to  the  controversy,  amused  myself  with 
swimming  across  it  in  the  mean  time,  and  probably 
may  again,  before  the  point  is  settled.  Indeed,  tho 
question  as  to  the  truth  of  "  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  " 
still  continues,  much  of  it  resting  upon  the  talismanic 
word  "am/>of :"  probably  Homer  had  the  same  notion 
of  distance  that  a  coquette  has  of  time,  and  when  he 
talks  of  boundless,  means  half  a  mile ;  as  the  latter,  by 
a  like  figure,  when  she  says  eternal  attachment,  simply 
specifies  three  weeks. 

Note  24.  Page  150,  line  112. 
Which  Ammon'e  son  ran  proudly  round. 
Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and  crowned  the  altar 
with  laurel,  etc.     He  was  afterwards  imitated  by  Cara- 
calla  in  his  race.     It  is  believed  that  the  last  also 
poisoned  a  friend,  named  Festus,  for  the  sake  of  new 
Patroclan  games.     I  have  seen  the  sheep  feeding  on 
the  tombs  of  -rEsietes  and  Antilochus  j  the  first  is  in 
the  centre  of  the  plain. 

Note  25.  Page  151,  line  12. 
O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran. 

When  rubbed,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a  perfume, 
which  is  slight,  but  not  disagreeable. 

Note  26.  Page  151,  line  15. 
Her  mother's  sainted  amulet 

The  belief  in  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  or  incloeod 
in  gold  boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the  Koran,  worn 
round  the  neck,  wrist,  or  arm,  is  still  universal  in  the 
East.  The  Koorsee  (throne)  verse  in  the  second  chap, 
of  the  Koran  describes  the  attributes  of  the  mostHi-;h 
and  is  engraved  in  this  manner,  and  wom  by  me  pioii*, 
as  the  mo*t  esteemed  and  sublime  of  all  seii-'juv*. 


'58 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Page  151,  line  IS. 
And  I  r  her  Comboloio  lies. 

u  Combo  010" — a  Turkish  rosary.  The  MSS.,  par- 
•jcularly  those  of  the  Persians,  are  richly  adorned  and 
illuminated.  The  Greek  females  are  kept  in  utter  igno- 
rance ;  but  many  of  the  Turkish  girls  are  highly  ac- 
complished, though  not  actually  qualified  for  a  Chris- 
tian coterie  ;  perhaps  some  of  our  own  " blues"  might 
tot  be  the  worse  for  bleaching. 

Note  23.  Page  151,  line  96. 
la  him  wa»  some  young  Galkxtgee. 
Galiongee" — or  Galiongi,  a  sailor,  that  is,  a  Turk- 
ii*  sailor ;  the  Greeks  navigate,  the  Turks  work  the 
guns.  Their  dress  is  picturesque  ;  and  I  have  seen  the 
Captain  Pacha  more  than  once  wearing  it  as  a  kind  of 
ineug.  Their  legs,  however,  are  generally  naked.  The 
buskins  described  in  the  text  as  sheathed  behind  with 
silver,  are  those  of  an  Arnaout  robber,  who  was  my 
host  (he  had  quitted  the  profession),  at  his  Pyrgo,  near 
Gastouni  in  the  Morea ;  they  were  plated  in  scales  one 
orer  the  other,  like  the  back  of  an  armadillo. 

Note  29.  Page  152,  line  18. 
So  may  the  Koran  verse  displayed. 
The  characters  on  all  Turkish  scimitars  contain  some- 
times the  name  of  the  place  of  their  manufacture,  but 
more  generally  a  text  from  the  Koran,  in  letters  of  gold. 
Amongst  those  in  my  possession  is  one  with  a  blade  of 
singular  construction ;  it  is  very  broad,  and  the  edge 
notched  into  serpentine  curves  like  the  ripple  of  water, 
or  the  wavering  of  flame.  I  asked  the  Armenian  who 
•old  it,  what  possible  use  such  a  figure  could  add :  he 
•aid,  in  Italian,  that  he  did  not  know ;  but  the  Mussul- 
mans had  an  idea  that  those  of  this  form  gave  a  severer 
wound  ;  and  liked  it  because  it  was  "  piu  feroce."  I 
did  not  much  admire  the  reason,  but  bought  it  for  its 
peculiarity. 

Note  «).  Page  152,  line  33. 
But  like  the  nephew  «f  a  Cain. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  that  every  allusion  to  any  thing 
or  personage  in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as  the  Ark,  or 
Cain,  is  equally  the  privilege  of  Mussulman  and  Jew ; 
indeed  the  former  profess  to  be  much  better  acquainted 
with  the  lives,  true  and  fabulous,  of  the  patriarchs,  than 
is  warranted  by  our  own  Sacred  writ,  and  not  content 
with  Adam,  they  have  a  biography  of  Pre- Adamites. 
Solomon  is  the  monarch  of  all  necromancy,  and  Moses  a 
prophet  inferior  only  to  Christ  and  Mahomet,  Zuleika 
M  the  Persian  name  of  Potiphar's  wife,  and  her  amour 
with  Joseph  constitutes  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  tJieir 
ansuage.  It  is  therefore  no  violation  of  costume  to  put 
.he  names  of  Cain,  or  Noah,  into  the  mouth  of  a  Moslem. 

Note  31.  Page  152,  line  49. 
And  Pagwan's  rebel  hordes  attest. 
Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widin,  who  for  the  last 
»*»ars  of  his  life,  set  the  whole  power  of  the  Porte  at 
nee. 

Note  32.  Page  152,  fine  61. 
They  gave  their  horsetails  to  the  wind. 
H  >rseiau,  jic  standard  of  a  Pacha. 

Note  33.  Page  152,  line  74. 
He  drank  ooe  draught,  nor  needed  more  ! 
,  Pacha  of  Argvro  Castro,  or  Scutari,  I  am  not 


sure  which,  was  actually  taken  off  by  the  A!">anian  Ali, 
in  the  manner  described  in  the  text.  Ali  Pacha,  while 
I  was  in  the  country,  married  the  daughter  of  his  victim, 
some  years  after  the  event  had  taken  place  at  a  bath  in 
Sophia,  or  Adrianople.  The  poison  was  mixed  in  thfl 
cup  of  coffee,  which  is  presented  before  the  sherbet  by 
the  bath-keeper,  after  dressing. 

Note  34.  Page  153,  line  64. 
I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all. 
The  Turkish  notions  of  almost  all  islands  are  confined 
to  the  Archipelago,  the  sea  alluded  to. 

Note  35.  Page  153,  line  87. 
The  last  of  Lambro's  patriots  there. 
Lambro  Canzani,  a  Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts  m 
1789-90  for  the  independence  of  his  country:  aban- 
doned by  the  Russians,  he  became  a  pirate,   and  the 
Archipelago  was  the  scene  of  his  enterprises.  He  is  said 
to  be  still  alive  at  Petersburgh.  He  and  Riga  are  the  two 
most  celebrated  of  the  Greek  revolutionists. 

Note  36.  Page  153,  line  91. 
To  snatch  the  Rayahs  from  their  fate. 
"  Rayahs,"  all  who  pay  the  capitation  tax,  called  th« 
"  Haratch." 

Note  37.  Page  153,  line  95. 
Ay  !  let  me  like  the  ocean-patriarch  roam. 
This  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which  the 
Mussulmans  profess  much  acquaintance. 

Note  3S.  Page  153,  line  96. 
Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home. 
The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Tuiko- 
ninns,  « ill  be  found  well  detailed  in  anv  hook  of  Eastern 
travels.  That  it  possesses  a  charm  peculiar  to  itself  can- 
not be  denied.   A  young  French  renegado  confessed  to 
Chateaubriand,  that  he  never  found  himself  alone,  gal- 
loping in  the  desert,  without  a  sensation  approaching  to 
rapture,  which  was  indescribable. 

Note  39.  Page  153,  line  116. 
Blooming  as  Aden  in  its  earliest  hour. 
"  Jannat  al  Aden,"  the  perpetual  anode,  the  Mussrl- 
man  Paradise. 

Note  40.  Page  155,  line  73. 
And  mouin'd  above  his  turban-stone. 
A  turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  giaves  of  men 
only. 

41.  Page  155,  line  87. 
The  loud  \Vul  wulleh  warn  his  distant  ear. 
The  death-song  of  the  Turkish  women.  The  "silent 
slaves  "  are  the  men  whose  notions  of  decorum  forbid 
complaint  in  public. 

Note  4-2.  Page  155,  line  123. 

"  Where  is  my  child  ?  " — an  echo  answers — "  Where  ?• 
"  I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth  and  cried,  '  t)i« 
friends  of  my  youth,  where  are  they  ? '  and  an  Ecl»o 
answered,  '  where  are  they  ? ' " 

From  on  Arabic  MS. 

The  above  quotation  (from  which  the  idea  in  the  text 
is  taken)  must  be  already  familiar  to  even-  reader — it  is 
given  in  the  first  annotation,  page  67,  of  "the  Pleasures 
of  Memory;"  a  poem  so  well  kniwnasto  rendei  a 
reference  almost  superfluous;  but  to  whose  ragei  iF 
will  be  delighted  to  recur. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Note  43.  Pige  15«,  line  47. 

into  ZrkakA'i  name. 

*  Aid  airy  toncuM  tXu  *yb*Xe  meo'i  name*." 
MJLTON. 

For  a  belief  that  the  sou's  of  L1^  ,4<»d  inhabit  the  form 
rftxnfci,  we  ceed  not  travel  to  the  turt.  Lord  Lyttleton's 
ghr^tsuty;  the  belief  of  the  Ducht*.  of  Kendal,  that 
we»<  rfe  L  flew  into  her  window  in  the  &ipe  of  a  raven 


(see  (Word's  R« 


•),  and  many  other  iucuui 


ces,  bring  this  superstition  nearer  home.  The  most  singu- 
lar was  the  whim  of  a  Worcester  lady,  who,  betievint 
her  daughter  to  exist  in  the  shape  jf  a  singing-bird,  fir 
erally  furnished  her  pew  in  the  Cathedral  with  cages-fii 
of  the  kind ;  and  as  she  was  rich,  and  a  benefactress  iii 
beautifying  the  church,  no  objection  wa*  maue  to  hth 
harmless  folly. — For  this  anecdote,  see  (Word's  Letteta, 


Cfie  Corsair; 

A  TALE. 


•  I  mat  pensieri  in  hn  dormir  i 

TASSO,  Canto  du.au,  Genialemme  Literal*. 


THOIVIAS   MOORE,  ESQ. 


own  that  I  feel  anxious  to  avaif  and  barren  rock  on  which  they  are  kindled. 


MY   DEAR  MOORE, 

I  DEDICATE  to  you  the  last  production  with  which  I 
•hall  trespass  on  public  patience,  and  your  indulgence, 
for  come  years;  and  I 
myself  of  this  latest  and  only  opportunity  of  adorning 
my  pages  with  a  name,  consecrated  by  unshaken  public 
principle,  and  the  most  undoubted  and  various  talents. 
While  Ireland  ranks  you  among  the  firmest  of  her  pa- 
triots :  while  you  stand  alone  the  first  of  her  bards  in  her 
estimation,  and  Britain  repeats  and  ratines  the  decree, 
permit  one,  whose  only  regret,  since  our  first  acquaint- 
ance, has  been  the  years  he  had  lost  before  it  commenced, 
to  add  the  humble  but  sincere  suffrage  of  friendship,  to 
the  voice  of  more  than  one  nation.  It  will  at  least  prove 
to  you,  that  I  hare  neither  forgotten  the  gratification 
derived  from  your  society,  nor  abandoned  the  prospect 
of  its  renewal,  whenever  your  leisure  or  inclination  allows 
you  to  atone  to  your  friends  for  too  long  an  absence.  It 
is  said  among  those  friends,  I  trust  truly,  that  you  are 
engaged  in  the  composition  of  a  poem  whose  scene  will 
be  laid  in  the  East :  none  can  do  those  scenes  so  much 
justice.  The  wrongs  of  your  own  country,  the  magnifi- 
cent and  fiery  spirit  of 
her  daughters,  may  there  be  foun*;  and  Collins,  when 
he  denominated  his  Oriental  his  Irish  Eclogues,  was  not 
aware  how  true,  at  least,  was  a  part  ofhis  parallel.  Your 
imagination  will  create  a  wanner  sun,  and  less  clouded 
sky ;  but  wildness,  tenderness,  and  originality,  are  part 
of  your  national  claim  of  oriental  descent,  to  which  you 
have  already  thus  far  proved  your  title  more  clearly  than 
the  most  zealous  of  your  country's  antiquarians. 

Mayl  add  a  few  words  on  a  subject  on  which  all  men 
are  supposed  to  be  fluent,  and  qpne  agreeable? — SeML 
I  have  written  much,  and  published  more  than  enough 
10  demand  a  longer  silence  than  I  now  meditate ;  but  for 
some  years  to  come  it  is  my  intention  to  tempt  no 
Ln  her  the  award  of  "  gods,  men,  nor  columns."  In 
the  present  composition  I  have  attempted  not  the  most 
difficult,  but,  perhaps,  the  best-adapted  measure  to  our 
anguage,  the  good  old  and  now  neglected  heroic  couplet, 
The  stanza  of  Spenser  is  perhaps  too  slow  and  dignified 
for  narrative ;  thougn  I  confess,  A  is  the  measure  mo* 


after  my  own  heart:  Scott  alone,  of  the  pi 


ration,  has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the  fata) 
facihty  of  the  octo-syllabic  verse;  and  this  is  not  the  least 
victory  ofhis  fertile  and  mighty  genius:  in  blank  verse, 
Milton,  Thomson,  and  our  dramatists,  are  the  beacons 
that  shine  along  the  deep,  but  warn  us  from  the  rough 

The  heroic 

couplet  is  not  the  most  popular  measure  certainly  ;  but 
as  I  did  not  deviate  into  the  other  from  a  wish  to  flatter 
what  is  called  public  opinion,  I  shall  quit  it  without 
further  apology,  and  take  my  chance  once  more  with 
that  versification,  in  which  I  have  hitherto  published 
nothing  but  compositions  whose  former  circulation  isi 
part  of  my  present  and  will  be  of  my  futuK-  regret. 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  m  general,  I 
should  have  been  glad  to  have  rendered  my  personages 
more  perfect  and  amiable,  if  possible,  inasmuch  as  I 
have  been  sometimes  criticised,  and  considered  no  fes» 
responsible  for  their  deeds  and  qualities  than  if  all  had 
been  personal.  Be  it  so— if  I  have  deviated  arto  the 
gloomy  vanity  of  "  drawing  from  self,"  the  pictures  are 
probably  like,  since  they  are  unfavourable ;  and  if  not, 
those  who  know  me  are  undeceived,  and  those  who  do 
not,  I  have  little  interest  in  undeceiving.  I  have  no 
particular  desire  that  any  but  my  acquaintance  should 


but  I  cannot  help  a  little  suprue,  and  perhaps 
ment,  at  some  odd  critical  exceptions  in  the  presenr 
instance,  when  I  see  several  bards  (far  more  deserving, 
I  allow),  in  very  reputable  plight,  and  quite  exempted 
from  aD  participation  in  the  faults  of  those  heroes,  who, 
nevertheless,  might  be  found  with  little  more  morality 
than  "The  Giaour,"  and  perhaps — but  no— 4  most  admit 
Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very  repulsive  personage;  and  as 
to  his  identity,  those  who  like  it  must  give  him  wbuevnr 
«  alias"  they  please. 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  white  to  remove  the  mv 
presskm,  it  might  be  of  some  service  to  me,  that  the  mast 
who  is  alike  the  delight  of  his  readers  and  his  friend*, 
the  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the  idol  ofhis  own,  pernito 
me  here  and  elsewhere  to  subscribe  myself 

most  truly,  and  affectionately, 
iis  obedient  servant, 

BYKO.N 
January  2,  1814. 


160 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  I. 


— — - — nessun  maggior  doloro, 
Che  r  jordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria 

DANTE. 


I. 

'  O'ER  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark-blue  sea, 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 
Survey  our  empire  and  behold  our  home ! 

These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway — 

Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 

Durs  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 

From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave ! 

Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave ; 

Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease ! 

Whom  slumber  soothes  not — pleasure  cannot  please — 

Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 

And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 

The  exulting  sense — the  pulse's  maddening  play, 

That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 

That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 

And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 

That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal, 

And  where  the  feebler  faint — can  only  feel — 

Feel — to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core, 

Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 

No  dread  of  death — if  with  us  die  our  foes — 

Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose : 

Come  when  it  will — we  snatch  the  life  of  life  ; 

When  lost — what  recks  it — by  disease  or  strife  ? 

Let  him  who  crawls  enamour'd  of  decay, 

Cling  to  his  couch,  and  sicken  years  away ; 

Heave  his  thick  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied  head ; 

Ours — the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 

While  gasp  by  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul, 

Ours  with  one  pang — one  bound— escapes  control. 

His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave, 

And  they  who  loathed  his  life  may  gild  his  grave : 

Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed, 

When  ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 

For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 

In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory  ; 

And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day, 

When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey, 

And  cry   remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow, 

How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  now .'" 

II. 

Su^h  were  the  notes  that  from  the  pirate's  isle, 

Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  ijie  while ; 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  thrill'd  the  rocks  along, 

And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song  ! 

In  scatter'd  groups  upon  the  golden  sand, 

They  game — carouse — converse— or  whet  the  brand ; 

Select  the  arms — to  each  his  blade  assign, 

And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine : 

Repair  tue  boat,  replace  the  helm  or  oar, 

While  otheis  straggling  muse  along  the  shore  ; 

ti'or  tue  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set, 

I  ir  Hpread  beneath  the  sun  the  dripping  net ; 


Gaze  where  some  distant  ?--i!  a  «peck  supplies, 

With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  enterprise  ; 

Tell  o'er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil, 

And  marvel  where  they  next  shall  seize  a  spcil : 

No  matter  where — their  chief's  allotment  this, 

Theirs  tc  believe  no  prey  nor  plan  amiss. 

But  who  that  CHIEF? — His  name  on  every  shor* 

Is  famed  and  fear'd — they  ask  and  know  no  more. 

With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  command  : 

Few  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  and  hand. 

Ne'er  seasons  he  with  mirth  their  jovial  mess, 

But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 

Ne'er  for  his  lip  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 

That  goblet  passes  him  untasted  still — 

And  for  his  fare — the  rudest  of  his  crew 

Would  that,  in  turn,  have  pass'd  untasted  too ; 

Earth's  coarsest  bread,  the  garden's  homeliest  roo'» 

And  scarce  the  summer  luxury  of  fruits, 

His  short  repast  in  humbleness  supply 

With  all  a  hermit's  board  would  scarce  deny. 

But  while  he  shuns  the  grosser  joys  of  sense, 

His  mind  seems  nourish'd  by  that  abstinence. 

"  Steer  to  that  shore!" — they  sail.  "Do  this! " — 't  is  d"»wr 

"Now  form  and  follow  me !" — the  spoil  is  won. 

Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still, 

And  all  obey  and  few  inquire  his  will ; 

To  such  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 

Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 

III. 

"A  sail! — a  sail !" — a  promised  prize  to  hope 

Her  nation — flag — how  speaks  the  telescope  ? 

No  prize,  alas ! — but  yet  a  welcome  sail : 

The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 

Yes — she  is  ours — a  home-returning  bark — 

Blow  fair,  thou  breeze ! — she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 

Already  doubled  is  the  cape— our  bay 

Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  spurns  the  spray. 

How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes ! 

Her  white  wings  flying — never  from  her  foes — 

She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life, 

And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 

Who  would  not  brave  the  battle- fire — the  wreck— 

To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck  ? 

IV. 

Hoarse  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings ; 

The  sails  are  furl'd ;  and  anchoring  round  she  swing*: 

And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 

Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stem. 

'T  is  mann'd — the  oars  keep  concert  to  the  strand, 

Till  grates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 

Hail  to  the  welcome  shout ! — the  friendly  speech ! 

When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach ; 

The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply, 

And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity ! 

V. 

The  tidings  spread,  and  gathering  grows  the  crowd : 
The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  laughter  loud, 
And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers'  names  in  each  deal  v»*a 
"  Oh !  are  they  safe  ?  we  ask  not  of  success — 
But  shall  we  see  them9  will  their  accents  bless? 
From  where  the  batUe  roars — the  billows  chafe—- 
They doubtless  boldly  died — but  w.'  o  are  tale 't 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Ifi 


Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surprise, 
And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes!" — 

VI. 

"  Where  is  our  chief?  for  him  we  bear  re[>ort — 

Acd  doubt  that  joy — which  hails  our  coming — short ; 

Yet  thus  sincere — 't  is  cheering,  though  so  brief; 

But,  Juan !  instant  guide  us  to  our  chief: 

Out  greeting  paid,  we  '11  feast  on  our  return, 

And  all  shall  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  learn." 

Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way, 

To  where  his  watch-tower  beetles  o'er  the  bay, 

By  bushy  brake,  and  wild-flowers  blossoming, 

And  freshness  breathing  from  each  silver  spring, 

Whose  scatter'd  streams  from  granite  basins  burst, 

Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst ; 

From  crag  to  cliff  they  mount — Near  yonder  cave, 

What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave  ? 

In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand, 

Not  oft  a  resting-staff  to  that  red  hand. 

"'Tis  he — 'tis  Conrad — here — as  wont — alone; 

On — Juan !  on — and  make  our  purpose  known. 

The  bark  he  views — and  tell  him  we  would  greet 

His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 

We  dare  not  yet  approach — thou  know'st  his  mood, 

When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude." 

VII. 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent — 
He  spake  not — but  a  sign  express'd  assent. 
These  Juan  calls — they  come — to  their  salute 
He  bends  him  slightly,  but  his  lips  are  mute. 
"These  letters,  Chief,  are  from  the  Greek — the  spy, 
Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh : 
Whate'er  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report, 
M  irh  that" — "Peace,  peace !" — He  cuts  their  pratin; 

short. 

Wondering  they  turn,  abash'd,  while  each  to  each 
Conjectur^  whispers  in  his  muttering  speech : 
They  watch  his  glance  with  many  a  stealing  look, 
To  gather  how  that  eye  the  tidings  took ; 
But,  this  as  if  he  guess'd,  with  head  aside, 
Perchance  from  some  emotion,  doubt,  or  pride, 
He  read  the  scroll — "My  tablets,  Juan,  hark — 
Where  is  Gonsalvo  7" 

"In  the  anchor'd  bark." 
"  There  let  him  stay — to  him  this  order  bear. 
Back  to  your  duty — for  my  course  prepare : 
Myself  this  enterprise  to-night  will  share." 
"To-night,  Lord  Conrad?" 

"Ay!  at  set  of  sun: 

The  breeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
My  corslet— cloak — one  hour — and  we  are  gone. 
Sling  on  thy  bugle — see  that,  free  from  rust, 
My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust ; 
Be  the  edge  sharpen'd  of  my  boarding-brand, 
And  give  its  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 
This  let  the  armourer  with  speed  dispose ; 
Last  time,  it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes : 
Mark  that  the  signal-gun  be  duly  fired 
To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay 's  expired." 

vm. 

They  make  obeisance,  and  retire  in  haste, 
Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste : 
Vet  they  repine  not — so  that  Conrad  guides  ; 
A"d  w  to  dare  question  aught  that  he  decides  ? 
26 


That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery, 
Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sioh  • 
Whose  name  appals  the  fiercest  of  his  crew, 
And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sallower  hue  • 
Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding  art 
That  dazzles,  leads,  yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart. 
What  is  that  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  train 
Confess  and  envy,  yet  oppose  in  vain? 
What  should  it  be,  that  thus  their  faith  can  bind  * 
The  power  of  Thought — the  magic  of  the  Mind  ! 
Link'd  with  success,  assumed  and  kept  with  skill, 
That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will ; 
Wields  with  their  hands,  but,  still  to  these  unknown 
Makes  even  their  mightiest  deeds  appear  his  owti. 
Such  hath  it  been — shall  be — beneath  the  sun 
The  many  still  must  labour  for  the  one  ! 
'T  is  Nature's  doom — but  let  the  wretch  who  toils 
Accuse  not,  hate  not  him  who  wears  the  spoils. 
Oh !  if  he  knew  the  weight  of  splendid  chains, 
How  light  the  balance  of  his  humbler  pains  ! 

IX. 

Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race, 

Demons  in  act,  but  gods  at  least  in  face, 

In  Conrad's  form  seems  little  to  admire, 

Though  his  dark  eyebrow  shades  a  glance  of  fire 

Robust,  but  not  Herculean — to  the  sight 

No  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height ; 

Yet,  in  the  whole,  who  paused  to  look  again, 

Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men  ; 

They  gaze  and  marvel  how — and  still  confess 

That  thus  it  is,  but  why  they  cannot  guess. 

Sun-burnt  his  cheek,  his  forehead  high  and  pale 

The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil ; 

And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals 

The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  conceals. 

Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  general  mien 

Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen : 

His  features'  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue, 

At  limes  attracted,  yet  perplex'd  the  view, 

As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind, 

Work'd  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined 

Such  might  it  be — that  none  could  truly  tell — 

Too  close  inquiry  his  stern  glance  would  quell. 

There  breathe  but  few  whose  aspect  might  defy 

The  full  encounter  of  his  searching  eye  ; 

He  had  the  skill,  when  Cunning's  gaze  would  seek 

To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek, 

At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  espy, 

And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny, 

Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 

Some  secret  thought  than  drag  that  chiePs  to-day. 

There  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  sneer, 

That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear , 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 

3ope  withering  fled — and  Mercy  sigh'd  farewell ' 

X. 

Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought, 
iVithin — within — 't  was  there  the  spirit  wrought 
Love  shows  all  changes — Hate,  ambition,  guile 
Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile ; 
The  lip's  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 
Along  the  govern'd  aspect,  sf>eak  alone 
3f  deeper  passions ;  and  to  judge  their  mien. 
ie,  who  would  see,  must  b<.  liinis.nl  onsee.» 


16? 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Tliei — Vith  the  hurried  tread,  the  upward  eye, 
The  clcrcli-.il  hand,  the  pause  of  agony, 
Thai  listens.,  starting,  lest  the  step  too  near 
Approach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear : 
Then — with  each  feature  working  from  the  heart, 
With  feelinjjs  loosed  to  strengthen — not  depart: 
That  rise — convulse — contend — that  freeze,  or  glow, 
Mush  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  brow ; 
Then — stranger !  if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 
Behold  his  soul — the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot ! 
Mark — how  that  lone  and  blighted  bosom  sears 
The  scathing  thought  of  execrated  years ! 
Behold — but  who  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  see, 
Man  as  himself — the  secret  spirit  free  ? 

XI. 

Yet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  nature  sent 

To  lead  the  guilty — guilt's  worst  instrument ; — 

His  soul  was  changed,  before  his  deeds  had  driven 

Him  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  heaven. 

Warp'd  by  the  world  in  Disappointment's  school, 

Jn  words  too  wise,  in  conduct  there  a  fool ; 

Too  firm  to  yield,  and  far  too  proud  to  stoop, 

Doom'd  by  his  very  virtues  for  a  dupe, 

He  cursed  those  virtues  as  the  cause  of  ill, 

And  not  the  traitors  who  betray'd  him  still ; 

Nor  deem'd  that  gifts  bestow'd  on  better  men 

Had  left  him  joy,  and  means  to  give  again. 

Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere  youth  had  lost  her  force, 

He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse, 

And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call, 

To  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 

He  knew  himself  a  villain — but  he  deem'd 

The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  he  seem'd; 

And  scorn'd  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 

Tho^e  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plainly  did. 

He  knew  himself  detested,  but  he  knew 

The  hearts  that  loathed  him  crouch'd  and  dreaded  too. 

Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 

From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt : 

His  name  could  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprise ; 

But  they  that  fear'd  him  dared  not  to  despise : 

Man  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 

The  slumbering  venom  of  the  folded  snake : 

The  first  may  turn — but  not  avenge  the  blow ; 

The  last  expires — but  leaves  no  living  foe ; 

Fast  to  the  doom'd  offender's  form  it  clings, 

And  he  may  crush — not  conquer — still  it  stings ! 

XII. 

None  are  all  evil — quickening  round  his  heart, 

One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart ; 

Ofl  could  hi  sneer  at  others  as  beguiled 

By  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child  ; 

Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove, 

And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  love ! 

Yes,  it  was  love — unchangeable — unchanged, 

Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged  ; 

Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye, 

He  shunn'd,  nor  soueht.  but  coldly  pass'd  them  by ; 

Thougn  n.anv  a  beauty  croop'd  in  prison'd  bower 

None  ever  soothed  his  most  unguarded  hour. 

Yes — it  was  love — if  thoughts  of  tenderness, 

IViod  in  temptation,  strengthen'd  by  distress, 

Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime, 

And  yet — Oh  more  than  all ! — untired  by  time ; 


Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baffled  wile 

Could  render  sullen  were  she  near  to  sirule. 

Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 

On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent ; 

Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  pait, 

Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart ; 

Which  nought  removed,  nor  menaced  to  remoi  ; — 

If  there  be  love  in  mortals — this  was  love  ! 

He  was  a  villain — ay — reproaches  shower 

On  him — but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power, 

Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone, 

Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  on«  i 

XIII. 

He  paused  a  moment — I  ill  his  hastening  men 

Pass'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 

"  Strange  tidings ! — many  a  peril  have  I  past, 

Nor  know  I  why  this  next  appears  the  last ! 

Yet  so  my  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear, 

Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  falter  here. 

'T  is  rash  to  meet,  but  surer  death  to  wait 

Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate  ; 

And,  if  my  plan  but  hold,  and  fortune  smile, 

We  '11  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral-p'le. 

Ay — let  them  slumber — peaceful  be  the'r  dreams  ! 

Morn  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant  beam:* 

As  kindle  high  to-night  (but  blow,  thou  breeze!) 

To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas. 

Now  to  Medora — Oh !  my  sinking  heart, 

Long  may  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art ! 

Yet  was  I  brave — mean  boast  where  all  are  brave ! 

Even  insects  sting  for  auuh'  they  seek  to  save. 

This  common  courage  which  with  brutes  we  sht  c, 

That  owes  its  deadliest  efforts  to  despair, 

Small  merit  claims — but  't  was  my  nobler  hop* 

To  teach  my  fe«  with  numbers  still  to  cope ; 

Long  have  I  led  them — not  to  vainly  bleed ; 

^o  medium  now — we  perish  or  succeed ! 

So  let  it  be — it  irks  not  me  to  die  ; 

But  thus  to  urge  them  whence  they  cannot  fly. 

My  lot  hath  long  had  little  of  my  care, 

But  chafes  my  pride  thus  baffled  in  the  snare  ; 

Is  this  my  skill  ?  my  craft  ?  to  set  at  last 

Hope,  power,  and  life  upon  a  single  cast  ? 

3h,  fate  ! — accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate — 

She  may  redeem  thee  still — nor  yet  too  late." 

XIV. 

Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he,  till 
Be  reach'd  the  summit  of  his  tower-crown'd  hil 
There  at  the  portal  paused — for  wild  and  soft 
He  heard  those  accents  never  heard  too  oft ; 
Through  the  high  lattice  far  yet  sweet  they  runji 
And  these  the  notes  his  bird  of  beauty  sung : 


Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells, 
Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore. 
Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  responsive  swells 
Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 

2. 
"  There,  in  its  centre,  a  sepulchral  lamp 

Burns  the  slow  flame,  eternal — but  unseen ; 
Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp 

Though  vain  its  ray  as  '   had  sever  oeen. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


*  Remembei  i.,e — Oh !  pass  not  thou  my  grave 
Without  ono  the.  'ght  whose  relics  there  recline : 

The  only  pang  m\  bosom  dare  not  brave 
Must  be  to  find  corgotfulness  in  thine. 

4. 

"  My  fondest — faintest — latest — accents  hear : 
Grief  for  the  dead  not  virtue  can  reprove ; 

Then  give  me  all  I  ever  asked — a  tear, 

Thj  first — last — sole  reward  of  so  much  love!" 

He  pass'd  the  portal — cross'd  the  corridore, 
And  reach'd  the  chamber  as  the  strain  gave  o'er: 
'  My  own  Medora !  sure  thy  song  is  sad — " 

'In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  u  glad? 
Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay, 
Still  must  my  song  my  thoughts,  my  soul  betray : 
Still  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit, 
My  heart  unhush'd — although  my  lips  were  mute ! 
Oh !   many  a  night  on  this  lone  couch  reclined, 
My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  wing'd  the  wind, 
And  deem'd  the  breath  that  faintly  fann'd  thy  sail 
The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale; 
Though  soft,  it  seem'd  the  low  prophetic  dirge, 
That  mourn'd  thee  floating  on  the  savage  surge : 
Still  would  I  rise  to  rouse  the  beacon-fire, 
Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blaze  expire ; 
And  many  a  restless  hour  outwatch'd  each  star, 
And  morning  came — and  still  thou  wert  afar. 
Oh !   how  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew, 
And  day  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view, 
And  still  I  gazed  and  gazed — and  not  a  prow 
Was  granted  to  my  tears — my  truth — my  vow ! 
At  length — 't  was  noon — I  hail'd  and  blest  the  mast 
That  met  my  sight — it  near'd — Alas !  it  past ! 
Another  came — Oh  God  !  't  was  thine  at  last ! 
Would  that  those  days  were  over !  wilt  thou  ne'er, 
Mv  Conrad  !  learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 
Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth  ;  and  many  a  home 
As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam  ; 
Thou  know'st  it  is  not  peril  that  I  fear, 
I  only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here : 
Then  not  for  mine,  but  that  far  dearer  life, 
Which  flies  from  love  and  languishes  for  strife — 
How  strange  that  heart,  to  me  so  tender  still, 
Should  war  with  nature  and  its  better  will!" 

"Yes,  strange  indeed,  that  heart  hath  long  been  changed; 

Worm-like  't  was  trampled — adder-like  avenged, 

Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love, 

And  scarce  a  glimpse  of  mercy  from  above. 

Yet  the  same  feeling  which  thou  dost  condemn, 

My  very  love  to  thee  is  hate  to  them, 

So  closely  mingling  here,  that,  disentwined, 

I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  love  mankind. 

Yet  dread  not  this — the  proof  of  all  the  past 

Assures  the  future  that  my  love  will  last ; 

But — Oh,  Medora !  nerve  thy  gentler  heart, 

This  hour  again — but  not  for  long — we  part." 

"This  hour  we  part! — my  heart  foreboded  this: 
Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss. 
This  hour — i'.  cannot  be — this  hour  away ! 
1  on  earn  nain  hardly  anchored  in  the  bay : 


Her  consort  still  is  absent,  and  her  crew 
Have  need  of  rest  before  they  toil  anew  ; 
I  My  love  !  thou  mock'st  my  weakness ;  and  wouldst  stw 
'  My  breast  before  the  time  when  it  must  feel  • 
But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distress, 
Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness. 
Be  silent,  Conrad ! — dearest !  come  and  share 
The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare ; 
Light  toil !   to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare ! 
See,  I  have  pluck'd  the  fruit  that  promised  best, 
And  where  not  sure,  perplex'd,  but  pleas'd,  I  guessK 
At  such  as  seem'd  the  fairest :  thrice  the  hill 
My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill ; 
Yes !   thy  sherbet  to-night  will  sweetly  flow, 
See  how  it  sparkles  in  its  vase  of  snow ! 
The  grape's  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers  ; 
Thou  more  than  Moslem  when  the  cup  appears ! 
Think  not  I  mean  to  chide — for  I  rejoice 
What  others  deem  a  penance  is  thy  choice. 
But  come,  the  board  is  spread  ;  our  silver  lamp 
Is  trimm'd,  and  heeds  not  the  Sirocco's  damp  : 
Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along, 
And  join  with  me  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song ; 
Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 
Shall  soothe  or  lull— or,  should  it  vex  thine  ear, 
We  '11  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told, 
Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old.1 
Why — thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vort 
To  that  lost  damsel,  shouldst  thou  leave  me  now ; 
Or  even  that  traitor  chief — I  've  seen  thee  smile, 
When  the  clear  sky  show'd  Ariadne's  Isle, 
Which  I  have  pointed  from  these  cliffs  the  while : 
And  thus,  half  sportive,  half  in  fear,  I  said, 
Lest  time  shpuld  raise  that  doubt  to  more  than  dreaa 
Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  quit  me  for  the  main  • 
And  he  deceived  me — for — he  came  again !" 

"  Again — again — and  oft  again — my  love ! 

If  there  be  life  below,  and  hope  above, 

He  will  return — but  now,  the  moments  bring 

The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing : 

The  why — the  where — what  boots  it  now  to  tell  ? 

Since  all  must  end  in  that  wild  word — farewell ! 

Yet  would  I  fain-i— did  time  allow— disclose — 

Fear  not — these  are  no  formidable  foes  ; 

And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted  guard, 

For  sudden  siege  and  long  defence  prepared : 

Nor  be  thou  lonely — though  thy  lord 's  away, 

Our  matrons  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee  stay ; 

And  this  thy  comfort — that,  when  next  we  meet, 

Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet : 

List ! — 'tis  the  bugle — Juan  shrilly  blew — 

One  kiss — one  more — another — Oh !  Adieu  !" 

She  rose — she  sprung — she  clung  to  his  embrace. 
Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 
He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye, 
Which  downcast  droop'd  in  tearless  agony. 
Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating  o'er  his  arms, 
In  all  the  wildness  of  dishevell'd  charms  ; 
Scarce  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  awelt 
So  full — that  feehng  seem'd  almost  unfelt ' 
Hark — peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun : 
It  told  't  was  sunset — and  he  cursed  that  sun. 
Again — again — that  form  he  madly  press'd : 
Which  mutely  clasp'd,  imploringly  caress'd  ' 


164 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Ana.  tottering  to  the  couch,  his  bride  he  bore, 
One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more  ; 
Felt — that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 
Kiss'd  her  cold  forehead — turn'd — is  Conrad  gone? 

XV. 

"And  is  he  gone?"— on  sudden  solitude 

How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude ! 

"  'T  was  but  an  instant  past — and  here  he  stood  ! 

And  now  " — without  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd, 

And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd ; 

Big — bright — and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell ; 

But  still  her  lips  refused  to  send — "farewell!" 

For  in  that  word — that  fatal  word — howe'er 

We  promise — hope — believe — there  breathes  despair, 

O'er  every  feature  of  that  still  pale  face, 

Had  sorrow  fix'd  what  time  can  ne'er  erase ; 

The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 

Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy, 

Till — Oh,  how  far ! — it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him, 

And  then  it  flow'd — and  phrensied  seem'd  to  swim 

Through  these  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes,  dew'd 

With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renew'd. 

"He  's  gone !" — against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 

Convulsed  and  quick — then  gently  raised  to  heaven ; 

She  look'd  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main ; 

The  white  sail  set — she  dared  not  look  again ; 

But  turn'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate— 

*'  It  is  no  dream — and  I  am  desolate !" 

XVI. 

From  crag  to  crag  descending — swiftly  sped 
Stern  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turn'd  his  head ; 
But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  his  way 
Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey, 
His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep, 
That  hail'd  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep : 
And  she — the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar, 
On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 
There  he  might  rest,  but  on  destruction's  brink  : 
Yet  once  almost  he  stopp'd — and  nearly  gave 
His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave  ; 
But  no— it  must  not  be — a  worthy  chief 
May  melt,  but  not  betray  to  woman's  grief. 
He  sees  his  bark,  he  notes  how  fair  the  wind, 
And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind : 
Again  he  hurries  on — and  as  he  hears 
The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears, 
The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore, 
The  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar ; 
As  marks  his  eye  the  sea-boy  on  the  mast 
The  anchor's  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast, 
The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 
That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge  ; 
And,  more  than  all,  his  blood-red  flag  aloft, 
He  marvell'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 
Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast, 
He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possest ; 
He  bounds — he  flics — until  his  footsteps  reach 
The  verge  where  ends  the  cliff,  begins  the  beach, 
Theio  check«  his  speed  ;  but  pauses  less  to  breathe 
The  brertZ"  leshness  of  the  deep  beneath, 
Than  there  nis  wonted  statelier  step  renew ; 
Noi  rush,  d-isturli'd  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view : 


'or  well  had  Conrad  learn'd  to  curb  .he  crowd, 
Jy  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud ; 
lis  was  the  lofty  port,  the  distant  mien, 
That  seems  to  shun  the  sight — and  awes  if  seen 
[fie  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye, 
That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy  ; 

All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent : 
Jut  where  he  wish'd  to  win,  so  well  unbent, 
That  kindness  cancell'd  fear  in  those  who  heard, 

And  others'  gifts  show'd  mean  beside  his  word, 
Vhen  echoed  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own 
lis  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone  : 
But  such  was  foreign  to  his  wonted  mood, 
cared  not  what  he  soften'd,  but  subdued ; 

The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 
3im  value  less  who  loved — than  what  obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard  ; 
Before  him  Juan  stands — "Are  all  prepared?" 
"  They  are — nay  more — embark'd :  the  latest  boat 

Waits  but  my  chief " 

"  My  sworl  and  my  capote." 
So  firmly  girded  on,  and  lightly  slung, 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  shoulders  flung. 

Call  Pedro  here !" — He  comes — and  Conrad  beiu! 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deign'd  his  friends  ; 
'  Receive  these  tablets,  and  peruse  with  care, 
Words  of  high  trust  and  truth  are  graven  there  ; 
Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo's  bark 
Arrives,  let  him  alike  these  orders  mark : 
[n  three  days  (serve  the  breeze)  the  sun  shall  shine 
On  our  return — till  then  all  peace  be  thine !" 
This  said,  his  brother  Pirate's  hand  he  wrung, 
Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 
Flash'd  the  dipt  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke, 
Around  the  waves,  phosphoric  2  brightness  broke  ; 
They  gain  the  vessel — on  the  deck  he  stands ; 
Shrieks  the  shrill  whistle — ply  the  busy  hands- 
He  marks  how  well  the  ship  her  helm  obeys, 
How  gallant  all  her  crew — and  deigns  to  praise. 
His  eyes  of  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn — 
Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn  ? 
Alas !  those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower, 
And  live  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  hour ; 
She — his  Medora — did  she  mark  the  prow ! 
Ah !  never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now ! 
But  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  dawn  of  day— 
Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away; 
Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  bends, 
And  there  unfolds  his  plan — his  means — and  en*U  ; 
Before  them  burns  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  cha_^. 
And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art ; 
They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  debate  ; 
To  anxious  eyes  what  hour  is  ever  late  ? 
Meantime,  the  steady  breeze  serenely  blew, 
And  fast  and  falcon-like  the  vessel  flew  ; 
Pass'd  the  high  headlands  of  each  clustering  isUi, 
To  gain  their  port — long — long  ere  morning  smilt 
And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow  fiay 
Discovers  where  the  Pacha's  galleys  lay. 
Count  they  each  sail — and  mark  how  there  <upm 
The  lights  in  vain  o'er  heedless  Moslem  shiim. 
Secure,  unnoted,  Conrad's  prow  passM  by 
And  anchor' d  where  his  ambush  mcatu  to  i.e  ; 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Screen'd  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 
That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 
Then  rose  his  band  to  duty — not  from  sleep— 
Equipp'd  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep  ; 
While  lean'd  their  leader  o'er  the  fretting  flood, 
And  calrruy  talk'd — and  yet  he  talk'd  of  blood  ! 


CANTO  II. 


Conosceste  i  dubiosi  desiri  ? 

DANTE. 


I. 

IN  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light, 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright, 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a  feast  to-night : 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fetter'd  Rovers  home ; 
This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword, 
And  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word, 
His  summon'<l  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 
And  great  the  gathering  crews,  and  loud  the  boast ; 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize, 
Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise  ; 
'T  is  but  to  sail — no  doubt  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  see  the  Pirates  bound — their  haven  won  ! 
Meantime  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will, 
Nor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill ; 
Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek 
To  flesh  their  glowing  valour  on  the  Greek ; 
How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban'd  brave—- 
To bare  the  sabre's  edge  hefore  a  slave ! 
Infest  his  dwelling — but  forbear  to  slay — 
Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-day, 
And  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  may ! 
Unless  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow, 
To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 
Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguile, 
And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head,  must  smile  ; 
For  Moslem  mouths  produce  their  choicest  cheer, 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 

n. 

High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turban'd  Seyd ; 
Around — the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 
Removed  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pilaff— 
Forbidden  draughts,  't  is  said,  he  dared  to  quaff, 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice,3 
The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslem's  use ; 
The  long  Chibouque's4  dissolving  cloud  supply, 
While  dance  the  Almas s  to  wild  minstrelsy. 
The  rising  morn  will  view  the  chiefs  embark  ; 
But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  dark  : 
And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 
On  silken  couch,  than  o'er  the  nigged  deep  ; 
Feast  there  who  can — nor  combat  till  they  must, 
And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust ; 
And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  in  his  host 
Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's  boast. 

HI. 

With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gafo, 
Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait, 
Bows  his  bent  head — his  hand  salutes  the  floor, 
Lre  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore : 
S 


"A  captive  Dervise,  from  the  pirate's  nest 
Escaped  is  here — himself  would  tcl!  the  rest." 
Be  took  the  sign  from  Seyd's  assenting  eye, 
And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh. 
His  arms  were  folded  on  his  dark-green  vest, 
His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  deprest ; 
Yet  worn  he  seem'd  of  hardship  more  than  years, 
And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from  fears. 
Vow'd  to  his  God — his  sable  locks  he  wore, 
And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er : 
Around  his  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown, 
And  wrapt  a  breast  bcstow'd  on  heaven  alone  ; 
Submissive,  yet  with  self-possession  mann'd, 
He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  that  scann'd  ; 
And  question  of  his  coming  fain  would  seek, 
Before  the  Pacha's  will  allow'd  to  speak. 

IV. 

"  Whence  com'st  thou,  Dervise  ?" 

"  From  the  outlaw's  den 
A  fugitive—" 

"  Thy  capture  where  and  when  ?" 
"  From  Scalanova's  port  to  Scio's  isle, 
The  Saick  was  bound  ;  but  Alia  did  not  smile 
Upon  our  course — the  Moslem  merchant's  gains 
The  Rovers  won  :  our  limbs  have  worn  their  chains. 
[  had  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast, 
Beyond  the  wandering  freedom  which  I  lost ; 
At  length  a  fisher's  humble  boat  by  night 
Afforded  hope,  and  offer'd  chance  of  flight: 
[  seized  the  hour,  and  find  my  safety  here — 
With  thee — most  mighty  Pacha !  who  can  fear  ?" 

"  How  speed  the  outlaws  ?  stand  they  well  prepared, 
Their  plunder'd  wealth,  and  robber's  rock,  to  guard? 
Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  doom'd 
To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion  nest  consumed  ?" 

"Pacha!  the  fetter'd  captive's  mourning  eye 

That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  play  the  spy ; 

[  only  heard  the  reckless  waters  roar, 

Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  me  from  the  shore  j 

I  only  mark'd  the  glorious  sun  and  sky, 

Too  bright — too  blue — for  my  captivity ; 

And  felt — that  all  which  Freedom's  bosom  cheers, 

Must  break  my  chain  before  it  dried  my  tears. 

This  may'st  thou  judge,  at  least,  from  my  escape, 

They  little  deem  of  aught  in  peril'?  shape  ; 

Else  vainly  had  I  pray'd  or  sought  the  chancfi 

That  leads  me  here — if  eyed  with  vigilance : 

The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly, 

May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh  : 

Pacha! — my  limbs  are  faint — and  nature  craves 

Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  w-^ves  ; 

Permit  my  absence — peace  be  with  thee  !  Peac«s 

With  all  around! — now  grant  repose — release." 

"  Stay,  Dervise  !  I  hav^  more  to  question — stay, 
I  do  command  thee — sit — dost  hear  ?— obey ! 
More  I  must  ask,  and  food  the  slaves  shall  bring , 
Thou  shall  not  pine  where  all  an;  banqueting . 
The  supper  done — prepare  thee  to  repiy, 
Clearly  and  full — I  love  not  mystery." 

'T  were  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pious  inau. 
Wholook'dnot  lovingly  on  that  Divan; 


.66 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Nor  show'd  high  relish  for  the  banquet  prest, 
And  less  respect  for  every  fe.low-guesL 
'T  was  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  past 
Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquillized  as  fast: 
He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  forsook : 
The  feast  was  usher'd  in — but  sumptuous  fare 
He  shunn'd,  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 
For  one  so  long  condemn'd  to  toil  and  fast, 
Methinks  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast. 
"  What  ails  thee,  Dervise  ?  eat— dost  thou  suppose 
This  feast  a  Christian's?  or  my  friends  thy  foes  ? 
Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt  ?  that  sacred  pledge 
Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge, 
Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite, 
And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight !" 

"  Salt  seasons  dainties — and  my  food  is  still 
The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rill ; 
And  my  stern  vow  and  order's  c  laws  oppose 
To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes ; 
It  may  seem  strange — if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 
That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head ; 
But  for  thy  sway — nay  more — thy  Sultan's  throne, 
I  taste  nor  bread,  nor  banquet — save  alone  ; 
Infringed  our  order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 
To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage." 

"  Well — as  thou  wilt — ascetic  as  thou  art — 

One  question  answer  ;  then  in  peace  depart. 

How  many  ? — Ha !  it  cannot  sure  be  day ! 

What  star — what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay  ? 

It  shines  a  lake  of  fire  ! — away — away! 

Ho!  treachery!  my  guards  !  my  scimitar. 

The  galleys  feed  the  flames — and  I  afar ! 

Accursed  Dervise  ! — these  thy  tidings — thou 

Some  villain  spy — seize — cleave  him — slay  him  now  !' 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light, 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall'd  the  sight : 
Up  rose  that  Dervise — not  in  saintly  garb, 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  barb, 
Dash'd  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away — 
Shone  his  mail'd  breast,  and  flash'd  his  sabre's  ray  ! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume, 
More,  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom, 
Glared  on  the  Moslems'  eyes  some  Afrit  sprite, 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight. 
The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below ; 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell — 
For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell, 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell ! 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves ; 
Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry, 
They  seize  that  Dervise !  seize  on  Zatanai !  * 
He  saw  their  terror — check'd  the  first  despair 
That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 
Smr<-  far  too  early  and  too  well  obey'd, 
The  llame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made  _ 
He  saw  their  terror — from  his  baldric  drew 
His  nugle — brief  the  blast — but  snriliy  blew; 
T  is  ;inswer'd — "  Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew ! 
Whj  <lid  I  douht  their  quickness  of  career? 
Arid  iit«wi  H0et^o  bad  left  me  single  here?" 


Sweeps  his  long  arm  -thr*  sabre's  whirling  sw,-y 

Sheds  fast  atonement  for  its  first  delay ; 

Completes  his  fury,  what  their  fear  began, 

And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 

The  cloven  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 

And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  its  head: 

Even  Seyd,  convulsed,  o'erwhelm'd  with  rage,  surprm 

Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 

No  craven  he — and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow, 

So  much  Confusion  magnifies  his  foe! 

His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight, 

He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight  ;* 

For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Haram  gate, 

And  burst  within — and  it  were  death  to  wait; 

Where  wild  amazement  shrieking — kneeling — thrcwr 

The  sword  aside — in  vain — the  blood  o'erflows ! 

The  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within 

Invited  Conrad's  bugle,  and  the  din 

Of  groaning  victims,  and  wild  cries  for  life, 

Proclaim'd  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife. 

They  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 

A  glutted  tiger  mangling  in  his  lair  ! 

But  short  their  greeting — shorter  his  reply— 

"  'T  is  well — but  Seyd  escapes — and  he  must  dio. 

Much  hath  been  done — but  more  remains  to  Ho— 

Their  galleys  blaze — why  not  their  city  too  ?" 

V. 

Quick  at  the  word — they  seize  him  each  a  torch, 

And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 

A  stem  delight  was  fix'd  in  Conrad's  eye, 

But  sudden  sunk — for  on  his  ear  the  cry 

Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 

Knock'd  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle's  yeH. 

"  Oh !  burst  the  Haram — wrong  not  on  your  live* 

One  female  form — remember — we  have  wives. 

On  them  such  outrage  vengeance  will  repay ; 

Man  is  our  foe,  and  such  't  is  ours  to  slay : 

But  still  we  spared — must  spare  the  weaker  prey 

Oh !  I  forgot — but  Heaven  will  not  forgive 

If  at  my  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live ; 

Follow  who  will — I  go — we  yet  have  time 

Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least  a  crime." 

He  climbs  the  crackling  stair — he  bursts  the  door, 

Nor  feels  his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the  floor ; 

His  breath  choak'd  gasping  with  the  volumed  smoko 

But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke. 

They  search — they  find — they  save :  with  lusty  am. 

Each  bears  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms ; 

Calm  their  loud  fears  ;  sustain  their  sinking  frames 

With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims: 

So  well  could  Conrad  tame  their  fiercest  mood, 

And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 

But  who  is  she  ?  whom  Conrad's  arms  convey 

From  reeking  pile  and  combat's  wreck — away — 

Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed ! 

The  Haram  queen — but  still  the  slave  of  Styd1 

VI 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare,' 

Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  f"a'r  i 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch'd  from  wam 

The  foe,  before  retiring  fast  and  far, 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursucd, 

First  slowlier  fled — then  rallied — then  withstand. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


This  Seyd  perceives,  then  first  perceives  how  few, 

Comoared  with  his,  the  Corsair's  roving  crew, 

And  blusnes  o'er  his  error,  as  he  eyes 

The  ruin  wrought  by  panic  and  surprise. 

Alia  il  Alia !  Vengeance  swells  the  cry — 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die ! 

And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  blood  must  tell, 

The  tide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flow'd  too  well — 

When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife, 

And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for  life. 

Conrad  beheld  the  danger — he  beheld 

His  followers  faint  by  freshening  foes  repell'd : 

"  One  effort— one — to  break  the  circling  host!" 

They  form — unite — charge — waver — all  is  lost ! 

Within  a  narrower  ring  compress'd,  beset, 

Hopeless  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet— 

Ah  !  now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more— 

Hemm'd  in — cut  olf — cleft  down — and  trampled  o'er  ; 

But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home, 

And  sinks  ^outwearied  rather  than  o'ercome, 

His  last  faint  quittance  rendering  with  his  breath, 

Till  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death ! 

VII. 

But  first  ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows, 
And  rank  to  rank  and  hand  to  hand  oppose/ 
Gulnare  and  all  her  Haram  handmaids  freed, 
Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed, 
By  Conrad's  mandate  safely  were  bestow'd, 
And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  flame  that  flow'd : 
And  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 
Recall'd  those  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despair, 
Much  did  she  marvel  o'er  the  courtesy 
That  smooth'd  his  accents  ;  soften'd  in  his  eye : 
T  was  strange — that  robber  thus  with  gore  bedew'd, 
Seem'd  gentler  then  than  Seyd  in  fondest  mood. 
The  Pacha  woo'd  as  if  he  deem'd  the  slave 
Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave ; 
The  Corsair  vow'd  protection,  soothed  affright, 
As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right. 
"  The  wish  is  wrong — nay,  worse  for  female,  vain : 
Yot  much  I  long  to  view  that  chief  again  ; 
If  but  to  thank  for,  what  my  fear  forgot, 
The  life — my  loving  lord  remember'd  not!" 

VIII. 

And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread, 

But  gather'd  breathing  from  the  happier  dead ; 

Far  from  his  band,  and  battling  with  a  host 

That  deem  right  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 

Fell'd — bleeding — baffled  of  the  death  he  sought, 

And  snatch'd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 

Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain ; 

While  Vengeance  ponder'd  o'er  new  plans  of  pain, 

And  staunch'd  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again — 

But  drop  by  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 

Would  doom  him  ever  dying — ne'er  to  die ! 

Can  this  be  he?  triumphant  late  she  saw, 

When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a  law ! 

'T  is  he  indeed — disarm'd  but  undeprest, 

His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possest ; 

Kis  wounds  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that  will, 

Which  would  have  kiss'd  the  hand  that  then  could  kill. 

f)h  !   were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given, 

To  send  his  soul — he  scarcely  ask'd  to  heav'n  ? 


Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath, 

Who  more  than  all  had  striven  and  struck  for  death? 

He  deeply  felt — what  mortal  hearts  must  feel, 

When  thus  reversed  on  faithless  fortune's  whee., 

For  crimes  committed,  and  the  victor's  threat 

Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt — 

He  deeply,  darkly  felt ;  but  evil  pride 

That  led  to  perpetrate — now  serves  to  hide. 

Still  in  his  stern  and  self-collected  mien 

A  conqueror's  more  than  captive's  air  is  seen : 

Though  faint  with  wasting  toil  and  stiffening  \vouno, 

But  few  that  saw — so  calmly  gazed  around : 

Though  the  far  shouting  of  the  distant  crowd, 

Their  tremors  o'er,  rose  insolently  loud, 

The  better  warriors  who  beheld  him  near, 

Insulted  not  the  foe  who  taught  them  fear ; 

And  the  grim  guards  that  to  his  durance  led, 

In  silence  eyed  him  with  a  secret  dread. 

IX. 

The  leech  was  sent — but  not  in  mercy — there 

To  note  how  much  the  life  yet  left  could  bear  ; 

He  found  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain, 

And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain: 

To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's  evening  sun 

Will  sinking  see  impalement's  pangs  begun. 

And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  morn 

Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne 

Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst, 

Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst, 

That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake, 

While  famish'd  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 

"  Oh !  water — water !" — smiling  hate  denies 

The  victim's  prayer — for  if  he  drinks — he  dies. 

This  was  his  doom: — the  leech,  the  guard  were  gone, 

And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone. 

X. 

'T  were  vain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew 
It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 
There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind, 
When  all  its  elements  convulsed — combined-- 
Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 
And  gnashing  with  impenitent  remorse  ; 
That  juggling  fiend — who  never  spake  before- 
But  cries,  "  I  warn'd  thee !"  when  the  deed  is  o  ei. 
Vain  voice !  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent, 
May  writhe — rebel— the  weak  alone  repent! 
Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels, 
And,  to  itself,  all — all  that  self  reveals, 
No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 
That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought , 
But  the  wild  prospect,  when  the  soul  reviews- 
All  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues- 
Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 
Endanger'd  glory,  life  itself  beset ; 
The  joy  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate   ' 
Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  fats , 
The  hopeless  past ;  the  hasting  future  driven 
Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven  • 
Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remember  d  *» 
So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot ; 
Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time, 
But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  a  crime  • 


168 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal'd, 
Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conceal'd  — 
All,  in  a  word,  from  which  all  eyes  must  start, 
That  opening  sepulchre — the  naked  heart 
Bares  with  its  huried  woes,  till  pride  awake, 
To  snatch  the  mirror  from  the  soul  —  and  break. 
Ay  —  pride  can  veil,  and  courage  brave  it  all, 
All  —  all  —  before  —  beyond  —  the  deadliest  fall. 
Each  hath  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays, 
The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise; 
Not  the  loud  recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and  flies; 
But  he  who  looks  on  death  —  and  silent  dies. 
So  steel'd  by  pondering  o'er  his  far  career, 
He  half-way  meets  him  should  he  menace  near. 

XI. 

In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower, 
Sate  Conrad,  fetter'd  in  the  Pacha's  power. 
His  palace  perish'd  in  the  flame  —  this  fort 
Contain'd  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court. 
Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame, 
His  foe,  if  vanquish'd,  had  but  shared  the  same :  — 
Alone  he  sate — in  solitude  had  scann'd 
His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  mann'd: 
One  thought  alone  he  could  not  —  dared  not  meet. 
"Oh!  how  these  tidings  will  Medora  greet!" 
Then  —  only  then  —  his  clanking  hands  he  raised, 
And  strain'd  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he  gazed; 
But  soon  he  found  —  or  feign'd  —  or  dream'd  relief, 
And  smiled  in  self-derision  of  his  grief: 
"And  now  come  torture  when  it  will  —  or  may, 
More  need  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day !" 
This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 
And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 

'Twas  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  begun, 
For  Conrad's  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done; 
And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time, 
She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 
One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  he  stemm'd  — 
Disguised,  discovered,  conquering,  ta'en,  condemn'd  — 
A  chief  on  land  —  an  outlaw  on  the  deep  — 
Destroying  —  saving  —  prison'd — and  asleep ! 

XII. 

He  slept  in  calmest  seeming  — for  his  breath 
Was  hush'd  so  deep  —  Ah !  happy  if  in  death ! 
He  slept  —  Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends? 
His  foes  are  gone  —  and  here  he  hath  no  friends; 
Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace? 
No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face  I 
Its  white  arm  raised  a  lamp  —  yet  gently  hid, 
Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 
Of  that  closed  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain, 
And  once  unclosed  —  but  once  may  close  again. 
That  form,  with  eye  so"  dark,  and  cheek  so  fair, 
And  auburn  waves  of  gemm'd  and  braided  hair; 
With  shape  of  fairy  lightness  —  naked  foot, 
That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mute  — 
Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  came  it  there? 
Ah!  rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare, 
Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Gulnare? 
She  could  not  sleep  —  and  while  the  Pacha's  rest 
In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 
She  left  his  side  —  his  signet-ring  she  bore, 
Which  oft  in  sport  adorn'd  her  hand  before  — 


And  with  it,  scarcely  question'd,  won  her  way 
Through  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  sign  obey. 
Worn  out  with  toil,  and  tired  with  changing  blows, 
Their  eye?  had  envied  Conrad  his  repose; 
And  chill  and  nodding  at  the  turret  door, 
They  stretch  their  listless  limbs,  and  watch  no  more ; 
Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring, 
Nor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 

XIII. 

She  gazed  in  wonder,  "Can  he  calmly  sleep, 
While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep  f 
And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here  — 
What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so  dear? 
True — 'tis  to  him  my  life,  and  more  I  owe, 
And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  woe: 
Tis  late  to  think  —  but  soft  — his  slumber  breaks  — 
How  heavily  he  sighs!  —  he  starts  —  awakes!" 
He  raised  his  head  —  and,  dazzled  with  the  light, 
His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright: 
He  moved  his  hand  —  the  grating  of  his  chain 
Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 
"  What  is  that  form  ?  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 
Methinks  my  jailor's  face  shows  wondrous  lair  I" 

"Pirate!   thou  know'st  me  not  —  but  I  am  one 
Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done; 
Look  on  me  —  and  rememher  her,  thy  hand 
Snatch'd  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  fearful  band. 
I  come  through  darkness  —  and  I  scarce  know  why — 
Yet  not  to  hurt  —  I  would  not  see  thee  die." 

"  If  so,  kind  lady !  thine  the  only  eye 
That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight: 
Theirs  is  the  chance  —  and  let  them  use  their  right. 
But  still  I  thank  their  courtesy  or  thine, 
That  would  confess  me  at  so  fair  a  shrine." 

Strange  though  it  seem  —  yet  with  extremes!  grief 
Is  link'd  a  mirth  —  it  doth  not  bring  relief — 
That  playfulness  of  sorrow  ne'er  beguiles, 
And  smiles  in  bitterness  —  but  still  it  nmiles; 
And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 
Till  even  the  scaffold te  echoes  with  their  jest! 
Tet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin  — 
It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  save  that  within. 
Whate'er  it  was  that  flash'd  on  Conrad,  now 
A  laughing  wildness  half  unbent  his  brow: 
And  these  his  accents  had  a  sound  of  mirth, 
As  if  the  last  he  could  to  enjoy  on  earth ; 
Yet  'gainst  his  nature  —  for  through  that  short  life, 
Few  thoughts  had  he  to  spare  from  gloom  and  strife. 

XIV. 

''  Corsair!  thy  doom  is  named  —  but  I  have  power 

To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 

Thee  would  I  spare  —  nay  more  —  would  save  thee  now 

But  this  —  time  —  hope  —  nor  even  thy  strength  allow; 

But  all  I  can,  I  will:  at  least,  delay 

The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day. 

More  now  were  ruin  —  even  thyself  were  loth 

The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both." 

"Yes I  —  loth  indeed:  —  my  soul  is  nerved  to  all 
Or  fall'n  too  low  to  fear  another  fall ; 
Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril ;  me  with  hope, 
Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  I  coold  not  cope; 


THE  CORSAIR. 


16? 


Unfit  to  vanquish — shall  I  meanly  fly, 

The  one  of  all  my  band  that  would  not  die  1 

Vet  there  is  one — to  whom  my  memory  clings, 

Till  to  these  eyes  her  own  wild  softness  springs. 

My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I  trod 

Were  these — my  bark — my  sword — my  love — my  God! 

The  last  I  left  in  youth — he  leaves  me  now — 

And  man  but  works  his  will  to  lay  me  low. 

I  have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with  prayer 

Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair; 

It  is  enough — I  breathe — and  1  can  bear. 

My  sword  is  shaken  from  the  worthless  hand 

That  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand ; 

My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive — but  my  love — 

For  her  in  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above : 

Oh !  she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind — 

And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind, 

And  blight  a  form — till  thine  appear'd,  Gulnare ! 

Mine  eye  ne'er  ask'd  if  others  were  as  fair." 

"  Thou  lovest  another  then  1 — but  what  to  me 
Is  this — 't  is  nothing — nothing  e'er  can  be  : 
But  yet — thou  lovest — and — Oh !  I  envy  those 
Whose  hearts  on  hearts  as  faithful  can  repose, 
Who  never  feel  the  void — the  wandering  thought 
That  sighs  o'er  visions — such  as  mine  hath  wrought." 

"  Lady — methought  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 
This  arm  redeem'd  thee  from  a  fiery  tomb." 

"  My  love  stern  Seyd's !    Oh — no — no — not  my  love  — 
Vet  much  this  heart,  that  strives  no  more,  once  strove 
To  meet  his  passion— but  it  would  not  be. 
J  felt — I  feel — love  dwells  with — with  the  free. 
I  am  a  slave,  a  favour'd  slave  at  best, 
To  share  his  splendour,  and  seem  very  blest  i 
Oft  must  my  soul  the  question  undergo, 
Of — '  Dost  thou  love  T  and  burn  to  answer  '  No !' 
Oh !  hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain, 
And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain ; 
But  harder  still  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear, 
And  hide  from  one — perhaps  another  there. 
He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not — nor  withhold — 
Its  pulse  nor  check'd — nor  quicken'd— calmly  cold : 
And,  when  resign'd,  it  drops  a  lifeless  weight 
From  one  I  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 
No  warmth  these  lips  return  by  his  imprest, 
And  chillM  remembrance  shudders  o'er  the  rest. 
Yes — had  I  ever  proved  that  passion's  zeal, 
The  change  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel : 
But  still — he  goes  unmourn'd — returns  unsought — 
And  oft  when  present — absent  from  my  thought. 
Or  when  reflection  comes — and  come  it  must — 
I  fear  that  henceforth  't  will  but  bring  disgust ; 
I  am  his  slave — but,  in  despite  of  pride, 
T  were  worse  than  bondage  to  become  his  bride. 
Oh  !  that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease ! 
Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 
But  yesterday — I  could  have  said,  to  peace ! 
Yes — if  unwonted  fondness  now  I  feign, 
Remember — captive  !  't  is  to  break  thy  chain  ; 
Unpay  the  life  that  to  thy  hand  I  owe  ; 
To  give  thee  back  to  all  endear'd  "below, 
Who  share  such  love  as  I  can  never  know. 
Farewell — morn  breaks — and  I  must  now  away : 
T  will  cost  me  dear — but  dread  no  dea'-h  to  day !" 
a  2  27 


XV. 

She  press'd  his  fetter'd  fingers  to  her  heart, 

And  bow'd  her  head,  and  turn'd  her  to  depart, 

And  noiseless  as  a  lovely  dream  is  gone. 

And  was  she  here  1  and  is  he  now  alone '.' 

What  gem  hath  dropp'd  and  sparkles  o'er  his  chain  * 

The  tear  most  sacred,  shed  for  other's  pain, 

That  starts  at  once — bright — pure — from  pity's  mine, 

Already  polish'd  by  the  hand  divine ! 

Oh !  too  convincing — dangerously  dear — 

In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear .' 

What  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield, 

To  save,  subdue — at  once  her  spear  and  shield : 

Avoid  it — virtue  ebbs  and  wisdom  errs, 

Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers  ! 

What  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly  1 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven, 

By  this — how  many  lose  not  earth — but  heaven ! 

Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe, 

And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  woe ! 

XVI. 

'T  is  morn — and  o'er  his  alter'd  features  play 
The  beams — without  the  hope  of  yesterday. 
What  shall  he  be  ere  night  1  perchance  a  thing 
O'er  which  the  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing : 
By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  unfelt, 
While  sets  that  sun,  and  dews  of  evening  melt, 
Chill — wet — and  misty  round  each  stiffen'd  limb, 
Refreshing  earth — reviving  all  but  him ! — 


CANTO  III. 


Come  vedi— ancor  non  m'  abbandona. 

DANTE. 


I. 

SLOW  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 
Along  Morea's  hills,  the  setting  sun  ; 
Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light! 
O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 
On  old  ^Egina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle, 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile ; 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering,  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer'd  Salamis ! 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanst 
More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 
And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven , 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Behind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sieep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 
When,  Athens !  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  ' '  latest  day  • 
Not  yet — not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill — 
The  precious  hour,  of  parting  lingers  still ; 


170 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


But  sad  his  light  10  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes: 
Gloom  o'er  tre  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before ; 
But,  ere  he  sunk  below  Cithaeron's  head, 
The  cop  of  woe  was  quaff'd — the  spirit  fled; 
The  soul  of  him  who  scorn'd  to  fear  or  fly — 
Who  lived  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die ! 

But  lo!  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain, 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.14 
No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form ; 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
And,  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset, 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 
The  groves  of  olive  scatter'd  dark  and  wide 
Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk,11 
And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm, 
Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm, 
All  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye — 
And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  jEgean,  heard  no  more  afar, 

Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war ; 

Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 

Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 

Mixt  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle, 

That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile.1* 

II. 

N"t  now  my  theme — why  turn  my  thoughts  to  thee  ? 

Oh  !  who  can  look  along  thy  native  sea, 

Nor  dwell  upon  thy  name,  whate'er  the  tale, 

So  much  its  magic  must  o'er  all  prevail  ? 

Who  that  beheld  that  sun  upon  thee  set, 

Fair  Athens !  could  thine  evening  face  forget  ? 

Not  be — whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees, 

Spe'l- bound  within  the  clustering  Cyclades! 

Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign' to  his  strain, 

His  Corsair's  isle  was  once  thine  own  domain — 

Would  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again ! 

III. 

The  sun  hath  sunk — and,  darker  than  the  night, 
Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height 
Medora's  heart — the  third  day 's  come  and  gone — 
With  it  he  comes  not — sends  not — faithless  one ! 
The  wind  was  fair  though  light ;  and  storms  were  none, 
Last  eve  Anselmo's  bark  returned,  and  yet 
His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met ! 
Though  wild,  as  now,  far  different  were  the  tale 
Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 

The  night-breeze  freshens — she  that  day  had  past 
In  watching  all  that  hope  proclaim'd  a  mast; 
Sadly  she  sate — on  high — Impatience  bore 
At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore, 
And  tfi«:re  she  wan-Ier'd  heedless  of  the  spray 
Thai  dash'd  her  garments  oft,  and  warn'd  away : 
She  saw  not — felt  not  this— nor  dared  depart, 
Nor  deem'd  it  cold — her  chill  was  at  her  heart ; 
Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense — 
His  NC--V  sight  had  shock'd  from  life  »r  sense! 


It  came  at  last — a  sad  and  shatter'd  boat, 
Whose  inmates  first  beheld  whom  first  they  sought, 
Some  bleeding — all  most  wretched — these  the  few- 
Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped — this  all  they  ki.e  w. 
In  silence,  darkling,  each  appeal 'd  to  wait 
His  fellow's  mournful  guess  at  Conrad's  fate  : 
Something  they  would  have  said ;  but  seem'd  to  fear 
To  trust  their  accents  to  Medora's  ear. 
She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not — trembled  not — 
Beneath  that  grief,  that  loneliness  of  lot, 
Within  that  meek  fair  form  were  feelings  high, 
That  deem'd  not  till  they  found  their  energy. 
While  yet  was  Hope — they  soften' d — flutter'd — wept—- 
All lost — that  softness  died  not — but  it  slept ; 
And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  strength  which  said, 
"  With  nothing  left  to  love — there 's  nought  to  dread." 
'T  is  more  than  nature's ;  like  the  burning  might 
Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

"  Silent  you  stand — nor  would  I  hear  you  tell 

What — speak  not — breathe  not — for  I  know  it  well — 

Yet  would  I  ask — almost  my  lip  denies 

The — quick  your  answer — tell  me  where  he  lies." 

"  Lady !  we  know  not — scarce  with  life  we  fled ; 

But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead : 

He  saw  him  bound,  and  bleeding — but  alive." 

She  heard  no  further — 't  was  in  vain  to  strive — 

So  throbb'd  each  vein — each  thought — till  then  with 

stood ; 

Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued : 
She  totters — falls — and  senseless  had  the  wave 
Perchance  but  snatch'd  her  from  another  grave  ; 
But  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weeping  eyes, 
They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity's  haste  supplies  : 
Dash  o'er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean  dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain  till  life  returns  anew  ; 
Awake  her  handmaids,  with  the  matrons  leave 
That  fainting  form  o'er  which  they  gaze  and  grieve ; 
Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern,  to  report 
The  tale  too  tedious — when  the  triumph  short. 

IV. 

In  that  wild  council  words  wax'd  warm  and  strange, 
With  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge ; 
All,  save  repose  or  flight :  still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  forbade  despair ; 
Whate'er  his  fate — the  breasts  he  form'd  and  led 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 
Woe  to  his  foes !  there  yet  survive  a  few, 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true 

V. 

Within  the  Haram's  secret  chamber  sate 

Stern  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  captive's  fate  , 

His  thoughts  on  love  and  hate  alternate  dwell, 

Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad's  cell ; 

Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  reclined 

Surveys  his  brow — would  soothe  his  gloom  of  r.ttmt 

While  many  an  anxious  glance  her  large  dark  eye 

Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy, 

His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads," 

But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

"  Pacha !  the  day  is  thine ;  and  on  thy  cre»' 
Sits  triumph — Conrad  faken — fiJl'n  th«-  res*! 


THE  CORSAIR. 


71 


His  doom  is  fix'd — he  dies  :  and  well  his  fate 
Was  earn'd — yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate : 
Methinks,  a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 
With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold  ; 
Report  speaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard — 
Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  lord  ! 
While  baffled,  weaken'd  by  this  fatal  fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he  were  then  an  easier  prey ; 
But  once  cut  off— the  remnant  of  his  band 
Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 

"  Gulnare ! — If  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem 

Were  ofFer'd  rich  as  Stamboul's  diadem  ; 

If  for  each  hair  of  his  a  massy  mine 

Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine ; 

If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 

Of  wealth  were  here — that  gold  should  not  redeem ! 

It  had  not  now  redeem'd  a  single  hour, 

But  that  I  know  him  fetter'd,  in  my  power ; 

And,  thirsting  for  revenge,  I  ponder  still 

On  pangs  that  longest  rack  and  latest  kill." 

"  Nay, — Seyd ! — I  seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage, 
Too  justly  moved  for  mercy  to  assuage ; 
My  thoughts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee 
His  riches — thus  released,  he  were  not  free : 
Disabled,  shorn  of  half  his  might  and  band, 
His  capture  could  but  wait  thy  first  command." 

"  His  capture  couW  .' — and  shall  I  then  resign 
One  day  to  him — the  wretch  already  mine? 
Release  my  foe  ! — at  whose  remonstrance  ? — thine ! 
Fair  suitor  ! — to  thy  virtuous  gratitude, 
That  thus  repays  this  Giaour's  relenting  mood, 
Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare, 
No  doubt — regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair, 
My  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due — now  hear ! 
I  have  a  counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear : 
I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman !  and  each  word 
Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  suspicion  heard. 
Borne  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  Serai — 
Say,  wert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly  ? 
Thou  need's!  not  answer — thy  confession  speaks, 
Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks ; 
Then,  lovely  dame,  betnuiR.  inec  !  and  beware : 
T  is  not  MX  life  alone  may  claim  such  care ! 
Another  word  and — nay — I  need  no  more. 
Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 
Thee  from  the  flames,  which  better  far — but — no— 
I  then  had  mourn'd  thee  with  a  lover's  woe — 
Now  't  is  thy  lord  that  warns — deceitful  thing ! 
Know'st  thou  that  I  can  clip  thy  wanton  wing  ? 
In  words  alone  I  am  not  wont  to  chafe : 
Look  to  thyself — nor  deem  thy  falsehood  safe !" 

He  rose — and  slowly,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 
Rage  in  his  eye,  and  threats  in  his  adieu : 
Ah  !   little  reck'd  that  chief  of  womanhood— 
Wh'ch  frowns  ne'er  quell'd,  nor  menaces  subdued ; 
And  little  deem'd  he  what  thy  heart,  Gulnare! 
When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incensed  could  dare. 
flis  doubts  appear'd  to  wrong— nor  yet  she  knew 
HDW  deep  the  root  fro-ri  whence  compassion  grew — 
Khe  was  a  slave — from  such  may  captives  claim 
A  fellow- feeling,  differing  but  in  name  ; 
Still  hall-unconscious — heedless  of  his  wrath, 
Again  ghf  ventured  on  the  dangerous  path. 


Again  his  rage  repell'd — until  arose 

That  strife  of  thought,  the-  source  of  woman's  woes ! 

VI. 

Meanwhile — long  anxious — weary — still — the  same 
Roll'd  day  and  night — his  soul  could  terror  tame — 
This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread, 
When  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than  dead. 
When  every  step  that  echo'd  by  the  gate, 
Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  stake  await : 
When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 
Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear  ; 
Could  terror  tame — that  spirit  stern  and  high 
Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die ; 
'T  was  worn — perhaps  decay'd — yet  silent  bore 
That  conflict  deadlier  far  than  all  before : 
The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale, 
Leave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail ; 
But  bound  and  fix'd  in  fetter'd  solitude, 
To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood ; 
To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart,  and  meditate 
Irrevocable  faults,  and  coming  fate — 
Too  late  the  last  to  shun — the  first  to  mend — 
To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end, 
With  not  a  friend  to  animate,  and  tell          • 
To  other  ears  that  death  became  thee  well ; 
Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie, 
And  blot  life's  latest  scene  with  calumny ; 
Before  the  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare, 
Yet  doubts  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may  bear , 
But  deeply  feels  a  single  cry  would  shame, 
To  valour's  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim ; 
The  life  thou  leavest  below,  denied  above 
By  kind  monopolists  of  heavenly  love  ; 
And  more  than  doubtful  paradise — thy  heaven 
Of  earthly  hope — thy  loved  one  from  thee  riven. 
Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sustain, 
And  govern  pangs  surpassing  mortal  pain  : 
And  those  sustain'd  he — boots  it  well  or  ill  ? 
Since  not  to  sink  beneath  is  something  still ! 

VII. 

The  first  day  pass'd — he  saw  not  her — Gulnare — 

The  second — third — and  still  she  came  not  there ; 

But  what  her  words  avouch'd,  her  charms  had  don*. 

Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 

The  fourth  day  roll'd  along,  and  with  the  night 

Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling  might ; 

Oh  !   how  he  listen'd  to  the  rushing  deep, 

That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  upon  his  sleep  ; 

And  his  wild  spirit'  wilder  wishes  sent, 

Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element ! 

Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave, 

And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gavt, , 

And  now  its  dashing  echo'd  on  his  ear, 

A  long-known  voice — alas!  toe  vainly  nrar'. 

Loud  sung  the  wind  above ;   and,  doubly  loud, 

Shook  o'er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder-cloud ; 

And  flash'd  the  lightning  by  the  latticed  bar, 

To  him  mere  genial  than  the  midnight  star . 

Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragg'd  his  chain 

And  hoped  that  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain. 

He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaven,  and  pray'd 

One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made  : 

His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike — 

The  storm  roll'd  onward,  and  disdain'd  to  stnko  . 


172 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Its  peal  wax  d  faia.er — ceased — he  felt  alone, 
As  if  some  fuithless  frietd  had  spurn'd  his  groan  ! 

VIII. 

The  midnight  pass'd — and  to  the  massy  door, 
A  light  step  came — it  paused — it  moved  once  more : 
Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key : 
'!'  is  as  his  heart  forboded — that  fair  she  ! 
VVhate'er  her  sins,  to  him  a  guardian  saint, 
And  beauteous  stitl  as  hermit's  hope  can  paint ; 
Yet  changed  since  last  within  that  cell  she  came, 
More  pale  her  cheek,  more  tremulous  her  frame : 
On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hurried  eye, 
Which  spoke  before  her  accents — "  thou  must  die ! 
Yes.  thou  must  die — there  is  but  one  resource, 
The  last — the  worst — if  torture  were  not  worse." 

"  Lady !  I  look  to  none — my  lips  proclaim 
Wha^last  proclaim'd  they — Conrad  still  the  same 
Why  shouldst  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to  spare, 
And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear  ? 
Well  have  I  earn'd — nor  here  alone — the  meed 
Of  Seyd's  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed." 

"  Why  should  I  seek?  because — Oh !  didst  thou  not 
Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot  ? 
Why  should  I  seek? — hath  misery  made  thee  blind 
To  the  fond  workings  of  a  woman's  mind  ? 
And  must  I  say  ?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 
With  all  that  woman  feels,  but  should  not  tell — 
Because — despite  thy  crimes — that  heart  is  moved: 
It  fear'd  thee — thank'd  thee — pitied — madden'd — loved. 
R<  ply  not,  tell  not  now  thy  tale  again, 
Tltou  lov'st  another — and  I  love  in  vain ; 
Though  fond  as  mine  her  bosom,  form  more  fair, 
1 1  (ish  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare. 
If  that  thy  heart  to  hers  were  truly  dear, 
Were  I  (hine  own — thou  wert  not  lonely  here : 
An  outlaw's  spouse — and  leave  her  lord  to  roam ! 
What  hath  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home  ? 
But  speak  not  now — o'er  thine  and  o'er  my  head 
Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread ; 
If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  wouldst  be  free, 
Receive  this  poniard — rise  and  follow  me!" 

"  Ay — in  my  chains !  my  steps  will  gently  tread, 
W  ith  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering  head ! 
Thou  hast  forgot — is  this  a  garb  for  flight? 
Or  is  that  instrument  more  fit  for  fight  ?" 

"  Misdoubting  Corsair !  I  have  gain'd  the  guard, 

Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward. 

A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain : 

W  ithout  some  aid,  how  here  could  I  remain  ? 

Well,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 

If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime: 

The  crime — 't  is  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd. 

That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad — he  must  bleed! 

I  see  thee  shudder — but  my  soul  is  changed— 

W'ong'd — spurn'd — reviled — and  it  shall  be  avenged — 

Act  used  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain'd — 

Toe  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd. 

Yes,  «mile !  hut  he  had  little  cause  to  sneer, 

wiit  not  treacherous  then — nor  thou  too  dear: 
Bui  he  has  said  it — and  the  jealous  well, 
Thoso  tyrants,  teasing,  tempting  to  rebel, 
Ocsoivo  ih«  fate  their  fretting  lips  foretell. 


I  never  loved — he  bought  me — somewhat  high—- 
Since with  me  came  a  heart  he  could  not  buy. 
I  was  a  slave  unmurmuring  ;  he  hath  said, 
But  for  his  rescue  I  with  thee  had  fled. 
'T  was  false  thou  know'st — but  let  such  augurs  rut 
Their  words  are  omens  insult  renders  true. 
Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer ; 
This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 
New  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 
Mine  too  he  threatens  ;  but  his  dotage  still 
Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will: 
When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and  me, 
There  yawns  the  sack — and  yonder»rolls  the  sea ! 
What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play, 
To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ? 
I  saw  thee — loved  thee — owe  thee  all — would  save, 
If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave. 
But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life 
(And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in  strife), 
I  still  had  saved  thee — but  the  Pacha  spared. 
Now  I  am  all  thine  own — for  ail  prepared : 
Thou  lov'st  me  not — nor  know'st — or  but  the  worst, 
Alas !  this  love — that  hatred  are  the  first — 
Oh !  couldst   thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  wouldst  wot 

start, 

Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  eastern  heart ; 
'T  is  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety — now 
It  points  within  the  port  a  Mainote  prow : 
But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead, 
There  sleeps — he  must  not  wake— the  oppressor  Seyd  f> 

"  Gulnare — Gulnare — I  never  felt  till  now 

My  abject  fortune,  wither'd  fame  so  low : 

Seyd  is  mine  enemy :  had  swept  my  band 

From  earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand, 

And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  bark  of  war, 

To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar ; 

Such  is  my  weapon — not  the  secret  knife — 

Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's  life. 

Thine  saved  I  gladly,  lady,  not  for  this — 

Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shown  amiss. 

Now  fare  thee  well — more  peace  be  with  thy  breast! 

Night  wears  apace — my  last  of  earthly  rest !" 

"  Rest !  rest !  by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake. 

And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 

I  heard  the  order — saw — I  will  not  see — 

If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  will  fall  with  thee. 

My  life — my  love — my  hatred — all  below 

Are  on  this  cast — Corsair !  't  is  but  a  blow ! 

Without  it  flight  were  idle — how  evade 

His  sure  pursuit  ?  my  wrongs  too  unrepaid, 

My  youth  disgraced — the  long,  long  wasted  years, 

One  blow  shall  cancel  with  our  future  fears  ; 

But  since  the  dagger  suits  thee  less  than  brand, 

I  '11  try  tne  firmness  of  a  female  hand. 

The  guards  are  gain'd — one  moment  all  were  o'er— 

Corsair !  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more  ; 

If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 

Will  hover  o'er  thy  scaffold,  and  my  shroud." 

IX. 

She  turn'd,  and  vanish'd  ere  he  could  repiy, 
But  his  glance  follow'd  far  with  eager  eye  ; 
And  gathering,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 
His  form,  to  curl  their  length,  and  curb  their  Round 


THE  CORSAIR. 


fcince  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  preclude, 

He,  fast  as  fetter'd  limbs  allow,  pursued. 

'T  was  dark  and  winding,  and  he  knew  not  where 

That  passage  led  ;  nor  lamp  nor  guard  were  there : 

He  sees  a  dusky  glimmering — shall  he  seek 

Or  shun  that  ray  so  indistinct  and  weak  ? 

Chance  guides  his  steps — a  freshness  seems  to  bear 

Full  on  his  brow,  as  if  from  morning  air — 

He  reach'd  an  open  gallery — on  his  eye 

Gleam'd  the  last  star  of  night,  the  clearing  sky : 

Yet  scarcely  heeded  these — another  light 

From  a  lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sight. 

Towards  it  he  moved,  a  scarcely  closing  door 

Reveal'd  the  ray  within,  but  nothing  more. 

With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  past, 

Then  paused — and  turn'd — and  paused — 'tis  she  atlast! 

No  poniard  in  that  hand — nor  sign  of  ill — 

"Thanks  to  that  softening  heart— she  could  not  kill!" 

Again  he  iook'd,  the  .wildness  of  her  eye 

Starts  from  the  day  abrupt  and  fearfully. 

She  stopp'd — threw  back  her  dark  far-floating  hair, 

That  nearly  veil'd  her  face  and  bosom  fair  : 

As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head 

Above  some  object  of  her  doubt  or  dread. 

They  meet — upon  her  brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her  hurrying  hand  had  left — 't  was  but  a  spot — 

Its  hue  was  ajl  he  saw,  and  scarce  withstood — 

Oh !  slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime — 't  is  blood  ! 

X. 

He  had  seen  battle — h^iiad  brooded  lone 

O'er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown  ; 

He  had  been  tempted — chasten'd — and  the  chain 

Yet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain: 

But  ne'er  from  strife — captivity — remorse — 

From  all  his  feelings  in  their  inmost  force — 

So  thrill'd — so  shudder'd  every  creeping  vein, 

As  now  they  froze  before  that  purple  stain. 

That  spot  of  blood,  that  light  but  guU'.y  streak 

Had  banish'd  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek ! 

Blood  he  had  view'd— could  view  unmoved — but  then 

ft  flow'd  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men ! 

XI. 

"'Tis  done — he  nearly  waked — but  it  is  done. 
Corsair !  he  perish'd — thou  art  dearly  won. 
All  words  would  now  be  vain — away — away ! 
Our  bark  is  tossing — 't  is  already  day. 
The  few  gain'd  over,  now  are  wholly  mine, 
And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join : 
Anon  my  voice  shall  vindicate  my  hand, 
When  once  our  sail  forsakes  this  hated  strand." 

XII. 

She  clapp'd  her  hands — and  through  the  gallery  pour, 
Equipped  for  flight,  her  vassals — Greek  and  Moor; 
•  Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind  ; 
Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountai       wid ! 
But  on  his  heavy  heart  such 
As  if  they  there  transferr'd  t 
No  words  are  utter'd — at  her  sigffj'a  'Joor 
Reveals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore ; 
The  city  lies  behind — they  speed,  they  reach 
The  glad  waves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach ; 
\nd  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obey'd, 
Nor  care4  he  now  if  rescued  or  betray'd ; 


Resistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd,  the  sail  unfurl'd,  the  light  breeze  blew — 
How  much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review ! 
Sunk  he  in  contemplation,  till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchor'd  rear'd  its  giant  shape. 
Ah  ! — since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time 
Had  swept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  its  far  shadow  frown'd  above  the  mast, 
He  veil'd  his  face,  and  sorrow'd  as  he  past ; 
He  thought  of  all — Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 
His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  failing  hand, 
He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride : 
He  turn'd  and  saw — Gulnare,  the  homicide ! 

XIV. 

She  watch'd  his  features  till  she  could  not  bear 
Their  freezing  aspect  and  averted  air, 
And  that  strange  fierceness,  foreign  to  her  eye, 
Fell  quench'd  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 
She  knelt  beside  him,  and  his  hand  she  prest — 
"Thou  may'st  forgive,  though  Alla's  self  detest , 
But  for  that  deed  of  darkness,  what  wert  thou  ? 
Reproach  me — but  not  yet — Oh !  spare  me  now  ! 
I  am  not  what  I  seem-  this  fearful  night 
My  brain  bewilder'd — do  not  madden  quite  ! 
If  I  had  never  loved — though  less  my  guilt, 
Thou  hadst  not  lived  to — hate  me — if  thou  wilt." 

XV. 

She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 
Than  her,  though  undesign'd,  the  wretch  he  made ; 
But  speechless  all,  deep,  dark,  and  unexprest, 
They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell — nis  breast- 
Still  onward,  fair  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the  surge, 
The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stern  they  urge ; 
Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck, 
A  spot — a  mast — a  sail — an  armed  deck  ! 
Their  little  bark  her  men  of  watch  descry, 
And  ampler  canvas  woos  the  wind  from  high ; 
She  bears  "her  down  majestically  near, 
Speed  on  her  prow,  and  terror  in  her  tier ; 
A  flash  is  seen — the  ball  beyond  their  bow 
Bdkps  harmless,  hissing  to  the  deep  below 
Ujofose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 
A  long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance  ; 
"  'T  is  mine — my  blood-red  flag !   again — agam- 
I  am  not  all  deserted  on  the  main !" 
They  own  the  signal,  answer  to  the  hail, 
Hoist  out  the  boat  at  once,  and  slacken  sail. 
"Tis  Conrad!   Conrad!"  shouting  from  the  deci, 
Command  nor  duty  could  their  transpoit  check ! 
With  light  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride, 
They  view  him  mount  once  more  his  vessel's  side , 
A  smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face, 
Their  arms  can  scarce  forbear  a  rough  embrace. 
He,  half-forgetting  danger  and  defeat, 
Returns  their  greeting  as  a  chief  may  greet. 
Wrings  with  a  cordial  grasp  Anselmo's  hand. 
And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command  ' 

XVI. 

These  greetings  o'er,  the  feelings  that  o'erflow. 
Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  without  a  blow  • 


!74 


*   BYRON'S  WORKS. 


They  saiVd  prepared  for  vengeance — had  they  known 
A  woman's  hand  secured  that  deed  her  own, 
She  were  their  queen — less  scrupulous  are  they 
Than  haughty  Cinrad  how  they  win  their  way. 
With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering  stare, 
They  whisper  round,  and  gaze  upon  Gulnare ; 
And  her,  at  once  above — beneath  her  sex, 
Whom  blood  appall'd  not,  their  regards  perplex. 
To  Conrad  turns  her  faint  imploring  eye, 
Shr  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by  ; 
Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast, 
Which — Conrad  safe — to  fate  resign'd  the  rest. 
Though  worse  than  phrensy  could  that  bosom  fill, 
Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill, 
The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still ! 

XVII. 

This  Conrad  mark'd,  and  felt — ah!  could  he  less? 
Hate  of  that  deed — but  grief  for  her  distress  ; 
What  she  has  done  no  tears  can  wash  away, 
And  heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day : 
But — it  was  done :  he  knew,  whate'er  her  guilt, 
For  him  that  pomard  smote,  that  blood  was  spilt ; 
And  he  was  free ! — and  she  for  him  had  given 
Her  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven ! 
And  now  he  turn'd  him  to  that  dark-eyed  slave, 
Whose  brow  was  bow'd  beneath  the  glance  he  gave, 
Who  now  seem'd  changed  and  humbled: — faint  and 

meek, 

But  varying  oft  the  colour  of  her  cheek 
Tc  deeper  shades  of  paleness — all  its  red 
Tnat  fearful  spot  which  stain'd  it  from  the  dead ! 
He  took  that  hand — it  trembled — now  too  late — 
So  soft  in  love — so  wildly  nerved  in  hate  ; 
He  clasp'd  that  hand — it  trembled — and  his  own 
Had  lost  its  firmness,  ana  nis  voice  its  tone. 
"Gulnare!" — but  she  replied  not — "dear  Gulnare!" 
She  raised  her  eye — her  only  answer  there — 
At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace : 
If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-place, 
His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart, 
But — good  .or  ill — it  bade  her  not  depart. 
Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast, 
His  latest  virtue  (hen  had  join'd  the  rest. 
Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 
That  ask'd  from  form  so  fair  no  more  than  this, 
The  first,  the  last  that  frailty  stole  from  faith — 
To  lips  where  love  had  lavish'd  all  his  breath, 
To  lips — whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling, 
As  he  had  fann'd  them  freshly  with  his  wing ! 

XVIII. 

Tnev  gair.  by  twilight's  hour  their  lonely  isle  : 
TM  them  the  very  rocks  appear  to  smile  ; 
T)i«  haven  hums  with  many  a  cheering  sound, 
The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round, 
The  boats  Are  darting  o'er  the  curly  bay, 
And  sportive  dolphins  bend  them  through  the  spray ; 
Even  the  hoarse  sea-bird's  shrill  discordant  shriek 
Greets  like  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beak ! 
Beneath  each  lamp  that  through  its  lattice  gleams, 
Their  fancy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the  beams. 
Oh .   what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home, 
Like  hope's  gay  glance  from  ocean's  troubled  foam  ? 

XIX. 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower, 
And  'niidst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower: 


He  looks  in  vain — 'l  is  strange — and  all  remark, 

Amid  so  many,  hers  alone  is  da/k. 

'T  is  strange — of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail'd, 

Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguistr'J,  onl)  icl'd. 

With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore, 

And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  opr. 

Oh !  for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight, 

To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  height! 

With  the  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gavi, 

He  waits  not — looks  not — leaps  into  the  wav«. 

Strives  through  the  surge,  bestrides  the  beach,  a/xl  higl 

Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reach'd  his  turret  door — he  paused — no  sound 

Broke  from  within  ;   and  all  was  night  around. 

He  knock'd,  and  loudly — footstep  nor  reply 

Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh ; 

He  knock'd — but  faintly — for  his  trembling  hand 

Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 

The  portal  opens — 't  is  a  well-known  face — 

But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace ; 

Its  lips  are  silent — twice  his  own  essay'd, 

And  fail'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delay'd ; 

He  snatch'd  the  lamp — its  light  will  answer  all — 

It  quits  his  grasp,  expiring  in  the  fall. 

He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray — 

As  soon  could  he  have  linger'd  there  for  day ; 

But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridore, 

Another  chequers  o'er  the  shadow'd  floor  ; 

His  steps  the  chamber  gain — his  eyes  behold 

All  that  his  heart  believed  not — yet  foretold ! 

XX. 

He  turn'd  not — spoke  not — sunk  not — fix'd  his  .nok, 
And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook : 
He  gazed — how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain, 
And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  saze  in  vain! 
In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair, 
That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither'd  there  ; 
And  the  cold  flowers  IS  her  colder  hand  contain'd, 
In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd 
As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd  a  sleep, 
And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep  : 
The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow, 
And  veil'd — thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk'd  below. 
Oh !  o'er  the  eye  death  most  exerts  his  might, 
And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light ! 
Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse, 
But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips — 
Yet,  yet,  they  seem  as  they  forbore  to  smile, 
And  wish'd  repose — but  only  for  a  while  ; 
But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress, 
Long — fair — but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness, 
Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind, 
Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind  : 
These — and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier- 
But  she  is  nothing — wherefore  is  he  here? 

XXI. 

He  ask'd  DO,  question — all  were  answer'd  now 
By  the  fir>t  glance  on  that  still — marble  brow. 
It  was  en  High — she  died — what  reck'd  it  how? 
The  love  fef  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years, 
The  source  of  softest  wishes,  tenderest  fear*. 
The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate, 
Was  reft  at  once — and  he  deserved  his  fate, 
But  did  not  feel  it  less  ; — the  good  explore, 
For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar 


THE  CORSAIR. 


The  proud — the  wayward — who  have  fix'J  below 
Their  joy — and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe, 
Lose  in  that  one  their  all — perchance  a  mite — 
But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight? 
Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect  stern 
Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn ; 
And  many  a  withering  thought  lies  hid,  not  lost 
In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most. 

XXII. 

By  those,  that  u^nest  feel,  is  ill  exprest 
The  indistinctness    f  the  suffering  breast ; 
Where  thousand  tli     "his  begin  to  end  in  one, 
Which  seeks  from  al.  .ne  refuge  found  in  none ; 
No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show, 
For  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Woe. 
On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest, 
And  stupor  almost  lull'd  it  into  rest ; 
So  feeble  now — his  mother's  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant's  wept: 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain, 
Which  thus  confess'd  without  relieving  pain. 
None  saw  his  trickling  tears — perchance,  if  seen, 
That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been : 
Nor  long  they  flow'd — he  dried  them  to  depart, 
In  helpless — hopeless — brokenness  of  heart : 
The  sun  goes  forth — but  Conrad's  day  is  dim ; 
And  the  night  cometh — ne'er  to  pass  from  him. 
There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind, 
On  grief's  vain  eye — the  blindest  of  the  blind ! 
Which  may  not — dare  not  see — but  turns  aside 
To  blackest  shade — nor  will  endure  a  guide  ! 

XXIII. 

HTS  neart  was  form'd  for  softness — warp'd  to  wrong ; 
Betray'd  too  early,  and  beguiled  too  long ; 
Each  feeling  pure — as  falls  the  dropping  dew 
Within  the  grot — like  that  had  harden'd  too  ; 
Less  clear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  pass'd, 
But  sunk,  and  chill'd,  and  petrified  at  last. 
Yet  tempests  wear,  and  lightning  cleaves  the  rock ; 
If  such  his  heart,  so  shatter'd  it  the  shock. 
There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged  brow, 
Though  dark  the  shade — it  shelter'd, — saved  till  now. 
The  thunder  came — that  bolt  hath  blasted  both, 
The  granite's  firmness,  and  the  lily's  growth : 
The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 
Its  tale,  but  shrunk  and  wither' d  where  it  fell, 
And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  round 
But  shiver'd  fragments  on  the  barren  ground ! 

XXIV. 

T  is  mom — to  venture  on  his  lonely  hour 

Few  dare :  though  now  Anselmo  sought  his  tower. 

He  was  not  there — nor  seen  along  the  shore  ; 

Ere  night,  akrm'd,  their  isle  is  traversed  o'er : 

Another  morn — another  bids  them  seek, 

And  shout  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak  ; 

Mount— grotto — cavern — valley  search'd  in  vain, 

They  find  on  shore  a  sea-boat's  broken  chain  : 

Their  hope  revives — they  follow  o'er  the  main. 

T  is  idle  all — moons  roll  on  moons  away, 

And  Conrad  comes  not — came  not  since  that  day : 

Nor  trace  nor  tidings  of  his  doom  declare 

Wnere  lives  his  grief,  or  perish'd  his  despair ! 

f  ..on"  mourn'd  his  band  whom  none  could  mourn  beside 

And  fair  tne  monument  uiev  save  his  bride : 


For  him  they  raise  not  the  recording  stone — 
His  death  yet  dubious,  deeds  too  widelv  known  • 
le  left  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  times, 
jink'd  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  crimes." 


NOTES. 


THE  time  in  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  th» 
occurrences ;  but  the  whole  of  the  j?Egean  isles  ar« 
vithin  a  few  hours'  sail  of  the  continent,  and  the  readei 
must  be  kind  enough  to  take  the  wind  as  I  have  oilea 
bund  it. 

Note  1.  Page  163,  line  86. 
Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old. 
Orlando,  Canto  10. 

Note  2.  Page  164,  line  96. 
Around  the  waves  phosphoric  brightness  broke. 
By  night,  particularly  in  a  warm  latitude,   every 
stroke  of  the  oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  is 
bllowed  by  a  slight  flash  like  sheet  lightning  from  the 
water. 

Note  3.  Page  165,  line  39. 
Though  to  the  rest  the  sohcr  berry's  juice. 
Coffee. 

Note  4.  Page  Ifi5,  line  41. 
The  long  Chibouque's  dissolving  cloud  supply. 
Pipe. 

Note  5.  Page  185,  line  42. 
While  dance  the  Almas  to  wild  minstrelsy. 
Dancing-girls. 

NOTE  TO  CANTO  II.  Page  165,  line  55. 

It  has  been  objected  that  Conrad's  entering  disguised 
as  a  spy,  is  out  of  nature. — Perhaps  so.— I  find  so:n> 
thing  not  unlike  it  in  history. 

<  Anxious  to  explore  with  his  own  eyes  the  state  of 
the  Vandals,  Majorian  ventured,  after  disguising  the 
colour  of  his  hair,  «o  visit  Carthage  in  the  character  of 
his  own  ambassador;  and  Genseric  was  afterwards 
mortified  by  the  discovery,  that  he  had  entertained  and 
dismissed  the  Emperor  of  the  Romans.  Such  an  anec- 
dote may  be  rejected  as  an  improbable  fiction ;  but  it  is 
a  fiction  which  would  not  have  been  imagined  unless  in 
the  life  of  a  hero."  Gibbon,  D.  and  F.  Vol.  VI.  p.  180. 

That  Conrad  is  a  character  not  altogether  out  of  na- 
ture, I  shall  attempt  to  prove  by  some  historical  coin- 
cidences which  I  have  met  with  since  writing  "The 
Corsair." 

"Eccelin  prisonnier,"  dit  Rolandini,  "s'enfermoit 
dans  un  silence  menacant ;  il  fixoit  sur  la  terre  son  visago 
feroce,  et  ne  donnoit  point  d'essor  k  sa  profonde  in- 
dication.— De  toutes  parts  cependant  les  soldats  et  lr» 
peuples  accouroient,  ils  vouloient  voir  cet  homme,  Jadit 
si  puissant,  et  la  joie  universelle  eclatoit  de  toutes  parts. 
******** 

"  Eccelin  etoit  d'une  petite  tailln  ;  mais  tout  i'aspecl 
de  sa  personne,  tous  s«s  mouvoments  indiquoier.t  u* 
soldat. — Son  langage  etoit  amer,  son  deportemer.l  s-.» 
perbe — et  par  son  scul  regard  il  faisoit  trembler  k* 
plus  hardis."  Sismondi,  tome  ni.  pp.  219,  220. 

"Gizericus  (Genseric,  king  of  the  Vandals,  the  con 
qucror  of  both  Carthage  and  Rome),  statura  mediocm 


I7C 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


el  equi  casu  ch.udicans,  animo  profundus,  sermone  ra- 
rus,  luxuri;c  contemptor,  ira  turbidus,  habendi  cupidus, 
ad  sollicitandas  gentes  providentissimus,"  etc.,  etc. 
Junumdes  de  Rebus  Getids,  c.  33. 

1  b«  g  leave  to  quote  these  gloomy  realities,  to  keep  in 
countenance  rny  Giaour  and  Corsair. 

Note  6.  Page  166,  line  19. 
And  my  stern  vow  and  order's  laws  oppose. 
The  Dervises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different  orders, 
as  the  Monks. 

Note  7.  Page  166,  line  54. 
They  seize  that  Dervise ! — seize  on  Zatanai ! 
Satan. 

Note  8.  Page  166,  line  75. 
He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight. 
A  common  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Mussulman 
anger.  See  Prince  Eugene's  Memoirs,  page  24.  "  The 
Seraskier  received  a  wound  in  the  thigh ;  he  plucked 
up  his  beard  by  the  roots,  because  •  he  was  obliged  to 
quit  the  field." 

Note  9.  Page  166,  line  119. 
Brief  time  had  'Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare. 
Gulnare,  a  female  name ;    it  means,  literally,  the 
flower  of  the  pomegranate. 

Note  10.  Page  168,  line  100. 
Till  even  the  scaffold  echoes  with  their  jest! 
In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  the  scaffold, 
and  Anne  Boleyn  in  the  Tower,  when  grasping  her  neck, 
she  remarked,  that  "  it  was  too  slender  to  trouble  the 
headsman  much."  During  one  part  of  the  French  Rev- 
olution, it  became  a  fashion  to  leave  some  "  mot "  as  a 
legacy  ;  and  the  quantity  of  facetious  last  words  spoken 
during  that  period,  would  form  a  melancholy  jest-book 
of  a  considerable  size. 

Note  11.  Page  169,  line  113. 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  latest  day  ! 
Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sun- 
set (the  hour  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the  en- 
treaties of  his  disciples  to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 

Note  12.  Page  170,  \.  e  10. 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign. 
The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our 
own  country;  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in 
summer  of  shorter  duration. 

Note  13.  Page  170,  line  20. 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk. 
The  kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house  ;  the  palm  is 
without  the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the 
temple  of  Theseus,  between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall 
intervenes. — Cephisus'  stream  is  indeed  scanty,  and 
Ilissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 

Note  14.  Page  170,  line  30. 
That  frown — wlicre  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile. 
Trie  opening  lines  as  far  as  Section  II.  have,  perhaps, 
little  business  here,  and  were  annexed  to  an  unpub- 
lished,  (though  printed)  poem;  but  they  were  written 
or,  the  spot  in  the  spring  of  1811,  and — I  scarce  know 
why — ihe  reader  must  <JXCU«P  their  appearance  here  if 
h««  can. 

Note  15.  Page  170,  .me  116. 
His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads. 
The  coruboloio,  or  Mahometan  rosarv  ;  the  beads  are 
in  number  ninety-nine  • 


Note  16.  Paco  174,  line  98. 
And  the  cold  flowers  her  colder  hand  contain'd. 
In  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers  on  the 
bodies  of  the  dead,  and  in  the  hands  of  young  persons 
to  place  a  nosegay. 

Note  17.  Page  175,  line  65. 
Link'd  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  crimes. 

That  the  point  of  honour  which  is  represented  in  one 
instance  of  Conrad's  character  has  not  been  carried 
beyond  the  bounds  of  probability,  rruiy  perhaps  be  in 
some  degree  confirmed  by  the  folk  rig  anecdote  of  a 
brother  buccaneer  in  the  present  •  a.r,  1814. 

Our  readers  have  all  seen  tin  Account  of  the  enter- 
prise against  the  pirates  of  Barrataria ;  but  few,  we  be- 
lieve, were  informed  of  the  situation,  history,  or  nature 
of  that  establishment.  For  the  information  of  such  as 
were  unacquainted  with  it,  we  have  procured  from  a 
friend  the  following  interesting  narrative  of  the  main 
facts,  of  which  he  has  personal  knowludge,  and  which 
cannot  fail  to  interest  some  of  our  readers. 

Barrataria  is  a  bay,  or  a  narrow  arm  of  the  gulf  of 
Mexico  ;  it  runs  through  a  rich  but  very  flat  country, 
until  it  reaches  within  a  mile  of  the  Mississippi  river, 
fifteen  miles  below  the  city  of  New-Orleans.  The  bay 
has  branches  almost  innumerable,  in  which  persona 
can  lie  concealed  from  the  severest  scrutiny.  It  com- 
municates with  three  lakes  which  lie  on  the  south-west 
side,  and  these,  with  the  lake  of  the  same  name,  and 
which  lies  contiguous  to  the  sea,  where  there  is  an  island 
formed  by  the  two  arms  of  this  lake  and  the  sea.  The 
east  and  west  points  of  this  island  were  fortified  in  the 
year  1811,  by  a  band  of  pirates,  under  the  command  of 
one  Monsieur  La  Fitte.  A  large  majority  of  these  out- 
laws are  of  that  class  of  the  population  of  the  state  of 
Louisiana  who  fled  from  the  island  of  St.  Domingo 
during  the  troubles  there,  and  took  refuge  in  the  island 
of  Cuba:  and  when  the  last  war  between  France  and 
Spain  commenced,  they  were  compelled  to  leave  that 
island  with  the  short  notice  of  a  few  days.  Without 
ceremony,  they  entered  the  United  States,  the  most  of 
them  the  State  of  Louisiana,  with  all  the  negroes  they 
had  possessed  in  Cuba.  They  were  notified  by  the  Gov- 
ernor of  that  Stale  of  the  clause  in  the  constitution 
which  forbad  the  importation  of  slaves ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  received  the  assurance  of  the  Governor  that 
he  would  obtain,  if  possible,  the  approbation  of  the  gen- 
eral Government  for  their  retaining  this  property. 

The  island  of  Barrataria  is  situated  about  lat.  29.  deg. 
15  min.  Ion.  92. 30.  and  is  as  remarkable  for  its  health  aa 
for  the  superior  scale  and  shell-fish  with  which  its  waters 
abound.  The  chief  of  this  horde,  like  Charles  de  Moor, 
had  mixed  with  his  many  vices  some  virtues.  In  the  year 
1813,  this  party  had,  from  its  turpitude  and  boldness, 
claimed  the  attention  of  the  Governor  of  Louisiana;  and 
to  break  up  the  establishment,  he  thought  proper  to 
strike  at  the  head.  He  therefore  offered  a  reward  of  500 
:lollars  for  the  head  of  Monsieur  La  Fitte,-who  was  well 
known  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  of  New 
from  his  immediate  connexion,  and  his  or  ;e  having  been 
a  fencing-master  in  that  city  of  great  reputation,  whioh 
art  he  learnt  in  Buonaparte's  army,  where  he  vto.9  a 
Captain.  The  reward  which  was  offered  by  the  Governor 
for  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was  cnswerecl  pvthe  offer  ot  n 
reward  from  the  latter  of  15,000  fot  the  nead  of  tlw 
(Governor.  The  Governor  ordered  out  a  cc  mpaiiy  w 


LARA. 


177 


march  from  the  city  to  La  Fitte's  island,  and  to  burn  and 
destroy  all  the  property,  and  to  bring  to  the  city  of  New- 
Orleans  all  his  banditti.  This  company,  under  the  com- 
mand of  a  man  who  had  been  the  intimate  associate  of 
this  bold  Captain,  approached  very  near  «o  the  fortified 
island,  before  he  saw  a  man,  or  heard  a  sound,  until  he 
heard  a  whistle,  not  unlike  a  boatswain's  call.  Then  it 
was  he  found  himself  surrounded  by  armed  men,  who 
had  emerged  from  the  secret  avenues  which  led  into 
Bayou.  Here  it  was  that  the  modern  Charles  de  Moor 
developed  his  few  noble  traits ;  for  to  this  man,  who  had 
come  to  destroy  his  life,  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him,  he 
not  only  spared  his  life,  but  offered  him  that  which  would 
have  made  the  honest  soldier  easy  for  the  remainder  of 
his  days,  which  was  indignantly  refused.  He  then,  with 
the  approbation  of  his  captor,  returned  to  the  city.  This 
circumstance,  and  some  concomitant  events,  proved  that 
this  band  of  pirates  was  not  to  be  taken  by  land.  Our 
naval  force  having  always  been  small  in  that  quarter, 
exertions  for  the  destruction  of  this  illicit  establishment 
could  not  be  expected  from  them  until  augmented ;  for 
an  officer  of  the  navy,  with  most  of  the  gun-boats  on 
that  station,  had  to  retreat  from  an  overwhelming  force 
of  La  Fitte's.  So  soon  as  the  augmentation  of  the 
navy  authorized  an  attack,  one  was  made ;  the  over- 
throw of  this  banditti  has  been  the  result ;  and  now  this 
almost  invulnerable  point  and  key  to  New-Orleans  is 
clear  of  an  enemy,  it  is  to  be  hoped  the  government 
will  hold  it  by  a  strong  military  force. — From  an  Ameri- 
can Newspaper. 

In  Noble's  continuation  of  Granger's  Biographica 
Dictionary,  there  is  a  singular  passage  in  his  account  of 
archbishop  Blackbourne,  and  as  in  some  measure  con- 
nected with  the  profession  of  the  hero  of  the  foregoing 
poem,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  extracting  it : 

"There  is  something  mysterious  in  the  history  anc 
character  of  Dr.  Blackbourne.  The  former  is  but  im- 
perfectly known  ;  and  report  has  even  asserted  he  was 
a  buccaneer ;  and  that  one  of  his  brethren  in  that  pro- 
fession  having  asked,  on  his  arrival  in  England,  wha 
had  become  of  his  "M  chum,  Blackbourne,  was  an- 


swered, he  is  Archbishop  of  York.  We  are  informed, 
hat  Blackbourne  was  installed  sub-dean  of  Exeter  if 
1694,  which  office  he  resigned  in  1702:  but  after  his 
successor,  Lewis  Barnet's  death,  in  1704,  he  regained 
t.  In  the  following  year  he  became  dean  ;  and,  in  1714, 
leld  with  it  the  archdeanery  of  Cornwall.  He  was  COP 
secrated  bishop  of  Exeter,  February  24,  1716  ;  ani> 
translated  to  York,  November  28,  1724,  as  a  reward, 
according  to  court  scandal,  for  uniting  George  I.  to  the 
Duchess  of  Munster.  This,  however,  appears  to  have 
seen  an  unfounded  calumny.  As  archbishop,  he  behaved 
with  great  prudence,  and  was  equally  respectable  as  the 
uardian  of  the  revenues  of  the  see.  Rumour  whis- 
pered he  retained  the  vices  of  his  youth,  and  that  a 
passion  for  the  fair  sex  formed  an  item  in  the  list  of  his 
weaknesses ;  but  so  far  from  being  convicted  by  seventy 
witnesses,  he  does  not  appear  to  have  been  directly 
criminated  by  one.  In  short,  I  look  upon  these  asper- 
sions as  the  effects  of  mere  malice.  How  is  it  possible  a 
buccaneer  should  have  been  so  good  a  scholar  as  Black- 
bourne  certainly  was  ?  he  who  had  so  perfect  a  know- 
ledge of  the  classics  (particularly  of  the  Greek  trage- 
dians), as  to  be  able  to  read  them  with  the  same  ease 
as  he  could  Shakspeare,  must  have  taken  great  pains 
to  acquire  the  learned  languages ;  and  have  had  both 
leisure  and  good  masters.  But  he  was  undoubtedly 
educated  at  Christ-church  College,  Oxford.  He  is  al- 
lowed to  have  been  a  pleasant  man :  this,  however,  was 
turned  against  him,  by  its  being  said,  '  he  gained  more 
hearts  than  souls.' " 

"  The  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  th« 
savage  (Alphonso  3d)  was  that  of  an  amiable  and  vir 
tuous  wife,  the  sole  object  of  his  love ;  the  voice  of 
Donna  Isabella,  the  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy, 
and  the  grand-daughter  of  Philip  II.  King  of  Spain. — 
Her  dying  words  sunk  deep  into  his  memory ;  his  fiercs 
spirit  melted  into  tears ;  and,  after  the  last  embrace, 
Alphonso  retired  into  his  chamber  to  bewail  his  irre- 
parable loss,  and  to  meditate  on  the  vanity  of  human 
life." — Miscellaneous  Works  of  Gibbon,  new  edition, 
8vo.  vol.  5.  page  473. 


A  TALE. 


CANTO  I. 


i. 

I  HE  serfs  are  glad  through  Lara's  wide  domain, 
\nd  slavery  half  forgets  her  feudal  chain ; 
Vie,  their  unhoped,  but  unfcrgotten  lord, 
The  long  self-exiled  chieftain  is  restored : 
Fhete  be  bright  faces  in  the  busy  hall, 
Bowls  on  the  board,  and  banners  on  the  wall ; 
Far  snookering  o'er  the  pictured  window,  plays 
The  unwonted  faggots'  hospitable  blaze ; 
And  gay  retainers  gather  round  the  hearth, 
With  tongues  all  loudness,  and  with  eyes  all  mirth. 
T  2P 


n. 

The  chief  of  Lara  is  return'd  again : 
And  why  had  Lara  cross'd  the  bounding  mam  7 
Left  by  his  sire,  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 
Lord  of  himself; — that  heritage  of  woe — 
That  fearful  empire  which  the  human  breast 
But  holds  to  rob  the  heart  within  of  rest ! — 
With  none  to  check,  and  few  to  point  in  time 
The  thousand  paths  that  slope  the  way  to  crime , 
Then,  when  he  most  required  commandment,  Viefi 
Had  Lara's  daring  boyhood  govern'd  men. 
It  skills  not,  boots  not,  step  by  step  to  trace 
His  youth  through  all  the  mazes  of  ;ts  race ; 
Short  was  the  course  his  restlessness  had  run. 
But  long  enough  to  leave  him  half  undone. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


BL 

And  Lara  lefiin)  oath  his  father-land  ; 
Bat  from  the  boar  be  wared  his  parting  hand 
Each  trace  waxM  fainter  of  his  course,  tin  aH 
Had  Dearly  ceased  his  memory  to  recall. 
His  sire  was  dost,  his  vassals  could  declare, 
T  was  aO  they  knew,  that  Lara  was  out  there  ; 
Nor  sent,  nor  came  he,  till  conjecture  grew 
Cold  in  the  many,  anxious  in  the  few. 
His  hal  scarce  echoes  with  his  wonted  name, 
His  portrait  darkens  in  its  fijiijj,'  frame, 
Another  chief  consoled  his  destined  bride, 
Fbe  young  fcrgol  him,  and  the  old  had  died: 
*  Yet  doth  be  fire?"  exclaims  the  impatient  beir, 
And  sighs  for  sables  which  he  most  not  wear. 
A  hawked  'scutcheons  deck  with  gloomy  grace 
The  Laras9  last  and  longest  dweffing-phce  ; 
But  one  is  absent  from  the  mouldering  fife, 
That  now  were  welcome  in  that  Gothic  pile. 

IV. 

IT*.  -----  -     _•  !••*  M  -,,  ,1  I,,,  i  .„  mr...  ,  . 

ne  Mnnf.il  ax  last  •  HKMITII  loiieuness, 

And  whence  they  know  not,  whj  they  need  not  goes*  ; 

They  more  might  marvel,  when  the  greeting's  o'er, 

Not  that  he  came,  but  came  not  long  before: 

No  tram  in  his  beyond  a  single  page, 

Of  foreign  aspect,  and  of  lender  age. 

Years  had  roIPd  on,  and  fast  they  speed  away, 

T>  those  that  wandW  as  to  those  that  stay: 

But  lack  of  tidings  from  another  cfime, 

Had  lent  a  flagging  wing  to  weary  time, 

They  see,  they  recognise,  yet  almost  deem 

The  present  dubious,  or  the  past  a  dream. 


nor  yet  is  passM  his  manhood's  prime, 
Though  searM  by  toil,  and  something  tooeh'd  by  time: 
Bs  tanks,  whate'er  they  were,  if  scarce  forgot, 
Might  be  untaoght  him  by  bis  varied  lot  ; 
Nor  good  nor  31  of  late  were  known,  his  name 
Might  yet  uphold  his  patrimonial  fame: 
His  soul  in  youth  was  haughty,  bnt  Us  sins 
No  mute  than  pleasure  from  the  stnpung  wins  £ 
And  such,  if  not  yet  hardenM  m  their  course, 
BAjgnt  be  redeem  d,  nor  nsk  &  lung  remorse. 

V. 

And  they  indeed  were  changed—  'tis  quickly  seen 
Whate'er  be  be,  'twas  not  what  he  had  been: 
That  brow  m  furrowM  fines  had  fix'd  at  last, 
And  spake  of  passions,  but  of  paanon  past: 
The  pride,  bat  not  the  fire,  of  early  days, 
Coldness  of  mien,  and  carelessness  of  praise  ; 
A  high  demeanour,  and  a  glance  that  took 
Their  thoughts  from  others  by  a  single  look  ; 
And  mat  sarcastic  levity  of  tongue, 
The  stinging  of  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung, 
That  darts  in  seeming  playfulness  around, 
And  makes  those  feel  that  wffl  not  own  the  wound  ; 
AH  these  seem'd  Ins,  and  somethmg  more  beneath, 
Than  glance  could  weB  reveal,  or  accent  breathe. 
Ambition,  glory,  love,  the  common  aim, 
That  some  can  conquer,  and  that  all  would  chum, 
Within  ms  breast  appearM  no  more  to  strive, 
Yet  MCM'd  as  lately  they  had  been  alive; 
And  some  deep  teeing  k  were  rain  to  trace 
At  moments  ughten'd  o'er  kts  Evid  face. 


VI. 

Not  much  he  loved  long  question  of  the  past. 
Nor  told  of  wondrous  wilds,  and  deserts  vast. 
In  those  far  lands  where  he  had  wan  Jer'd  lone, 
And— as  himself  would  hare  it  seem — unknown 
Yet  these  in  rain  his  ere  could  scarcely  scan, 
Nor  glean  experience  from  his  fellow-man ; 
Bat  what  be  bad  beheld  he  shunn'd  to  show, 
As  hardly  worth  a  stranger's  care  to  know ; 
If  stiffl  more  prying  such  inquiry  grew, 
His  brow  fell  darker,  and  his  words  more  few. 

VIL 

Not  unrejoiced  to  see  him  once  again, 
Warm  was  his  welcome  to  the  haunts  of  men : 
Born  of  high  lineage,  link'd  in  high  command, 
He  mingled  with  the  magnates  of  his  land ; 
Join'd  the  caronsab  of  the  great  and  gay, 
And  saw  them  sonic  or  sigh  their  hours  away  • 
Bat  sal  he  only  saw,  and  did  not  share 
The  common  pleasure  or  the  general  care ; 
He  did  not  follow  what  they  all  pursued 
With  hope  still  baffled,  still  to  be  renewM ; 
Nor  shadowy  honour,  nor  «nh«»^nrial  gain, 
Nor  beauty's  preference,  and  the  rival's  pain : 
Around  him  some  mysterious  circle  thrown 
ReoeQ'd  approach,  and  show'd  him  still  alone ; 
Upon  his  eye  sat  somethmg  of  reproof 
That  kept  at  least  frivolity  aloof; 
And  things  more  timid  that  beheld  him  near, 
In  silence  gazed,  or  whisper'd  mutual  fear. 
And  they  the  wiser,  friendlier  few  confest 
They  deem'd  hint  better  than  bis  air  expresu 

VIII. 

T  was  strange— in  youth  al  action  and  all  life, 
Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife ; 
Woman— the  field— the  ocean— all  that  gave 
Piomisc  of  gladness,  peril  of  a  grave, 
In  torn  he  tried— be  ransack'd  all  below, 
And  found  his  lecompensis  in  joy  or  woe, 
No  tame,  trite  medium ;  for  his  feelings  sought 
In  that  intenseness  an  escape  from  thought : 
The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 
On  that  the  feebler  elements  hath  raised ; 
The  rapture  of  his  heart  had  iook'd  on  high, 
And  ask'd  if  greater  dwelt  beyond  the  sky : 
Chain'd  to  excess,  the  slave  of  each  extreme, 
How  woke  be  from  the  wildness  of  that  dream? 
Alas!  he  told  not— but  be  did  awake 
To  curse  the  wiiher'd  bean  that  would  not  break 

IX. 

Books,  for  his  volume  heretofore  was  Man, 
With  eye  more  curious  he  appear'd  to  scan, 
And  oft,  in  sadden  mood,  for  many  a  day 
From  afl  communion  be  would  start  away . 
And  then,  his  rarely-caJPd  attendants  said, 
Through  night's  long  hoars  would  sound  his  hutnna 

tread 

O'er  the  dark  gallery,  where  his  fathers  jown'd 
In  rode  bat  antique  portraiture  around : 
They  beard,  bat  whisper'd,  u  that  must  not  be  known 
The  sound  of  words  less  earthly  than  his  own. 
Yes,  they  who  chose  might  ramie,  bnt  some  had  seen 
They  scarce  knew  what,  »<ut  more  than  should  ha* 


LARA. 


.73 


Why  gazed  be  so  upon  the  ghastly  head 

Which  hands  profane  had  gathered  from  the  dead, 

That  stifl  beside  hi*  open'd  volume  lay, 

As  if  10  startle  efl  save  him  away  ? 

Why  slept  be  not  when  others  were  at  rest? 

Why  heard  DO  music,  and  received  no  guest? 

All  was  not  wen  they  deem'd — but  where  the  wrong? 

Some  knew  perchance— bat  *t  were  a  tale  too  long ; 

And  such  besides  were  loo  discreetly  wise, 

To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  surmise: 

But  if  they  would— they  could"— around  the  board, 

Thus  Lara's  vassals  prattled  of  their  lord. 


It  was  the  night — and  Lara's  glassy  stream 

The  stars  are  studding,  each  with  imaged  beam 

So  calm,  the  waters  scarcely  seem  to  stray, 

And  yet  they  glide  like  happiness  away ; 

Reflecting  far  and  fairy-like  from  ugh 

The  immortal  lights  that  five  along  the  sky: 

Its  banks  are  fringed  with  many  a  goodly  tree, 

And  flowers  the  fairest  that  may  feast  the  bee ; 

Such  in  her  chaplet  infant  Dian  wove, 

And  Innocence  would  oder  to  her  love, 

These  deck  the  shore;  the  waves  their  channel 

In  windings  bright  and  mazy  like  the  snake. 

Al  was  so  still,  so  soft  in  earth  and  air, 

You  scarce  would  start  to  meet  a  spirit  there  • 

Secure  that  nought  of  evil  could  deight 

To  walk  in  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  night! 

It  was  a  moment  only  far  the  good : 

So  Lara  deem'd,  nor  longer  there  be  stood, 

But  tum'd  in  silence  to  hb  castle-gate ; 

Such  scene  hb  soul  no  more  could  contemplate: 

Such  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days, 

Of  skies  more  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze, 

Of  nights  more  soft  and  frequent,  hearts  that  noi 

No— oo— the  storm  may  beat  upon  his  brow, 

Unfed— unsparing— but  a  night  like  this, 

A  night  of  beauty,  mock'd  such  breast  as  hb. 

XL 

He  tunrM  within  hb  solitary  hall, 
And  hb  high  shadow  shot  along  the  waB ; 
There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times, 
T  was  all  they  left  of  virtues  or  of  crimes, 
Save  vague  tradition ;  and  the  gloomy  vauks 
That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  their  f 
And  half  a  column  of  the  pompous  page, 
That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  age  ; 
Where  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies, 
And  Bes  like  truth,  and  soil  most  truly  bes. 
He  wandering  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeam  shone 
Through  the  dim  lattice  o'er  the  floor  of  stone, 
And  the  high  fretted  roof,  and  saints,  that  there 
O'er  Gothic  windows  knek  in  pictured  prayer, 
Reflected  in  fantastic  figures  grew, 
Ljke  We,  but  not  like  mortal  fife,  to  view  ; 
His  brisuug  locks  oC  sable,  brow  of  gloom, 
And  the  wide  waving  of  hb  shake*  plume, 
Glanced  fike  a  spectre's  attributes,  and  gave 
Hb  aspect  afl  that  tenor  gives  the  grave. 

xn. 

Twasmi.mi.ht     .3  was  slumber ;  the  lone  fight 
>  toe  lamp,  a*  loth  to  break  the  sight. 


Hark!  there  be  murmurs  heard  in  Lara's  haft— 
A  sound— «  voice- a  shridt— a  fearful  call. 
A  long,  kind  shriek— and  silence— did  they  near 
That  frantic  echo  burst  the  deeping  ear  ?" 
They  heard  and  rose,  and,  tremulously  bra»e, 
Rush  where  the  sound  invoked  their  aid  to  save; 
They  come  with  half-fit  tapers  m  thesr  hands, 
And  snatch'd  in  startled  haste  unbelted  brands. 

•xm. 

Cold  as  the  marble  where  bb  length  was  bid, 
Pale  as  the  beam  that  o'er  hb  features  playM, 
Was  Lara  streteh'd  ;  bb  half-drawn  sabre  near, 
Dropp'd  it  should  seem  in  more  than  nature's  fear ; 
Yet  be  was  firm,  or  had  been  firm  tiB  now, 
And  stifl  defiance  knk  hb  gather'd  brow  ; 
Though  mixM  with  terror,  senseless  as  he  lay, 
There  bred  upon  bb  Ep  the  wish  to  slay ; 
Some  halUarm'd  threat  m  utterance  there  had  dbtl, 
Some  imprecation  of  despairing  pride  ; 
Hb  eye  was  almost  seaTd,  but  not  forsook, 
Eve*  m  ks  trance,  the  gladiator's  look, 
That  oft  awake  hb  aspect  could  dbdose, 

d  now  was  fix'd  m  horrible  repose. 
They  rake  him    bMibba;  bush!  be  breathes,  he  spate 
The  swarthy  blush  reoolonrs  m  hb  cheeks, 
Hb  Ep  resumes  ks  red,  hb  eye,  though  dim, 
Rafts  wide  and  wfld,  each  slowly-quivering  finm 


In  terms  that  seem  not  of  his  native  tongoe; 
Distinct,  but  strange,  enough  they  OB  Vrstand 
To  deem  them  accents  of  another  lard; 
And  such  they  were,  and  meant  to  meet  an  eai 
That  hears  hmt  not    mYnl  that  cannot  hear' 

XIV. 

His  page  approachM,  and  be  alone  appeared 
To  know  the  impart  of  the  words  they  heard  , 


They  were  not  such  as  Lara  should  avow, 

Nor  he  interpret,  yet  with  less  surprise 

Than  those  around  their  chieftain's  stale  he  eyes, 

But  Lara's  prostrate  farm  he  bent  beside, 

And  m  that  tongue  which  seem'd  hb  own  replied; 

And  Lara  heeds  those  tones  that  gently  seem 

To  soothe  away  the  horrors  of  hb  dream, 

If  dream  k  were,  that  thus  could  overthrow 

A  breast  that  heeded  not  ideal  woe. 


XV. 


\Vh-eVr  h.s  pan 


n  d  or  eye  behrfci, 


If  yet  remember  d  ne'er  to  be  reveaPd, 
Rests  at  bb  heart.— The  'customM  mormng 
And  breathed  *ew  vigour  m  hb  shaken  frame  ; 
1  snhre  sought  he  me  from  priest  nor 

As  heretofore  he  flPd  the  passing  hoars, 
Nor  less  he  smies,  nor  more  hb  forehead  lours, 
i*  these  were  wont;  and  if  die  .in  IIIL  night 
AppearM  less  welcome  now  to  Lara's  sigm, 
He  to  bb  marvelling  vassals  showd  k  nut, 
Whose  shuddering  proved  Aar  fear  was 
In  trembfing  pan  (alone  they  dare  not)  crawi 
The  astoamVd  slaves,  and  shon  the  fated  haS 
The  waving! 


ICO 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  long  dim  shadows  of  surrounding  trees, 
The  flapping  bat,  the  night-song  of  the  breeze ; 
Aught  they  behold  or  hear  their  thought  appals, 
As  evening  saddens  o'er  the  dark  gray  walls. 

XVI. 

Vain  thought !  that  hour  of  ne'er  unravell'd  gloom 

Came  not  again,  or  Lara  could  assume 

A  seeming  of  forgetfulness,  that  made 

His  vassals  more  amazed  nor  less  afraid — 

Had  memory  vanish'd  then  with  sense  restor'd  ? 

Since  word,  nor  look,  nor  gesture  of  their  lord 

Betray'd  a  feeling  that  recall'd  to  these 

That  fevcr'd  moment  of  his  mind's  disease. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  was  his  the  voice  that  spoke 

Those  strange  wild  accents  ?  his  the  cry  that  broke 

Their  slumber  ?  his  the  oppress'd  o'er-labour'd  heart 

That  ceased  to  beat,  the  look  that  made  them  start  ? 

Could  he  who  thus  had  suffer'd  so  forget, 

When  such  as  saw  that  suffering  shudder  yet? 

Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memory  fix'd 

J'oo  deep  for  words,  indelible,  unmix'd 

In  that  corroding  secrecy  which  gnaws 

The  heart  to  show  the  effect,  but  nrr1.  the  cause? 

Not  so  in  him ;  his  breast  had  buried  both, 

Nor  common  gazers  could  discern  the  growth 

Of  thoughts  that  mortal  lips  must  leave  half-told  ; 

They  choke  the  feeble  words  that  would  unfold. 

XVII. 

In  him  inexplical.  y  mix'd  appcar'd 

Much  to  be  loved  and  hated,  sought  and  fear'd ; 

Opinion  varying  o'er  his  hidden  lot, 

In  piaise  or  railing  ne'er  his  name  forgot; 

His  silence  form'd  a  theme  for  others'  prate — 

They  guess'd — they  gazed — they  fain  would  know  his  fate. 

What  had  he  been  ?  what  was  he,  thus  unknown, 

Who  walk'd  their  world,  his  lineage  only  known? 

A  hater  of  his  kind  ?  yet  some  would  say, 

With  them  he  could  seem  gay  amidst  the  gay ; 

But  own'd,  that  smile,  if  oft  observed  and  near, 

Waned  in  its  mirth,  and  wither'd  to  a  sneer  ; 

That  smile  might  reach  his  lip,  but  pass'd  not  by, 

None  e'er  could  trace  its  laughter  to  his  eye : 

Yet  there  was  softness  too  in  his  regard, 

At  times,  a  heart  as  not  by  nature  hard, 

But  once  perceived,  his  spirit  seem'd  to  chide 

Such  weakness,  as  unworthy  of  its  pride, 

And  steel'd  itself,  as  scorning  to  redeem 

One  doubt  from  others'  half-withheld  esteem ; 

In  self-inflicted  penance  of  a  breast 

Which  tenderness  might  once  have  wrung  from  rest ; 

In  vigilance  of  grief  that  would  compel 

That  soul  to  hate  for  having  loved  too  well. 

XVIII. 

fhcie  was  in  him  a  vital  scorn  of  all : 
As  if  the  worst  had  fall'n  which  could  befall, 
He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world, 
An  nrrmg  spirit  from  another  hurl'd ; 
A  tlung  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 
By  Choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped , 
But  'scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 
His  mind  would  half  exult  and  half  regret : 
With  more  capacity  for  love  than  earth 
Bestows  on  most  of  mortal  mou'd  and  birth, 


His  early  dreams  of  good  outstripp'd  the  truth, 

And  troubled  manhood  follow'd  baffled  youth  ; 

With  thought  of  years  in  phantom  chase  mispent, 

And  wasted  powers  for  better  purpose  lent ; 

And  fiery  passions  that  had  pour'd  their  wrath 

In  hurried  desolation  o'er  his  path, 

And  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 

In  wild  reflection  o'er  his  stormy  life ; 

But  haughty  still,  and  loth  himself  to  blame, 

He  call'd  on  Nature's  self  to  share  the  shame, 

And  charged  all  faults  upon  the  fleshly  form 

She  gave  to  clog  the  soul,  and  feast  the  worm ; 

Till  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  ill, 

And  half  mistook  for  fate  the  acts  of  will : 

Too  high  for  common  selfishness,  he  could 

At  times  resign  his  own  for  others'  good, 

But  not  in  pity,  not  because  he  ought, 

But  in  some  strange  perversity  of  thought, 

That  sway'd  him  onward  with  a  secret  pride 

To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside  ; 

And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time, 

Mislead  his  spirit  equally  to  crime  ; 

So  much  he  soar'd  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath 

The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condemn'd  to  breathe, 

And  long'd  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 

Himself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state ; 

His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fix'd  her  throne 

Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own : 

Thus  coldly  passing  all  that  pass'd  below, 

His  blood  in  temperate  seeming  now  would  flow : 

Ah  !  happier  if  it  ne'er  with  guilt  had  glow'd, 

But  ever  in  that  icy  smoothness  flow'd ! 

'T  is  true,  with  other  men  their  path  he  walk'd, 

And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  talk'd, 

Nor  outraged  reason's  rules  by  flaw  nor  start, 

His  madness  was  not  of  the  head,  but  heart ; 

And  rarely  wander'd  in  his  speech,  or  drew 

His  thoughts  so  forth  as  to  offend  the  view. 

XIX. 

With  all  that  chilling  mystery  of  mien, 
And  seeming  gladness  to  remain  unseen, 
He  had  (if  't  were  not  nature's  boon)  an  art 
Of  fixing  memory  on  another's  heart : 
It  was  not  love  perchance — nor  hate — nor  aught 
That  words  can  image  to  express  the  thought , 
But  they  who  saw  him  did  not  see  in  vain, 
And  once  beheld,  would  ask  of  him  again  : 
And  those  to  whom  he  spake  remember'd  well, 
And  on  the  words,  however  light,  would  dwell: 
None  knew,  nor  how,  nor  why,  but  he  entwined 
Himself  perforce  around  the  hearer's  mind ; 
There  he  was  stamp'd  in  liking,  or  in  hate, 
If  greeted  once  ;  however  brief  the  date 
That  friendship,  pity,  or  aversion  knew, 
Still  there  within  the  inmost  thought  he  grew. 
You  could  not  penetrate  his  soul,  but  found, 
Despite  your  wonder,  to  your  own  he  wound  , 
His  presence  haunted  still ;  and  from  the  breast 
He  forced  an  all-unwilling  interest : 
Vain  was  the  struggle  in  that  mental  net, 
His  spirit  seem'd  to  dare  you  to  forget ! 

XX. 

There  is  a  festival,  where  knights  and  dames, 
And  aught  that  wealth  or  lofty  linetge  claim* 


LARA. 


18' 


Appear — a  high-born  and  a  welcome  guest, 
To  Otho's  hall  came  Lara  with  the  rest. 
The  long  carousal  shakes  the  illumined  hall, 
Well  speeds  alike  the  banquet  and  the  ball ; 
And  the  gay  dance  of  bounding  beauty's  train 
Links  grace  and  harmony  in  happiest  chain : 
Blest  are  the  early  hearts  and  gentle  hands 
That  mingle  there  in  well-according  bands ; 
Ii  is  a  sight  the  careful  brow  might  smooth, 
And  make  age  smile,  and  dream  itself  to  youth, 
And  youth  forget  such  hour  was  pass'd  on  earth, 
So  springs  the  exulting  bosom  to  that  mirth ! 

XXI. 

And  Lara  gazed  on  these,  sedately  glad, 

His  brow  belied  him  if  his  soul  was  sad ; 

And  his  glance  follow'd  fast  each  fluttering  fair, 

Whose  steps  of  lightness  woke  no  echo  there : 

He  lean'd  against  the  lofty  pillar  nigh, 

With  folded  arms  and  long  attentive  eye, 

Nor  mark'd  a  glance  so  sternly  fix'd  on  his — 

111  brook'd  high  Lara  scrutiny  like  this: 

At  length  he  caught  it,  't  is  a  face  unknown, 

But  seems  as  searching  his,  and  his  alone ; 

Prying  and  dark,  a  stranger's  jy  his  mien, 

Who  still  till  now  had  gazed  on  him  unseen ; 

At  length  encountering  meets  the  mutual  gaze 

Of  keen  inquiry,  and  of  mute  amaze ; 

On  Lara's  glance  emotion  gathering  grew, 

As  if  distrusting  that  the  stranger  threw  ; 

Along  the  stranger's  aspect  fix'd  and  stern, 

Flash'd  more  than  thence  the  vulgar  eye  could  learn. 

XXII. 

*•  T  is  he!"  the  stranger  cried,  and  those  that  heard 

Re-echoed  fast  and  far  the  whisper'd  word. 

"  'T  is  he !" — "  'T  is  who  ?"  they  question  far  and  near, 

Till  louder  accents  rung  on  Lara's  ear ; 

So  widely  spread,  few  bosoms  well  could  brook 

The  general  marvel,  or  that  single  look  : 

But  Lara  stirr'd  not,  changed  not,  the  surprise 

That  sprung  at  first  to  his  arrested  eyes, 

Seem'd  now  subsided,  neither  sunk  nor  raised, 

Glanced  his  eye  round,  though  still  the  stranger  gazed  ; 

And  drawing  nigh,  exclaim'd,  with  haughty  sneer, 

"  'T  is  he! — how  came  he  thence  ? — whatdoth  he  here?" 

XXIII. 

It  were  too  much  for  Lara  to  pass  by 
Such  question,  so  repeated  fierce  and  high  ; 
With  look  collected,  but  with  accent  cold, 
More  mildly  firm  than  petulantly  bold, 
He  turn'd,  and  met  the  inquisitorial  tone — 
"  My  name  is  Lara  ! — when  thine  own  is  known, 
Doubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  requite 
The  unlook'd-for  courtesy  of  such  a  knight. 
'T  is  Lara ! — further  wouldst  thou  mark  or  ask, 
I  shun  no  question,  and  I  wear  no  mask." 

"  Thou  shun'st  no  question !  Ponder — is  there  none 
Thy  heart  must  answer,  though  thine  ear  would  shun? 
And  deem'st  thou  me  unknown  too  ?  Gaze  again  ! 
At  fcast  thy  memory  was  not  given  in  vain. 
Oh  !  never  canst  thou  cancel  half  her  debt,  • 
Eternitv  forbids  thee  to  forget." 
With  slow  and  searching  glance  upon  his  face 
Grew  Lara's  eyes,  but  nothing  there  could  trace 


They  knew,  or  chose  to  know— with  dubious  look 
He  deign'd  no  answer,  but  his  head  he  shook, 
And  half-contemptuous  turn'd  to  pass  away ; 
But  the  stern  stranger  motion'd  him  to  stay. 
"  A  word  ! — I  charge  thee  stay,  and  answer  he^s 
To  one  who,  wert  thou  noble,  were  thy  peer, 
But  as  thou  wast  and  art — nay,  frown  not,  lord, 
If  false,  't  is  easy  to  disprove  the  word — 
But,  as  thou  wast  and  art,  on  thee  looks  down, 
Distrusts  thy  smiles,  but  shakes  not  at  thy  frown. 

Art  thou  not  he  ?  whose  deeds " 

"  Whate'er  I  be, 

Words  wild  as  these,  accusers  like  to  thee 
I  list  no  further;  those  with  whom  they  weigh 
May  hear  the  rest,  nor  venture  to  gainsay 
The  wond'rous  tale  no  doubt  thy  tongue  can  tell. 
Which  thus  begins  so  courteously  and  well. 
Let  Otho  cherish  here  his  polish'd  guest, 
To  him  my  thanks  and  thoughts  shall  be  expresl." 
And  here  their  wondering  host  hath  interposed— 
"  Whate'er  there  be  between  you  undisclosed, 
This  is  no  time  nor  fitting  place  to  mar 
The  mirthful  meeting  with  a  wordy  war. 
If  thou,  Sir  Ezzelin,  hast  aught  to  show 
Which  it  befits  Count  Lara's  car  to  know, 
To-morrow,  here,  or  elsewhere,  as  may  best 
Beseem  your  mutual  judgment,  speak  the  rest, 
I  pledge  myself  for  thee,  as  not  unknown, 
Though  like  Count  Lara  now  return'd  alone 
From  other  lands,  almost  a  stranger  grown ; 
And  if  from  Lara's  blood  and  gentle  birth 
I  augur  right  of  courage  &nd  of  worth, 
He  will  not  that  untainted  'ine  belie, 
Nor  aught  that  knighthood  may  accord  deny." 
"  To-morrow  be  it,"  Ezzelin  replied, 
"  And  here  our  several  worth  and  truth  be  tried ; 
I  gage  my  life,  my  falchion  to  attest 
My  words,  so  may  I  mingle  with  the  blest!" 
What  answers  Lara  ?  to  its  centre  shrunk 
His  soul,  in  deep  abstraction  sudden  sunk  ; 
The  words  of  many,  and  the  eyes  of  all 
That  there  were  gather'd,  secm'd  on  him  to  fall ; 
But  his  were  silent,  his  appear'd  to  stray 
In  far  forgetfulness  away — away — 
Alas  !  that  heedlessness  of  all  around 
Bespoke  remembrance  only  too  profound. 

XXIV. 

"To-morrow! — ay,  to-morrow!"  further  word 

Than  those  repeated  none  from  Lara  heard ; 

Upon  his  brow  no  outward  passion  spoke, 

From  his  large  eye  no  flashing  anger  broke  ; 

Yet  there  was  something  fix'd  in  that  low  tone, 

Which  show'd  resolve,  determined,  though  unknown. 

He  seized  his  cloak — his  head  he  slightly  bow'd, 

And,  passing  Ezzelin,  he  left  the  crowd  ; 

And,  as  he  pass'd  him,  smiling  met  the  *own 

With  which  that  chieftain's  brow  would  bear  him  down 

It  was  nor  smile  of  mirth,  nor  struggling  pride, 

That  curbs  to  scorn  the  wrath  it  cannot  hide ; 

But  that  of  one  in  his  own  heart  secure 

Of  all  that  he  would  do,  or  could  endure. 

Could  this  mean  peace?  the  calmness  of  the  good' 

Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood  ? 

Alas  !  too  like  in  confidence  are  each, 

For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speecli , 


,82 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


from  deeds,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discern 
Truths  which  it  wrings  the  unpractised  heart  to  learn. 

XXV. 

And  Lara  call'd  his  page,  and  went  his  way — 
We  J  could  that  stripling  word  or  sign  obey : 
His  only  follower  from  those  climes  afar, 
Where  the  soul  glows  beneath  a  brighter  star  ; 
For  Lara  left  the  shore  from  whence  he  sprung, 
In  duty  patient,  and  sedate  though  young ; 
Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  faith  appears 
Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years. 
Though  not  unknown  the  tongue  of  Lara's  land, 
In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command ; 
But  fleet  his  step,  and  clear  his  tones  would  come, 
When  Lara's  lip  breathed  forth  the  words  of  home  : 
Those  accents,  as  his  native  mountains  dear, 
Awake  their  absent  echoes  in  his  ear, 
Friends',  kindreds',  parents',  wonted  voice  recall, 
Now  lost,  abjured,  for  one — his  friend,  his  all : 
For  him  earth  now  disclosed  no  other  guide ; 
What  marvel  then  he  rarely  left  his  side  ? 

XXVI. 

Light  was  his  form,  and  darkly  delicate 

That  brow  whereon  his  native  sun  had  sate, 

But  had  not  marr'd,  though  in  his  beams  he  grew, 

The  cheek  where  uft  the  unbidden  blush  shone  through; 

Yet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health  would  show 

All  the  heart's  hue  in  that  delighted  glow ; 

But 't  was  a  hectic  tint  of  secret  care 

That  for  a  burning  moment  fever'd  there ; 

And  the  wild  sparkle  of  his  eye  seem'd  caught 

From  high,  and  lighten'd  with  electric  thought, 

Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes  fringe, 

Had  temper'd  with  a  melancholy  tinge  ; 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  pride  was  there, 

Or  if  't  were  grief,  a  grief  that  none  should  share : 

And  pleased  not  him  the  sports  that  please  his  age, 

The  tricks  of  youth,  the  frolics  of  the  page : 

For  hours  on  Lara  he  would  fix  his  glance, 

As  all-forgotten  in  that  watchful  trance  ; 

And  from  his  chief  withdrawn,  he  wander'd  lone, 

Brief  were  his  answers,  and  his  questions  none ; 

Hi*  walk  the  wood,  his  sport  some  foreign  book ; 

HIT  resting-place  the  bank  that  curbs  the  brook : 

H<-  seem'd,  like  him  he  served,  to  live  apart 

From  all  that  lures  the  eye,  and  fills  the  heart ; 

Tu  know  no  brotherhood,  and  take  from  earth 

No  gift  beyond  that  bitter  boon — our  birth. 

XXVII. 

If  aught  he  loved,  't  was  Lara ;  but  was  shown 

His  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeds  alone ; 

In  mute  attention ;  and  his  care,  which  guess'd 

Each  wish,  fulfill'd  it  ere  the  tongue  express'd. 

Suil  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  did, 

A  »pint  dee])  that  brook'd  not  to  be  chid  ; 

Hi-i  zeal,  though  more  than  that  of  servile  hands, 

.n  act  al«.ne  obeys,  his  air  commands ; 

As  if  't  was  Lara's  less  than  Us  desire 

That  tlms  he  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 

fil'uhi  wore  the  tasks  enjoin'd  him  by  his  lord, 

To  hold  the  stirrup,  or  to  bear  the  sword ; 

1  o  tune  his  lute,  or  if  he  wiil'd  it  more, 

')i>  ?omes  of  ot.-ier  times  and  tongues  to  pore; 


But  ne'er  to  mingle  with  the  menial  train, 

To  whom  he  show'd  nor  deference  nor  disdain, 

But  that  well-worn  reserve,  which  proved  he  knew 

No  sympathy  with  that  familiar  crew  ; 

His  soul,  whate'er  his  station  or  his  stem, 

Could  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 

Of  higher  birth  he  seem'd,  and  better  days, 

Nor  mark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays, 

So  femininely  white  it  might  bespeak 

Another  sex,  when  match'd  with  that  smooth  client, 

But  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  his  gaze, 

More  wild  and  high  than  woman's  eye  betrays ; 

A  latent  fierceness  that  far  more  became 

His  fiery  climate  than  his  tender  frame : 

True,  in  his  words  it  broke  not  from  his  breast, 

But,  from  his  aspect,  might  be  more  than  guess'd 

Kaled  his  name,  though  rumour  said  he  bore 

Another,  ere  he  left  his  mountain-shore  ; 

For  sometimes  he  would  hear,  however  nigh, 

That  name  repeated  loud  without  reply, 

As  unfamiliar,  or,  if  roused  again, 

Start  to  the  sound,  as  but  remember'd  then , 

Unless  't  was  Lara's  wonted  voice  that  spake, 

For  then,  ear,  eyes,  and  heart  would  all  awake. 

XXVIII. 

He  had  look'd  down  upon  the  festive  hall, 

And  mark'd  that  sudden  strife  so  mark'd  of  all ; 

And  when  the  crowd  around  and  near  him  told 

Their  wonder  at  the  calmness  of  the  bold ; 

Their  marvel  how  the  high-born  Lara  bore 

Such  insult  from  a  stranger,  doubly  sore, 

The  colour  of  young  Kaled  went  and  came, 

The  lip  of  ashes,  and  the  cheek  of  flame ; 

And  o'er  his  brow  the  damp'ning  heart-drops  threw 

The  sickening  iciness  of  that  cold  dew, 

That  rises  as  the  busy  bosom  sinks 

With  heavy  thoughts  from  which  reflection  shrinks. 

Yes — there  be  things  friat  we  must  dream  and  dare, 

And  execufe  ere  thought  be  half  aware : 

Whate'er  might  Kaled's  be,  it  was  enow 

To  seal  liis  lip,  but  agonize  his  brow. 

He  gazed  on  Ezzelin  till  Lara  cast 

That  sidelong  smile  upon  the  knight  he  past ; 

When  Kaled  saw  that  smile,  his  visage  fell, 

As  if  on  something  recognised  right  well ; 

His  memory  read  in  such  a  meaning,  more 

Than  Lara's  aspect  unto  others  wore : 

Forward  he  sprung — a  moment,  both  were  gone, 

And  all  within  that  hall  seem'd  left  alone ; 

Each  had  so  fix'd  his  eye  on  Lara's  mien, 

All  had  so  mix'd  their  feelings  with  that'  scene, 

That  when  his  long  dark  shadow  through  the  porcfc 

No  more  relieves  the  glare  of  yon  high  torch, 

Each  pulse  beats  quicker,  and  all  bosoms  seeir 

To  bound,  as  doubting  from  too  black  a  dream, 

Such  as  we  know  is  false,  yet  dread  in  sooth, 

Because  the  worst  is  ever  nearest  truth. 

And  they  are  gone — but  Ezzelin  is  there, 

With  thoughtful  visage  and  imperious  air : 

But  long  remain'd  not ;  ere  an  hour  expired, 

He  waved  his  hand  to  Otho,  and  retired. 

XXIX. 

The  crowd  are  gone,  the  revellers  at  rest ; 
The  courteous  host,  and  all-approving 


LARA. 


133 


Again  to  that  accustom'd  couch  must  creep 

Where  joy  subsides,  and  sorrow  sighs  to  sleep, 

And  man,  o'er-labour'd  with  his  being's  strife, 

Shrinks  to  that  sweet  forgetfulness  of  life : 

There  lie  love's  feverish  hope  and  cunning's  guile, 

Hate's  working  brain,  and  lull'd  ambition's  wile : 

O'er  each  vain  eye  oblivion's  pinions  wave, 

And  quench'd  existence  crouches  in  a  grave. 

What  better  name  may  slumber's  bed  become  ? 

Night's  sepulchre,  the  universal  home, 

Where  weakness,  strength,  vice,  virtue,  sunk  supine, 

Alike  in  naked  helplessness  recline; 

Glad  for  a  while  to  heave  unconscious  breath, 

Yet  wake  to  wrestle  with  the  dread  of  death, 

And  shun,  though  day  but  dawn  on  ills  increast, 

That  sleep,  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least. 


CANTO  II. 


i. 

NIGHT  wanes — tne  vapours  round  the  mountains  curl'd 

Melt  into  morn,  and  light  awakes  the  world. 

Man  has  another  day  to  swell  the  past, 

And  lead  him  near  to  little,  but  his  last ; 

But  mighty  Nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth, 

The  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  life  on  earth  ; 

Flowers  in  the  valley,  splendour  in  the  beam, 

Health  on  the  gale,  and  freshness  in  the  stream. 

Immortal  man  !   behold  her  glories  shine, 

And  cry,  exulting  inly,  "they  are  thine  !" 

Gaze  on,  while  yet  thy  gladden'd  eye  may  see ; 

A  morrow  comes  when  they  are  nol  for  thee  : 

And  grieve  what  may  above  thy  senseless  bier, 

Nor  earth  nor  sky  will  yield  a  single  tear ; 

Nor  cloud  shall  gather  more,  nor  leaf  shall  fall, 

Nor  gale  breathe  rorth  one  sigh  for  thee,  for  all ; 

But  creeping  things  shall  revel  in  their  spoil, 

And  fit  thy  clay  to  fertilize  the  soil. 

II. 

T  is  morn — 't  is  noon — assembled  in  the  hall, 
The  gather'd  chieftains  come  to  Otho's  call ; 
'T  is  now  the  promised  hour,  that  must  proclaim 
The  me  or  death  of  Lara's  future  fame ; 
When  Ezzelin  his  charge  may  here  unfold, 
And  whatsoe'er  the  tale,  it  must  be  told. 
His  faith  was  pledged,  and  Lara's  promise  given, 
To  meet  it  in  the  eye  of  man  and  heaven. 
Why  comes  he  not '!  Such  truths  to  be  divulged, 
Methinks  the  accuser's  rest  is  long  indulged. 

III. 

The  hour  is  past,  and  Lara  too  is  there, 
With  self-confiding,  coldly  patient  air; 
Why  comes  not  Ezzelin  ?  The  hour  is  past, 
And  murmurs  rise,  and  Otho's  brow's  o'ercast. 
"  1  know  my  friend  !   his  faith  I  cannot  fear, 
ff  yet  he  be  on  earth,  expect  him  here ; 
The  roof  that  held  him  in  the  valley  stands 
Between  my  own  and  noble  Lara's  lands  ; 
My  InVU  from  such  a  guest  had  honour  gain'd, 
Vor  had  Sir  Ezzelin  his  host  disoiain'd, 
But  thai  some  previous  prool  forbade  him  stay, 
And  urged  him  to  prepare  against  to  day  ; 


The  word  I  pledged  for  his  I  pledge  again, 

Or  will  myself  redeem  his  knighthood's  stain." 

He  ceased — and  Lara  answer'd,  "  I  am  here 

To  lend  at  thy  demand  a  listening  ear 

To  tales  of  evil  from  a  stranger's  tongue, 

Whose  words  already  might  mv  heart  have  wrung. 

But  that  I  deem'd  him  scarcely  less  than  mad, 

Or,  at  the  worst,  a  foe  ignobly  bad. 

I  know  him  not — but  me  it  seems  he  knew 

In  lands  where — but  I  must  not  trifle  too  • 

Produce  this  babbler — or  redeem  the  pledge  ; 

Here  in  thy  hold,  and  with  thy  falchion's  edge." 

Proud  Otho,  on  the  instant,  reddening,  threw 

His  glove  on  earth,  and  forth  his  sabre  flew. 

"  The  last  alternative  befits  me  best, 

And  thus  I  answer  for  mine  absent  guest." 

With  cheek  unchanging  from  its  sallow  gloom, 

However  near  his  own  or  other's  tomb ; 

With  hand,  whose  almost  careless  coolness  spoke 

Its  grasp  well  used  to  deal  the  sabre-stroke ; 

With  eye,  though  calm,  determined  not  to  spare, 

'Did  Lara  too  his  willing  weapon  bare. 

In  vain  the  circling  chieftains  round  them  closed ; 

For  Otho's  phrensy  would  not  be  opposed  ; 

And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell — 

"  His  sword  is  good  who  can  maintain  them  well." 

IV. 

Short  was  the  conflict ;  furious,  blindly  rash, 

Vain  Otho  gave  his  bosom  to  the  gash : 

He  bled,  and  fell,  but  not  with  deadly  wound, 

Stretch'd  by  a  dexterous  sleight  along  the  ground. 

"  Demand  thy  life  :"     He  answer'd  not :  and  then 

From  that  red  floor  he  ne'er  had  risen  again, 

For  Lara's  brow  upon  the  moment  grew 

Almost  to  blackness  in  its  demon  hue  ; 

And  fiercer  shook  his  an^ry  falchion  now 

Than  when  his  foe's  was  levell'd  at  his  brow , 

Then  all  was  stern  collectedness  and  art, 

Now  rose  the  unleaven'd  hatred  of  his  heart ; 

So  little  sparing  to  the  foe  he  fell'd, 

That  when  the  approaching  crowd  his  arm  withhek 

He  almost  turn'd  the  thirsty  point  on  those 

Who  thus  for  mercy  dared  to  interpose ; 

But  to  a  moment's  thought  that  purpose  bent : 

Yet  look'd  he  on  him  still  with  eye  intent, 

As  if  he  loathed  the  ineffectual  strife 

That  left  a  foe,  howe'er  o'erthrown,  with  life : 

As  if  to  search  how  far  the  wound  he  gave 

Had  sent  its  victim  onward  to  his  grave. 

V. 

They  raised  the  bleeding  Otho,  and  the  leech 
Forbade  all  present  question,  sign,  and  speech  , 
The  others  met  within  a  neighbouring  hall, 
And  he,  incensed  and  heedless  of  them  all, 
The  cause  and  conqueror  in  this  sudden  fray, 
In  haughty  silence  slowly  strode  away  ; 
He  back'd  his  steed,  his  homeward  path  he  took, 
Nor  cast  on  Otho's  towers  a  single  look. 

VI. 

But  where  was  he  ?  that  meteor  of  a  night, 
Who  menaced  but  to  disappear  with  light? 
Where  was  this  Ezzelin?  who  cf.ne  ana  went, 
To  leave  no  other  trace  of  his  intent. 


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JiYRON'S  WORKS. 


Hen-nance  't  was  but  the  moon's  dj-<  twilight  threw 

Along  his  aspect  an  unwonted  huo 

Of  mournful  paleness,  whose  deep  tint  exprest 

The  truth,  and  not  the  terror  of  his  breast. 

This  Lara  mark'd,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his . 

It  trembled  not  in  such  an  hour  a?  *his ; 

His  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  r..s  heart, 

His  eye  alone  proclaim'd,  "We  will  not  part. 

Thy  band  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee, 

Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  tliee !" 

The  word  hath  pass'd  his  lips,  and  onward  driven, 

Pours  the  link'd  band  through  ranks  asunder  riven ; 

Well  has  each  steed  obey'd  the  armed  heel, 

And  flash  the  scimitars,  and  rings  the  steel : 

Outnumber'd,  not  outbraved,  they  still  oppose 

Despair  to  daring,  and  a  front  to  foes  ; 

And  blood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream, 

Which  runs  all  redly  till  the  morning  beam. 

XV. 

Commanding,  aiding,  animating  all, 
Where  foe  appear'd  to  press,  or  friend  to  fall, 
Cheers  Lara's  voice,  and  waves  or  strikes  his  steel, 
Inspiring  hope,  himself  had  ceased  to  feel. 
None  fled,  for  well  they  knew  that  flight  were  vain; 
But  those  that  waver  turn  to  smite  again, 
While  yet  they  find  the  firmest  of  the  foe 
Recoil  before  their  leader's  look  and  blow : 
Now  girt  with  numbers,  now  almost  alone, 
He  foils  their  ranks,  or  reunites  his  own ; 
Himself  he  spared  not — once  they  seem'd  to  fly — 
Now  was  the  time,  he  waved  his  hand  on  high, 
And  shook — wny  sudoen  droops  that  plumed  crest? 
The  shaft  is  sped — the  arrow's  in  his  breast! 
That  fatal  gesture  left  the  unguarded  ade, 
And  Death  hath  stricken  down  yon-  arm  of  pride. 
The  word  of  triumph  fainted  from  his  tongue ; 
That  hand,  so  raised,  how  droopingly  it  hung ! 
But  yet  the  sword  instinctively  retains, 
Though  from  its  fellow  shrink  the  falling  reins : 
These  Kaled  snatches :  dizzy  with  the  blow, 
And  senseless  bending  o'er  his  saddle-bow, 
Perceives  not  Lara  that  his  anxious  page 
Beguiles  his  charger  from  the  combat's  rage : 
Meantime  his  followers  charge,  and  charge  again ; 
Too  mix'd  the  slayers  now  to  heed  the  slain  ! 

XVI. 

Day  glimmers  on  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
The  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  helmless  head  ; 
Thii  war-horse  masterless  is  on  the  earth, 
And  that  last  gasp  hath  burst  his  bloody  girth ; 
And  near,  yet  quivering  with  what  life  remain'd, 
The  heel  that  urged  him  and  the  hand  that  rein'd ; 
And  some  too  near  that  rolling  torrent  lie, 
Whose  waters  mock  the  lip  of  those  that  die ; 
That  panting  thirst  which  scorches  in  the  breath 
Of  those  that  die  the  soldier's  fiery  death, 
.n  vaii  'mpels  the  burning  mouth  to  crave 
One  drop — the  last — to  cool  it  for  the  grave ; 
With  feeble  and  convulsive  effort  swept, 
Their  limbs  along  the  crimson'd  turf  have  crept; 
The  faint  remains  of  life  such  struggles  waste, 
But  yet  they  reach  the  stream,  and  bend  to  taste : 
They  feel  its  freshness;,  and  almost  partake — 
Why  oauw  7  No  further  thirst  have  they  to  slake — 


It  is  unquench'd,  and  yet  they  feel  it  not ; 
It  was  ar.  agony — but  now  forgot ! 

XVII. 

Beneath  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 

Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  Iteen, 

A  breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay  : 

'T  was  Lara,  bleeding  fiist  from  life  away. 

His  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide, 

Kneels  Kaled,  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side, 

And  with  his  scarf  would  staunch  the  tides  that  rush. 

With  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush  ; 

And  then,  as  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low, 

In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow : 

He  scarce  can  speak,  but  motions  him  't  is  vain, 

And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 

He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  would  assuage, 

And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page, 

Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees, 

Save  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees  ; 

Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim. 

Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him. 

XVIII. 

The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  search'd  the  field, 
Their  triumph  nought  till  Lara  too  should  yield ; 
They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  't  were  vain. 
And  he  regards  them  with  a  calm  disdain, 
That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate, 
And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hate  : 
And  Otho  comes,  and,  leaping  from  his  steed, 
Looks  on  the  Weeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 
And  questions  of  his  state ;  he  answers  not, 
Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot, 
And  turns  to  Kaled : — each  remaining  word, 
They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard  ; 
His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue, 
To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wiidiy  clung. 
They  spake  of  other  scenes,  but  what — is  known 
To  Kaled.  whom  their  meaning  reach'd  alone  ; 
And  he  replied,  though  faintly,  to  their  sound, 
While  gazed  the  rest  in  dumb  amazement  round  : 
They  seem'd  even  then — that  twain — unto  tne  last 
To  half  forget  the  present  in  the  past ; 
To  share  between  themselves  some  separate  fate, 
Whose  darkness  none  b-:side  should  penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their  words,  though  faint,  were  many — from  the  tone 
Their  import  those  who  heard  could  judge  alone  ; 
From  this,  you  might  have  deem'd  young  Kaled's  deal 
More  near  than  Lara's  by  his  voice  and  breath, 
So  sad,  so  deep  and  hesitating,  broke 
The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke  ; 
But  Lara's  voice  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 
And  calm,  till  murmuring  death  gasp'd  hoarsely  near, 
But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess, 
So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless, 
Save  that,  v.-hen  struggling  nearer  to  his  last, 
Upon  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 
And  once  as  Kaled's  answering  accents  ceast, 
Rose  Lara's  h  in  I,  and  pointed  to  the  East : 
Whether  (as  then  the  breaking  sun  from  hij;h 
Roll'd  back  the  clouds)  the  morrow  caught  his  eye, 
Or  that 't  was  chance,  or  some  remember'd  scene 
That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  su^h  h*d 


LARA. 


Id' 


Scarce  Raled  seem'd  to  know   but  tum'd  away 

As  if  his  heart  abhorr'd  that  coming  day. 

And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning  light, 

To  look  on  Lara's  brow — where  all  grew  night. 

Yet  sense  seern'd  left,  though  better  were  its  loss ; 

For  when  one  near  display'd  the  absolving  cross, 

And  proffer'd  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead, 

Of  which  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need, 

He  look'd  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane, 

And  smiled — Heaven  pardon !   if  't  were  with  disdain  : 

And  Kaled,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 

From  Lara's  face  his  fix'd  despairing  view, 

With  brow  repulsive,  and  with  gesture  swift, 

Flung  back  the  hand  which  held  the  sacred  gift, 

As  if  such  but  dislurb'd  the  expiring  man, 

Nor  seem'd  to  know  his  life  but  then  began, 

That  life  of  immortality,  secure 

To  none,  save  them  whose  faith  in  Clr-.-i  is  sure. 

XX. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew, 
And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew  ; 
His  limbs  stretch'd  fluttering,  and  his  head  droop'd  o'er 
The  weak,  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore  ; 
He  press'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart- 
It  beats  no  more,  but  Kaled  will  not  part 
With  the  cold  grasp,  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vain 
For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 
"  It  beats  !"  Away,  thou  dreamer  ! — he  is  gone — 
It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look'st  upon. 

XXI. 

He  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 

The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay ; 

And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  his  trance, 

But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance ; 

And  when,  in  raising  him  from  where  he  bore 

Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more, 

He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain, 

Roll  down  like  earth  to  earth  upon  the  plain ; 

He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 

The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair, 

But  su-ove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reel'd  and  fell, 

Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well. 

Than  that  he  loved !  Oh !  never  yet  beneath 

Vhe  breast  of  man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe ! 

That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  reveal'd 

The  secret  long  and  yet  but  half  conceal'd ; 

In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast, 

Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confess'd ; 

And  life  retnrn'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame — 

What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame  ! 

XXII. 

And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  sleep ; 

But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep, 

Nor  is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound, 

Fhough  priest  nor  bless'd,  nor  marble  deck'd  the  mound; 

\.nd  he  was  mourn'd  by  one  whose  quiet  grief, 

Less  loud,  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 

Vain  was  all  question  ask'd  her  of  the  past, 

And  vain  even  menace — silent  to  the  Isst, 

Sho  to!<J  nor  whence,  nor  why  she  left  behind 

Her  all  for  one  who  seem'd  but  little  kind. 

!Vny  did  she  love  him?  Curious  fool ! — be  still — 

1*  nunian  Icve  the  growth  ol  human  will? 


To  her  he  might  be  gentleness  ;  the  <='«-*a 
Have  deeper  thoughts  than  your  dull  eyes  discern 
And  when  they  love,  your  smilers  guess  not  how 
Beats  the  strong  heart,  though  less  the  lips  avow. 
They  were  not  common  links,  that  form'd  the  cnau 
That  bound  to  Lara  Kaled's  heart  and  brain  , 
But  that  wild  tale  she  brook'd  not  to  unfold, 
And  seal'd  is  now  each  lip  that  could  have  to!.'.. 

XXIIL 

They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  his  breast, 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest, 
They  found  the  scatter'd  dints  of  many  a  scar, 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war ; 
Where'er  had  pass'd  his  summer  years  of  life, 
It  seems  they  vanish'd  in  a  land  of  strife  ; 
But  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt, 
These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt, 
And  Ezzelin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Retum'd  no  more — that  night  appear'd  his  last. 

XXIV. 

Upon  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale), 
A  serf  that  cross'd  the  intervening  vale, 
When  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  mom, 
And  nearly  veil'd  in  mist  her  waning  horn  ; 
A  serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  the  wood, 
And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children's  food, 
Pass'd  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 
Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain  : 
He  heard  a  tramp — a  horse  and  horseman  broke 
From  out  the  wood — before  him  was  a  cloak 
Wrapt  round  some  burthen  at  his  saddle-bow, 
Bent  was  his  bead,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 
Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time, 
And  «ome  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime, 
Himself  unheeded  watch'd  the  stranger's  course, 
Who  reach'd  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse, 
And,  lifting  thence  the  burthen  which  he  bore, 
Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore. 
Then  paused,  and  look'd,  and  turn'd,  and  seem'd 

watch, 

And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch, 
And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  flowM, 
As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  show'd : 
At  once  he  started,  stoop'd,  around  him  strown 
The  winter  floods  had  scatter'd  heaps  of  stone , 
Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gather'd  there, 
And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common  care. 
Meantime  the  serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 
Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mean  , 
He  caught  a  glimpse,  as  of  a  floating  breast, 
And  something  gnlter'd  star-like  on  the  vest, 
But  ere  he  well  could  mark  the  buoyant  trunk, 
A  massy  fragment  .smote  it,  and  it  sunk  : 
It  rose  again  but  indistinct  to  view, 
And  left  the  waters  of  a  purple  hue, 
Then  deeply  disappear'd  :  J>e  horseman  gazed 
Till  ebb'd  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised  ; 
Then  turning,  vaulted  on  his  pawing  steeil, 
And  instant  spurr'd  him  into  pintrng  speed. 
His  face  was  mask'd — the  features  of  the  dead. 
If  dead  it  were,  escaped  the  observer's  dread ; 
But  if  in  sooth  a  star  its  bosom  bore, 
Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore, 
And  such  't  '•»  known  Sir  Ezzelin  had  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  t  morn. 


188 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


[f  thus  t.e  perish  {,  Hea  en  receive  his  soul! 
His  undiscover'd  limbs  to  ocean  roll ; 
And  charity  upon  the  hope  would  dwell 
It  was  not  Lara's  hand  jy  which  he  fell. 

XXV. 

And  Kaled — Lara — Ezze'nn,  are  gone, 
Alike  without  their  monumental  stone ! 
The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean 
From  lingering  where  her  chieftain's  blood  had  been  ; 
Grief  had  so  tamed  a  spirit  once  too  proud, 
Her  tears  were  few,  her  wailing  never  loud  ; 
But  furious  would  you  tear  her  from  the  spot 
•  Where  yet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not, 
Her  eye  shot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 
That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelpless  ire : 
But,  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there, 
She  talk'd  all  idly  unto  shapes  of  air, 
Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  sorrow  paints, 
And  woos  to  listen  to  her  fond  complaints  : 
And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree 
Where  lay  his  drooping  head  upon  her  knee ; 
And  in  that  posture  where  she  saw  him  fall, 
His  words,  his  looks,  his  dying  grasp  recall ; 
And  she  had  shorn,  but  saved  her  raven  hair, 
And  oft  would  snatch  it  from  her  bosom  there, 
And  fold,  and  press  it  gently  to  the  ground, 
As  if  she  staunch'd  anew  some  phantom's  wound. 
Herself  would  question,  and  for  him  reply ; 
Then  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 
From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit ; 
Then  seat  her  down  upon  some  linden's  root, 
And  hide  her  visage  with  her  meagre  hand, 
Or  trace  strange  characters  along  the  sand — 
This  could  not  last — she  lies  by  him  she  loved  ; 
Her  tale  untold — her  truth  too  dearly  proved. 


NOTE. 

THE  event  in  section  24,  Canto  II,  was  suggested  by 
*he  description  of  the  death,  or  rather  burial,  of  the 
Duke  of  Gandia. 

The  most  interesting  and  particular  account  of  this 
mysterious  event,  is  given  by  Burchard  ;  and  is  in  sub- 
stance as  follows :  "  On  the  eighth  day  of  June,  the 
cardinal  of  Valenza,  and  the  Duke  of  Gandia,  sons  of 
the  Pope,  supped  with  their  mother,  Vanozza,  near  the 
church  of  iS.  Pietro  ad  vincula  ;  several  other  persons 
facing  present  at  the  entertainment.  A  late  hour  ap- 
proaching, and  the  cardinal  having  remindedTlis  brother, 
that  it  was  time  to  return  to  the  apostolic  palace,  they 
mounted  their  horses  or  mules,  with  only  a  few  attend- 
ants, and  proceeded  together  as  far  as  the  palace  of 
cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza,  when  the  duke  informed  the 
cardi'naL,  that  before  he  returned  home,  he  had  to  pay 
i  visit  of  pleasure.  Dismissing,  therefore,  all  his  at- 
tendants, excepting  his  staffiero,  or  footman,  and  a 
oerson  in  a  mask,  who  had  paid  him  a  visit  whilst  at 
supper,  and  who,  during  the  space  of  a  month,  or  there- 
abouts, previous  to  this  time,  had  called  upon  him 
almost  daily,  at  the  apostolic  palace ;  he  took  this  per- 
son behind  him  on  his  mule,  and  proceeded  to  the 
utreet  of  the  Jews,  where  he  quitted  his  servant,  direct- 
ing him  to  remain  there  until  a  certain  hour ;  when, 
t  b*  did  not  return,  he  might  repair  to  the  palace. 


The  duke  then  seated  the  person  in  the  mask  behind 
him,  and  rode,  I  know  not  whither ;  but  in  that  night 
he  was  assassinated,  and  thrown  into  the  river.  The 
servant,  after  having  been  dismissed,  was  also  assaulted 
and  mortally  wounded ;  and  although  he  was  attended 
with  great  care,  yet  such  was  his  situation,  that  he 
could  give  no  intelligible  account  of  what  had  befallen 
his  master.  In  the  morning,  the  duke  not  having  re- 
turned to  the  palace,  his  servants  began  to  be  alarmed  ; 
and  one  of  them  informed  the  pontiff  of  the  evening 
excursion  of  his  sons,  and  that  the  duke  had  not  yet 
made  his  appearance.  This  gave  the  Pope  no  small 
anxiety ;  but  he  conjectured  that  the  duke  had  been 
attracted  by  some  courtesan  to  pass  the  night  with 
her,  and,  not  choosing  to  quit  the  house  in  open  day, 
had  waited  till  the  following  evening  to  return  home. 
When,  however,  the  evening  arrived,  and  he  found 
himself  disappointed  in  his  expectations,  he  became 
deeply  afflicted,  and  began  to  make  inquiries  from 
different  persons,  whom  he  ordered  to  attend  him  for 
that  purpose.  Amongst  these  was  a  man  named  Gior- 
gio Schiavoni,  who,  having  discharged  some  timber 
from  a  bark  in  the  river,  had  remained  on  board  tne 
vessel,  to  watch  it,  and  being  interrogated  whether  he 
i  had  seen  any  one  thrown  into  the  river,  on  the  night 
preceding,  he  replied,  that  he  saw  two  men  on  foot, 
who  came  down  the  street,  and  looked  diligently  about, 
to  observe  whether  any  person  was  passing.  That  see- 
ing no  one,  they  returned,  and  a  short  time  afterwards 
two  others  came,  and  looked  around  in  the  same 
manner  as  the  former  ;  no  person  still  appearing,  they 
gave  a  sign  to  their  companions,  when  a  man  came, 
mounted  on  a  white  horse,  having  behind  him  a  dead 
body,  the  head  and  arms  of  which  hung  on  one  side, 
and  the  feet  on  the  other  side  of  the  horse  ;  the  two 
persons  on  foot  supporting  the  body,  to  prevent  ita 
falling.  They  thus  proceeded  towards  that  part,  where 
the  filth  of  the  city  is  usually  discharged  into  the  river, 
and,  turning  the  horse  with  his  tail  towards  the  water, 
the  two  persons  took  the  dead  body  by  the  arms  and 
feet,  and  with  ah  their  strength  flung  it  into  the  river. 
The  person  on  horseback  then  asked  if  they  had  thrown 
it  in,  to  which  they  replied,  Signer,  si,  (yes,  Sir).  He 
then  looked  towards  the  river,  and  seeing  a  mantle 
floating  on  the  stream,  he  inquired  what  it  was  that 
appeared  black  ;  to  which  they .  answered,  it  was  a 
mantle ;  and  one '  of  them  threw  stones  upon  it,  in 
consequence  of  which  it  sunk.  The  attendants  of  the 
pontiff  then  inquired  from  Giorgio,  why  he  had  not 
revealed  this  to  the  governor  of  the  city;  to  which  he 
replied,  that  he  had  seen  in  his  time  a  hundred  dead 
bodies  thrown  into  the  river  at  the  same  place,  without 
any  inquiry  being  made  respecting  them,  and  that  he 
had  not,  therefore,  considered  it  as  a  matter  of  any 
importance.  The  fishermen  and  seamen  were  then 
collected,  and  ordered  to  search  the  river ;  where,  on 
the  following  evening,  they  found  the  body  of  the 
duke,  with  his  habit  entire,  and  thirty  ducats  in  hi» 
purse.  He  was  pierced  with  nine  wounds,  one  of 
which  was  in  his  throat,  the  others  in  his  head,  body, 
and  limbs.  No  sooner  was  the  pontiff  informed  of 
the  death  of  his  son,  and  that  he  had  been  thrown, 
like  filth,  into  the  river,  than,  giving  way  to  his  griei, 
he  shut  himself  up  in  a  chamber,  and  wept  buteriv. 
The  cardinal  of  Segovia,  and  other  attenaants  on  tut 


THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 


189 


Pope  wont  to  the  door,  aiu!  utter  many  hours  spent  in 
persuasions  and  exhortations,  prevailed  upon  him  to 
admit  them.  From  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  till  the 
following  Saturday,  the  Pope  took  no  food  ;  nor  did  he 
•Iccp  from  Thursday  morning  till  the  same  hour  on  the 


ensuing  day.  At  length,  however,  giving  way  lo  tue 
entreaties  of  his  attendants,  he  began  to  restrain  hi« 
sorrow,  and  to  consider  the  injury  which  his  own 
health  might  sustain,  by  the  further  indulgence  of  ki 
grief." — Roscoe'a  Leo  Tenlfi,  vol.  i.  page  26.r' 


©urn  of 

A  POEM. 


Pallas  te  hoc  vulncre,  Pallas 

Immolat,  et  puenam  scelerato  ex  sanguine  sumiL 


SLOW  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 
Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun  ; 
Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ! 
O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 
On  old  ^Egina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle, 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile ; 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer'd  Salamis ! 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse, 
More  deeply  purpled,  met  his  mellowing  glance, 
And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven ; 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Behind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  pale'st  beam  he  cast, 
When,  Athens  !  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sagc'a  latest  day ! ' 
Not  yet — not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill — 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 
But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes ; 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before ; 
But  ere  he  sunk  below  Cithaeron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaff 'd — the  spirit  fled; 
The  so  il  of  him  that  scorn'd  to  fear  or  fly — 
Who  lived  and  died  as  none  can  live  or  die ! 

But,  lo!  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain, 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.2 
No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form ; 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
And  bright  around,  with  quivering  beams  beset, 
llur  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 
The  groves  of  olive  scatter'd  dark  and  wide 
Where  meek  Cephisus  sheds  his  scanty  tide, 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
I'he  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk,3 
\nd,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  hol\  calm, 
Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm, 
VU  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye — 
find  dull  were  hi*  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

u 


Again  the  ^Egean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war ; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mix'd  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle, 
That  frown — whe're  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile. 

As  thus  within  the  walls  of  Pallas'  fane 
I  mark'd  the  beauties  of  the  land  and  main, 
Alone  and  friendless,  on  the  magic  shore 
Whose  arts  and  arms  but  live  in  poet's  lore, 
Oft  as  the  matchless  dome  I  turn'd  to  scan, 
Sacred  to  gods,  but  not  secure  from  man, 
The  past  return'd,  the  present  seem'd  to  cease, 
And  glory  knew  no  clime  beyond  her  Greece. 
Hours  roll'd  along,  and  Dian's  orb  on  high 
Had  gain'd  the  centre  of  her  softest  sky, 
And  yet  unwearied  still  my  footsteps  trod 
O'er  the  vain  shrine  of  many  a  vanish'd  god  ; 
But  chiefly,  Pallas !   thine,  when  Hecate's  glare, 
Chcck'd  by  thy  columns,  fell  more  sadly  fair 
O'er  the  chill  marble,  where  the  startling  tread 
Thrills  the  lone  heart  like  echoes  from  the  dead. 

Long  had  I  mused,  and  measured  every  trace 

§1 
The  wreck  of  Greece  recorded  of  her  race, 

When,  lo !   a  giant  form  before  me  strode, 
And  Pallas  hail'd  me  in  her  own  abode. 
Yes,  't  was  Minerva's  self,  but,  ah !  how  changed 
Since  o'er  the  Dardan  field  in  arms  she  ranged ' 
Not  such  as  erst,  by  her  divine  command, 
Her  form  appear'd  from  Phidias'  plastic  hand; 
Gone  were  the  terrors  of  her  awful  brow, 
Her  idle  ^Egis  bore  no  gorgon  now ; 
Her  helm  was  deep  indented,  and  her  lance 
Seem'd  weak  and  shaftless,  e'en  to  mortal  glance ; 
The  olive  branch,  which  still  she  deign'd  to  clasp. 
Shrunk  from  her  touch  and  wither'd  in  her  grasp  : 
And,  ah !  though  still  the  brightest  of  the  sky, 
Celestial  tears  bedimm'd  her  large  blue  eye ; 
Round  the  rent  casque  her  owlet  circled  slow, 
And  mourn'd  his  mistress  with  a  shriek  of  woe 
"  Mortal !  ('twas  thus  she  spake)  that  blush  of  shaii 
Proclaims  thee  Briton — once  a  noble  name — 
First  of  the  mighty,  foremost  of  the  free, 
Now  honour'd  less  by  all — and  least  by  me  : 
Chief  of  thy  foes  shall  Pallas  still  be  found: — 
Seek'st  thou  the  cause?  O  mortal,  look  around! 
Lo !  here,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 
I  saw  successive  tyrannies  exp'tc ; 


ir 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


'Scaped  fni'ii  the  /avaj-e  of  the  Turk  and  Goth, 
Thy  country  sends  a  spoiler  worse  than  bok, '. 
Survey  this  vacant  viol  tied  fane : 
Recount  the  relics  torn  that  yet  remain  ; 
TheKt  Cecrops  placed — this  Pericles  adorn'd* — 
That  Hadrian  rear'd  when  drooping  science  mourn'd : 
What  more  I  owe  let  gratitude  attest—- 
Know, Alaric  and  Elgin  did  the  rest. 
That  all  may  learn  from  whence  the  plunder  came, 
The  insulted  wall  sust-iins  his  hated  name.* 
For  Elgin's  fame  thus  grateful  Pallas  pleads : 
Below,  his  name — above,  behold  his  deeds ! 
Be  ever  hail'd  with  equal  honour  here 
The  Gothic  monarch  and  the  Pictish  peer. 
Arms  gave  the  first  his  right — the  last  had  none, 
But  basely  stole  what  less  barbarians  won ! 
So  when  the  lion  quits  his  fell  repast, 
Next  prowls  the  wolf — the  filthy  jackal  last : 
Flesh,  limbs,  and  blood,  the  former  make  their  own  ; 
The  last  base  brute  securely  gnaws  the  bone. 
Yet  still  the  gods  are  just,  and  crimes  are  crost — 
See  here  what  Elgin  won,  and  what  he  lost ! 
Another  name  with  his  pollutes  my  shrine, 
Behold  where  Dian's  beams  disdain  to  shine ! 
Some  retribution  still  might  Pallas  claim, 
When  Venus  half  avenged  Minerva's  shame."' 

She  ceased  awhile,  and  thus  I  dared  reply, 
To  soothe  the  vengeance  kindling  in  her  eye  :— 
"  Daughter  of  Jove  !  in  Britain's  injured  name, 
A  true-born  Briton  may  the  deed  disclaim ! 
Frown  not  on  England — England  owns  him  not — 
Athena,  no !  the  plunderer  was  a  Scot !' 
Ask  tliou  the  difference  ?  From  fair  Phyle's  towers 
Survey  Bceotia — Caledonia's  ours. 
And  well  1  know  within  that  bastard  land  * 
Hath  wisdom's  goddess  never  held  command : 
A  barren  soil,  where  nature's  germs,  confined, 
To  stern  sterility  can  stint  the  mind ; 
Whose  thistle  well  betrays  the  niggard  earth, 
Emblem  of  all  to  whom  the  land  gives  birth. 
Each  genial  influence  nurtured  to  resist, 
A  land  of  meanness,  sophistry,  and  mist : 
Each  breeze  from  foggy  mount  and  marshy  plain 
Dilutes  with  drivel  every  drizzling  brain, 
Till,  burst  at  length,  each  watery  head  o'erflows, 
Foul  as  their  soil,  and  frigid  as  their  snows : 
Ten  thousand  schemes  of  petulance  and  pride 
Despatch  her  scheming  children  far  and  wide  ; 
Some  east,  some  west,  some  every  where  but  north ! 
In  quest  of  lawless  gain  they  issue  forth ; 
And  thus,  accursed  be  the  day  and  year, 
She  sent  a  Pict  to  play  the  felon  here. 
Vet,  Caledonia  claims  some  native  worth, 
As  dull  Bceotia  gave  a  Pindar  birth — 
So  may  her  few,  the  letter'd  and  the  brave, 
Bound  to  no  clime,  and  victors  o'er  the  grave, 
Snane  off  the  sordid  dust  of  such  a  land, 
And  shine  like  cniloren  of  a  happier  strand: 
A*  once  of  yore,  in  some  obnoxious  place, 
Ten  names  (if  found)  had  saved  a  wretched  race!" 

"  Mortal,"  the  blue-eyed  maid  resumed,  "  once  more, 
BK"  back  my  mandate  to  thy  native  shore  ; 
Though  fallen,  alas !  this  vengeance  slill  is  mine, 
Tc  tun)  my  councils  Our  from  lands  like  thine. 


Hear  then  in  silence  Pallas'  stern  behest ; 

Hear  and  believe,  for  time  shall  tell  the  rest. 

First  on  the  head  of  him  who  did  the  deed 

My  curse  shall  light, — on  him  and  all  his  seed : 

Without  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire, 

Be  all  the  sons  as  senseless  as  the  sire . 

If  one  with  wit  the  parent  brood  disgrace, 

Believe  him  bastard  of  a  brighter  race  ; 

Still  with  his  hireling  artists  let  him  prate, 

And  folly's  praise  repay  for  wisdom's  hate ! 

Long  of  their  patron's  gusto  let  them  tell, 

Whose  noblest  native  gusto— is  to  sell : 

To  sell,  and  make  (may  shame  record  the  day  !j 

The  state  receiver  of  his  pilfer'd  prey ! 

Meantime,  the  flattering  foeble  dotard,  West, 

Europe's  worst  dauber,  and  poor  Britain's  best, 

With  palsied  hand  shall  turn  each  model  o'er. 

And  own  himself  an  infant  of  fourscore  :' 

Be  all  the  bruisers  call'd  from  all  St.  Giles, 

That  art  and  nature  may  compare  their  styles  , 

While  brawny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare, 

And  marvel  at  his  lordship's  stone-shop  there.10 

Round  the  throng'd  gate  shall  sauntering  coxcombs  crer  p 

To  lounge  and  lucubrate,  to  prate  and  peep, 

While  many  a  languid  maid,  with  longing  sigh, 

On  giant  statues  casts  the  curious  eye  ; 

The  room  with  transient  glance  appears  to  skim, 

Yet  marks  the  mighty  back  and  length  of  limb, 

Mourns  o'er  the  difference  of  now  and  then  ; 

Exclaims,  '  these  Greeks  indeed  were  proper  men ;' 

Draws  slight  comparisons  of  these  with  tliose, 

And  envies  Lais  all  her  Attic  beaux : 

When  shall  a  modern  maid  have  swains  like  these  * 

Alas !  Sir  Harry  is  no  Hercules  ! 

And,  last  of  all,  amidst  the  .gaping  crew, 

Some  calm  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view," 

In  silent  indignation,  mix'd  with  grief, 

Admires  the  plunder,  but  abhors  the  thief. 

Loathed  throughout  '.ife — scarce  pardon'd  in  the  dust, 

May  hate  pursue  his  sacniegious  lust ! 

Link'd  with  the  fool  who  fired  the  Ephesian  dome, 

Shall  vengeance  follow  far  beyond  the  tomb ; 

Erostratus  and  Elgin  e'er  shall  shine 

In  many  a  branding  page  and  burning  line ! 

Alike  condemn'd  for  aye  to  stand  accursed — 

Perchance  the  second  viler  than  the  first : 

So  let  him  stand  through  ages  yet  unborn, 

Fix'd  statue  on  the  pedestal  of  scorn ! 

Though  not  for  him  alone  revenge  shall  wait, 

But  fits  thy  country  for  her  coming  fate  : 

Hers  were  the  deeds  that  taught  her  lawless  son 

To  do  what  oft  Britannia's  self  had  done. 

Look  to  the  Baltic  blazing  from  afar — 

Your  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  war : 

Not  to  such  deeds  did  Pallas  lend  her  aid, 

Or  break  the  compact  which  herself  had  made  ; 

Far  from  such  councils,  from  the  faithless  field, 

She  fled — but  left  behind  her  gorgon  shield  ; 

A  fatal  gift,  that  turn'd  your  friends  to  stone, 

And  left  lost  Albion  haled  and  alone. 

Look  to  the  east,  where  Ganges'  swarthy  rac* 

Shall  shake  your  usurpation  to  its  basu  ; 

Lo !  there  Rebellion  rears  her  ghastly  head. 

And  glares  the  Nemesis  of  native  dead, 

Till  Indus  rolls  a  deep  purpureal  flood, 

And  claims  his  long  arrear  of  oortherp 


THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 


01 


So  may  ye  perish  !  Palhs,  when  she  gave 
Your  free-born  rights,  forbade  ye  to  enslave. 
Look  on  your  Spain,  she  clasps  the  hand  she  hates, 
But  coldly  clasps,  and  thrusts  you  from  her  gates. 
Bear  witness,  bright  Barrossa,  thou  canst  tell 
Whcse  were  the  sons  that  bravely  fought  and  fell. 
While  Lusitania,  kind  and  dear  ally, 
Can  spare  a  few  to  fight  and  sometimes  fly. 
Oh  glorious  field  !  by  famine  fiercely  won ; 
The  Gaul  retires  for  once,  and  all  is  done ! 
But  when  did  Pallas  teach  that  one  retreat 
Retrieved  three  long  olympiads  of  defeat  ? 
Look  last  at  home — ye  love  not  to  look  there, 
On  the  grim  smile  of  comfortless  despair ; 
Your  city  saddens,  loud  though  revel  howls, 
Here  famine  faints,  and  yonder  rapine  prowls  : 
See  all  alike  of  more  or  less  bereft — 
No  misers  tremble  when  there 's  nothing  left. 
'  Blest  paper  credit' la  who  shall  dare  to  sing? 
It  clogs  like  lead  corruption's  weary  wing  : 
Yet  Pallas  plucked  each  Premier  by  the  ear, 
Who  gods  and  men  alike  disdain'd  to  hear; 
But  one,  repentant  o'er  a  bankrupt  state, 
On  Pallas  calls,  but  calls,  alas !   too  late ! 
Then  raves  for  +**  ;  u  to  that  Mentor  bends, 
Though  he  and  Pallas  never  yet  were  friends : 
Him  senates  hear  whom  never  yet  they  heard, 
Contemptuous  once,  and  now  no  less  absurd: 
So  once  of  yore  each  reasonable  frog 
Swore  faith  and  fealty  to  his  sovereign  log ; 
Thus  hail'd  your  rulers  their  patrician  clod, 
As  Egypt  chose  an  onion  for  a  god. 

"  Now  fare  ye  well,  enjoy  your  little  hour  ; 

Go,  grasp  the  shadow  of  your  vanish'd  power ; 

Gloss  o'er  the  failure  of  each  fondest  scheme, 

Your  strength  a  name,  your  bloated  wealth  a  dream. 

Gone  is  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  mankind, 

And  pirates  barter  all  that 's  left  behind  ;'* 

No  more  the  hirelings,  purchased  near  and  far, 

Crowd  to  the  ranks  of  mercenary  war; 

Th<;  idle  merchant  on  the  useless  quay 

Droops  o'er  the  bales  no  bark  may  bear  away, 

Or,  back  returning,  sees  rejected  stores 

Rot  piecemeal  on  his  own  encumber'd  shores ; 

The  starved  mechanic  breaks  his  rustic  loom, 

And,  desperate,  mans  him  'gainst  the  common  doom. 

Then  in  the  senate  of  your  sinking  state, 

Show  me  the  man  whose  counsels  may  have  weight. 

Vain  is  each  voice  whose  tones  could  once  command  ; 

Even  factions  cease  to  charm  a  factious  land ; 

While  jarring  sects  convulse  a  sister  isle, 

And  light  with  maddening  hands  the  mutual  pile. 

"  'T  is  done,  '  tis  past,  since  Pallas  warns  in  vain, 
The  Furies  seize  her  abdicated  reign  ; 
Wide  o'er  the  realm  they  wave  their  kindling  brands, 
And  wring  her  vitals  with  their  fiery  hands. 
But  one  convulsive  struggle  still  remains, 
And  Gaul  shall  weep  ere  Albion  wear  her  chains, 
The  banner'd  pomp  of  war,  the  glittering  files, 
O'er  whose  gay  trappings  stern  Bellona  smiles  ; 
The  brazen  trump,  the  spirit-stirring  drum, 
Th?'  hid  the  foe  defiance  e'**  «h«v  come ; 
The  neru  nuuntlrjg  al  ms  country's  call, 
The  glorious  oeam  tna1  decorates  his  fall, 


well  the  young  heart  with  visionary  charms, 
jid  bid  it  antedate  the  joys  of  arms. 
Jut  know,  a  lesson  you  may  yet  be  taught — 
Vith  death  alone  are  laurels  cheaply  bought : 
Vot  in  the  conflict  havoc  seeks  delight — 
lis  day  of  mercy  is  the  day  of  fight ; 
Jut  when  the  field  is  fought,  the  battle  won, 
Though  drench'd  with  gore,  his  woes  are  but  begun 
lis  deeper  deeds  ye  yet  know  but  by  name, — 
The  slaughter'd  peasant  and  the  ravish'd  dame, 
The  rifled  mansion  and  the  foe-reap'd  field, 
11  suit  with  souls  at  home  uniaught  to  yield. 
Say  with  what  eye,  along  the  distant  down, 
Vould  flying  burghers  mark  the  blazing  town  ? 
iow  view  the  column  of  ascending  flames 
Shake  his  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames  ? 
,  frown  not,  Albion !  for  the  torch  was  thine 
That  lit  such  pyres  from  Tagus  to  the  Rhine : 
Vow  should  they  burst  on  thy  devoted  coast, 

o,  ask  thy  bosom,  who  deserves  them  most '/ 
The  law  of  heaven  and  earth  is  life  for  life ; 
And  she  who  raised  in  vain  regrets  the  strife." 


NOTES. 


Note  1.  Page  189,  line  22. 
How  watch'd  thy  belter  sons  his  farewell  ray. 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's  latest  day! 

Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sua 

set  (the  hour  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the  en 

•eaties  of  his  disciples  to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 

Note  2.  Page  189,  line  34. 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign. 
The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  out 
country  ;  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  sunimet 
of  less  duration. 

Note  3.  Page  189,  line  44. 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  Kiosk. 
Tile  Kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house ;  the  palm  ii 
without  the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  th« 
temple  of  Theseus,  between  which  and  the  tree  the 
wall  intervenes.  Cephisus'  stream  is  indeed  scanty,  and 
Ilissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 

Note  4.  Page  190,  line  5. 
These  Cecrops  placed — this  Pericles  adorn'd. 
This  is  spoken  of  the  city  in  general,  and  not  of  the 
Acropolis  in  particular.     The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olyn»- 
pius,  by  some  supposed  the  Pantheon,  was  finished  by 
Hadrian :   sixteen  columns  are  standing,  of  the  most 
beautiful  marble  and  style  of  architecture. 

Note  5.  Page  190,  line  10. 
The  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name. 
It  is  stated  by  a  late  oriental  traveller,  that  when  the 
wholesale  spoliator  visited  Athens,  he  caused  his  own 
name,  with  that  of  his  wife,  to  be  inscribed  on  a  pillai 
of  one  of  the  principal  temples.  This  inscription  wni 
executed  in  a  very  conspicuous  manner,  and  deeply  en- 
graved in  the  marble,  at  a  very  considerable  elevation. 
Notwithstanding  which  precautions,  some  person  (douot 
less  inspired  by  the  Patron  Goddess),  has  been  at  th* 
pains  to  get  himself  raised  up  to  the  requisite  heiafc-. 
and  has  obliterated  the  name  of  the  laird,  but  left  trul 
ot  tue  laJy  untouched.  The  traveller  in  question  «c 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


comuanied  this  story  by  a  remark,  that  it  must  have 
cost  some  labour  and  contrivance  to  get  at  the  place, 
anJ  could  only  have  been  effected  by  much  zeal  and 
<ietermination. 

Note  6.  Page  190,  line  21. 
When  Venus  half  avenged  Minerva's  shame. 
I^is  lordship's  name,  and  that  of  one  who  no  longer 
bears  it,  are  carved  conspicuously  on  the  Parthenon 
above.;  in  a  part  not  far  distant  are  the  torn  remnants 
i>f  the  basso-relievos,  destroyed  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
remove  them. 

Note  7.  Page  190,  line  27. 
Frown  not  on  England — England  owns  him  not— 
Athena,  no !  the  plunderer  was  a  Scot ! 

The  plaster  wall  on  the  west  side  of  the  temple  of 
Minerva  Polias  bears  the  following  inscription,  cut  in 
very  deep  characters : 

Quod  non  fecerunt  Goti 
Hoc  fecerunt  Scoti. 
Hobhuuse's  Travels  in  Greece,  etc.,  p.  345. 

Note  8.  Page  190,  line  30. 
And  well  I  know  within  that  bastard  land. 
Irish  bastards,  according  to  Sir  Callaghan  O'Bral- 
laghan. 

Note  9.  Page  190,  line  77. 

With  palsied  hand  shall  turn  each  model  o'er, 
And  own  himself  an  infant  of  fourscore. 

Mr. West,  on  seeing  "the  Elgin  collection"  (I  suppose 
t»o  shall  hear  of  the  Abershaw's  and  Jack  Shepherd's 
collection  next),  declared  himself  a  mere  Tyro  in  Art. 

Note  10.  Page  190,  line  80. 
While  brawny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare. 
And  marvel  at  his  lordship's  stone-shop  there. 

Poor  Crib  was  sadly  puzzled  when  exhibited  at  Elgin- 
house  ;  he  asked  if  it  was  not  "  a  stone-shop :  "  he  was 
right, — it  is  a  shop. 

Note  11.  Page  190,  line  94. 
And,  last  of  all,  amidst  the  gaping  crew, 
Some  cahn  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view. 

"Alas!  all  the  monuments  of  Roman  magnificence, 
jj(  the  remains  of  Grecian  taste,  so  dear  to  the  artist, 
ihe  historian,  the  antiquary,  all  depend  on  the  will  of 
an  arbitrary  sovereign ;  and  that  will  is  influenced  too 
aftcn  by  interest  or  vanity,  by  a  nephew  or  a  sycophant. 


Is  a  new  palace  to  be  erectrd  (at  Rome)  for  an  upstait 
family?  the  Coliseum  is  stripped  to  furnish  materials. 
Does  a  foreign  minister  wish  to  adorn  the  bleak  walll 
of  a  northern  castle  with  antiques?  the  temples  of  The- 
seus or  Minerva  must  be  dismantled,  and  the  works  of 
Phidias  or  Praxiteles  be  torn  from  the  shattered  frieze. 
That  a  decrepit  uncle,  wrapped  up  in  the  religious 
duties  of  his  age  and  station,  should  listen  to  the  sug- 
gestions of  an  interested  nephew,  is  natural ;  and  that 
an  oriental  despot  should  undervalue  the  masterpieces 
of  Grecian  art,  is  to  be  expected  ;  though  in  both  cases 
the  consequences  of  such  weakness  are  much  to  be  la- 
mented— but  that  the  minister  of  a  nation,  famed  for 
its  knowledge  of  the  language,  and  its  veneration  for 
the  monuments  of  ancient  Greece,  should  have  been 
the  prompter  and  the  instrument  of  these  destructions, 
is  almost  incredible.  Such  rapacity  is  a  ciime  against 
all  ages  and  all  generations :  it  deprives  the  past  of  the 
trophies  of  their  genius  ana  tne  titie-deeas  of  their 
fame ;  the  present,  of  the  strongest  inducements  to 
exertion,  the  noblest  exhibitions  that  curiosity  can 
contemplate  ;  the  future,  of  the  masterpieces  of  art,  the 
models  of  imitation.  To  guard  against  the  repetition 
of  such  depredations  is  the  wish  of  everv  man  of  ge- 
nius, the  duty  of  every  man  in  power,  and  the  common 
interest  of  every  civilized  nation." — Eustace's  Classical 
Tour  I/trough  Italy,  p.  269. 

"This  attempt  to  transplant  the  temple  of  Vesta  from 
Italy  to  England,  may,  perhaps,  do  honour  to  the  late 
Lord  Bristol's  patriotism  or  to  his  magnificence  ;  but  it 
cannot  be  considered  as  an  indication  of  cither  taste  or 
judgment." — Ibid.  p.  419. 

Note  12.  Page  191,  line  19. 
'  Blest  paper  credit '  who  shall  dare  to  sing  ? 
Blest  paper  credit,  last  and  best  supply. 
That  lends  corruption  lighter  wings  lo  fly. — Pope 

Note  13.  Page  191,  line  25. 

Then  raves  for  *  *  * 
The  Deal  and  Dover  traffickers  in  specie. 

Note  14.  Page  191,  line  38. 
Gone  is  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  mankind. 
And  pirates  barter  all  that 's  left  behind. 

See  the  preceding  note. 


of  CortntU* 


January  22,  1816. 


TO  JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ. 

THIS   POEM   IS   INSCRIBED, 
BY  HIS  FRIEND. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


4  The  grand  army  of  the  Turks  (in  1715),  under  the 
Pume  Vizier,  to  open  to  themselves  a  way  into  the 
neart  of  the  Morea,  and  to  form  the  siege  o<"  Napoli 
m  Romania,  the  most  considerable  place  in  all  that 
country,1  thought  it  best  in  the  firs;  place  to  attack 


1  Napolidi  Romania  is  no.  now  the  most  considerable  place  in 
ihe  Morea,  butTripolitza,  whore  the  Pacha  resides,  and  main- 
tains hie  government.  Nap  >li  u  near  Aigo».  I  visited  all  three  in 


Corinth,  upon  which  they  made  several  storms.  The 
garrison  being  weakened,  and  the  governor  seeing  it 


1810-11  •  and  in  the  course  of  journeyimg  through  lh«  country 
from  my  first  arrival  in  1809, 1  crossed  the  Isthmus  eitfnt  tirno* 
in  my  way  from  Attica  to  the  Morea,  over  the  mountains, 
or  in  the  other  direction,  when  passing  from  (he  Gull  of  Athens 
to  that  of  Lt-printo.  Both  the  routes  are  picturesque  and  beau 
tiful,  though  very  different :  that  by  sea  has  more  sameness, 
but  the  voyage  being  always  in  sight  of  land,  and  often  vert 
near  it,  presents  many  attractive  views  i  ( the  islanun  *H  lamii 
/Esina,  Foro,  etc.,  and  the  coast  of  th<  »onUr-oot. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


193 


wa»  impossible  to  hold  out  against  so  mighty  a  force, 
thought  it  fit  to  beat  a  parley :  but  while  they  were 
treating  about  the  articles,  one  of  the  magazines  in  the 
Turkish  camp,  wherein  they  had  six  hundred  barrels 
of  powder,  blew  up  by  accident,  whereby  six  or  seven 
hundred  men  were  killed :  which  so  enraged  the  infi- 
dels, that  they  would  not  grant  any  capitulation,  but 
ttormed  the  place  with  so  much  fury,  that  they  took  it, 
and  put.  most  of  the  garrison,  with  Signor  Minotti,  the 
governor,  to  the  sword.  The  rest,  with  Antonio  Bembo, 
proveditor  extraordinary,  were  made  prisoners  of  war." 
History  of  the  Turks,  vol.  iii.  p.  151. 


SIEGE  OF  CORINTH 


MANY  a  vanish'd  year  and  age, 

And  tempest's  bi  eath,  and  battle's  rage, 

Have  swept  o'er  Corinth  ;  yet  she  stands, 

A  fortress  form'd  to  Freedom's  hands. 

The  whirlwind's  wrath,  the  earthquake's  shock, 

Have  left  untouch'd  her  hoary  rock, 

The  keystone  of  a  land  which  still, 

Though  fall'n,  looks  proudly  on  that  hill, 

The  landmark  to  the  double  tide 

That  purpling  rolls  on  either  side, 

As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet, 

Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 

But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 

Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled, 

Or  baffled  Persia's  despot  fled, 

Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 

The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank, 

That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'erflow 

Her  isthmus  idly  spread  below : 

Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain, 

Who  perish'd  there,  be  piled  again, 

That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 

More  mountain-like,  through  those  clear  skies, 

Than  yon  tower-capt  Acropolis 

Which  seems  the  very  clouds  to  kiss. 

II. 

On  dun  Cithaeron's  ridge  appears 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spears ; 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain, 
From  shore  to  shore  of  either  main, 
The  tent  is  pitch'd,  the  crescent  shines 
Along  the  Moslem's  leaguering  lines ; 
And  the  dusk  Spahi's  bands  advance 
Beneath  each  bearded  pacha's  glance  ; 
And  far  and  wide  as  eye  can  reach, 
The  turban'd  cohorts  throng  the  beach ; 
And  there  the  Arab's  camel  kneels, 
And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels ; 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd,1 
The  sabre  round  his  loins  to  gird ; 
Ard  there  the  volleying  thunders  pour, 
T "'  waves  grow  smoother  to  the  roar. 
The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon's  breath 
Wings  the  far  hissing  globe  of  death  ; 
U  2  30 


Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall, 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ball ; 
And  from  that  waH  the  foe  replies, 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies, 
With  fires  that  answer  fast  and  well 
The  summons  of  the  Infidel. 

III. 

But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  work  its  fall, 
With  deeper  skill  in  war's  black  art 
Than  Othman's  sons,  and  high  of  heart 
As  any  chief  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood  ; 
From  post  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed, 
Fast  spurring  on  his  reeking  steed, 
Where  sallying  ranks  the  trench  assail, 
And  make  the  foremost  Moslem  quail ; 
Or  where  the  battery,  guarded  well, 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable, 
Alighting  cheerly  to  inspire 
The  soldier  slackening  in  his  fire  ; 
The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 
Which  Stamboul's  sultan  there  can  boasi, 
To  guide  the  follower  o'er  the  field, 
To  point  the  tube,  the  lance  to  wield, 
Or  whirl  around  the  bickering  blade, — 
Was  Alp,  the  Adrian  renegade  ' 

rv. 

From  Venice— once  a  race  of  worth 
His  gentle  sires — he  drew  his  birth ; 
But  late  an  exile  from  her  shore, 
Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 
The  arms  they  taught  to  bear  ;  and  now 
The  turban  girt  his  shaven  brow. 
Through  many  a  change  had  Corinth  pass'd 
With  Greece  to  Venice"  rule  a:  last; 
And  here,  before  her  walls,  with  those 
To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes, 
He  stood  a  foe,  with  ail  the  zeal 
Which  young  and  fiery  converts  feel, 
Within  whose  heated  bosom  throngs 
The  memory  of  a  thousand  wrongs. 
To  him  had  Venice  ceased  to  be 
Her  ancient  civic  boast — "the  Free  ;" 
And  in  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 
Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 
Within  the  "  Lion's  mouth  "  had  placed 
A  charge  against  him  uneflaced  : 
He  fled  in  time,  and  saved  his  life 
To  waste  his  future  years  in  strife, 
That  taught  his  land  how  great  her  loss 
In  him  who  trmmph'd  o'er  the  Cross, 
'Gainst  which  he  rcar'd  the  C  resect*  higk 
And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 

V. 

Coumourgi 2 — he  whose  closing  scene 
Adorn'd  the  triumph  of  Eugene, 
When  on  Carlowitz'  bloody  plain, 
The  last  and  mightiest  of  th«  slain, 
He  sank,  regretting  not  to  die. 
But  curst  the  Christian's  victorj — 
Coumourgi — can  his  glory  cease. 
That  latest  conqueror  of  Greece 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


TO  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 
The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  Tore? 
A  Hundred  rears  hare  refl*d  away 
Since  he  refix'd  the  Moslem's  sway; 
And  DOW  be  led  the  Mussulman, 
And  -arc  the  guidance  of  the  ran 
To  Aip,  who  we!  repawi  the  trust 
BT  obes  leveBiwith  the  dust; 
AM!  proved,  jfWny  a  deed  of  iemm, 
Bow  firm  his  heart  in  novel  fijta, 

TL 

The  waDs  grew  weak ;  and  fast  and  hot 

Agamst  them  poor  d  the  eeaselofs  shot, 

W*h  onabaling  fury  sent 

From  battery  to  battlement ; 

AM!  tbrnder-Bke  the  pealing  dm 

Hate  from  each  heated  euhrerin ; 

And  here  and  there  smoe  cracking  dome 

Was  fired  before  the  exploding  bomb: 

AM!  as  the  fabric  sank  beneath 

The  chattering  shell's  volcanic  bream, 

Li  red  aad  wreathing  cokmmc  flasW 


,  as  loud  the 


Orir 


,  cnshM, 


WhMe  cfamfa  mat  day  grew  dnmly  Am, 

1 1— ,,,  -  ,„; in  if,  .  kft<t*l»m  «-.-. 

UBpawimS  W9  IDC    nMUJCB  aUnj 

With  lommed  imoke  mat  Jowly  grew 
To  <me  wide  sky  of  satplmraa  has. 


Akme,attAJB,ia. 


Hubope  would  wia,  waaaat  oaase 
Of  that  inexorable  ske, 
Waose  aeart  tesnsed  bin  in  its  ire, 
When  Ah*,  beaeath  hi.  Chratiu 
'Her  virgin  hud  aspired  to  daim. 
IB  happier  mood  a 


Gayest  m  gondola  or  hall, 

He  gatterM  thnmjh  me  Caniral; 

Ahd  tamed  «he  wAert 

That  e'er  oe  Adria'« 


vra. 

AjKlmmrrBeem'd  her  heart  wmsww; 
For,  MOfht  by  amber*,  grrat  to  •one, 
Had  yams  Francesca'*  haad  remain'd 
Sfdl  vf  *ne  cauiCA  s  bomb  imcham'd  s 
AM  wbea  the  Adriatic  bore 
Laneiono  to  the  Parmm  chore, 
Hrrw»«ted  smiesWre  sea  to  fid. 
wmVd  the  miirl,  aad  paie  ; 


Or  seen  at  such,  win  mmatart  eyes, 
Wkwh  eomroer'd  beans  they  ceased  to  prmt* 
Ws*  EstfeM  took  she  seems  to  g«ze; 
Witt  hmililir  ore  her  farm  arrays  ; 


Her  Toiee  less  ttteiy  in  the  sons  ; 

Her  ster*.  irx^-zp.  .?^r.t,  .v*s  f^c?i  any^njj 
The  pairs,  oo  whom  the  mornsn«'s  gianee 
Breaks,  yet  tmsated  with  the  dance. 

K. 

Seat  by  the  state  to  guard  the  land 
(Which,  wrested  from  the  Moslem's  MUM, 
White  Sofce-Ou  tamed  his  pride 
By  Soda's  wall  and  Danube's  side, 
The  chiefs  of  Venice  wrung  away 
From  Patra  to  Eobcea's  bay), 
MoKXti  held  in  Corinth's  towers 
The  Doge's  delegated  powers, 
While  yet  the  p"  tying  eye  of  peace 
SmiiiJo'er  her  looy-fcrgotten  Greece; 
And,  ere  that  fiuthless  truce  was  broke 
Which  freed  her  from  the  unchristian  yoke, 
With  him  his  gentle  daughter  came : 


Forsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  prove 
What  woes  await  on  lawless  love, 
Had  fairer  form  adorn'd  the  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 

X. 

The  waD  is  rent,  the  ruins  yawn, 
Asd,  with  to-morrow's  earnest  .dawn, 
O'er  the  disjointed  mass  shall  vault 
The  foremost  of  the  fierce  assauh. 
The  bands  are  rank'd  ;  the  chosen  van 
Of  Tartar  and  of  Mussulman, 
The  fan  of  hope,  misnamed  "forlorn," 
Who  hold  the  thought  of  death  in  scorn, 
And  win  their  way  with  falchions'  force, 
Or  pave  the  path  with  many  a  corse, 
O'er  which  the  following  brave  may  rise, 
Their  stepping-stone— the  bast  wno  die* ' 

XL 

T is  midnight:  on  the  i 
The  coldi 
Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 
Spread,  lie  an  ocean  bung  o»  high, 
Bespangled  win  those  isles  ef  light, 
So  wikfly,  spwituaBy  bright ; 
Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining, 
And  turn' d  to  earth  without  repining, 
Nor  wish'd  for  wings  to  flee  away, 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 
The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 
Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air ; 
And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 
Bat  murmur  d  meekly  as  the  brook. 
The  winds  were  pUTow'd  on  the  waves ; 
The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves, 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  farting, 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling ; 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 
Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 
Save  where  the  steed  neigh'd  oft  and  shnl , 
And  echo  answer'd  from  the  hil', 
And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host 
Baftf*"*  Bee  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 
As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 
la  midnight  eal  to  wealed  prayer  • 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


•  9 


It  race,  that  chauntrd  mournful  strain, 

Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  plain : 

*Twas  musical,  but  nadir  sweet, 

Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 

And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone, 

To  mortal  mintstreUy  unknown. 

It  seem'd  to  those  within  the  waH 

A  cry  prophetic  of  their  (all : 

It  struck  even  the  besieger's  ear 

With  something  ominous  and  drear, 

An  undefined  and  sudden  thrifl, 

Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  stffl, 

Then  beat  with  quicker  puke,  ashamed 

OT  that  strange  sense  its  silence  framed ; 

Such  as  a  sudden  passing-bell 

Wakes,  though  but  for  a  stranger's  kaefl. 

xn. 

The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore  ; 
The  sound  was  hush'd  the  prayer  was  o'er ; 
The  watch  was  set,  the  nighi-round  made, 
All  mandates  issued  and  obey'd  j 
T  is  but  another  anxious  night, 
His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 
With  ail  revenge  and  lore  can  pay, 
In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 
Few  hours  remain,  and  he  bath  need 
Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a  deed 
Of  slaughter;  but  within  his  soul 
y  The  thoughts  like  troubled  water*  rofl. 

He  stood  alone  among  the  host ; 
Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 
To  plant  the  Crescent  o'er  the  Croc*, 
Or  risk  a  life  with  little  losa, 
Secure  in  paradise  to  be 
By  Houris  loved  immortally : 
Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  fed, 
The  stern  nakedness  of  teal, 
Profuse  of  Mood,  unt ired  in  toil, 
When  battling  on  the  parent  soiL 
He  stood  alone — a  renegade 
Against  the  country  he  betrayM ; 
He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band, 
Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand  : 
They  fbilow'd  him,  for  he  was  brave, 
And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave ; 
They  croueh'd  to  him,  for  he  had  skill 
To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  wffl: 
But  still  his  Christian  origin 
With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 
They  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 
He  earn'd  beneath  a  Moslem  name ; 
Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  beet 
In  youth  a  bitter  Nazarene. 
They  did  not  know  bow  pride  can  stoop, 
When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop ; 
They  did  not  know  bow  hate  can  bora 
In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stem; 
Nor  an  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 
The  convert  of  revenge  can  feet 
He  ruled  them— man  may  rale  the  want, 
By  ever  daring  to  be  first : 
So  bons  o'er  the  jackal  sway ; 
The  jackal  points,  he  fens  the  prey, 
Thee  on  the  vulgar  yels»£  pros*, 
To  gorge  the  rebec  ef  i 


t  XIIL 

His  head  grows  feverM,  and  his  pulse 
The  quick  successive  throbs  convulse ; 
In  vain  from  side  to  side  be  throws 
His  form,  in  courtship  of  repose  ; 
Or  if  be  dozed,  a  sound,  a  start 
Awoke  him  with  a  sunken  heart. 
The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  press'd, 
The  mail  weigh'd  lead-like  on  his  breast, 
Though  oft  and  long  beneath  it*  weight 
Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate, 
Without  or  couch  or  canopy, 
Except  a  rougher  field  and  sky 
Than  now  might  yield  a  warrior's  bed. 
Than  now  along  the  heaves  was  spread. 
He  could  not  rest,  be  could  not  stay 
Within  hb  tent  to  wait  for  day, 
Bat  walk'd  him  drth  along  the  sand, 
Where  thousand  sleepers  strewM  the  straa. 
What  pillowM  them?  and  why  should  be 
More  wakefiil  than  the  humblest  be? 
Since  more  their  peril,  worse  their  toil, 
And  yet  they  fearless  dream  of  spoil; 
Wbie  he  alone,  where  thousands  pass'd 
A  night  of  sleep,  perchance  their  out, 
In  sickly  vigil  waaderM  on, 
And  envied  al  be  gazed  mpa*. 

XIV. 

He  felt  his  sod  become  more  light 
Beneath  the  freshness  of  the  night. 
Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  eah» 
And  bathed  his  brow  with  aky  hako: 
Behind,  the  earns— before  hhn  lav, 
In  many  *  winding  creek  and  bay, 
Lepanto's  golf:  and,  on  the  brow 
Of  Delphi's  toB,  unshaken  snow, 
High  and  eternal,  such  as  shone 
Through  thousand  smiuueis  brightly  gone, 
Along  the  gulf,  the  mount,  the  dime; 
It  wffl  not  meta,  hke  man,  to  time : 
Tyrant  and  slave  are  swept  away, 
Less  fbrm'd  to  wear  before  the  ray, 
But  that  white  veB,  the  lightest,  frailest, 
Which  on  the  mighty  mount  thoa  haflest, 
While  tower  and  tree  are  torn  and  rent, 
Shines  o?ef  its  craggy  battlement ; 
In  form  a  peak,  in  height  a  dood, 
In  texture  like  a  hovering  shroud, 
Thus  high  by  parting  Freedom  spread, 
As  from  her  food  abode  she  fled. 
And  fager'.  «•  Ae  spot,  where  W»g 
Her  prophet  spirit  spake  in  Jong. 
Oh,  sol  her  step  at  moments  taken 
O'er  winerM  fields  and  rtrirfd  atari, 
And  fai»  would  wake,  m  souk  to*  broke*. 
By  poisaJBg  to  each  glorious  tokesj. 
Bat  vmin  her  voice,  tit)  setter  day* 
Dawn  m  those  yet  rememker  d  rays 
Which  jhone  upon  the  Pemanfiymg, 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 

XV. 

Not  made**  of  these  mighty  «"•*• 
WM  Alp,  oesp*e  •**  fcsj*  •** 


r9G 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Ana  tnrough  this  night,  as  on  he  wander' d, 

AJid  o'er  the  past  and  present  ponder'd, 

And  thought  upon  the  glorious  dead 

Who  there  in  better  cause  had  bled, 

He  felt  how  faint  an  1  feebly  dim 

The  fame  that  could  accrue  to  him, 

Who  cheer'd  the  band,  and  waved  the  sword, 

A  traitor  in  a  turban'd  horde ; 

And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege, 

Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 

Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  uurnber'd, 

The  chiefs  whose  dust  around  him  slumber'd  j 

Their  phalanx  marshall'd  on  the  plain, 

Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain. 

They  fell  devoted,  but  undying  ; 

The  very  gale 'their  names  seem'd  sighing: 

i'he  waters  murmur'd  of  their  name  ; 

The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame ; 

The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 

Claim'd  kindred  with  iheir  sacred  clay; 

Their  spirits  wrapt  the  dusky  mountain, 

Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain ; 

The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river 

Roll'd  mingling  with  their  fame  for  ever. 

Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 

That  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs  ! 

'T  is  still  a  watch- word  to  the  earth : 

When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth 

He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 

So  sanction'd,  on  the  tyrant's  head : 

He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 

Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won. 
XVI. 

Still  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused, 

And  woo'd  the  freshness  night  diffused. 

There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea,1 

Which  changeless  rolls  eternally ; 

So  that  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood, 

Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a  rood ; 

And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 

Heedless  if  she  come  or  go : 

Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay, 

On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 

The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare, 

And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there ; 

And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 

On  the  line  that  it  left  long  ages  ago : 

A  smooth  short  space  of  yellow  sand 

Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 
'le  wander'd  on,  along  the  beach, 
Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 
Of  the  leaguer'd  wall ;  but  they  saw  him  not, 
Or  how  could  he  'scape  from  the  hostile  shot  ? 
Did  traitors  lurk  in  the  Christian's  hold? 
Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax'd  cold  ? 
I  know  r.ot,  in  sooth  ;  but  from  yonder  wall 
There  flash'd  no  fire,  and  there  hiss'd  no  ball, 
Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown, 
That  flank'd  the  sea-ward  gate  of  the  town ; 
Though  lie  heard  tne  sound,  and  could  almost  tell 
The  sul  en  words  of  the  sentinel 
As  iiis  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 
Clank'd,  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro ; 
And  he  saw  the  lean  doge  beneath  the  wall 
Hold  o'er  the  dead  'heir  earvina!. 


orging  and  growling  o'er  carcass  and  limb ; 
They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him ! 
Prom  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripp'd  the  flesh, 
As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  the  fruit  is  fresh  ; 
And  their  white  tusks  crunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull,* 
As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew  duU 
As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead, 
When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  when;  thej  fo<^ 
So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast 
With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night's  repast. 
And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  roll'd  on  the  sand, 
The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band  : 
Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their  wear, 
And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair,5 
All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 
The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 
The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 
But  close  by  the  shore  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf, 
There  sat  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf, 
Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away, 
Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey  ; 
But  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 
Pick'd  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

XVII. 

Alp  turn'd  him  from  the  sickening  sight : 
Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  fight ; 
But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying, 
Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying, 
Scorch'd  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain, 
Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain. 
There  is  something  of  pride  in  the  perilous  hour, 
Whate'er  be  the  shape  in  which  death  may  lour ; 
For  Fame  is  there  to  say  who  bleeds, 
And  Honour's  eye  on  daring  deeds ! 
But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 
O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead, 
And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the  air, 
Beasts  of  the  forest,  all  gathering  there  ; 
All  regarding  man  as  their  prey, 
All  rejoicing  in  his  decay. 

XVIII. 

There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 
Fashion'd  by  long-forgotten  hands ; 
Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone, 
Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown ! 
Out  upon  time  !  it  will  leave  no  more 
Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before ! 
Out  upon  time !  who  for  ever  will  leave 
But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 
O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'er  that  which  must  oet 
What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see ; 
Remnants  of  things  that  have  pass'd  away, 
Fragments  of  stone,  rear'd  by  creatures  of  <0ay ! 

XIX. 

He  sate  him  down  at  a  pillar's  base, 
And  pass'd  his  hand  athwart  his  face ; 
Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood, 
Declining  was  his  attitude  ; 
His  head  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 
Fever'd,  throbbing,  and  opprest ; 
And  o'er  his  brow,  so  downward  benl. 
Oft  his  beating  fingers  went, 
Hurriedly,  as  you  may  see 
Your  own  run  over  the  ivory  key. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


Lre  the  measured  tone  is  taken 

By  the  chords  you  would  awaken. 

There  he  sate  all  heavily, 

As  he  heard  the  night-wind  sigh. 

Was  it  the  wind,  through  some  hollow  stone,* 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan  ? 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  look'd  on  the  sea, 

But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be ; 

He  look'd  on  the  long  grass — it  waved  not  a  blade; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  convey'd  ? 

He  look'd  to  the  banners — each  flag  lay  still, 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithseron's  hill. 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek ; 

What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak? 

He  turn'd  to  the  left — is  he  sure  of  sight  ? 

There  satfe  a  lady,  youthful  and  bright ! 

XX. 

He  started  up  witn  more  of  fear 

Than  if  an  armed  foe  were  near. 

"  God  of  my  fathers !  what  is  here  ? 

Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 

So  near  a  hostile  armament?" 

His  trembling  hands  refused  to  sig* 

The  cross  he  deem'd  no  more  divine  : 

He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 

But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 

He  gazed,  he  saw  :  he  knew  the  face 

Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace ; 

It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 

The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride  ! 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  cheek, 

But  mellow'd  with  a  tender  streak : 

Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  lips  fled  ? 

Gone  was  the  smile  that  enliven'd  their  red. 

The  ocean's  calm  within  their  view, 

Beside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue ; 

But  like  that  cold  wave  it  stood  still, 

And  its  glance,  though  clear,  was  chill. 

Around  her  form  a  thin  robe  twining, 

Nought  conceal'd  her  bosom  shining ; 

Through  the  parting  of  her  hair, 

Floating  darkly  downward  there, 

Her  rounded  arm  show'd  white  and  bare : 

And  ere  yet  she  made  reply, 

Once  she  raised  her  hand  on  high ; 

It  was  so  wan,  and  transparent  of  hue, 

You  might  have  seen  the  moon  shine  through. 

XXI. 

'  I  come  from  my  rest  to  him  I  love  best, 
That  I  may  be  happy,  and  he  may  be  blest. 

I  have  pass'd  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall ; 

Sought  thee  in  safety  through  foes  and  all. 

'T  is  said  the  lion  will  turn  and  flee 

From  a  maid  in  the  pride  of  her  purity ; 

And  the  power  on  high,  that  can  shield  the  good 

Thus  from  the  tyrant  of  the  wood, 

Ha'h  extended  its  mercy  to  guard  me  as  wefl 

From  the  hands  of  the  leaguering  infidel, 
come — and  if  I  come  in  vain, 

Never,  oh  never,  we  meet  again ! 

Thou  hast  done  a  fearful  deed 

[n  falling  away  from  thy  talher't  creed : 


But  dash  that  turban  to  earth,  and  sian 
The  sign  of  the  cross,  and  for  ever  be  mine ; 
Wring  \he  black  drop  from  thy  heart, 
And  to-morrow  unites  us  no  more  to  part." 

"  And  where  should  our  bridal  couch  he  spread  ? 

In  the  midst  of  the  dying  anrf  the  dead  ? 

For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and  flame 

The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name  • 

None  save  thou  and  thine,  I  've  sworn, 

Shall  be  left  upon  the  morn : 

But  thee  will  I  bear  to  a  lovely  spot, 

Where  our  hands  shall  be  join'd,  and  our  sorrow  forgot 

There  thou  yet  shall  be  my  bride, 

When  once  again  I  've  quell'd  the  pnde 

Of  Venice  ;  and  her  hated  race 

Have  felt  the  arm  they  would  debase, — 

Scourge,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  those 

Whom  vice  and  envy  made  my  foes." 

Upon  his  hand  she  laid  her  own — 

Light  was  the  touch,  but  it  thrill'd  to  the  bone, 

And  shot  a  dullness  to  his  heart, 

Which  fix'd  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 

Though  slight  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  eoid, 

He  could  not  loose  him  from  its  hold ; 

But  never  did  clasp  of  one  so  dear 

Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 

As  those  thin  fingers,  long  and  white, 

Froze  through  his  blood  by  their  touch  that  night 

The  feverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 

And  his  heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like  stone, 

As  he  look'd  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hue 

5o  deeply  changed  from  what  he  knew : 

Fair  but  faint — without  the  ray 

mind,  that  made  each  feature  play 
Like  sparkling  waves  on  a  sunny  day  ; 
And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death, 
And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath, 
And  th  ere  rose  not  a  heave  o'er  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  there  seem'd  not  a  pulse  in  her  veins  to  dweU. 
Though  her  eye  shone  out,  yet  the  lids  were  fix'd, 
And  the  glance  that  it  gave  \*as  wild  and  unmix' d 
iVith  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  may  seem 
3f  the  restless  who  walk  in  a  troubled  dream ; 
Like  the  figures  on  arras,  that  gloomily  glare, 
Stirr'd  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air, 
So  seen  by  the  dying  lamp's  fitful  light, 
Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awful  to  sight ; 
As  they  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to  come  down 
?rom  the  shadowy  wall  where  their  images  frown  j 
fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro, 
As  the  gusts  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 
"If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 
Thus  much,  then,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,— 
Again  I  say — that  turban  tear 
From  off  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 
Thine  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 
Or  thou  art  lost ;  and  never  shall  see, 
Not  earth — that 's  past — but  heaven  or  me. 
If  this  thou  dost  accord,  albeit 
A  heavy  doom  't  is  thine  to  meet, 
That  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 
And  Mercy's  gate  may  receive  ihee  within ; 
But  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 
The  curse  of  Him  thou  didst  forsake ; 


1 9<> 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Ana  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  see 
Its  love  for  ever  shut  from  thee. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon — ' 
'T  is  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon — 
If,  by  the  time  its  vapoury  sail 
Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 
Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 
Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged , 
Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 
Thine  immortality  of  ill." 

Alp  look'd  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 

The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky ; 

But  his  heart  was  swollen,  and  turn'd  aside, 

By  deep  interminable  pride, 

This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 

Roll'd  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 

He  sue  for  mercy !  He  dismay'd 

By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid ! 

He,  wrong'd  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 

Her  sons  devoted  to  the  grave ! 

No— though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst, 

And  charged  to  crush  him — let  it  burst ! 

He  look'd  upon  it  earnestly, 

Without  an  accent  of  reply  ; 

He  watch'd  it  passing ;  it  is  flown : 

Full  on  his  eye  the  clear  moon  shone, 

And  thus  he  spake — "  Whate'er  my  fate, 

I  am  no  changeling — 't  is  too  late  : 

The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  quiver, 

Then  rise  again ;  the  tree  must  shiver. 

What  Venice  made  me,  I  must  be, 

Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee : 

But  thou  art  safe :  oh,  fly  with  me ! — " 

He  turn'd,  but  she  is  gone ! 

Nothing  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 

Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air  7 

H«  saw  not,  he  knew  not ;  but  nothing  is  there. 

XXII. 

The  night  is  past,  and^  shines  the  sun 

As  if  that  mom  were  a  jocund  one. 

Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  morning  from  her  mantle  gray, 

And  the  moon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 
Ar«J  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  horn, 
And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  thev  're  borne, 
And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum, 
And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  "  they  come,  thev  come !" 
The  horsetails 8  are  pluck'd  from  the  ground,  and  the 

sword 
From  its  sheath ;  and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for  the 

word. 

Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 
trtrike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van ; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 
Tlut  the  fu"itive  may  flee  in  vain, 
When  he  breaks  from  the  town ;  and  none  escape, 
Aged  or  joung,  in  the  Christian  shape; 
While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass, 
Bioodstam  the  breach  through  which  they  pass, 
•flic  steeds  are  all  bridled  and  snort  to  the  rein ; 
Curviwl  i«  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane; 


White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit : 

The  spears  are  uplifted ;  the  matches  are  lit ; 

The  cannon  are  pointed  and  ready  to  roar, 

And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before : 

Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar ; 

Alp  at  their  head  ;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 

So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar ; 

The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post ; 

The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 

When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on ; 

Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one — 

A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 

A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls 

God  and  the  prophet — Alia  Hu  ! 

Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo ! 

"  There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  laddt    to  scale 

And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye  fail  ? 

He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 

His  heart's  dearest  wish  ;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have!" 

Thus  utter'd  Coumourgi,  the  dauntless  vizier  ; 

The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear, 

And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire  :-- 

Silence — hark  to  the  signal — fire ! 

XXIII. 

As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 

On  the  stately  buffalo, 

Though  with  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar, 

And  hoofs  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore, 

He  tramples  on  earth,  and  tosses  on  high 

The  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  d\v 

Thus  against  the  wall  they  went, 

Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent ; 

Many  a  bosom,  sheathed  in  brass, 

Strew'd  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 

Shiver'd  by  the  shot,  that  tore 

The  ground  whereon  they  moved  no  more: 

Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay, 

Like  the  mower's  grass,  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  his  work  is  done'on  the  levell'd  plain; 

Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain.  ^fc 

XXIV. 

As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  plash, 

From  the  cliffs  invading  dash 

Huge  fragments,  sapp'd  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 

Till  white  and  thundering  down  they  go, 

Like  the  avalanche's  snow 

On  the  Alpine  vales  below ; 

Thus  at  length  outbreathed  and  worn, 

Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 

By  the  long  and  ofl-renew'd 

Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 

In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 

Heap'd  by  the  host  of  the  infidel, 

Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot : 

Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute  ; 

Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 

For  quarter,  or  for  victory, 

Mingle  there  with  the  volleying  thunder, 

Which  makes  the  distant  cities  wonder 

How  the  sounding  battle  goes, 

If  w-lh  them,  or  for  their  foes ; 

If  they  must  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 

In  that  annihilating  voice, 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


Which  pierces  the  deep  hills  through  and  through 

With  an  echo  dread  and  new  : 

You  might  l»ave  heard  it,  on  that  day, 

O'er  Salamis  and  Megara  ; 

(We  have  heard  the  hearers  say,) 

Even  unto  Piraeus  bay. 

XXV. 

From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the  hilt, 
-        Sabres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt. 

But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun, 

And  all  but  the  after-carnage  done. 

Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 

From  within  the  plunder'd  dome  ; 

Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet, 

That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street ; 

But  here  and  there,  where  'vantage  ground 

Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found, 

Desperate  groups,  of  twelve  or  ten, 

Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again — 

With  banded  backs  against  the  wall, 

Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man — his  hairs  were  white, 
But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might : 
So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray, 
The  dead  before  him  on  that  day 
In  a  semicircle  lay ; 
Still  he  combated  unwounded, 
Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 
Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 
Lurk'd  beneath  his  corslet  bright ; 
But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 
Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before ; 
Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  limb, 
Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him  ; 
And  the  foes  whom  he  singly  kept  at  baj 
Outnumber'd  his  thin  hairs  of  silver  gray 
From  right  to  left  his  sabre  swept : 
Many  an  Othman  mother  wept 
'  Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  dipp'd 
His  weapon  first  in  Moslem  gore, 
Ere  his  years  co:il<!  count  a  score. 
Of  all  he  might  have  been  the  sire, 
Who  fell  that  day  beneath  his  ire : 
For,  sonless  left  long  years  ago, 
His  wrath  made  many  a  childless  foe ; 
And  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait* 
His  only  boy  had  met  his  fate, 
His  parent's  iron  hand  did  doom 
More  than  a  human  hecatomb. 
If  shades  by  carnage  be  appeased, 
Patroclus'  spirit  less  was  pleased 
Than  his,  Minotti's  son,  who  died 
Where  Asia's  bounds  and  ours  divide. 
Buried  he  lay,  where  thousands  before 
For  thousands  of  years  were  inhumed  OL  the  sho.'e : 
What  of  them  is  left  to  tell 
Where  they  lie,  and  how  they  feli? 
Not  a  stone  on  their  turf,  nor  a  bono  in  their  g'ave? 
But  they  live  in  the  verse  that  immortalfy  saves. 

XXVI. 

Hark  to  the  Allah  shout !  a  band 

Of  tne  Mussulmaq  bravest  and  best  is  at  hand: 


Their  leader's  nervous  arm  is  bare, 
Swifter  to  smite,  and  never  to  spare- 
Unclothed  to  the  shoulder  it  waves  them  on ; 
Thus  in  the  fight  he  is  ever  known : 
Others  a  gaudier  garb  may  show, 
To  tempt  the  spoil  of  the  greedy  foe ; 
Many  a  hand 's  on  a  richer  hilt, 
But  none  on  a  steel  more  ruddily  gilt ; 
Many  a  loftier  turban  may  wear, — 
Alp  is  but  known  by  the  white  arm  bare  ; 
Look  through  the  thick  of  the  fight,  't  is  thero ' 
There  is  not  a  standard  on  that  shore 
So  well  advanced  the  ranks  before  ; 
There  is  not  a  banner  in  Moslem  war 
Will  lure  the  Delhis  half  so  far; 
It  glances  like  a  falling  star ! 
Where'er  that  mighty  arm  is  seen, 
The  bravest  be,  or  late  have  been ! 
There  the  craven  cries  for  quarter 
Vainly  to  the  vengeful  Tartar ; 
Or  the  hero,  silent  lying, 
Scorns  to  yield  a  groan  in  dying  ; 
Mustering  his  last  feeble  blow 
'Gainst  the  nearest  levell'd  foe, 
Though  faint  beneath  the  mutual  wound, 
Grappling  on  the  gory  ground. 

XXVII. 

Still  the  old  man  stood  erect, 
And  Alp's  career  a  moment  check'd. 
"  Yield  thee,  Minotti ;  quarter  take, 
For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 

"Never,  renegade,  never! 

Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  for  ever.* 

"  Francesca ! — Oh  my  promised  bride ! 
Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride  ?" 

"  She  is  safe."—"  Where  1  where  ?"— "  In  hea»«, 

From  whence  thy  traitor  soul  is  driven— 

Far  from  thee,  and  undefiled." 

Grimly  then  Minotti  smiled, 

As  he  saw  Alp  staggering  bow 

Before  his  words,  as  with  a  blow. 

"Oh  God!  when  died  she?" — "Yesternight   • 

Nor  weep  I  for  her  spirit's  flight : 

None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 

Slaves  to  Mahomet  and  thee — 

Come  on !" — That  challenge  is  in  vain — 

Alp 's  already  with  the  slain  ! 

While  Minotti's  words  were  wreaking 

More  revenge  in  hitter  speaking 

Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found, 

Had  the  time  allow'd  to  wound, 

From  within  the  neighbouring  porch 

Of  a  long-defended  church, 

Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 

Would  the  failing  fight  renew, 

The  sharp  shot  dash'd  Alp  to  the  groun.t , 

Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 

That  crash'd  through  tHe  bn>in  ot  ihe  'mMt 

Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell  • 

A  flash  like  fire  within  his:  eyes 

Blazeo,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise. 


900 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 
Through  all  the  palpitating  trunk: 
Nought  of  life  left,  save  a  quivering 
Where  his  limbs  were  slightly  shivering: 
They  turn'd  him  on  his  back;   his  breast 
And  brow  were  stain'd  with  gore  and  dust, 
And  through  his  lips  the  life-blood  oozed, 
From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed ; 
But  in  his  pulse  there  was  no  throb, 
Nor  on  his  lips  one  dying  sob  ; 
Sigh,  nor  word,  nor  struggling  breath 
Heralded  his  way  to  death  ; 
Ere  his  very  thought  could  pray, 
Unanel'd  he  pass'd  away. 
Without  a  hope  from  mercy's  aid,— 
To  the  last  a  renegade. 

xxvin. 

Fearfully  the  yell  arose 

Of  his  followers,  and  his  foes ; 

These  in  joy,  in  fury  those  : 

Then  again  in  conflict  mixing, 

Clashing  swords  and  spears  transfixing, 

Interchanged  the  blow  and  thrust, 

Hurling  warriors  in  the  dust. 

Street  by  street,  and  foot  by  foot, 

Still  Minotti  dares  dispute 

The  latest  portion  of  the  land, 

Left  beneath  his  high  command  ; 

With  him,  aiding  heart  and  hand, 

The  remnant  of  his  gallant  band. 

Still  the  church  is  tenable, 

Whence  issued  late  the  fated  ball 
That  half-avenged  the  city's  fall, 

When  Alp,  her  fierce  assailant,  fell : 

Thither  bending  sternly  back, 

They  leave  before  a  bloody  track  ; 

And,  with  their  faces  to  the  foe, 

Dealing  wounds  with  every  blow, 

The  chief,  and  his  retreating  train, 

loin  to  those  within  the  fane : 

There  they  yet  may  breathe  awhile, 

Shelter'd  by  the  massy  pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief  breathing-time !  the  turban'd  host, 

With  added  ranks,  and  raging  boast, 

Press  onwards  with  such  strength  and  heat, 

Their  numbers  balk  their  own  retreat ; 

For  narrow  the  way  that  led  to  the  spot 

Where  still  the  Christians  yielded  not ; 

And  the  foremost,  if  fearful,  may  vainly  try 

Through  the  massy  column  to  turn  and  fly : 

They  perforce  must  do  or  die. 

They  die ;  but  ere  their  eyes  could  close 

Avengers  o'er  their  bodies  rose ; 

.Fresh  and  furious,  fast  they  fill 

The  ranks  unthinn'd,  though  slaughter'd  still ; 

And  faint  the  weary  Christians  wax 

Bnfore  the  still  renew'd  attacks : 

And  now  the  Othmans  gain  the  gate ; 

Still  resists  its  iron  weight, 

And  still  all  deadly  aim'd  and  hot, 

From  every  crevice  comes  the  shot ; 

From  every  shatter'd  wiMow  pour 

The  volleys  of  tne  sulphurous  shower : 


But  the  portal  wavering  grow?  and 
The  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak  — 
It  bends  —  it  falls  —  and  all  is  o'er  ; 
Lost  Corinth  may  resist  no  more  ! 

XXX. 

Darkly,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 

Minotti  stood  o'er  the  altar-stone  : 

Madonna's  face  upon  him  shone, 

Painted  in  heavenly  hues  above, 

With  eyes  of  light  and  looks  of  lov«j  ; 

And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 

To  fix  our  thoughts  on  things  divine, 

When  pictured  there,  we  kneeling  /c« 

Her  and  the  boy-gcd  on  her  knee, 

Smiling  sweetly  on  each  prayer 

To  heaven,  as  if  to  waft  it  there. 

Still  she  smiled  ;  even  now  she  smiles, 

Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles  : 

Minotti  lifted  his  aged  eye, 

And  made  the  sign  of  a  cross  with  a  sigh, 

Then  seized  a  torch  which  blazed  thereby  ; 

And  still  he  stood,  while,  with  steel  and  flame, 

Inward  and  onward  the  Mussulman  came. 


XXXI. 

The  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone          . 
Contain'd  the  dead  of  ages  gone  ; 
Their  names  were  on  the  graven  floor, 
But  now  illegible  with  gore  ; 
The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 
The  varied  marble's  veins  diffuse, 
Were  smear'd,  and  slippery  —  stain'd  and 
With  broken  swords  and  helms  o'erthrown  ; 
There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 
Lay  cold  in  many  a  coffin'd  row, 
You  might  see  them  piled  in  sable  state, 
By  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate  ; 
But  war  had  enter'd  their  dark  caves, 
And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 
Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 
In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead  ; 
Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 
The  Christian's  chiefest  magazine  ; 
To  these  a  late-form'd  train  now  led, 
Minotti's  last  and  stern  resource, 
Against  the  foe's  o'erwhelming  force. 

XXXII. 

The  foe  came  on,  and  few  remain 

To  strive,  and  those  must  strive  in  vain  : 

For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  slake 

The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake, 

With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead, 

And  lop  the  already  lifeless  head, 

And  fell  the  statues  from  their  niche, 

And  spoil  the  shrines  of  offerings  rich, 

And  from  each  other's  rude  hands  wrest 

The  silver  vessels  saints  had  blest. 

To  the  high  altar  on  they  go  ; 

Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  show  ! 

On  its  table  still  behold 

The  cup  of  consecrated  gold  ; 

Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  prize, 

Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderers'  eyes  : 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


That  morn  it  held  the  holy  wine, 

Converted  by  Christ  to  his  blood  so  divine, 

Which  his  worshippers  drank  at  the  break  of  day, 

To  shrive  iheir  souls  ere  they  jom'd  in  the  fray. 

Still  a  few  drops  within  it  lay  ; 

And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 

Twelve  lofty  lamps,  in  splendid  row, 

From  the  purest  metal  cast ; 

A  spoil — the  richest,  and  the  last. 

XXXIII. 

So  near  they  came,  the  nearest  stretch'd 
To  grasp  the  spoil  he  almost  reach'd, 

When  old  Minotti's  hand 
Touch'd  with  the  torch  the  train — 

'T  is  fired  ! 

Spire,  vaults,  the  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain, 
The  turban' d  victors,  the  Christian  band, 
Ail  that  of  living  or  dead  remain, 
Hurl'd  on  high  with  the  shiver'd  fane, 

In  one  wild  roar  expired  ! 
The  shatter'd  town — the  walls  thrown  down— 
The  waves  a  moment  backward  bent — 
The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent, 

As  if  an  earthquake  pass'd — 
The  thousand  shape'ess  things  all  driven 
In  cloud  and  flame  athwart  the  heaven, 

By  that  tremendous  blast — 
Proclaim'd  the  desperate  conflict  o'er 
On  that  too-long  afflicted  shore  : 
Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 
All  that  mingled  there  below : 
Many  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 
Scorch'd  and  shrivell'd  to  a  span, 
When  he  fell  to  earth  again, 
Like  a  cinder  strew'd  the  plain : 
Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain  ; 
Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which  received  the  sprinkles 
With  a  thousand  circling  wrinkles ; 
Some  fell  on  the  shore,  but,  far  away, 
Scatter'd  o'er  the  isthmus  lay  ; 
Christian  or  Moslem,  which  be  they  ? 
Let  their  mothers  see  and  say ! 
When  in  cradled  rest  they  lay, 
And  each  nursing-mother  smiled 
On  the  sweet  sleep  of  her  child, 
Little  deem'd  she  such  a  day 
Would  rend  those  tender  limbs  away. 
Not  the  matrons  that  them  bore 
Could  discern  their  offspring  mere  ; 
That  one  moment  left  no  trace 
More  of  human  form  or  face, 
Save  a  scatter'd  scalp  or  bone : 
And  down  came  blazing  rafters,  strown 
Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone, 
Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay, 
AH  blacken'd  there  and  reeking  lay. 
All  the  living  things  that  heard 
That  deadly  earth-shock  disappear'd : 
The  wild  birds  flew,  the  wild  dogs  fled, 
And  howling  left  the  unburied  dead ; 
The  camels  from  their  keepers  broke  ; 
The  distant  steer  forsook  the  yoke — 
The  nearer  s'eed  plunged  o'er  the  plain, 
And  burst  his  girth,  and  tore  his  rein ; 
31 


The  bull-frog's  note,  from  out  the  marsh, 
Deep-mouth'd  arose,  and  doubly  harsh  ; 
The  wolves  yell'd  on  the  cavern'd  hill, 
Where  echo  roll'd  in  thunder  still ; 
The  jackal's  troop,  in  gather'd  cry,10 
Bay'd  from  afar  complainingly, 
With  a  mix'd  and  mournful  sound, 
Like  crying  babe  and  beaten  hound  • 
With   sudden  wing  and  ruffled  breast, 
The  eagle  left  his  rocky  nest, 
And  mounted  nearer  to  the  sun, 
The  clouds  beneath  him  seem'd  so  dun  ; 
Their  smoke  assail'd  his  startled  beak, 
And  made  him  higher  soar  and  shriek — 
Thus  was  Corinth  lost  and  won! 


NOTES. 


Note  1.  Page  193,  line  38. 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd. 
THE  life  of  the  Turcomans  is  wandering  and  patri 
archal :  they  dwell  in  tents. 

Note  2.  Page  193,  line  96. 
Coumourgi — he  whose  closing  scene. 
AH  Coumourgi,  the  favourite  of  three  sultans,  and 
Grand  Vizier  to  Achmet  III.  after  recovering  Pelopon- 
nesus from  the  Venetians,  in  one  campaign,  was  mor- 
tally wounded  in  the  next,  against  the  Germans,  at  th» 
battle  of  Peterwaradin  (in  the  plain  of  Carlowitz),  ia 
Hungary,  endeavouring  to  rally  his  guards.  He  diec. 
of  his  wounds  next  day.  His  last  order  was  the  de 
capitation  of  General  Breuner,  and  some  other  Ger 
man  prisoners  ;  and  his  last  words,  "  Oh  that  I  could 
thus  serve  all  the  Christian  dogs !"  a  speech  and  ac« 
not  unlike  one  of  Caligula.  He  was  a  young  man  of 
great  ambition  and  unbounded  presumption  :  on  being 
told  that  Prince  Eugene,  then  opposed  to  him,  "  was 
a  great  general,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  become  a  greater, 
and  at  his  expense." 

Note  3.  Page  196,  line  31. 
There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea. 
The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  there  are 
no  perceptible  tides  in  the  Mediterranean. 
Note  4.   Page  196,  line  65. 

And  their  white  tusks  crunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  »kuD. 
This  spectacle  I  have  seen,  such  as  described,  be- 
neath the  wall  of  the  Seraglio  at  Constantinople,  in  th« 
little  cavities  worn  by  the  Bosphorus  in  the  iock,  a 
narrow  terrace  of  which  projects  between  the  wall  and 
the  water.  I  think  the  fact  is  also  mentioned  in  Hob- 
house's  Travels.  The  bodies  were  pi  obably  those  at 
some  refractory  Janizaries. 

Note  5.  Page  196,  line  7<*. 
And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hail 
This  tuft,  or  long  lock,  is  left  from  a  superstition  thai 
Mahomet  will  draw  them  into  paradise  by  it 

Note  6.  Page  197,  line  5 

I  must  here  acknowlrd^e  a  close,  though  ui«i«ten 
tional,  resemblance  in  th,  «  twelve  lines  to  a  passage  a 
aii  unpublished  poem  of !»  .  Coleridge,  called  "CM* 
;abel."  It  was  not  till  suVr  these  line*  were  wmten 


'202 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ihat  I  heard  thai  wild  and  singularly  original  and  beau- 
tiful poem  recited ;  and  the  MS.  of  that  production  I 
never  saw  till  very  recently,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr. 
Coleridge  himself,  who,  I  hope,  is  convinced  that  I  have 
not  been  a  wilful  plagiarist.  The  original  idea  undoubt- 
edly pertains  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  whose  poem  has  been 
composed  above  fourteen  years.  Let  me  conclude  by  a 
hope,  that  he  will  not  longer  delay  the  publication  of  a 
production,  of  which  I  can  only  add  my  mite  of  appro- 
oation  to  the  applause  of  far  more  competent  judges, 

Note  7.  Page  198,  line  3. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon. 
I  have  been  told  that  the  idea  expressed  from  lines 
598  to  603,  have  been  admired  by  those  whose  appro- 
bation is  valuable.     I  am  glad  of  it :   but  it  is  not  ori- 
ginal— at  least  not  mine  ;   it  may  be  found  much  better 
expressed  in  pages  182-3-4,  of  the  English  version  of 
"  Vathek"  (I  forget  the  precise  page  of  the  French),  a 


work  to  which  I  have  before  reftrred  ;  and  never  recul 
to,  or  read,  without  a  renewal  of  gratification. 

Note  8.  Page  191!,  line  48 

The  horse-tails  are  pluck'd  I'rom  the  ground  and  the  swoid. 
The  horse-tail,  fixed  upon  a  lance,  a  pacha  «  standard. 

Note  9.  Page  199,  line  45. 
And  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait. 
In  the  naval  battle  at  the  mouth  of  the  Dardanelles, 
between  the  Venetians  and  the  Turks. 

Note  10.  Page  201,  line  68. 
The  jackal's  troop  in  gather'd  cry. 
I  believe  I  have  taken  a  poetical  license  to  transplant 
the  jackal  from  Asia.  In  Greece  I  never  saw  nor  heard 
these  animals  ;  but  among  the  ruins  of  Ephesus  I  have 
heard  them  by  hundreds.     They  haunt  ruins,  and  fol- 
low armies. 


TO  SCROPE  BERDMORE   DAVIES,  ESQ. 

THE  FOLLOWING  POEM  IS  INSCHIBED, 

BY  ONE  WHO  HAS  LONG  ADMIRED  HIS  TALENTS,  AND  VALUED  HIS  FRIENDSHIP. 
January  22,  1816. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Die  following  poem  is  grounded  on  a  circumstance 
mentioned  in  Gibbon's  "  Antiquities  of  the  House  of 
Brunswick." — I  am  aware  that  in  modern  times  the 
delicacy  or  fastidiousness  of  the  reader  may  deem 
such  subjects  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  poetry.  The 
Greek  dramatists,  and  some  of  the  best  of  our  old 
English  writers,  were  of  a  different  opinion :  as  Al- 
ficri  and  Schiller  have  also  been,  more  recently,  upon 
the  continent.  The  following  extract  will  explain  the 
facts  on  which  the  story  is  founded.  The  name  of 
Azo  is  substituted  for  Nicholas,  as  more  metrical. 

"  Under  the  reign  of  Nicholas  III,  Ferrara  was  pol- 
luted with  a  domestic  tragedy.  By  the  testimony  of  an 
attendant,  and  his  own  observation,  the  Marquis  of 
Este  discovered  the  incestuous  loves  of  his  wife  Pari- 
•ina,  and  Hugo  his  bastard  son,  a  beautiful  and  valiant 
youth.  They  were  beheaded  in  Ihe  castle  by  the  sen- 
tence of  a  father  and  husband,  who  published  his  shame, 
and  survived  their  execution.  He  was  unfortunate,  if 
Ihey  were  guilty ;  if  they  were  innocent,  he  was  still 
more  unfortunate  ;  nor  is  there  any  possible  situation  in 
Hhich  I  ran  sincerely  approve  the  iast  sul  of  the  justice 
of  a  parent." — Gib/Jon's  Miscellaneous  Works,  vol.  3, 
|i  470,  new  edition. 


PARISINA. 


IT  is  th«  hour  <vhen  from  the  boughs 
The  nightingale's  nigh  note  is  Heard , 


It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper'd  word ; 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 
Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 
Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 
And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 
And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 
And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue, 
And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure 
So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  puro, 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 
As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away.1 

II. 

But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 

That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall, 

And  it  is  noc  to  gaze  on  the  heavenly  light 

That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night ; 

And  if  she  sits  in  Este's  bower, 

'T  is  not  for  the  sake  of  its  full-blown  flower— 

She  listens — but  not  for  the  nightingale — 

Though  her  ear  expects  as  soft  a  tale. 

There  glides  a  step  through  the  foliage  thick, 

And  her  cheek  grows  pale — and  her  heart  beats  quick 

There  whispers  a  voice  through  the  rustling  leaves, 

And  her  blush  returns,  and  her  bosom  heaves  • 

A  moment  more — and  they  shall  meet — 

'T  is  past — her  lover 's  at  her  feet. 

III. 

And  what  unto  them  is  the  world  beside. 
With  all  its  change  of  time  and  lide  7 
Its  living  things — its  earth  and  sky — 
Are  nothing  to  their  mind  and  eye. 


PARISINA. 


20J 


And  heedless  as  the  dead  are  they 

Of  aught  around,  above,  beneath ; 
As  if  all  else  had  pass'd  away, 

They  only  for  each  other  breathe ; 
Their  very  sighs  are  full  of  joy 

So  deep,  that,  did  it  not  decay, 
That  happy  madness  would  destroy 

The  hearts  which  feel  its  fiery  sway : 
Of  guilt,  of  peril,  do  they  deem 
In  that  tumultuous  tender  dream  7 
Who  that  have  felt  that  passion's  power, 
Or  paused,  or  fear'd  in  such  an  hour, 
Or  thought  how  brief  such  moments  last  7 
But  yet — they  are  already  past ! 
Alas !  we  must  awake  before 
We  know  such  visions  come  no  more. 

IV. 

With  many  a  lingering  look  they  leave 

The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  past ; 
And  though  they  hope,  and  vow,  they  grieve, 

As  if  that  parting  were  the  last. 
The  frequent  sigh — the  long  embrace — 

The  lip  that  there  would  cling  for  ever, 
While  gleams  on  Parisina's  face 

The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forgive  her, 
As  if  each  calmly  conscious  star 
Beheld  her  frailty  from  afar — 
The  frequent  sigh,  the  long  embrace, 
Yet  binds  them  to  their  trysting-place. 
But  it  must  come,  and  they  must  part 
In  fearful  heaviness  of  heart, 
With  all  the  deep  and  shuddering  chill 
Which  follows  fast  the  deeds  of  ill. 

V. 

And  Hugo  i&  gone  to  his  lonely  bed, 

To  covet  there  another's  bride  ; 
But  she  must  lay  her  conscious  head 

A  husband's  trusting  heart  beside. 
But  fever'd  in  her  sleep  she  seems, 
And  red  her  cheek  with  troubled  dreams, 

And  mutters  she  in  her  unrest 
A  name  she  dare  not  breathe  by  day, 

And  clasps  her  lord  unto  the  breast 
Which  pants  for  one  away : 
And  he  to  that  embrace  awakes, 
And,  happy  in  the  thought,  mistakes 
That  dreaming  sigh,  and  warm  caress, 
For  such  as  he  was  wont  to  bless  ; 
And  could  in  very  fondness  weep 
O'er  her  who  loves  him  even  in  sleep. 

VI. 

He  clasp'd  her  sleeping  to  his  heart, 
And  listen'd  to  each  broken  word : 
He  hears — why  doth  Prince  Azo  start, 

As  if  the  Archangel's  voice  he  heard  7 
And  well  he  may — a  deeper  doom 
Could  scarcely  thunder  o'er  his  tomb, 
When  he  shall  wake  to  sleep  no  more, 
And  stand  the  eternal  throne  before. 
And  well  he  may — his  earthly  peace 
ITpon  that  sound  is  doom'd  to  cease. 
That  sleeping  wh.sper  of  a  name 
BesoeuKs  ner  guilt  and  Azo's  shame. 


And  whose  that  name?   l>at  o'er  his  pillow 
Sounds  fearful  as  the  breaking  billow, 
Which  rolls  the  plank  upon  the  shore, 

And  dashes  on  the  pointed  rock 
The  wretch  who  sinks  to  rise  no  more ; — 

So  came  upon  his  soul  the  shock. 
And  whose  that  name  ?  't  is  Hugo's, — his 
In  sooth  he  had  not  deem'd  of  this ! — 
'T  is  Hugo's — he,  the  child  of  one 
He  loved — his  own  all-evil  son — 
The  offspring  of  his  wayward  youth, 
When  he  betray'd  Bianca's  truth, 
The  maid  whose  folly  could  confide 
In  him  who  made  her  not  his  bride. 

VII. 

He  pluck'd  his  poniard  in  its  sheath, 

But  sheathed  it  ere  the  point  was  bare— 
Howe'er  unworthy  now  to  breathe, 
He  could  not  slay  a  thing  so  fair — 
At  least,  not  smiling — sleeping  there — 
Nay,  more : — he  did  not  wake  her  then, 
But  gazed  upon  her  with  a  glance 
Which,  had  she  roused  her  from  her  trance, 
Had  frozen  her  sense  to  sleep  again — 
And  o'er  his  brow  the  burning  lamp 
Gleam'd  on  the  dew-drops  big  and  damp. 
She  spake  no  more — but  still  she  slumber'd — 
While,  in  his  thought,  her  days  are  number'd. 

VIII. 

And  with  the  morn  he  sought,  and  found, 
In  many  a  tale  from  those  around, 
The  proof  of  all  he  fear'd  to  know, 
Their  present  guilt,  his  future  woe  ; 
The  long-conniving  damsels  seek 

To  save  themselves,  and  would  transfer 
The  guilt — the  shame — the  doom  to  her  • 
Concealment  is  no  more — they  speak 
All  circumstance  which  may  compel 
Full  credence  to  the  tale  they  tell  : 
And  Azo's  tortured  heart  and  ear 
Have  nothing  more  to  feel  or  hear. 

IX. 

He  was  not  one  who  brook'd  delay : 

Within  the  chamber  of  his  state, 
The  chief  of  Este's  ancient  sway 

Upon  his  throne  of  judgment  sate ; 
His  nobles  and  his  guards  are  there, — 
Before  him  is  the  sinful  pair ; 
Both  young — and  one  how  passing  fair ! 
With  swordless  belt,  and  fetter'd  hand, 
Oh,  Christ!  that  thus  a  son  shou.d  stand 

Before  a  father's  face ! 
Yet  thus  must  Hugo  meet  his  sire, 
And  hear  the  sentence  of  his  ire, 

The  tale  of  his  disgrace ! 
And  yet  he  seems  not  overcome. 
Although,  as  yet,  his  voice  be  dumb, 

X. 

And  still,  and  pale,  and  silently 

Did  Parisina  wait  her  doom ; 
How  changed  since  last  her  speaking  e  v 

Glanced  gladness  round  the  glittering  ro<  T. 


204 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Where  hi^h-born  men  were  proud  to  wait — 
Where  Beauty  watch'd  to  imitate 

Her  gentle  voice — her  lovely  mien — 
And  gather  from  her  air  and  gait 

The  graces  of  its  queen  : 
Then, — had  her  eye  no  sorrow  wept, 
A  thousand  warriors  forth  had  leapt, 
A  thousand  swords  had  sheathless  shone, 
And  made  her  quarrel  all  their  own. 
Now, — what  is  she  ?  and  what  are  they  ? 
Can  she  command,  or  these  obey? 
All  silent  and  unheeding  now, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  knitting  brow, 
And  folded  arms,  and  freezing  air, 
And  lips  that  scarce  their  scorn  forbear, 
Her  knights  and  dames,  her  court — is  there : 
And  he,  the  chosen  one,  whose  lance 
Had  yet  been  couch'd  before  her  glance, 
Who — were  his  arm  a  moment  free—- 
Had died  or  gain'd  her  liberty ; 
The  minion  of  his  father's  bride, — 
He,  too,  is  fetter'd  by  her  side ; 
Nor  sees  her  swoln  and  full  eye  swim 
Less  for  her  own  despair  than  him : 
Those  lids— o'er  which  the  violet  vain 
Wandering,  leaves  a  tender  stain, 
Shining  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  e'er  did  softest  kiss  invite — 
Now  seem'd  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade,  the  orbs  below ; 
Which  glance  so  heavily,  and  fill, 
As  tear  on  tear  grows  gathering  still. 

XI. 

And  he  for  her  had  also  wept, 

But  for  the  eyes  that  on  him  gazed : 
His  sorrow,  if  he  felt  it,  slept ; 

Stern  and  erect  his  brow  was  raised. 
Whate'er  the  grief  his  soul  avow'd, 
He  would  not  shrink  before  the  crowd ; 
But  yet  he  dared  not  look  on  her : 
Remembrance  of  the  hours  that  were — 
His  guilt — his  love — his  present  state — 
His  father's  wrath — all  good  men's  hate — 
His  earthly,  his  eternal  fate — 
And  hers, — oh,  hers  ! — he  dared  not  throw 
One  look  upon  that  deathlike  brow  ! 
Else  had  his  rising  heart  betray'd 
Remorse  for  all  the  wreck  it  made. 

XII. 

And  Azo  spake : — "  But  yesterday 

I  gloried  in  a  wife  and  son  ; 
fhat  dream  this  morning  pass'd  away; 

Ere  day  declines,  I  shall  have  none. 
My  We  must  linger  on  alone ; 
Well, — let  that  pass, — there  breathes  not  one 
Who  would  not  do  as  I  have  done : 
Those  ties  are  broken — not  by  me  ; 

Let  that  too  pass  ; — the  doom 's  prepared ! 
11  igu  the  oriest  awaC  .s  on  .nee, 

And  then — thy  crime's  reward ! 
Away !  address  thy  prayers  to  Heaven, 

Before  its  evening  stars  are  met — 
I^earn  if  thou  there  canst  be  forgiven ; 

It»  mercy  may  absolve  the«  yet. 


But  here,  upon  the  earth  beneath, 
There  is  no  spot  where  thou  and  I 

Together,  for  an  hour,  could  breathe : 
Farewell !  I  will  not  see  thee  die. — 

But  thou,  frail  thing  !  shall  view  his  head- 
Away  !  I  cannot  speak  the  rest : 
Go !  woman  of  the  wanton  breast : 

Not  I,  but  thou  his  blood  dost  shed  : 

Go  !  if  that  sight  thou  canst  outlive. 

And  joy  thee  in  the  life  I  give." 

XIII. 

And  here  stern  Azo  hid  his  face — 
For  on  his  brow  the  swelling  vein 
Throbb'd  as  if  back  upon  his  brain 
The  hot  blood  ebb'd  and  flow'd  again  ; 

And  therefore  bow'd  he  for  a  space, 

And  pass'd  his  shaking  hand  along 

His  eye,  to  veil  it  from  the  throng  : 

While  Hugo  raised  his  chained  hands, 

And  for  a  brief  delay  demands 

His  father's  ear :  the  silent  sire 

Forbids  not  what  his  words  require. 

"It  is  not  that  I  dread  the  death — 
For  thou  hast  seen  me  by  thy  side 
Already  through  the  battle  ride, 
And  that  not  once  a  useless  brand 
Thy  slaves  have  wrested  from  my  hand, 
Hath  shed  more  blood  in  cause  of  thine, 
Than  e'er  can  stain  the  axe  of  mine : 

Thou  gavest,  and  may'st  resume  my  breath, 
A  gift  for  which  I  thank  thee  not ; 
Nor  are  my  mother's  wrongs  forgot, 
Her  slighted  love  and  ruin'd  name, 
Her  offspring's  heritage  of  shame ; 
But  she  is  in  the  grave,  where  he, 
Her  son,  thy  rival,  soon  shall  be. 
Her  broken  heart — my  sever'd  head — 
Shall  witness  for  thee  from  the  dead 
How  trusty  and  how  tender  were 
Thy  youthful  love — paternal  care. 
'T  is  true,  that  I  have  done  thee  wrong — 

But  wrong  for  wrong — this  deem'd  thy  bride, 
The  other  victim  of  thy  pride, 
Thou  know'st  for  me  was  destined  long. 
Thou  saw'st,  and  coveted'st  her  cha.-ms — 

And  with  thy  very  crime — my  birth, 
Thou  taunted'st  me — as  little  worth  ; 
A  match  ignoble  for  her  arms, 
Because,  forsooth,  I  could  not  claim 
The  lawful  heirship  of  thy  name, 
Nor  sit  on  Este's  lineal  throne : 

Yet,  were  a  few  short  summers  mine, 

My  name  should  more  than  Este's  shine 
'W  uh  honours  all  my  own. 
I  had  a  sword — and  have  a  breas. 
That  should  have  won  as  haught a  a  crest 
As  ever  waved  along  the  line 
Of  all  these  sovereign  sires  of  thine. 
Not  always  knightly  spurs  are  worn 
The  brightest  by  the  better  born  ; 
And  mine  have  lanced  my  courser's  flank 
Before  proud  chiefs  of  princely  rank, 
When  charging  to  the  cheering  cry 
Of  «Este  and  of  Victory  1' 


PARISINA. 


20.1 


I  will  not  plead  the  c.i'i.sc  of  crime, 
Nor  sue  thee,  to  redeem  from  time 
A  few  brief  hours  or  days,  that  must 
At  length  roll  o'er  my  reckless  dust  ;— 
Such  maddening  moments  as  my  past, 
They  could  not,  and  they  did  not,  last — 
Albeit  my  birth  and  name  be  base, 
And  thy  nobility  of  race 
Disdain'd  to  deck  a  thing  like  me — 

Yet  in  my  lineaments  they  trace 

Some  features  of  my  father's  face, 
And  in  my  spirit — all  of  thee. 
From  thee — this  tamelessness  of  heart — 
From  thee — nay,  wherefore  dost  thou  start  ? — 
From  thee  in  all  their  vigour  came 
My  arm  of  strength,  my  soul  of  flame — 
Thou  didst  not  give  me  life  alone, 
But  all  that  made  me  more  thine  own. 
See  what  thy  guilty  love  hath  done ! 
Repaid  thee  with  too  like  a  son ! 
I  am  no  bastard  in  my  soul, 
For  that,  like  thine,  abhorr'd  control : 
And  for  my  breath,  that  hasty  boon 
Thou  gavest  and  wilt  resume  so  soon, 
I  valued  it  no  more  than  thou, 
When  rose  thy  casque  above  thy  brow, 
And  we,  all  side  by  side,  have  striven, 
And  o'er  the  dead  our  coursers  driven : 
The  past  is  nothing — and  at  last 
The  future  can  .but  be  the  past ; 
Yet  would  I  that  I  then  had  Hitu : 

For  though  thou  work'dst  my  mother's  ill, 
And  made  thy  own  my  destined  bride, 

I  feel  thou  art  my  father  still ; 
And,  harsh  as  sounds  thy  hard  decree, 
T  is  not  unjust,  although  from  thee. 
Begot  in  sin,  to  die  in  shame, 
My  life  begun  and  ends  the  same : 
As  err'd  the  sire,  so  err'd  the  son, 
And  thou  must  punish  both  in  on.-. 
My  crime  seems  worst  to  human  view, 
But  God  must  judge  between  us  two!" 

XIV. 

He  ceased — and  stood  with  folded  arms, 
On  which  the  circling  fetters  sounded  ; 
And  not  an  ear  but  felt  as  wounded, 
Of  all  the  chiefs  that  there  were  rsnk'd 
When  those  dull  chains  in  meeting  clank'd  : 
Till  Parisina's  fatal  charms 
Again  attracted  every  eye- 
Would  she  thus  hear  him  doom'd  to  die  7 
She  stood,  I  said,  all  pale  and  still, 
The  living  cause  of  Hugo's  ill : 
Her  eyes  unmoved,  but  full  and  wide, 
Not  once  had  tum'd  to  either  side — 
Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close, 
Or  shade  the  glance  o'er  which  they  rose, 
But  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew — 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  she  stood 
As  ice  were  in  her  curdled  blood ; 
But  every  now  and  then  a  tear, 
So  large  and  slowly  j;ather'd,  slid 
From  the  long  dark  fringe  of  that  fair  lid, 
it  was  a  thin^  to  see,  not  hear! 
T  2 


And  those  who  saw,  it  did  surprise. 
Such  drops  could  fall  from  human  eyes. 
To  speak  she  thought — the  imperfect  note 
Was  chok'd  within  her  swelling  throat, 
Yet  seem'd  in  that  low  hollow  groan 
Her  whole  heart  gushing  in  the  tone. 
It  ceased — again  she  thought  to  speak, 
Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shriek, 
And  to  the  earth  she  fell  like  stone, 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown, 
More  like  a  thing  that  ne'er  had  life, — 
A  monument  of  Azo's  wife, — 
Than  her,  that  living  guilty  thing, 
Whose  every  passion  was  a  sting, 
Which  urged  to  guilt,  but  could  not  bear 
That  guilt's  detection  and  despair. 
But  yet  she  lived — and  all  too  soon 
Recover'd  from  that  deathlike  swoon — 
But  scarce  to  reason — every  sense 
Had  been  o'erstrung  by  pangs  intense ; 
And  each  frail  fibre  of  her  brain 
(As  bow-strings,  when  relax'd  by  rain, 
The  erring  arrow  launch  aside) 
Sent  forth  her  thoughts  all  wild  and  wide—- 
The past  a  blank,  the  future  black, 
With  glimpses  of  a  dreary  track, 
Like  lightning  on  the  desert  path, 
When  midnight  storms  are  mustering  wratlu 
She  fear'd — she  felt  that  something  ill 
Lay  on  her  soul,  so  deep  and  chill — 
That  there  was  sin  and  shame  she  knew ; 
That  some  one  was  to  die — but  who  ? 
She  had  forgotten: — did  she  breathe? 
Could  this  be  still  the  earth  beneath  ? 
The  sky  above,  and  men  around  ; 
Or  were  they  fiends  who  now  so  frown'd 
On  one,  before  whose  eyes  each  eye 
Till  then  had  smiled  in  sympathy? 
All  was  confused  and  undefined, 
To  her  all-jarr'd  and  wandering  mind ; 
A  chaos  of  wild  hopes  and  fears : 
And  now  in  laughter,  now  in  tears, 
But  madly  still  in  each  extreme, 
She  strove  with  that  convulsive  dream : 
For  so  it  seem'd  on  her  to  break : 
Oh !  vainly  must  she  strive  to  wake ' 

XV. 

The  convent-bells  are  ringing, 

But  mournfully  and  slow  ; 
In  the  gray  square  turret  swinging, 

With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro. 

Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go ! 
Hark !  the  hymn  is  singing — 

The  song  for  the  dead  below, 

Or  the  living,  who  shortly  shall  be  so ; 
For  a  departing  being's  soul 
The  death-hymn  pea.s.  and  the  hollow  belia  htrftf . 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 
Kneeling  at  the  friar's  knee  ; 
Sad  to  hear — and  piteous  to  see — 
Kneeling  on  the  barf  cold  ground, 
With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  aioumi  - 
And  the  heads-man  with  his  bare  arm  -eady, 
That  the  blow  may  be  both  swif'  and 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Feeis  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true — 
Since  he  set  its  edge  anew  : 
While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  circle  gather 
To  seo  the  son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  father. 

XVI. 

It  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 
Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set, 
Which  rose  upon  that  heavy  day, 
And  mock'd  it  with  his  steadiest  ray  ; 
And  his  evening  beams  are  shed 
Full  on  Hugo's  fated  head, 
As,  his  last  confession  pouring 
To  the  monk  his  doom  deploring, 
In  penitential  holiness, 
He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bless 
With  absolution  such  as  may 
Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away. 
That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten 
As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen — 
And  the  rings  of  chesnut  hair 
Curl'd  half  down  his  neck  so  bare ; 
But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 
Upon  the  axe,  which  near  him  shone 

With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter 

Oh !  that  parting  hour  was  bitter  ! 
Even  the  stern  stood  chill'd  with  awe  : 
Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law — 
Yet  they  shudder'd  as  they  saw. 

XVII. 

The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 
Of  that  false  son — and  daring  lover ! 
His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted, 
His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted—- 
His mantling  cloak  before  was  stnpp'd, 
His  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipp'd  j 
'T  is  done — all  closely  arc  they  shorn — 
The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn— 
The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave — 
Must  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave. 
Even  that  must  now  be  thrown  aside, 
And  o'er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied ; 
But  no— that  last  indignity 
Shall  ne'er  approach  his  haughty  eye. 
All  feelings  seemingly  subdued, 
In  deep  disdain  were  half  renew'd, 
When  heads-man's  hands  prepared  to  bind 
Those  eyes  which  would  not  brook  such  blind, 
As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 
"  No — yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath— 
These  hands  are  chain'd — but  let  me  die 
At  least  with  an  unshackled  eye — 
Strike  :" — and  as  the  word  he  said, 
Upon  the  block  he  bow'd  his  head ; 
These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke : 
"  Strike'' — and  flashing  fell  the  stroke — 
ftoll'd  the  head  —and,  gushing,  sunk 
Back  the  stain'd  and  heaving  trunk, 
In  the  dust,  which  each  deep  vein 
Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain ; 
i  lis  eyes  and  lips  a  moment  quiver, 
<  'onvulsed  and  quick — then  fix  for  ever. 

•  (e  died,  as  erring  man  should  die, 
WUKout  display,  without  parade ; 


Meekly  had  he  bow'd  and  pray'd 

As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid, 
Nor  desperate  of  all  hope  on  high. 
And  while  before  the  prior  kneeling, 
His  heart  was  wean'd  from  earthly  feeiing ; 
His  wrathful  sire — his  paramour — 
What  were  they  in  such  an  hour  ? 
No  more  reproach — no  more  despair; 
No  thought  but  heaven — no  word  but  prayer- 
Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke, 
When,  bared  to  meet  the  heads-man's  stroke, 
He  claim'd  to  die  with  eyes  unbound, 
His  solt  adieu  to  those  around. 

XVIII. 

Still  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death, 

Each  gazer's  bosom  held  his  breath : 

But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 

A  cold  electric  shiver  ran. 

As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 

On  him  whose  life  and  love  thus  endec  ; 

And  with  a  hushing  sound  comprest, 

A  sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast ; 

But  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there, 
Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 
Pierced  through  with  forced  and  sullen  .  hooR, 

Save  one: — what  "cleaves  the  silent  air 

So  madly  shriH — so  passing  wild? 

That,  as  a  mother's  o'er  her  child, 

Done  to  death  by  sudden  blow, 

To  the  sky  these  accents  go, 

Like  a  soul's  in  endless  woe. 

Through  Azo's  palace-laitice  driven, 

That  horrid  voice  ascends  to  heaven, 

And  every  eye  is  turn'd  thereon  ; 

But  sound  and  sight  alike  are  gone ! 

It  was  a  woman's  shriek — and  ne'er 

In  madlier  accents  rose  despair ; 

And  those  who  heard  it,  as  it  past, 

In  mercy  wish'd  it  were  rhe  last. 

XIX. 

Hugo  is  fallen  ;  and,  from  that  hour, 

No  more  in  palace,  hall,  or  bower, 

Was  Parisina  heard  or  seen : 

Her  name — as  if  she  ne'er  had  been— 

Was  banish'd  from  each  lip  and  ear, 

Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear  ; 

And  from  Prince  Azo's  voice,  by  none 

Was  mention  heard  of  wife  or  son  ; 

No  tomb — no  memory  had  they ; 

Theirs  was  unconsecrated  clay ; 

At  least  the  knight's,  who  died  that  day. 

But  Parisina's  fate  lies  hid 

Like  dust  beneath  the  coffin  lid : 

Whether  in  convent  she  abode, 

And  won  to  heaven  her  dreary  road, 

By  blighted  and  remorseful  years 

Of  scourge,  and  fast,  and  sleepless  tea."  } 

Or  if  she  fell  by  bowl  or  steel, 

For  that  dark  love  she  dured  to  feel  • 

Or  if,  upon  the  moment  smote, 

She  died  by  tortures  less  remote ; 

Like  him  she  saw  upon  the  block, 

With  heart  that  shared  the  heads-man's  shock. 


PARISINA. 


207 


In  quicken'd  brokenness  that  came, 
In  pity,  o'er  her  shatter'd  frame, 
None  knew — and  none  can  ever  know : 
But  whatsoe'er  its  end  below, 
Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe!1 

XX. 

And  Azo  found  another  bride, 

And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side ; 

But  none  so  lovely  and  so  brave 

As  him  who  wither'd  in  the  grave ; 

Or,  if  they  were — on  his  cold  eye 

Their  growth  but  glanced  unheeded  by, 

Or  noticed  with  a  smother'd  sigh. 

But  never  tear  his  cheek  descended, 

And  never  smile  his  brow  unbended  ; 

And  o'er  that  fair  broad  brow  were  wrought 

The  intersected  lines  of  thought ; 

Those  furrows  which  the  burning  share 

Of  sorrow  ploughs  untimely  there ; 

Scars  of  the  lacerating  mind 

Which  the  soul's  war  doth  leave  behind. 

He  was  past  all  mirth  or  woe : 

Nothing  more  remain'd  below 

But  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days, 

A  mind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise, 

A  heart  which  shunn'd  itself — and  yet 

That  would  not  yield — nor  could  forget, 

Which  when  it  least  appear'd  to  melt, 

Intently  thought — intensely  felt : 

The  deepest  ice  which  ever  froze 

Can  only  o'er  the  surface  close — 

The  living  stream  lies  quick  below, 

And  flows — and  cannot  cease  to  flow. 

Still  was  his  seal'd-up  bosom  haunted 

By  thoughts  which  nature  hath  implanted, 

Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish : 

Howe'er  our  stifled  tears  we  banish, 

When,  struggling  as  they  rise  to  start, 

We  check  those  waters  of  the  heart, 

They  are  not  dried — those  tears  unshed 

But  flow  back  to  the  fountain-head, 

And,  resting  in  their  spring  more  pure, 

For  ever  in  its  depth  endure, 

Unseen,  unwept,  but  uncongeal'd, 

And  cherish'd  most  where  least  reveal'd. 

With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left, 

To  throb  o'er  those  of  life  bereft ; 

Without  the  power  to  fill  again 

The  desert  gap  which  made  his  pain  ; 

Without  the  hope  to  meet  them  where 

United  souls  shall  gladness  share, 

With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 

Had  only  pass'd  a  just  decree  ; 

That  they  had  wrought  their  doom  of  ill ; 

Yet  A/o's  age  was  wretched  still. 

The  tainted  branches  of  the  tree, 

If  lopp'd  with  care,  a  strength  may  give, 
By  which  the  rest  shall  bloom  and  live 
All  greenly  fresh  and  wi'dly  free : 
But  if  the  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 
The  waving  boughs  with  fury  scathe, 
The  massy  trunk  the  ruin  feels, 
And  r«wer  more  a  leaf  reveal*. 


NOTES. 


Note  1.  Page  202,  line  14. 

As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  mooo  away. 

THE  lines  contained  in  section  I.  were  printed  as  s* 

to  music  some  time  since :  but  belonged  to  the  poem  when 

they  now  appear,  the  greater  part  of  which  was  composed 

prior  to  "  Lara,"  and  other  compositions  since  published. 

Note  2.  Page  204,  line  117. 
That  should  have  won  as  haught  a  crest. 
Haught — haughty : — 

"Away  haught  man,  thou  art  insulting  me." 
Shakspeare:  Richard  II. 

Note  3.  Page  207,  line  5. 
Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe. 

•  "  This  turned  out  a  calamitous  year  for  the  people  ot 
Ferrara,  for  there  occurred  a  very  tragical  event  in  the 
court  of  their  sovereign.  Our  annals,  both  printed  and 
in  manuscript,  with  the  exception  of  the  unpolished  and 
negligent  work  of  Sardi,  and  one  other,  have  given  the 
following  relation  of  it,  from  which,  however,  are  re- 
jected many  details,  and  especially  the  narrative  of 
Bandelli,  who  wrote  a  century  afterwards,  and  who 
does  not  accord  with  the  cotemporary  historians. 

"  By  the  above-mentioned  Stella  dell'  Assassino,  th« 
Marquis,  in  the  year  1405,  had  a  son  called  Ugo,  a  beau- 
tiful and  ingenuous  youth.  Parisina  Malatesta,  second 
wife  of  Niccolo,  like  the  generality  of  step-mothers, 
treated  him  with  little  kindness,  to  the  infinite  regret  ol 
the  Marquis,  who  regarded  him  with  fond  partiality. 
One  day  she  asked  leave  of  her  husband  to  undertake  a 
certain  journey,  to  which  he  consented,  but  upon  con- 
dition that  Ugo  should  bear  her  company  ;  for  he  hoped 
by  these  means  to  induce  her,  in  the  end,  to  lay  aside  the 
obstinate  aversion  which  she  had  conceived  against  him. 
And  indeed  his  intent  was  accomplished  but  too  well, 
since,  during  the  journey,  she  not  only  divested  hnrself 
of  all  her  haired,  but  fell  into  the  opposite  extreme. 
After  their  return,  the  Marquis  had  no  longer  any  occa- 
sion to  renew  his  former  reproofs.  It  happened  one  day 
that  a  servant  of  the  Marquis,  named  Zoese,  or,  as  some 
call  him,  Giorgio,  passing  before  the  apartments  of 
Parisina,  saw  going  out  from  them  one  of  her  chamber- 
maids, all  terrified  and  in  tears.  Asking  the  reason,  she 
told  him  that  her  mistress,  for  some  slight  offence,  haa 
been  beating  her ;  and,  giving  vent  to  her  rage,  she 
added,  that  she  could  easily  be  revenged,  if  she  chose  to 
make  known  the  criminal  familiarity  which  subsisted 
between  Parisina  and  her  step-son.  The  servant  took 
note  of  the  words,  and  related  them  to  h:s  master.  He 
was  astounded  thereat,  but,  scarcely  believing  his  ears, 
he  assured  himself  of  the  fact,  alas !  too  clearly,  on  the 
18th  of  May,  by  looking  through  a  hole  made  in  the 
ceiling  of  his  wile's  chamber.  Instantly  he  broke  into 
a  furious  rage,  and  arrested  both  of  them,  together  with 
Aldobrand'mo  Rangoni,  of  Modena,  her  gentleman,  and 
also,  as  some  say,  two  of  the  women  of  her  chamber, 
abettors  of  this  sinful  act.  He  ordered  them  to  be 
brought  to  a  hasty  trial,  desiring  the  judges  to  prononn.'o 
sentence,  in  the  accustomed  forms,  up^n  the  culprits. 
This  sentence  was  death.  Some  there  were  that  bestirred 
themselves  in  favour  of  the  delinquents,  mid,  am..ngs« 
others,  Ugoccion  Contrario,  who  was  all-powerful  with 
Niccolo,  and  also  his  aged  and  much-deserving  miuiMo 


208 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Alberto  dul  Save.     Both  of  these,  their  tears  flowing  yet?  who  answered  him,  Yes.     He  then  gave  himself 
down  the,,  cheeks,  and  upon  their  knees,  implored  him  up  to  the  most   desperate   lamentations,    exclaiming, 


for  mercy  .  adducing  whatever  reason  they  could  sug- 
gest for  sparing  the  offenders,  besides  those  motives  of 
honour  and  decency  which  might  persuade  him  to  con- 
cea!  from  the  public  so  scandalous  a  deed.  But  his  rage 
made  him  inflexible,  and,  on  the  instant,  he  commanded 
that  the  sentence  should  be  put  in  execution. 

"  It  was,  then,  in  (he  prisons  of  the  castle,  and 
exactly  in  those  frightful  dungeons  which  are  seen  at 
this  day  beneath  the  chamber  called  the  Aurora,  at  the 
foot  of  the  Lion's  tower,  at  the  top  of  the  street  Giovecca, 
that  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-first  of  May,  were  be- 
headed, first,  Ugo,  and  afterwards  Parisina.  Zoese,  he 
that  accused  her,  conducted  the  latter  under  his  arm  to  the 
place  of  punishment.  She,  all  along,  fancied  that  she 
was  to  be  thrown  into  a  pit,  and  asked,  at  every  step, 
whether  she  was  yet  come  to  the  spot  ?  she  was  told 
that  her  punishment  was  the  axe.  She  inquired  what 
was  become  of  Ugo,  and  received  for  answer,  that  he 
was  already  dead :  at  the  which,  sighing  grievously,  she 
exclaimed,  "  Now,  then,  I  wish  not  myself  to  live ;"  and 
being  come  to  the  block,  she  stripped  herself  with  her 
own  hands  of  all  her  ornaments,  and,  wrapping  a  cloth 
round  her  head,  submitted  to  the  fatal  stroke  which 
terminated  the  cruel  scene.  The  same  was  done  with 
llangoni,  who,  together  with  the  others,  according  to 
two  calendars  in  the  library  of  St.  Francesco,  was  buried 
in  the  cemetery  of  that  convent.  Nothing  else  is  known 
respecting  the  women. 

"  The  Marquis  kept  watch  the  whole  of  that  dreadful 
night,  and,  as  he  was  walking  backwards  and  forwards, 
inquired  of  the  captain  of  the  castle  if  Ugo  was  dead 


"  Oh !  that  I  too  were  dead,  since  I  have  been  hurried  on 
to  resolve  thus  against  my  own  Ugo !"  And  then  gnavr- 
ing  with  his  teeth  a  cane  which  he  had  in  his  hand,  ho 
passed  the  rest  of  the  night  in  sighs  and  in  tears,  calling 
frequently  upon  his  own  dear  Ugo.  On  the  following 
day,  calling  to  mind  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  mak« 
public  his  justification,  seeing  that  the  transaction  could 
not  be  kept  secret,  he  ordered  the  narrative  to  be  drawn 
out  upon  paper,  and  sent  it  to  all  the  courts  of  Italy. 

"  On  receiving  this  advice,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  Fran- 
cesco Foscari,  gave  orders,  but  without  publishing  his 
reasons,  that  stop  should  be  put  to  the  preparations  for  a 
tournament,  which  under  the  auspices  of  the  Marquis, 
and  at  the  expense  of  the  city  of  Padua,  was  about  to 
take  place  in  ihe  square  of  St.  Mark,  in  order  to  cele- 
brate his  advancement  to  the  ducal  chair. 

"  The  Marquis,  in  addition  to  what  he  had  already 
done,  from  some  unaccountable  burst  of  vengeance, 
commanded  that  as  many  of  the  married  women  as  were 
well  known  to  him  to  be  faithless,  like  his  Parisina, 
should,  like  her,  be  beheaded.  Amongst  others,  Barba- 
rina,  or,  as  some  call  her,  Laodamia  Romei,  wife  of  the 
court  judge,  underwent  this  sentence,  at  the  usual  place 
of  execution,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  quarter  of  St.  Giacomo, 
opposite  the  present  fortress,  beyond  St.  Paul's,  It  can- 
not be  told  how  strange  appeared  this  proceeding  in  a 
prince,  who,  considering  his  own  disposition,  should,  as 
it  seemed,  have  been  in  such  cases  most  indulgent. 
Some,  however,  there  were,  who  did  not  fail  to  commend 
him."1 

1  Frizzi—  History  of  Ferrara. 


Jjrfooner  of  CftiUon* 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON. 

ETERNAL  spirit  of  Ihe  chainless  mind! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty !  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind ; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chilian !  thy  prison  is  a' holy  place, 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  't  wa«  trod, 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard!1 — May  none  those  marks  efface  ! 
Fjr  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


THE 


PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 

Nor  grew  it  white 

In  a  single  night,* 
Ht  nidi's  have  grown  fi  *a  sudden  fears : 


My  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  godly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd,  and  barr'd — forbidden  fare  ; 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffer'd  chains  and  courted  death ; 
That  father  perish'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place ; 
We  were  seven — who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  persecution's  rage  ; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd ; 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

II. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould. 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old  ; 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  x.  .d  gra  y, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprisopM  ray. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


209 


A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left ; 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp : 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score, 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

III. 

They  chain'd  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone  ; 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight: 
And  thus  together — yet  apart, 
Fetter'd  in  hand,  but  pined  in  heart ; 
T  was  still  some  solace  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each, 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 
Or  song  heroically  bold ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 
A  grating  sound — not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be : 
It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

IV. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do — and  did  my  best — 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven, 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved  ; 
Ana  iruly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day  — 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  easles,  being  free)— 
A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer 's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  tney  flow'd  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 
32 


V. 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind  : 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy : — but  not  in  chains  to  pine ; 
His  spirit  vvither'd  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine ; 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  follow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf  j 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

VI. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls  : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow  ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  wa.i  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement,* 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthrals : 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day, 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  .i 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd, 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake  unshock'd, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

vn. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food ; 
It  was  not  that 't  was  coarse  and  rude, 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care : 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  poat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat ; 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moisten'd  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den : 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb ; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side 
But  why  delay  the  truth? — he  died. 
I  saw  and  could  not  hold  his  head. 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead. 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain. 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died — and  they  ur.lock'd  his  chain. 
And  scoop'd  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  -«v« 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


I  begg'd  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  when  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  free-born  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laugh'd — and  laid  him  there : 
The  fiat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love ; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 

VIII. 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

'fhe  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  inartyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free ; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh  God !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood : — 

[  've  suen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I  've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

I  'vu  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  sin  delirious  with  its  dread : 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 

Unmix'd  with  such — but  sure  and  slow : 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind ; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur — not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 

In  this  ast  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less : 

I  hsfcm'd,  but  I  could  not  hear — 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished ; 

I  ca'I'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound— 

I  bunt  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rusli'd  to  him : — I  found  him  not, 

/  only  surr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

/  only  lived — /  only  drew 

fne  ari<:ursed  breath  of  dungeon  dew ; 


The  last — the  sole — the  dearest  link 
Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 
Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 
Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 
One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath, — 
My  brothers — both  hud  ceased  to  breathe 
I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 
Alas !   in}'  own  was  full  as  chill ; 
I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 
But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 
A  frantic  feeling  when  we  know 
Thit  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 

I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX. 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 

I  know  not  well — I  never  knew — 

First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too  ; 
I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 
Among  the  stones  1  stood  a  stone, 
And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 
For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray- 
It  was  not  night — it  was  not  day, 
It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 
So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 
But  vacancy  absorbing  s>«ice, 
And  fixedness — without  a  place ; 
There  were  no  stars — no  earth — no  time — 
No  check — no  change — no  good — no  crime 
But  silence,  and  a  slirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 
Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless ! 

X. 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain, 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard, 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track, 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch'd,  as  fond  and  tame. 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree  ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me ! 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seem'd  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


21! 


Jj'id  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 
Had  brought  me  back  lo  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird !  I  could  not  wish  for  thine ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile ; 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  't  was  mortal — well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown,       * 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone, — 
Lone — as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone — as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate ; 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 
But  so  it  was  : — my  broken  chain 
With  1'nks  unfasten'd  did  remain, 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod  ; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 
And  my  crush'd  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XII. 
I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all, 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape ; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 
No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  ;n  my  misery  ; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad, 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  ey«. 

XIII. 

I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  game, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame  ; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — theti  wide  long  lake  below, 
AJI*'  the  hiun  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 


I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gusn 
O'er  channcli'd  rock  and  broken  busli ; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  dowu  • 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle,4 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view ; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  j  rowing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle-wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  aL ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  secrn'd  to  fly, 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save, 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprcst, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

XIV. 
It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count — I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote , 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  when 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be — 

I  learn'd  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appear'd  at  la* 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  own ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learn'd  to  dwell — 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are : — even  I 
Regain'd  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


NOTES. 

Note  1.    Page  208,  Sonnet,  line  13. 
By  Bonnivard  ! — may  none  those  marks  etta'-o 
Fran9ois  de  Bonnivard,  fils  de  Louis  de  Bonnivm-u. 
origmaire  de  Seyssei  et  Seigneur  de  Luiws,  naquit  ei 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


1496;  il  fit  scs  etudes  a  Turin.  En  1510  Jean- Aime 
de  Bonnivard,  son  oncle,  lui  resigna  le  Prieure  de  Saint- 
Victor,  qui  aboutissait  aux  murs  de  Geneve,  et  qui 
fiirnait  un  benefice  considerable. 

Ce  grand  homme  (Bonnivard  merite  ce  litre  par  la 
rorce  de  son  ame,  la  droiture  de  son  coeur,  la  noblesse 
de  te«  intentions,  la  sagesse  de  ses  conseils,  le  courage 
«ie  sea  demarches,  1'etendue  de  ses  connaissances,  et  la 
vivacite  de  son  esprit),  ce  grand  homme,  qui  excitera 
('admiration  de  tous  ceux  qu'une  vertu  heroique  peut 
encore  emouvoir,  inspirera  encore  la  plus  vive  recon- 
naissance dans  les  co3urs  des  Genevois  qui  aiment  Ge- 
neve. Bonnivard  en  fut  toujours  un  des  plus  fermes 
appuis :  pour  assurer  la  liberte  de  notre  Republique,  il 
ne  craignit  pas  de  perdre  souvent  la  sienne ;  il  oublia 
son  repos ;  il  meprisa  ses  richesses ;  il  ne  negligea  rien 
pour  aflermir  le  bonheur  d'une  patrie  qu'il  honora  de  son 
choix  :  des  ce  moment  il  la  cherit  comme  le  plus  zele 
de  ses  ciloyens  ;  il  la  servit  avec  I'inlrepidite  d'un  heros, 
et  il  ecrivait  son  histoire  avec  la  naivete  d'un  philosophic 
et  la  chaleur  d'un  patriote. 

II  dit  dans  le  commencement  de  son  histoire  de  Ge- 
neve, que,  dit  qii'il  eut  commend  de  lire  thlstoire  des 
nations,  il  se  sentii  entraind  par  son  gout  pour  les  ri~ 
publiques,  dont  il  dpousa  toujours  les  inUrcts :  c'est  ce 
gout  pour  la  liberte  qui  lui  fit  sans  doute  adopter  Ge- 
neve pour  sa  patrie. 

Bonnivard,  encore  jeune,  s'annonca  hautement  comme 
le  defenseur  de  Geneve  centre  le  Due  de  Savoye  et 
1'evfique. 

En  1519  Bonnivard  devint  le  martyr  de  sa  patrie :  le 
Due  de  Savoye  elanl  entre  dans  Geneve  avec  cinq  cents 
nommes,  Bonnivard  craignit  le  ressentiment  du  due ;  il 
voulut  se  retirer  k  Fribourg  pour  en  eviter  les  suites  ; 
mais  il  fut  trahi  par  deux  homines  qui  1'accompagnaient, 
et  conduit  par  ordre  du  prince  k  Grolee,  ou  il  resta  pri- 
sonnier  pendant  deux  ans.  Bonnivard  etait  malheureux 
dans  ses  voyages  ;  comme  ses  malheurs  n'avaient  point 
ralenti  son  zele  pour  Geneve,  il  etait  toujours  un  ennemi 
redoutable  pour  ceux  qui  la  menacaient,  et  par  conse- 
quent il  devait  fitre  expose  k  leurs  coups.  II  fut  ren- 
contre en  1530  sur  le  Jura,  par  des  voleurs,  qui  le  de- 
Oouillerent,  et  qui  le  mirent  encore  entre  les  mains  du 
Due  de  Savoye :  ce  prince  le  fit  enff.rmer  dans  le  cha- 
teau de  Chillon,  ou  ii  resta  sans  etre  interroge  jusqu'en 
1536  ;  il  fut  alorsdelivre  par  les  Bernois,  qui  s'empare- 
itmt  du  pays  de  Vaud. 

Bonnivard,  en  sortant  de  sa  captivite,  eut  le  plaisir  de 
Uouver  Geneve  libre  et  reformee:  la  republique  s'em- 
pressa  de  lui  temoigner  sa  reconnaissance  et  de  le  de- 
dommager  des  maux  qu'il  avail  soufferts ;  elle  le  reeut 
bourgeois  de  la  ville  au  mois  de  Juin  1536;  elle  lui 
donna  la  maison  habitee  autrefois  par  le  Vicaire-Gen- 
dral,  et  elle  lui  assigna  une  pension  de  200  ecus  d'or 
tant  qu'il  sejournerail  a  Geneve.  II  fut  admis  dans  le 
Conseil  des  Deux-Cents  en  1537. 

Bonnivard  n'a  pas  fini  d'etre  utile :  apres  avoir  Ira- 
aille  k  rcndre  Geneve  libre,  il  reussit  a  la  rendre  tole- 
lanle.  Bonnivard  engagea  le  Conseil  k  accorder  aux 
ecclesiasliques  el  aux  paysans  un  temps  suffisanl  pour 
eiamiuer  les  propositions  qu'on  leur  fais;iit ;  il  reussit 
p^r  sa  douceur:  on  prfiche  toujours  le  christianisme 
»vec  succes  quand  on  le  prfiche  avec  charite. 

Bonnivard  fut  savant ;  ses  manuscrits,  qui  sont  dans 
»  oihuntiieoue  publique,  prouvcnt  qu'il  avail  bien  Ic  les 


auteurs  classiques  latins,  et  qu'il  avail  approfondi  U 
Iheologie  et  1'hisloire.  Ce  grand  homme  aimail  les 
sciences,  et  il  croyait  qu'elles  pouvaienl  faire  la  gloire 
de  Geneve ;  aussi  il  ne  negligea  rien  pour  les  fixer  dans 
cetle  ville  naissante  ;  en  1551  il  donna  sa  bibliotheque 
au  public ;  elle  ful  le  commencement  de  notre  biblio 
theque  publique ;  et  ces  livres  sont  en  partie  les  rares 
et  belles  editions  du  quirizieme  siecle  qu'on  voit  dana 
notre  collection.  Enfin,  pendant  la  memo  annce,  ce 
Lon  patriote  institua  la  republique  son  heritiere,  a  con- 
dition qu'elle  emploicrait  ses  biens  k  entretenir  le  col- 
lege dont  on  projetait  la  fondation. 

II  parait  que  Bonnivard  mourut  en  1570 ;  mais  on  ne 
peut  1'assurer,  parcequ'il  y  a  une  lacune  dans  le  N&> 
crologe  jlepuis  le  mois  de  Juillet  1570  jusqu'en  1571. 
Note  2.    Page  208,  line  3. 
ID  a  single  night. 

Ludovico  Sforta,  and  others. — The  same  is  asserted 
of  Marie  Antoinette's,  the  wife  of  Louis  XVI.,  though 
nol  in  quile  so  short  a  period.  Grief  is  said  lo  have 
the  same  effect :  to  such,  and  not  to  fear,  this  char  go 
in  hers  was  to  be  atlributed. 

NoieS.  Page  209,  line  81. 
From  Chillon's  snow-while  battlement. 

The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between  Clarena 
and  Villeneuve,  which  last  is  at  one  extremily  of  iho 
Lake  of  Geneva.  On  ils  lefl  are  the  entrances  of  the 
Rhone,  and  opposite  are  the  heights  of  Meillerie  and 
ihc  range  of  Alps  above  Bflveret  and  St.  Gingo. 

Near  it,  on  a  hill  behind,  is  a  torrent;  below  it, 
washing  its  walls,  the  lake  has  been  fathomed  to  the 
depth  of  800  feet  (French  measure)  ;  within  il  are  a 
range  of  dungeons,  in  which  ihe  early  reformers,  and 
subsequently  prisoners  of  state,  were  confined.  Acrosi 
one  of  the  vaults  is  a  beam  black  with  age,  on  which 
we  were  informed  that  the  condemned  were  formerly 
executed.  In  the  cells  are  seven  pillars,  or,  rather 
eight,  one  being  half  merged  in  the  wall ;  in  some  o. 
these  are  rings  for  the  fetters  and  the  fettered  ;  in  the 
pavement  the  steps  of  Bonnivard  have  left  their  traces 
— he  was  confined  here  several  years. 

It  is  by  this  castle  thai  Rousseau  has  fixed  the  catas- 
trophe of  his  Heloise,  in  the  rescue  of  one  of  her  chil- 
dren by  Julie  from  the  water:  the  shock  of  which,  and 
the  illness  produced  by  the  immersion,  is  the  cause  of 
her  death. 

The  chateau  is  large,  and  seen  along  the  lake  for  ? 
greal  distance.  The  walls  are  white. 

Note  4.  Page  211,  line  65. 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle. 

Between  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone  and  Villeneuve, 
not  far  from  Chillon,  is  a  very  small  island ;  the  only 
one  I  could  perceive,  in  my  voyage  round  and  over  the 
lake,  within  its  circumference.  Il  contains  a  few  trees 
(I  thmk  not  above  three),  and  from  its  singleness  and 
diminutive  size,  has  a  peculiar  effect  upon  the  view. 

When  the  foregoing  poem  was  composed,  I  was  not 
sufficiently  aware  of  the  hisiory  of  Bonnivard,  or  I 
should  have  endeavoured  to  dignify  the  subject  by  in 
atlempl  to  celebrate  his  cmirage  and  his  virtues.  Some 
account  of  his  life  will  be  found  in  a  note  appended  i« 
ihe  "  Sonnel  on  Chillon,"  wilh  which  I  have  been  fur- 
nished by  ihe  kindness  of  a  citizen  of  thai  republic 
which  is  still  proud  of  the  memory  of  a  man  worthy  "* 
the  best  age  of  ancient  freed  Mn. 


(     213     ) 


A  VENETIAN  STORY. 


Roiralind.  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller:  look  you,  lisp,  and  wear  strange  suits;  disable  all  the  bcnofiu 
of  your  own  country  ;  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity,  and  almost  chide  God  foi  making  you  that  coun- 
tenance you  are ;  or  I  will  scarce  think  that  you  have  swam  in  a  Gondola. 

Jit  You  Like  It,  Act  IV.  Scent  I 

Annotation  of  the  Commentators, 

That  is,  been  at  Venice,  which  was  much  visited  by  the  young  English  gentlemen  of  those  times,  and  was 
then  what  Parit  b  *010— the  seat  of  all  dissoluteness. — S.  A. 


T  is  known,  at  least  it  should  be,  that  throughout 
All  countries  of  the  Catholic  persuasion, 

Some  weeks  before  Shrove-Tuesday  comes  about, 
The  people  take  their  fill  of  recreation, 

And  buy  repentance,  ere  they  grow  devout, 
However  high  their  rank,  or  low  their  station, 

With  fiddling,  feasting,  dancing,  drinking,  masking, 

And  other  things  that  may  be  had  for  asking. 

II. 

The  moment  night  with  dusky  mantle  covers 
The  skies  (and  the  more  duskily  the  better), 

The  time  less  liked  by  husbands  than  by  lovers 
Begins,  and  prudery  flings  aside  her  fetter ; 

And  gaiety  on  restless  tiptoe  hovers, 
Giggling  with  all  the  gallants  who  beset  her ; 

And  there  are  songs  and  quavers,  roaring,  humming, 

(1'jitars,  and  every  other  sort  of  strumming. 

III. 

And  there  are  dresses  splendid,  but  fantastical, 
Masks  of  all  times  and  nations,  Turks  and  Jews, 

And  harlequins  and  clowns,  with  feats  gymnastical, 
Greeks,  Romans,  Yankee-doodles,  and  Hindoos ; 

All  kinds  of  dress,  except  the  ecclesiastical, 
All  people,  as  their  fancies  hit,  may  choose  ; 

But  no  one  in  these  parts  may  quiz  the  clergy — 

Therefore  take  heed,  ye  freethinkers  !  I  charge  ye. 

rv. 

You  'd  better  walk  about  begirt  with  briars, 
Instead  of  coat  and  small-clothes,  than  put  on 

A  single  stitch  reflecting  upon  friars, 
Although  you  swore  it  only  was  in  fun ; 

They  'd  haul  you  o'er  the  coals,  and  stir  the  fires 
Of  Phlegethon  with  every  mother's  son, 

Nor  say  one  mass  to  cool  the  cauldron's  bubble 

That  boil'd  your  benes,  unless  you  paid  them  double. 

V. 

But,  saving  this,  you  may  put  on  whate'er 
"V  ou  like,  by  way  of  doublet,  cape,  or  cloak, 

Such  as  in  Monmouth-street,  or  in  Rag  Fair, 
Would  rig  you  out  in  seriousness  or  joke ; 

And  even  in  Italy  such  places  are, 
With  prettier  names  in  softer  accents  spoke, 

For,  bating  Covent-Garden,  I  can  hit  on 

No  place  that's  called  "Piazza"  in  Great  Britain. 

w 


VI. 

This  feast  is  named  the  Carnival,  which,  being 
Interpreted,  implies  "farewell  to  flesh:" 

So  call'd,  because  the  name  and  thing  agreeing, 
Through  Lent  they  live  on  fish  both  salt  and  fr<sn 

But  why  they  usher  Lent  with  so  much  glee  in, 
Is  more  than  I  can  tell,  although  I  guess 

'T  is  as  we  take  a  glass  with  friends  at  parting, 

In  the  stage-coach  or  packet,  just  at  starting. 

vn. 

And  thus  they  bid  farewell  to  carnal  disnes, 
And  solid  meats,  and  highly-spiced  ragouts, 

To  live  for  forty  days  on  ill-dressed  fishes, 
Because  they  have  no  sauces  to  their  stews, 

A  thing  which  causes  many  "poohs"  and  "pishes," 
And  several  oaths  (which  would  not  suit  the  MUM: 

From  travellers  accustom'd  from  a  boy 

To  eat  their  salmon,  at  the  least,  with  soy ; 

VIII. 

And  therefore  humbly  I  would  recommend 

"  The  curious  in  fish-sauce,"  before  they  cross 

The  sea,  to  bid  their  cook,  or  wife,  or  friend, 
Walk  or  ride  to  the  Strand,  and  buy  in  gross 

(Or  if  set  out  beforehand,  these  may  send 
By  any  means  least  liable  to  loss), 

Ketchup,  Soy,  Chili-vinegar,  and  Harvey, 

Or,  by  the  Lord !  a  Lent  will  well  nigh  starve  ye ; 

IX. 

That  is  to  say,  if  your  religion's  Roman, 
And  you  at  Rome  would  do  as  Romans  do, 

According  to  the  proverb, — although  no  man, 
If  foreign,  is  obliged  to  fast ;  and  you, 

If  Protestant,  or  sickly,  or  a  woman, 
Would  rather  dine  in  sin  on  a  ragout — 

Dine,  and  be  d d !  I  don't  mean  to  be  coarse, 

But  that's  the  penalty,  to  say  no  worse. 

X. 

Of  all  the  places  where  the  Carnival 
Was  most  facetious  in  the  days  of  yore, 

For  dance  and  song,  and  serenade,  and  bail, 
And  masque,  and  mime  and  mystery,  and  mo»» 

Than  I  have  time  to  tell  now,  or  at  all, 
Venice  the  bell  from  every  city  bore, 

And  at  'Jie  moment  when  I  fix  my  story 

That  sea-born  city  was  in  all  her  glory 


214 


BYRON  S  WORKS. 


XI. 

They've  pretty  faces  yet,  those  same  Venetians, 

Black  eyes,  arch'd  brows,  and  sweet  expressions  still, 
Such  as  of  old  were  copied  from  the  Grecians, 

In  ancient  arts  by  moderns  mimick'd  illj 
And  like  so  many  Venuses  of  Titian's 

'The  best's  at  Florence — se«  it,  if  ye  will), 
They  look  when  leaning  over  the  balcony, 
Or  stepp'd  from  out  a  picture  by  .Giorgione, 

XII. 
Whose  tints  are  truth  and  beauty  at  their  best ; 

And  when  you  to  Manfrini's  palace  go, 
That  picture  (howsoever  fine  the  rest) 

Is  loveliest  to  my  mind  of  all  the  show : 
It  may  perhaps  be  also  to  your  zest, 
•  And  that's  the  cause  I  rhyme  upon  it  so, 
"T  is  but  a  portrait  of  his  son,  and  wife, 
And  self;  but  such  a  woman !  love  in  life! 

XIII. 
Love  in  full  life  and  length,  not  love  ideal, 

No,  nor  ideal  beauty,  that  fine  name, 
But  something  better  still,  so  very  real, 

That  the  sweet  model  must  have  been  the  same : 
A  thing  that  you  would  purchase,  beg,  or  steal, 

Wer't  not  impossible,  besides  a  shame: 
The  face  recalls  some  face,  as  't  were  with  pain, 
You  once  have  seen,  but  ne'er  will  see  again : 

XIV. 

One  of  those  forms  which  flit  by  us,  when  we 

Are  young,  and  fix  our  eyes  on  every  face ; 
And,  oh !  the  loveliness  at  times  we  see 

In  momentary  gliding,  the  soft  grace, 
The  youth,  the  bloom,  the  beauty  which  agree 

In  many  a  nameless  being  we  retrace, 
Whose  course  and  home  we  knew  not,  nor  shall  know, 
J.ike  the  lost  Pleiad '  seen  no  more  below. 

XV. 
I  said  that  like  a  picture  by  Giorgione 

Venetian  women  were,  and  so  they  are, 
Particularly  seen  from  a  balcony 

(For  beauty's  sometimes  best  set  off  afar); 
And  there,  just  like  a  heroine  of  Goldoni, 

They  peep  from  out  the  blind,  or  o'er  the  bar, 
And,  truth  to  say,  they  're  mostly  very  pretty, 
And  rather  like  to  show  it,  more 's  the  pity ! 

XVI. 
For  glances  beget  ogles,  ogles  sighs, 

Sighs  wishes,  wishes  words,  and  words  a  letter, 
Which  flies  on  wings  of  light-heel'd  Mercuries, 

Who  do  such  things  because  they  know  no  better ; 
And  tnen,  God  knows  what  mischief  may  arise, 

When  love  links  two  young  people  in  one  fetter, 
Vile  assignations,  and  adulterous  beds, 
Elopements,  broken  vows,  and  hearts,  and  heads. 

XVII. 
Shaitspeare  described  the  sex  in  Desdemona 

As  very  fair,  bit    et  suspect  in  fame, 
And  i->  this  day,  from  Venice  to  Verona, 

Siu:h  matters  may  be  probably  the  same, 
Exr:c|it  that  since  those  times  was  never  known  a 

Husband  whom  mere  suspicion  could  inflame 
To  suffocate  a  \vi£>  no  more  than  twenty, 
Boc-a.ise  she  had  a  "cavalier  gervente." 


XVIII. 

Their  jealousy  (if  they  are  ever  jealous) 

Is  of  a  fair  complexion  altogether, 
Not  like  that  sooty  devil  of  Othello's, 

Which  smothers  women  in  a  bed  of  feather, 
Bat  worthier  of  these  much  more  jolly  fellows, 

When  weary  of  the  matrimonial  tether 
His  head  for  such  a  wife  no  mortal  bothers, 
But  takes  at  once  another,  or  another's. 

XIX. 
Didst  ever  see  a  gondola?  For  fear 

You  should  not,  I  '11  describe  it  you  exactly ; 
'T  is  a  long  cover'd  boat  that 's  common  here, 

Carved  at  the  prow,  built  lightly,  but  compactly 
Row'd  by  two  rowers,  each  called  "Gondolier," 

It  glides  along  the  water  looking  blackly, 
Just  like  a  coffin  clapt  in  a  canoe, 
Where  none  can  make  out  what  you  say  or  do. 

XX. 
And  up  and  down  the  long  canals  they  go, 

And  under  the  Rialto  shoot  along, 
By  night  and  day,  all  paces,  swift  or  slow, 

And  round  the  theatres,  a  sable  throng, 
They  wait  in  their  dusk  livery  of  woe, 

But  not  to  them  do  woful  things  belong, 
For  sometimes  they  contain  a  deal  of  fun, 
Like  mourning  coaches  when  the  funeral 's  done. 

,   XXI. 
But  to  my  story. — 'T  was  some  years  ago, 

It  may  be  thirty,  forty,  more  or  less,  . 
The  Carnival  was  at  its  height,  and  so 

Were  all  kinds  of  buffoonery  and  dress ; 
A  certain  lady  went  to  see  the  show, 

Her  real  name  I  know  not,  nor  can  guess, 
And  so  we'll  call  her  Laura,  if  you  please, 
Because  it  slips  into  my  verse  with  ease. 

XXII. 

She  was  not  old,  nor  young,  nor  at  the  years 

Which  certain  people  call  a  "  certain  age," 
Which  yet  the  most  uncertain  age  appears, 

Because  I  never  heard,  nor  could  engage 
A  person  yet  by  prayers,  or  bribes,  or  tears, 

To  name,  define  by  speech,  or  write  on  page, 
The  period  meant  precisely  by  that  word, — 
Which  surely  is  exceedingly  absurd. 

XXIII. 
Laura  was  blooming  still,  had  made  the  best 

Of  time,  anil  time  return'd  the  compliment, 
And  treated  her  genteelly,  so  that,  drest, 

She  look'd  extremely  well  where'er  she  went 
A  pretty  woman  is  a  welcome  guest, 

And  Laura's  brow  a  frown  had  rarely  bent ; 
Indeed  she  shone  all  smiles,  and  seom'd  to  flattet 
Mankind  with  her  black  eyes  for  looking  at  her. 

XXIV. 
She  was  a  married  woman  ;  't  is  convenient, 

Because  in  Christian  countries  't  is  a  niie 
To  view  their  little  slips  with  eyes  more  lenient ; 

Whereas  if  single  ladies  play  the  fool, 
(Unless  within  the  period  intcrvenient, 

A  well-timed  wedding  makes  the  scandal  cool' 
I  don't  know  how  they  ever  can  get  over  it 
Except  they  manage  never  to  discover  k. 


BEPPO. 


21  i 


XXV. 

Her  husband  sail'd  upon  the  Adriatic, 

And  made  some  voyages,  too,  in  other  seas, 
And  when  he  lay  in  quarantine  for  pratique 

(A  forty  days'  precaution  'gainst  disease), 
His  wife  would  mount,  at  times,  her  highest  attic, 

For  thence  she  could  discern  the  ship  with  ease : 
He  was  a  merchant  trading  to  Aleppo, 
His  name  Giuseppe,  call'd  more  briefly,  Beppo.1 

XXVI. 
He  was  a  man  as  dusky  as  a  Spaniard, 

Sunburnt  with  travel,  yet  a  portly  figure ; 
Though  colour'd,  as  it  were,  within  a  tan-yard, 
He  was  a  person  both  of  sense  and  vigour — 
A  better  seaman  never  yet  did  man  yard  : 

And  she,  although  her  manners  show'd  no  rigour, 
Was  deem'd  a  woman  of  the  strictest  principle, 
So  much  as  to  be  thought  almost  invincible. 

XXVII. 
But  several  years  elapsed  since  they  had  met ; 

Some  people  thought  the  ship  was  lost,  and  some 
That  he  had  somehow  biunder'd  into  debt, 

And  did  not  like  the  thoughts  of  steering  home; 
And  there  were  several  offer'd  any  bet, 

Or  that  he  would,  or  that  he  would  not  come, 
For  most  men  (till  by  losing  render'd  sager) 
Will  back  their  own  opinions  with  a  wager. 

XXVIII. 
T  is  said  that  their  last  parting  was  pathetic, 

As  partings  often  are,  or  ought  to  be, 
And  their  presentiment  was  quite  prophetic 

That  they  should  never  more  each  other  see, 
(A  sort  of  morbid  feeling,  half  poetic, 

Which  I  have  known  occur  in  two  or  three), 
When  kneeling  on  the  shore  upon  her  sad  knee, 
He  left  this  Adriatic  Ariadne. 

XXIX. 
And  Laura  waited  long,  and  wept  a  little, 

And  thought  of  wearrg  weeds,  as  well  she  might ; 
She  almost  lost  all  appetite  for  victual, 

And  could  not  s'^ep  with  ense  alone  at  night ; 
She  deetn'H  the  window-frames  and  shutters  brittle 

Against  a  daring  housebreaker  or  sprite, 
And  so  she  thought  it  prudent  to  connect  her 
With  a  vice-husband,  chiefly  to  protect  her. 

XXX. 
She  chose,  (and  what  is  there  they  will  not  choose, 

If  only  you  will  but  oppose  their  choice?) 
Till  Beppo  should  return  from  his  long  cruise, 
And  bid  once  more  her  faithful  heart  rejoice, 
A  man  some  women  like,  and  yet  abuse — 
A  coxcomb  was  he  hy  the  public  voice : 
A  count  of  wealth,  they  said,  as  well  as  quality, 
And  in  his  pleasures  ol  srreat  liberality. 

XXXI. 
And  then  he  was  a  coi  "t,  and  then  he  knew 

Music  and  dancing,  l>dd!ing,  French,  and  Tuscan ; 
The  last  not  easy,  bi  :t  known  to  you, 

For  few  Italian?  s',rak  the  right  Etruscan. 
He  was  n  critic  u'-or.  operas  too, 

An  !  knew  r.H  nicies  of  the  sock  and  buskin  ; 
And  no  Vv>oi:an  MjJirncs  ?ou!'l  endure  a 
S-.'ng.  ocenp.  or  »-r  wheu  h«5  cried  "  seccatura." 


XXXII. 

lis  "  bravo"  was  decisive,  tor  that  sound 

Hush'd  "  academic"  sigli'd  in  silent  awe ; 
The  fiddlers  trembled  as  he  look'J  around, 

For  fear  of  some  false  note's  detected  flaw. 
The  "  prima  donna's  "  tuneful  heart  would  bound, 

Dreading  the  deep  damnation  of  his  "bah!" 
Soprano,  basso,  even  the  contra-alto, 
Wish'd  him  five  fathoms  under  the  Riaito. 

XXXIII. 
He  patronized  the  improvvisatori, 

Nay,  could  himself  extemporize  some  stanzas, 
Wrote  rhymes,  sang  songs,  could  also  teli  A  story, 

Sold  pictures,  and  was  skilful  in  the  dance  as 
Italians  can  be,  though  in  this  the:r  glory 

Must  surely  yield  the  palm  to  that  which  France  bur ; 
[n  short,  he  was  a  perfect  cavaliero, 
And  to  his  very  valet  seem'd  a  hero. 

XXXIV. 
Then  he  was  faithful  too,  as  well  as  amorous  ; 

So  that  no  sort  of  female  could  complain, 
Although  they  're  now  and  then  a  little  clamorous, 

He  never  put  the  pretty  souls  in  pain : 
His  heart  was  one  of  those  which  most  enamour  us. 

Wax  to  receive,  and  marble  to  retain. 
He  was  a  lover  of  the  good  old  school, 
Who  still  become  more  constant  as  they  cool. 

XXXV. 
No  wonder  such  accomplishments  should  turn 

A  female  head,  however  sage  and  steady— 
With  scarce  a  hope  that  Beppo  could  return, 

In  law  he  was  almost  as  good  as  dead,  he 
Nor  sent,  nor  wrote,  nor  show'd  the  least  concern, 

And  she  had  waited  several  years  already ; 
And  really  if  a  man  won't  let  us  know 
That  he 's  alive,  he 's  dead,  01  should  be  so. 

XXXVI. 
Besides,  within  the  Alps,  to  every  woman 

(Although,  God  knows,  it  is  a  grievous  sin), 
'T  is,  I  may  say,  permitted  to  have  two  men  ; 

I  can't  teH  who  first  brought  the  custom  in, 
But  "Cavalier  Serventes"  are  quite  common, 

And  no  one  notices,  nor  cares  a  pin ; 
And  we  may  call  this  (not  to  say  the  worst) 
A  second  marriage  which  corrupts  the  fast. 

XXXVII. 
The  word  was  formerly  a  "  Cicisbeo," 

But  that  is  now  grown  vulgar  and  indecent ; 
The  Spaniards  call  the  person  a  "  Curtejo,"* 

For  the  same  mode  subsists  in  Spain,  though  reccM . 
In  short  if  reaches  from  the  Po  to  Teio, 

And  may  perhaps  at  last  be  o'er  the  sea  sent. 
But  Heaven  preserve  Old  England  from  such  course* 
Or  what  becomes  of  damage  and  divorces? 

XXXVIII. 
However,  I  still  think,  with  all  due  deference 

To  the  fair  single  part  of  the  creation, 
That  married  ladies  should  preserve  the  preference 

In  tete-b-tctc  or  general  conversation — 
And  this  I  say  without  peculiar  referenc* 

To  England,  France,  or  any  other  nati«ii 
Because  they  know  the  world,  and  are  »t  eaws. 
And  being  natural,  nar.iral.r  please. 


JIG 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XXXIX. 

T  is  true,  your  budding  Miss  is  very  charming, 
But  shy  and  awkward  at  first  coming  out, 

So  much  alarm'd,  that  she  is  quite  alarming, 
All  giggle,  blush ; — half  pertness,  and  half  pout ; 

And  glancing  at  Mamma,  for  fear  there's  harm  in 
What  you,  she,  it,  or  they,  may  be  about, 

The  nursery  still  lisps  out  in  all  they  utter — 

Besides,  they  always  smell  of  bread  and  butter. 

XL. 

But  "  Cavalier  Servente"  is  the  phrase 

Used  in  politest  circles  to  express 
fhis  supernumerary  slave,  who  stays 

Close  to  the  lady  as  a  part  of  dress, 
Her  word  the  only  law  which  he  obeys. 

His  is  no  sinecure,  as  you  may  guess  ; 
Coach,  servants,  gondola,  he  goes  to  call, 
And  carries  fan,  and  tippet,  gloves,  and  shawl. 

XLI. 
With  all  its  sinful  doings,  I  must  say, 

That  Italy 's  a  pleasant  place  to  me, 
Who  love  to  see  the  sun  shine  every  day, 

And  vines  (not  nail'd  to  walls)  from  tree  to  tree 
Festoon'd,  much  like  the  back  scene  of  a  play, 

Or  melodrame,  which  people  flock  to  see, 
When  the  first  act  is  ended  by  a  dance 
In  vineyards  copied  from  the  south  of  France. 

XLII. 
I  Uko  on  Autumn  evenings  to  ride  out, 

Without  being  forced  to  bid  my  groom  be  sure 
My  cloak  is  round  his  middle  strapp'd  about, 

Because  the  skies  are  not  the  most  secure : 
.  know  too  that,  if  stopp'd  upon  my  route, 

Where  the  green  alleys  windingly  allure, 
Reeling  with  grapes  red  vagons  choke  the  way — 
IP.  England  'twould  be  dung,  dust,  or  a  dray. 

XLin. 

I  also  like  to  dine  on  becaficas, 

To  see  the  sun  set,  sure  he'll  rise  to-morrow, 
Not  through  a  misty  morning  twinkling  weak  as 

A  drunken  man's  dead  eye  in  maudlin  sorrow, 
But  with  all  heaven  t'  himself;  that  day  will  break  as 

Beauteous  as  cloudless,  nor  be  forced  to  borrow 
That  sort  of  farthing-candle  light  which  glimmers 
Wnere  reeking  London's  smoky  cauldron  simmers. 

XLiV. 
I  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastard  Latin, 

Which  melts  like  kisses  from  a  female  mouth, 
^nd  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin, 

With  syllables  which  breathe  of  the  sweet  south, 
And  gentle  liquids  gliding  all  so  pat  in, 

I'nat  not  a  single  accent  seems  uncouth, 
Line  our  harsh  northern  whistling,  grunting  guttural, 
Whicn  we  're  obliged  to  hiss,  and  spit,  and  sputter  all. 

XLV. 
I  like  the  women  too  (forgive  my  folly), 

Froi.  the  rich  peasant-cheek  of  ruddy  bronze, 
And  lai  ge  black  eyes  that  flash  on  you  a  volley 

Of  rays  that  say  a  thousand  things  at  once, 
To  the  high  dama's  brow,  more  melancholy, 

But  clear,  and  wi>h  a  wild  and  liquid  glance, 
rleart  en  her  lips,  and  soui  within  her  eyes, 
Soft  as  her  dime,  and  sunny  as  her  skies. 


XLVI. 

Eve  of  the  land  which  still  is  Paradise ! 

Italian  beauty  !  didst  thou  not  inspire 
Raphael,4  who  died  in  thy  embrace,  and  vies 

With  all  we  know  of  heaven,  or  can  desire, 
In  what  he  hath  bequeath'd  us? — in  what  guise, 

Though  flashing  from  the  fervour  of  the  Ivre, 
Would  words  describe  thy  past  and  present  glow, 
While  yet  Canova  can  create  below.  * 

XLVH. 

"  England !  with  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  still.' 

I  said  at  Calais,  and  have  not  forgot  it ; 
I  like  to  speak  and  lucubrate  my  fill ; 

I  like  the  government  (but  that  is  not  it); 
I  like  the  freedom  of  the  press  and  quill ; 

I  like  the  Habeas  Corpus  (when  we've  got  it) 
I  like  a  parliamentary  debate, 
Particularly  when  't  is  not  too  late  ; 

XLVIII. 
I  like  the  taxes,  when  they  're  not  too  many ; 

I  like  a  sea-coal  fire,  when  not  too  dear ; 
J  like  a  beef-steak,  too,  as  well  as  any ; 

Have  no  objection  to  a  pot  of  beer, 
I  like  the  weather,  when  it  is  not  rainy, 

That  is,  I  like  two  months  of  every  year. 
And  so  God  save  the  regent,  church,  and  king ! 
Which  means  that  I  like  all  and  every  thing. 

XLIX. 

Our  standing  army,  and  disbanded  seamen, 

Poor's  rate,  reform,  my  own,  the  nation's  deb,'. 
Our  little  riots  just  to  show  we  're  freemen, 

Our  trifling  bankruptcies  in  the  gazette, 
Our  cloudy  climate,  and  our  chilly  women, 

All  these  I  can  forgive,  and  those  forget, 
And  greatly  venerate  our  recent  glories, 
And  wish  they  were  not  owing  to  the  lories. 

L. 
But  to  my  tale  of  Laura, — for  I  find 

Digression  is  a  sin,  that  by  degrees 
Becomes  exceeding  tedious  to  my  mind, 

And,  therefore,  may  the  reader  too  displease- 
The  gentle  reader,  who  may  wax  unkind, 

And,  caring  little  for  the  author's  ease, 
Insist  on  knowing  what  he  means,  a  hard 
And  hapless  situation  for  a  bard. 

LI. 
Oh !  that  I  had  the  art  of  easy  writing 

What  should  be  easy  reading !  could  I  scak 
Parnassus,  where  the  Muses  sit  inditing 

Those  pretty  poems  never  known  to  fail, 
How  quickly  would  I  print  (the  world  delighting) 

A  Grecian,  Syrian,  or  Assyrian  tale  ; 
And  sell  you,  mix'd  with  western  sentimentalism, 
Some  samples  of  the  finest  orientalism. 


»  Jfoic. 
In  talking  thns,  the  writer,  more  especially 

Of  women,  woiOd  be  understood  to  say. 
He  speaks  as  a  spectator,  not  officially. 

And  always,  reader,  in  a  modest  way ; 
Perhaps,  too,  in  no  very  great  degree  shall  he 

Appear  to  have  offended  in  this  lay, 
Since,  as  all  kpow,  without  the  sex,  our  sonnets 

Would  seem  unfinbh'd  like  their  untrimm'il  bonnet* 
(Signed!    Printer'*  Dtfii 


BEPPO. 


21 


LII. 

But  I  am  but  a  nameless  sort  of  person 

(A  broken  dandy  lately  on  my  travels), 
And  take  for  rhyme,  to  hook  my  rambling  verse  on, 

The  first  that  Walker's  Lexicon  unravels, 
And  when  I  can't  find  that,  I  put  a  worse  on, 

Not  caring  as  I  ought  for  critics'  cavils ; 
I  've  half  a  mind  to  tumble  down  to  prose, 
But  verse  is  more  in  fashion — so  here  goes. 

LIII. 
The  Count  and  Laura  made  their  new  arrangement, 

VVhwh  tasted,  as  arrangements  sometimes  do, 
For  half  a  dozen  years  without  estrangement ; 

They  had  their  little  differences  too  ; 
Those  jealous  whiffs,  which  never  any  change  meant : 

In  such  affairs  there  probably  are  few 
Who  have  not  had  this  pouting  sort  of  squabble, 
From  sinners  of  high  station  to  the  rabble. 

LIV. 
But  on  the  whole  they  were  a  happy  pair, 

As  happy  as  unlawful  love  could  make  them ; 
The  gentleman  was  fond,  the  lady  fair, 

Their  chains  so  slight,  't  was  not  worth  while  to  break 

them: 
The  world  beheld  them  with  indulgent  air ; 

The  pious  only  wish'd  "the  devil  take  them!" 
He  took  them  not ;  he  very  often  waits, 
And  leaves  old  sinners  to  be  young  ones'  baits. 

LV. 
But  they  were  young :  Oh !  what  without  our  youth 

Would  love  be  ?  What  would  youth  be  without  love  ? 
Vouth  lends  its  joy,  and  sweetness,  vigour,  truth, 
Heart,  soul,  and  all  that  seems  as  from  above ; 
But,  languishing  with  years,  it  grows  uncouth — 

One  of  few  things  experience  don't  improve, 
Which  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  old  fellows 
Arc  always  so  preposterously  jealous. 

LVI. 
It  was  the  Carnival,  as  I  have  said 

Some  six-and-thirty  stanzas  back,  and  so 
Laura  the  usual  preparations  made, 

Which  you  do  when  your  mind 's  made  up  to  go 
To-night  to  Mrs.  Boehm's  masquerade, 

Spectator,  or  partaker  in  the  show ; 
The  only  difference  known  between  the  cases 
Is— here,  we  have  six  weeks  of  "varnish'd  faces." 

LVII. 
Laura,  when  drest,  was  (as  I  sang  before) 

A  pretty  woman  as  was  ever  seen, 
Fresh  as  the  angel  o'er  a  new  inn-door, 

Or  frontispiece  of  a  new  magazine, 
With  all  the  fashions  which  the  last  month  wore, 
•   Colour'd,  and  silver  paper  leaved  between 
That  and  the  title-page,  for  fear  the  press 
Should  soil  with  parts  of  speech  the  parts  of  dress. 

LVIII. 
They  went  to  the  Ridotto  ; — 't  is  a  hall 

Where  people  dance,  and  sup,  and  dance  again : 
Its  proper  name,  perhaps,  were  a  mask'd  ball, 

But  that 's  of  no  importance  to  my  strain ; 
T  is  (on  a  smaller  scale)  like  our  Vauxhall, 
Excepting  that  it  can't  be  spoilt  by  rain : 
The  company  is  "  mixt"  (the  phrase  I  quote  is, 
la  muck  as  saying,  they're  below  your  notice), 
w2  33 


LIX. 

'or  a  "mixt  company"  implies,  that,  save 

Yourself  and  friends,  and  half  a  hundred  more, 
iVhom  you  may  bow  to  without  looking  grave, 

The  rest  are  but  a  vulgar  set,  the  bore 
Of  public  places,  where  they  basely  brave 

The  fashionable  stare  of  twenty  score 
Jf  well-bred  persons,  called  "the  world;"  but  I, 
Although  I  know  them,  really  don't  know  why. 

LX. 
This  is  the  case  in  England ;   at  least  was 

During  the  dynasty  of  dandies,  now 
Perchance  succeeded  by  some  other  class 

Of  imitated  imitators  : — how 
Irreparably  soon  decline,  alas ! 

The  demagogues  of  fashion :  all  below 
Is  frail ;  how  easily  the  world  is  lost 
By  love,  or  war,  and  now  and  then  by  frost ! 

LXI. 
Crush'd  was  Napoleon  by  the  northern  Thor, 

Who  knock'd  his  army  down  with  icy  hammer, 
Stopp'd  by  the  elements,  like  a  whaler,  or 

A  blundering  novice  in  his  new  French  grammar , 
Good  cause  had  he  to  doubt  the  chance  of  war, 

And  as  for  fortune — but  I  dare  not  d — n  her, 
Became  were  I  to  ponder  to  infinity, 
The  more  I  should  believe  in  her  divinity. 

LXH. 
She  rules  the  present,  past,  and  all  to  be  yet, 

She  gives  us  luck  in  lotteries,  love,  and  marriage ; 
I  cannot  say  that  she 's  done  much  for  me  yet ; 

Not  that  I  mean  her  bounties  to  disparage, 
We've  not  yet  closed  accounts,  and  we  shall  see  jet 

How  much  she  '11  make  amends  for  past  miscarriag* 
Meantime  the  goddess  I  '11  no  more  importune, 
Unless  to  thank  her  when  she 's  made  my  fortune. 

LXII1. 
To  turn, — and  to  return ; — the  devil  take  it, 

This  story  slips  for  ever  through  my  fingers, 
Because,  just  as  the  stanza  likes  to  make  it, 
It  needs  must  be — and  so  it  rather  lingers ; 
This  form  of  verse  began,  I  can 't  well  break  it, 

But  must  keep  time  and  tune  like  public  singers : 
But  if  I  once  get  through  my  present  measure, 
I  '11  take  another  when  I  'm  next  at  leisure. 

LXIV. 

They  went  to  the  Ridotto — 't  is  a  place 

To  which  I  mean  to  go  myself  to-morrow, 
Just  to  divert  my  thoughts  a  little  space, 

Because  I  'm  rather  hippish,  and  may  borrow 
Some  spirits,  guessing  at  what  kind  of  face 

May  lurk  beneath  each  mask,  and  as  my  sonow 
Slackens  its  pace  sometimes,  I  '11  make,  or  find 
Something  shall  leave  it  half  an  hour  behind. 

LXV. 
Now  Laura  moves  along  the  joyous  crowd, 

Smiles  in  her  eyes,  and  simpers  on  her  lips ; 
To  some  she  whispers,  others  speaks  aloud : 

To  some  she  curtsies,  and  to  some  she  dips, 
Complains  of  warmth,  and  this  complaint  avow  «. 

Her  lover  brings  the  lemonade, — she  sips; 
She  then  surveys,  condemns,  but  pities  stui 
Her  dearest  friends  for  being  drest  to  SL 


218 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LXVI. 

One  lias  false  curls,  another  too  much  paint, 

A  third — where  did  she  buy  that  frightful  turban? 

A  fourth 's  so  pale  she  fears  she  's  going  to  faint, 
A  fifth 's  iook  's  vulgar,  dowdyish,  and  suburban, 

A  sixth's  white  silk  has  got  a  yellow  taint, 
A  seventh's  thin  muslin  surely  will  be  her  bane, 

And  lo !  an  eighth  appears, — "  I  '11  see  no  more !" 

For  fear,  like  Banquo's  kings,  they  reach  a  score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime,  while  she  was  thus  at  others  gazing, 
Others  were  levelling  their  looks  at  her ; 

She  heard  the  men's  half-whisper'd  mode  of  praising, 
And,  till 't  was  done,  determined  not  to  stir ; 

The  women  only  thought  it  quite  amazing 
That  at  her  time  of  life  so  many  were 

Admirers  still, — but  men  are  so  debased, 

Those  brazen  creatures  always  suit  their  taste. 

LXVIH. 

For  my  part,  now,  I  ne'er  could  understand 

Why  naughty  women but  I  won't  discuss 

A  thing  which  is  a  scandal  to  the  land, 

I  only  don't  see  why  it  should  be  thus ; 
And  if  I  were  but  in  a  gown  and  band, 

Just  to  entitle  me  to  make  a  fuss, 
I  'd  preach  on  this  till  Wilberforce  and  Romilly 
Should  quote  in  their  next  speeches  from  my  homily. 

LXIX. 
While  Laura  thus  was  seen  and  seeing,  smiling, 

Talking,  she  knew  not  why  and  cared  not  what, 
So  that  her  female  friends,  with  envy  broiling, 

Beheld  her  airs  and  triumph,  and  all  that ; 
And  well-drest  males  still  kept  before  her  filing, 

And  passing  bow'd  and  mingled  with  her  chat ; 
More  than  the  rest  one  person  seejn'd  to  stare 
With  pertinacity  that's  rather  rare. 

LXX. 

lie  was  a  Turk,  the  colour  of  mahogany ; 

And  Laura  saw  him,  and  at  first  was  glad, 
Because  the  Turks  so  much  admire  philogyny, 

Although  their  usage  of  their  wives  is  sad  ; 
'T  is  said  they  use  no  better  than  a  dog  any 

Poor  woman,  whom  the^  purchase  like  a  pad : 
They  have  a  number,  though  they  ne'er  exhibit  'em, 
Four  wives  by  law,  and  concubines  "  ad  libitum." 

LXX1. 
They  lock  them  up,  and  veil,  and  guard  them  daily, 

They  scarcely  can  behold  their  male  relations, 
So  that  their  moments  do  not  pass  so  gaily 

As  is  supposed  the  case  with  northern  nations ; 
Confinement,  too,  must  make  them  look  quite  palely  j 

An</  as  the  Turks  abhor  long  conversations, 
Triiir  days  are  either  pass'd  in  doing  nothing, 
Oi  outhing,  nursing,  making  love,  and  clothing. 

LXXII. 
They  cannot  read,  and  so  don't  lisp  in  criticism ; 

N<«r  write,  and  so  they  don't  affect  the  muse ; 
Wer»-  never  caught  in  epigram  or  witticism, 

Have  no  romances,  sermons,  plays,  reviews,— 
In  liai.uns  learning  soon  would  make  a  pretty  schism  ! 

Bui  luckily  these  beauties  are  no  "  blues," 
No  bustling  Botherbys  have  they  to  show  'em 

Tnaf  charming  passage  in  the  last  new  poem." 


LXXIH. 

No  solemn,  antique  gentleman  of  rhyme, 
Who  having  angled  all  his  life  for  fame, 

And  getting  but  a  nibble  at  a  time, 
Still  fussily  keeps  fishing  on,  the  same 

Small  "  Triton  of  the  minnows,"  the  sublime 
Of  mediocrity,  the  furious  tame, 

The  echo's  echo,  usher  of  the  school 

Of  female  wits,  boy-bards — in  short,  a  fool ! . 

LXXIV. 

A  sulking  oracle  of  awful  phrase, 

The  approving  "  Good  /"  (by  no  means  GOOD  in  taw| 
Humming  like  files  around  the  newest  blaze, 

The  bluest  of  bluebottles  you  e'er  saw, 
Teasing  with  blame,  excruciating  with  praise, 

Gorging  the  little  fame  he  gets  all  raw, 
Translating  tongues  he  knows  not  even  by  letter, 
And  sweating  plays  so  middling,  bad  were  better 

LXXV. 

One  hates  an  author,  that 's  all  author,  fellows 
In  foolscap  uniforms  turn'd  up  with  ink, 

So  very  anxious,  clever,  fine,  and  jealous, 

One  don't  know  what  to  say  to  them,  or  think, 

Unless  to  puff  them  with  a  pair  of  bellows ; 
Of  coxcombry's  worst  coxcombs  e'en  the  pink 

Are  preferable  to  these  shreds  of  paper, 

These  unquench'd  snuffings  of  the  midnignt  taper. 

LXXVI. 

Of  these  same  we  see  several,  and  of  others, 

Men  of  the  world,  who  know  the  world  like  men, 
S — tt,  R s,  M — re,  and  all  the  better  brothers, 

Who  think  of  something  else  besides  the  pen ; 
But  for  the  children  of  the  "  mighty  mother's," 

The  would-be  wits  and  can't-be  gentlemen, 
I  leave  them  to  their  daily  "tea  is  ready," 
Snug  coterie,  and  literary  lady. 
LXXVII. 
The  poor  dear  Mussulwomen  whom  I  mention 

Have  none  of  these  instructive  pleasant  people ; 
And  one  would  seem  to  them  a  new  invention, 

Unknown  as  bells  within  a  Turkish  steeple ; 
I  think  'twould  almost  be  worth  while  to  pension 

(Though  best-sown  projects  very  often  reap  ill) 
A  missionary  author,  just  to  preach 
Our  Christian  usage  of  the  parts  of  speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No  chemistry  for  them  unfolds  her  gasses, 

No  metaphysics  are  let  loose  in  lectures, 
No  circulating  library  amasses 

Religious  novels,  moral  tales,  and  strictures 
Upon  the  living  manners  as  they  pass  us ; 

No  exhibition  glares  with  annual  pictures ; 
They  stare  not  on  the  stars  from  out  their  attics, 
Nor  deal  (thank  God  for  that ! )  in  mathematics. 

LXXIX. 
Why  I  tnank  God  for  that  is  no  great  matter, 

I  have  my  reasons,  you  no  doubt  suppose, 
And  as,  perhaps,  they  would  not  highly  flatter, 

I  '11  keep  them  for  my  life  (to  come)  in  prose ; 
I  fear  I  have  a  little  turn  for  satire, 

And  yet  methinks  the  older  that  one  grows 
Inclines  us  more  to  iaugh  than  scold  thoug 
Leaves  us  so  doub'v  serious  shortly  alter 


BEPPO. 


21* 


LXXX. 

On,  mirth  and  innocence  !  Oh,  milk  and  water ! 

Ye  happy  mixtures  of  more  happy  days ! 
In  these  sad  centuries  of  sin  and  slaughter, 

Abominable  man  no  more  allays 
His  thirst  with  suih  pure  beverage.     No  matter, 

I  love  you  both,  and  both  shall  have  my  praise : 
Oh,  for  old  Saturn's  reign  of  sugar-candy! — 
Meantime  I  drink  to  your  return  in  brandy. 

LXXXI. 
Our  Laura's  Turk  still  kept  his  eyes  upon  her, 

Less  in  the  Mussulman  than  Christian  way, 
Which  seems  to  say,  "  Madam,  I  do  you  honour, 

And  while  I  please  to  stare,  you  '11  please  to  stay ;" 
Could  staring  win  a  woman  this  had  won  her, 

But  Laura  could  not  thus  be  led  astray, 
She  had  stood  fire  too  long  and  well  to  boggle 
Even  at  this  stranger's  most  outlandish  ogle. 

LXXXII. 
The  morning  now  was  on  the  point  of  breaking, 

A  turn  of  time  at  which  I  would  advise 
Ladies  who  have  been  dancing,  or- partaking 

In  any  other  kind  of  exercise, 
To  make  their  preparations  for  forsaking 

The  ball-room  ere  the  sun  begins  to  rise, 
Because  when  once  the  lamps  and  candles  fail, 
His  blushes  make  them  look  a  little  pale. 

LXXXIII. 

I  've  seen  some  balls  and  revels  in  my  tune, 
And  staid  them  over  for  some  silly  reason 

And  then  I  look'd  (I  hope  it  was  no  crime), 
To  see  what  lady  best  stood  out  the  season  ; 

And  though  I  've  seen  some  thousands  in  their  prime, 
Lovely  and  pleasing,  and  who  still  may  please  on, 

I  never  saw  but  one  (the  stars  withdrawn), 

Whose  bloom  could  after  dancing  dare  the  dawn. 

LXXXIV. 

The  name  of  this  Aurora  I  '11  not  mention, 

Although  I  might,  for  she  was  nought  to  me 
More  tnan  that  patent  work  of  God's  invention, 

A  charming  woman,  whom  we  like  to  see ; 
But  writing  names  would  merit  reprehension, 

Yet,  if  you  like  to  find  out  this  fair  she, 
At  the  next  London  or  Parisian  ball 
You  still  may  mark  her  cheek,  out-blooming  all. 

LXXXV. 
Laura,  who  knew  it  would  not  do  at  all 

To  meet  the  day-light  after  seven  hours'  sitting 
Among  three  thousand  people  at  a  ball, 

To  make  her  curtsy  thought  it  right  and  fitting ; 
The  count  was  at  her  elbow  with  her  shawl, 

And  they  the  room  were  on  the  point  of  quitting, 
When  lo !  those  cursed  gondoliers  had  got 
Just  in  the  very  place  where  they  styiuld  not. 

LXXXVI. 
fn  this  they  're  like  our  coachmen,  and  the  cause 

Is  much  the  same — the  crowd,  and  pulling,  hauling, 
With  blasphemies  enough  to  break  their  jaws, 

They  make  a  never-intermitted  bawling. 
\t  home,  our  Bow-street  gemmen  keep  the  laws, 

And  here  a  sentrv  stands  within  your  calling  ; 
But,  tor  all  that,  there  is  a  deal  of  swearing, 
A.PI)  nauseous  words  oast  mentioning  or  bearing. 


LX  xxvii. 

The  count  and  Laura  found  their  boat  it  last, 

And  homeward  floated  o'er  the  silent  tide, 
Discussing  all  the  dances  gone  and  past ; 

The  dancers  and  their  dresses,  too,  beside ; 
Some  little  scandal  eke :  but  all  aghast 

(As  to  their  palace-stairs  the  rowers  glide), 
Sate  Laura  by  the  side  of  her  adorer, 
When  lo  !  the  Mussulman  was  there  before  her. 

LXXXVIII. 
"  Sir,"  said  the  count,  with  brow  exceeding  grave, 

"  Your  unexpected  presence  here  will  make 
It  necessary  for  myself  to  crave 

Its  import !  But  perhaps  't  is  a  mistake ; 
I  hope  it  is  so ;  and  at  once  to  waive 

All  compliment,  I  hope  so  for  your  sake ; 
You  understand  my  meaning,  or  you  shall." 
" Sir,"  (quoth  the  Turk)  "'t  is  no  mistake  at  all. 

LXXXIX. 

That  lady  is  my  wife  !"   Much  wonder  paints 
The  lady's  changing  cheek,  as  well  it  might ; 

But  where  an  Englishwoman  sometimes  faints, 
Italian  females  don 't  do  so  outright ; 

They  only  call  a  little  on  their  saints, 

And  then  come  to  themselves,  almost  or  quite : 

Which  saves  much  hartshorn,  salts,  and  sprinkling  fa  cut, 

And  cutting  stays,  as  usual  in  such  cases. 

xc. 

She  said — what  could  she  say  ?  Why,  not  a  word : 

But  the  count  courteously  invited  in 
The  stranger,  much  appeased  by  what  he  heard : 

"  Such  things  perhaps  we  'd  best  discuss  within,' 
Said  he  ;  "  don't  let  us  make  ourselves  absurd 

In  public,  by  a  scene,  nor  raise  a  din, 
For  then  the  chief  and  only  satisfaction 
Will  be  much  quizzing  on  the  whole  transaction." 

XCI. 
They  enter'd,  and  for  coffee  call'd, — it  came, 

A  beverage  for  Turks  and  Christians  both, 
Although  the  way  they  make  it's  not  the  same. 

Now  Laura,  much  recover'd,  or  less  loth 
To  speak,  cries,  "  Beppo  !  what 's  your  pagan  name  * 

Bless  me  !  your  beard  is  of  amazing  growth ! 
And  how  came  you  to  keep  away  so  long  ? 
Are  you  not  sensible  't  was  very  wrong  ? 

XCH. 
"  And  are  you  really,  truly,  now  a  Turk  ? 

With  any  other  women  did  you  wive  ? 
Is 't  true  they  use  their  fingers  for  a  fork  ? 

Well,  that 's  the  prettiest  shawl — as  I  'm  alive ! 
You  '11  give  it  me  ?  They  say  you  eat  no  poik. 

And  how  so  many  years  did  you  contrive 
To-^Bless  me !  did  I  ever  ?  No,  I  nevsr 
Saw  a  man  grown  so  yellow  !  How  's  your  liver  * 

XCIII. 
"  Beppo !  that  beard  of  yours  becomes  you  no' 

It  shall  be  shaved  before  you  're  a  day  older : 
Why  do  you  wear  it  ?  Oh  !  I  had  forgot — 

Pray,  don't  you  think  the  weather  here  s  co.des  f 
How  do  I  look  ?  you  sha'n't  stir  froi  "his  spot 

In  that  queer  dress,  for  fear  that  some  beholder 
Should  find  you  out,  and  make  the  story  known. 
How  short  vour  hair  is !  Lord  !  how  grav  it 's  ^rowi-  "* 


220 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


xcrv. 

What  answer  Beppo  made  to  these  demands, 
Is  more  than  I  know.     He  was  cast  away 

About  where  Troy  stood  once,  and  nothing  stands ; 
Became  a  slave,  of  course,  and  for  his  pay 

Had  bread  and  bastinadoes,  till  some  bands 
Of  pirates  landing  in  a  neighbouring  bay, 

He  join'd  the  rogues  and  prosper'd,  and  became 

A  renegado  of  indifferent  fame. 

xcv. 

But  he  grew  rich,  and  with  his  riches  grew  so 
Keen  the  desire  to  see  his  home  again, 

He  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  do  so, 
And  not  be  always  thieving  on  the  main  ; 

Lonely  he  felt,  at  times,  as  Robin  Crusoe : 
And  so  he  hired  a  vessel  come  from  Spain, 

Bound  for  Corfu  ;  she  was  a  fine  polacca, 

Mann'd  with  twelve  hands,  and  laden  with  tobacco. 

XCVI. 

Himself,  and  much  (Heaven  knows  how  gotten)  cash, 
He  then  embark'd  with  risk  of  life  and  limb, 

And  got  clear  off,  although  the  attempt  was  rash ; 
He  said  that  Providence  protected  him — 

For  my  part,  I  say  nothing,  lest  we  clash 
In  our  opinions: — well,  the  ship  was  trim, 

Set  sail,  and  kept  her  reckoning  fairly  on, 

Fxcept  three  days  of  calm  when  off  Cape  Bonn. 

XCVII. 

'Fhey  reach'd  the  island,  he  transferr'd  his  lading, 
And  self  and  live-stock,  to  another  bottom, 

And  pass'd  for  a  true  Turkey-merchant,  trading 
With  goods  of  various  names,  but  I  've  forgot  'em. 

However,  he  got  off"  by  this  evading, 

Or  else  the  people  would  perhaps  have  shot  him ; 

And  thus  at  Venice  landed  to  reclaim 

His  wife,  religion,  house,  and  Christian  name. 


XCVIII. 

His  wife  received,  the  patriarch  re-baptized  him, 

(He  made  the  church  a  present  by  the  way) ; 
He  then  threw  off"  the  garments  which  disguised  him, 

And  borrow'd  the  count's  small-clothes  for  a  day  ; 
His  friends  the  more  for  his  long  absence  prized  him, 

Finding  he  'd  wherewithal  to  make  them  gay, 
With  dinners,  where  he  oft  became  the  laugh  of  then 
For  stories, — but  /  don't  believe  the  half  of  them. 

XCIX. 
Whate'er  his  youth  had  suffer'd,  his  old  age 

With  wealth  and  talking  made  him  some  amends  ; 
Though  Laura  sometimes  put  him  in  a  rage, 

I  've  heard  the  count  and  he  were  always  friends 
My  pen  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  page, 

Which  being  finish'd,  here  the  story  ends  ; 
'T  is  to  be  wish'd  it  had  been  sooner  done, 
But  stories  somehow  lengthen  when  begun. 


NOTES. 


Note  1.  Stanza  xiv,  line  8. 

Like  the  lost  Pleiad  seen  no  more  below. 

"  Q.IKC  septern  dici  sez  tamen  esso  sclent." — OniiL 

Note  2.  Stanza  xxv,  line  8. 
His  name  Giuseppe,  call'd  more  briefly,  Berpo 
Beppo  is  the  Joe  of  the  Italian  Joseph. 

Note  3.  Stanza  xxxvii,  line  3. 
The  Spaniards  call  the  person  a  "  Cortejo." 
"Cortejo"  is  pronounced  "  Corte/io,"  with  an  as- 
pirate, according  to  the  Arabesque  guttural.    It  means 
what  there  is  as  yet  no  precise  name  for  in  England, 
though  the  practice  is  as  common  as  in  any  tramontane 
country  whatever. 

Note  4.  Stanza  xlvi,  line  3. 
Raphael,  who  died  in  thy  embrace,  and  vies. 
For  the  received  accounts  of  the  cause  of  Raphael'* 
death,  see  his  Lives. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


"  CELUI  qui  remplissait  alors  cette  place  etoit  un 
gentilhomme  Polonais,  nomme  Mazeppa,  ne  dans  le 
palatinat  de  Padolie ;  il  avail  et6  elevd  page  de  Jean 
Casimir,  et  avail  pris  a  sa  cour  quelque  teinture  des 
nelles-letlres.  Une  intrigue  qu'il  eul  dans  sa  jeunesse 
avec  la  femme  d'un  gentilhomme  Polonais,  ayant  e"te 
decouverte,  le  mari  le  fil  Her  tout  nu  sur  un  cheval 
farouche,  et  le  laissa  aller  en  cet  e'tat.  Le  chetal,  qui 
e"tait  du  pays  de  1'Ukraine,  y  retourna,  et  y  porta  Ma- 
zcppa,  demi-mort  de  fatigue  et  de  faim.  Quelques 
paysans  le  secoururent :  il  resta  long-temps  parmi  eux, 
et  se  signala  dans  olusieurs  courses  contre  les  Tartares. 
La  superiorite  ae  ses  lutnieres  lui  donna  une  grande 
r.onside'ratjon  parmi  les  Cosaques  :  sa  reputation  s'aug- 
mciitant  de  jr-ur  en  jour,  obligea  le  Czar  k  le  faire 
Princf  ae  1'Uitraine." 

Voi.rAiRE,  HitUnre  de  Charles  XII.  p.  196. 


"  Le  roi  fuyanl  el  poursuivi  eut  son  cheva!  tue"  sous 
lui ;  le  Colonel  Gieta,  blesse",  ct  perdant  toul  son  sang, 
lui  donna  le  sien.  Ainsi  on  remit  deux  fois  k  cheval,  dans 
la-fuitc,  ce  conqudrant  qui  n'avail  pu  y  monter  pen- 
dant la  balaille." 

VOLTAIRE,  Hlstoire  de  Charles  XII.  p.  216. 

"  Le  roi  alia  par  un  autre  chemin  avec  quelques  cav- 
aliers. Le  carrosse  ou  il  6tait  rompit  dans  la  marche ; 
on  le  remit  a  cheval.  Pour  comble  de  disgrace,  il 
s'egara  pendant  la  nuit  dans  un  bois ;  la,  son  courage 
ne  pouvanl  plus  suppleer  k  ses  forces  e'puise'es,  les  dou- 
leurs  de  sa  blessure  devenues  plus  insupportables  par 
la  fatigue,  son  cheval  t?tant  tombe  de  lassitude,  il  st» 
coucha  quelques  heurcs,  au  pied  d'un  arbre,  en  danger 
d'filre  surpris  k  tout  moment  par  les  vainqueurs  qui  I* 
cherchaient  de  tons  cotes." 

VOLTAIRE,  Histoire  dt  f3t>nrlef  XII.  f   218. 


MAZEPPA. 


MAZEPPA. 


i. 

T  WAS  after  dread  Pultowa's  day, 

When  fortune  left  the  royal  Swede, 
Around  a  slaughter'd  army  lay, 

No  more  to  combat  and  to  bleed. 
The  power  and  glory  of  the  war, 

Faithless  as  their  vain  votaries,  men, 
Had  pass'd  to  the  triumphant  Czar, 

And  Moscow's  walls  were  safe  again, 
Until  a  day  more  dark  and  drear, 
And  a  more  memorable  year, 
Should  give  to  slaughter  and  to  shame 
A  mightier  host  and  haughtier  name ; 
A  greater  wreck,  a  deeper  fall, 
A  shock  to  one — a  thunderbolt  to  all. 

n. 

Such  was  the  hazard  of  the  die ; 

The  wounded  Charles  was  taught  to  fly 

By  day  and  night,  through  field  and  flood, 

Stain' d  with  his  own  and  subjects'  blood  ; 

For  thousands  fell  that  flight  to  aid : 

And  not  a  voice  was  heard  to  upbraid 

Ambition  in  his  humbled  hour, 

When  truth  had  nought  to  dread  from  power. 

His  horse  was  slain,  and  Gieta  gave 

His  own — and  died  the  Russians'  slave. 

This  too  sinks  after  many  a  league 

Of  well-sustain'd,  but  vain  fatigue  ; 

And  in  the  depth  of  forests,  darkling 

The  watch-fires  in  the  distance  sparkling — 

The  beacons  of  surrounding  foes — 
A  king  must  lay  his  limbs  at  length. 

Are  these  the  laurels  and  repose 
For  which  the  nations  strain  their  strength  7 
They  laid  him  by  a  savage  tree, 
In  out-worn  nature's  agony  ; 
His  wounds  were  stiff— his  limbs  were  stark- 
The  heavy  hour  was  chill  and  dark  ; 
The  fever  in  his  blood  forbade 
A  transient  slumber's  fitful  aid : 
And  thus  it  was  ;  but  yet  through  all, 
King-like  the  monarch  bore  his  fall, 
And  made,  in  this  extreme  of  ill, 
His  pangs  the  vassals  of  his  will ; 
All  silent  and  subdued  were  they, 
As  once  the  nations  round  him  lay. 

Bit 

A  band  of  chiefs ! — alas !  how  few, 

Since  but  the  fleeting  of  a  day 
Had  thinn'd  it ;  but  this  wreck  was  true 

And  chivalrous  ;  upon  the  clay 
Each  sate  him  down,  all  sad  and  mute, 

Beside  his  monarch  and  his  steed, 
For  danger  levels  man  and  brute, 

And  all  are  fellows  in  their  need. 
Among  the  rest,  Mazeppa  made 
His  pillow  in  an  old  oak's  shade — 
Himself  as  rough,  and  scarce  less  old, 
The  Ukraine's  helms  n,  calm  and  bold ; 


But  first,  outspent  with  this  long  course, 
The  Cossack  prince  rubb'd  down  his  horse, 
And  made  for  him  a  leafy  bed, 
And  smooth'd  his  fetlocks  and  his  mane, 
And  slack'd  his  girth,  and  stripp'd  his  rein 
And  joy'd  to  see  how  well  he  fed  ; 
For  until  now  he  had  the  dread 
His  wearied  courser  might  refuse 
To  browse  beneath  the  midnight  dews :     • 
But  he  was  hardy  as  his  lord, 
And  little  cared  for  bed  and  board ; 
But  spirited  and  docile  too, 
Whate'er  was  to  be  done,  would  do ; 
Shaggy  and  swift,  and  strong  of  limb, 
All  Tartar-like  he  carried  him ; 
Obey'd  his  voice,  and  came  to  call, 
And  knew  him  in  the  midst  of  all : 
Though  thousands  were  around, — and  night. 
Without  a  star,  pursued  her  flight, — 
That  steed  from  sunset  until  dawn 
His  chief  would  follow  like  a  fawn. 

IV. 

This  done,  Mazeppa  spread  his  cloak, 
And  laid  his  lance  beneath  his  oak, 
Felt  if  his  arms  in  order  good 
The  long  day's  march  had  well  withstood— 
If  still  the  powder  fill'd  the  pan, 

And  flints  unloosen'd  kept  their  lock — 
His  sabre's  hilt  and  scabbard  felt, 
And  whether  they  had  chafed  his  belt- 
Arid  next  the  venerable  man, 
From  out  his  haversack  and  can, 

Prepared  and  spread  his  slender  stock 
And  to  the  monarch  and  his  men 
The  whole  or  portion  ofler'd  then, 
With  far  less  of  inquietude 
Than  courtiers  at  a  banquet  would. 
And  Charles  of  this  his  slender  share 
With  smiles  partook  a  moment  there, 
To  force  of  cheer  a  greater  show, 
And  seem  above  both  wounds  and  woe ; — 
And  then  he  said — "  Of  all  our  band, 
Though  firm  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 
In  skirmish,  march,  or  forage,  none 
Can  less  have  said,  or  more  have  done, 
Than  thee,  Mazeppa !  On  the  earth 
So  fit  a  pair  had  never  birth, 
Since  Alexander's  days  till  now^ 
As  thy  Bucephalus  and  thou  : 
All  Scythia's  fame  to  thine  should  yield 
For  pricking  on  o'er  flood  and  field." 
Mazeppa  answer'd — "  111  betide 
The  school  wherein  I  leam'd  to  ride !" 
Quoth  Charles — "Old  hetman,  wherefore  MS 
Since  thou  hast  leam'd  the  art  so  well  ?" 
Mazeppa  said — "  'T  were  long  to  tell ; 
And  we  have  many  a  league  to  go 
With  every  now  and  then  a  blow, 
And  ten  to  one  at  least  the  foe, 
Before  our  steeds  may  graze  at  east 
Beyond  the  swift  Borysthenes : 
And,  sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  r*»i, 

And  I  will  be  the  sentinel 
Of  this  your  troop."— "But  I  reques.. 
Said  Sweden's  monarch,  "th<u  wilt  tifi 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


This  tale  of  i  hine,  and  I  may  reap 
Perchance  frcm  this  the  boon  of  sleep ; 
For  at  this  moment  from  my  eyes 
The  hope  of  present  slumber  flies." 
"  Well,  sire,  with  such  a  hope,  I  '11  track 
My  seventy  years  of  memory  back : 
I  think  't  was  in  my  twentieth  spring, — 
Ay,  'l  was, — when  Casimir  was  king — 
John  Casimir, — I  was  his  page 
Six  summers  in  my  earlier  age  ; 
A  learned  monarch,  faith  !  was  he, 
And  most  unlike  your  majesty : 
He  made  no  wars,  and  did  not  gain 
New  realms  to  lose  them  back  again ; 
And  (save  debates  in  Warsaw's  diet) 
He  reign'd  in  most  unseemly  quiet ; 
Not  that  he  had  no  cares  to  vex, 
He  loved  the  muses  and  the  sex ; 
And  sometimes  these  so  froward  are, 
They  made  him  wish  himself  at  war ; 
But  soon  his  wrath  being  o'er,  he  took 
Another  mistress,  or  new  book : 
And  then  he  gave  prodigious  ffites — 
Yll  Warsaw  gather'd  round  his  gates 
To  gaze  upon  his  splendid  court, 
And  dames,  and  chiefs,  of  princely  port : 
He  was  the  Polish  Solomon, 
So  sung  his  poets,  all  but  one, 
Who,  being  unpension'd,  made  a  satire, 
And  boasted  that  he  could  not  flatter. 
It  was  a  court  of  jousts  and  mimes, 
Where  every  courtier  tried  at  rhymes ; 
Even  I  for  once  produced  some  verses, 
And  sign'd  my  odes,  Despairing  Thirsts. 
There  was  a  certain  Palatine, 

A  count  of  far  and  high  descent, 
Rich  as  a  salt  or  silver  mine ; ' 
And  ne  was  proud,  ye  may  divine, 

As  if  from  heaven  he  had  been  sent : 
He  had  such  wealth  in  blood  and  ore, 

As  few  could  match  beneath  the  throne ; 
And  he  would  gaze  upon  his  store, 
And  o'er  his  pedigree  would  pore, 
Until  by  some  confusion  led, 
Which  almost  look'd  like  want  of  head, 

lie  thought  their  merits  were  his  own. 
His  wife  was  not  of  his  opinion — 

His  junior  she  by  thirty  years — 
tjrew  daily  tired  of  his  dominion  ; 

And,  after  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 

To  virtue  a  few  farewell  tears, 
A  restless  dream  or  two,  some  glances 
At  Warsaw's  youth,  some  songs,  and  dances, 
Awaited  but  the  usual  chances, 
Those  happy  accidents  which  render 
The  coldest  dames  so  very  tender, 
To  deck  her  count  with  titles  given, 
'T  is  said,  as  passports  into  heaven ; 
But,  strange  to  say,  they  rarely  boast 
Jf  these  who  have  deserved  them  mast. 
V. 

I  \»<u*  a  goodly  stripling  then  ; 

At  seventy  years  I  so  may  say, 


)  This  comparison  of  a  "  salt  mine  "  may  perhaps  be  per- 
mitted to  i  Pulp,  u  the  wealth  of  the  country  consign  greatly 
10  tho  fait  mine! 


That  there  were  few,  or  boys  cr  men, 

Who,  in  my  dawning  time  of  day, 
Of  vassal  or  cr  Vnight's  degree, 
Could  vie  in  vanities  with  me  ; 
For  I  had  strength,  youth,  gaiety, 
A  port  not  like  to  this  ye  see, 
But  smooth,  as  all  is  rugged  now  ; 

For  time,  and  care,  and  war,  have  plough  d 
My  very  soul  from  out  my  brow ; 

And  thus  I  should  be  disavow'd 
By  all  my  kind  and  kin,  could  they 
Compare  my  day  and  yesterday  ; 
This  change  was  wrought,  too,  long  ere  agw 
Had  ta'en  my  features  for  his  page  : 
With  years,  we  know,  have  not  declined 
My  strength,  my  courage,  or  my  mind, 
Or  at  this  hour  I  should  not  be 
Telling  old  tales  beneath  a  tree 
With  starless  skies  my  canopy. 

But  let  me  on :  Theresa's  form — 
Methinks  it  glides  before  me  now, 
Between  me  and  yon  chesnut's  bough, 

The  memory  is  so  quick  and  warm ; 
And  yet  I  find  no  words  to  tell 
The  shape  of  her  I  loved  so  well  : 
She  had  the  Asiatic  eye, 

Such  as  our  Turkish  neighbourhood 

Hath  mingled  with  our  Polish  blood 
Dark  as  above  us  is  the  sky ; 
But  through  it  stole  a  tender  light, 
Like  the  first  moonrise  at  midnight ; 
Large,  dark,  and  swimming  in  the  stream, 
Which  seem'd  to  melt  to  its  own  beam ; 
All  love,  half  languor,  and  half  fire, 
Like  saints  that  at  the  stake  expire, 
And  lift  their  raptured  looks  on  high, 
As  though  it  were  a  joy  to  die. 
A  brow  like  a  midsummer  lake, 

Transparent  with  the  sun  therein, 
When  waves  no  murmur  dare  to  make, 

And  heaven  beholds  her  face  within. 
A  cheek  and  lip — but  why  proceed? 

I  loved  her  then — I  love  her  still ; 
And  such  as  I  am,  love  indeed 

In  fierce  extremes — in  good  and  ill. 
But  still  we  love  even  in  our  rage, 
And  haunted  to  our  very  age 
With  the  vain  shadow  of  the  past, 
As  is  Mazeppa  to  the  last. 

VI 

"  We  met — we  gazed — I  saw,  and  sigh'd, 

She  did  not  speak,  and  yet  replied  ; 

There  are  ten  thousand  tones  and  signs 

We  hear  and  see,  but  none  defines — 

Involuntary  sparks  of  thought, 

Which  strike  from  out  the  heart  o'erwrought. 

And  form  a  strange  intelligence, 

Alike  mysterious  and  intense, 

Which  link  the  burning  chain  that  binds. 

Without  their  will,  young  hearts  and  minda ; 

Conveving,  as  the  electric  wire, 

We  know  not  how,  the  absorbing  fire.— 

I  saw,  and  sigh'd — in  silence  wept, 

And  still  reluctant  distance  kept, 


MAZEPPA. 


22,1 


Until  I  was  made  known  to  her, 
And  we  might  then  and  there  confer 
Without  suspicion — then,  even  then, 

1  long'd,  and  was  resolved  to  speak ; 
But  on  my  lips  they  died  again, 

The  accents  tremulous  and  weak, 
Until  one  hour. — There  is  a  game, 

A  frivolous  and  foolish  play, 

Wherewith  we  while  away  the  day ; 
It  is — I  have  forgot  the  name — 
And  we  to  this,  it  seems,  were  set, 
By  some  strange  chance,  which  I  forget : 
I  reck'd  not  if  I  won  or  lost, 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  be 

So  near  to  hear,  and  oh  !  to  see 
The  being  whom  I  loved  the  most. — 
I  watch'd  her  as  a  sentinel, 
(May  ours  this  dark  night  watch  as  well!) 

Until  I  saw,  and  thus  it  was, 
That  she  was  pensive,  nor  perceived 
Her  occupation,  nor  was  grieved 
Nor  glad  to  lose  or  gain  ;  but  still 
Play'd  on  for  hours,  as  if  her  will 
Jfet  bound  her  to  the  place,  though  not 
That  hers  might  be  the  winning  lot. 

Then  through  my  brain  the  thought  did  pass 

Even  as  a  flash  of  lightning  there, 
That  there  was  something  in  her  air 
Which  would  not  doom  me  to  despair ; 
And  on  the  thought  my  words  broke  forth, 

All  incoherent  as  they  were — 
Their  eloquence  was  little  worth, 
But  yet  she  listen'd — 't  is  enough — 

Who  listens  once  will  listen  twice ; 

Her  heart,  be  sure,  is  not  of  ice, 
And  one  refusal  no  rebuff. 

VII. 

"  I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again — 
They  tell  me,  Sire,  you  never  knew 
Those  gentle  frailties :  if  't  is  true, 
I  shorten  all  my  joy  or  pain, 
To  you  't  would  seem  absurd  as  vain ; 
But  all  men  are  not  born  to  reign, 
Or  o'er  their  passions,  or,  as  you, 
Thus  o'er  themselves  and  nations  too. 
I  am— or  rather  was — a  prince, 

A  chief  of  thousands,  and  could  lead 
Them  on  where  each  would  foremost  bleed ; 
But  could  not  o'er  myself  evince 
The  like  control — But  to  resume: 
I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again ; 
In  sooth,  it  is  a  happy  doom, 

But  yet  where  happiness  ends  in  pain.— 
We  met  in  secret,  and  the  hour 
Which  led  me  to  that  lady's  bower 
Was  fiery  expectation's  dower. 
My  days  and  nighls  were  nothing — all 
Except  that  hour,  which  doth  recall 
In  the  long  lapse  from  youth  to  age 
No  other  like  itself— I  'd  give 
The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 
It  o'er  once  more — and  be  a  page, 
Th«  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 
Of  one  soft  heart,  and  his  own  sword, 


And  had  no  other  gem  nor  wealth 
Save  nature's  gift  of  youth  and  health — 
We  met  in  secret — doubly  sweet, 
Some  say,  they  find  it  so  to  meet ; 
I  know  not  that — I  would  have  given 

My  life  but  to  have  call'd  her  mine 
In  the  full  view  of  earth  and  heaven  ; 

For  I  did  oft  and  long  repine 
That  we  could  only  meet  by  stealth. 

VIII. 

"  For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes, 
And  such  there  were  on  us: — the  devil 
On  such  occasions  should  be  civil — 

The  devil ! —  I  'in  loth  to  do  him  wrong. 
It  might  be  some  untoward  saint, 

Who  would  not  be  at  rest  too  long, 
But  to  his  pious  bile  gave  vent — 

But  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 

Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 

The  count  was  something  more  than  wroth— 

I  was  unarm'd  ;  but  if  in  steel, 

All  cap-h-pic,  from  head  to  heel, 

What  'gainst  their  numbers  could  I  do  ? 

'T  was  near  his  castle,  far  away 
From  city  or  from  succour  near, 

And  almost  on  the  break  of  day ; 

I  did  not  think  to  see  another, 

My  moments  seem'd  reduced  to  few ; 

And  with  one  prayer  to  Mary  Mother, 
And,  it  may  be,  a  saint  or  two, 

As  I  resign'd  me  to  my  fate, 

They  led  me  to  the  castle  gate  : 

Theresa's  doom  I  never  knew, 

Our  lot  was  henceforth  separate. — 

An  angry  man,  ye  may  opine, 

Was  he,  the  proud  Count  Palatine ; 

And  he  had  reason  good  to  be, 
But  he  was  most  enraged  lest  such 
An  accident  should  chance  to  touch 

Upon  his  future  pedigree  ; 

Nor  less  amazed,  that  such  a  blot 

His  noble  'scutcheon  should  have  got, 

While  he  was  highest  of  his  line  : 
Because  unto  himself  he  seem'd 
The  first  of  men,  nor  less  he  deeni'd 

In  others'  eyes,  and  most  in  mine. 

'Sdeath !  with  a  page — perchance  a  kir.g 

Had  reconciled  him  to  the  thing  : 

But  with  a  stripling  of  a  page — 

I  felt — but  cannot  paint  his  rage. 

IX. 

" « Bring  forth  the  horse !' — the  horse  was  brr 

In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  though! 
Were  in  his  limbs  :   but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undelileti- 

'T  was  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught . 
And  snorting,  with  erected  msne, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  Jreau 
To  me  the  desert-Jwrn  was  led  r 


-224 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong ; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash — 
Away ! — away ! — and  on  we  dash ! 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 


"  Away ! — away ! — My  breath  was  gone— 

I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on : 

T  was  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 

And  on  he  foam'd — away ! — away  !— 

The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 

As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes, 

Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 

Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 

A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout : 

With  sadden  wrath  I  wrench'd  my  head, 

And  snapp'd  the  cord,  which  to  the  mane 

Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
HowPd  back  my  cune ;  but  'midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed, 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed : 
It  rexes  me — for  I  would  fain 
Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 
I  paid  it  wefl  in  after  days : 
There  is  not  of  that  castle  gate, 
Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis'  weight, 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left ; 
Nor  of  its  fields  a  Made  of  grass, 

Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall, 

Where  stood  lite  hearth-stone  of  the  ball  ; 
And  many  a  time  ye  there  might  pass, 
Nor  dream  that  e'er  that  fortress  was : 
I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  Maze, 
Their  crackling  battlements  all  deft, 

And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain 
From  off  the  scorch'd  and  blackening  roof; 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

They  Bale  thought  that  day  of  pain, 
When  lanch'd,  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash, 

That  one  day  I  should  come  again, 
With  twice  fire  thousand  horse,  to  thank 

The  count  for  his  uncourteous  ride. 
They  piayM  me  (ben  a  bitter  prank, 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide, 
fney  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank : 
Atkagth  I  play'd  them  one  as  frank- 
Far  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even — 

And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  boor, 

Tocrc  BCTCT  jret  wu  bmn 
fVhich  could  evade,  if  unforgrvtn, 
The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 

XL 

"Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 
Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 
Ai  nonan  dwdfings  left  behind ; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky, 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  dkrqnerM  with  the  northern  light : 
Towa — village— none  were  on  oar  track, 
Bo*  a  wild  plam  of  far  extent, 


And  bounded  by  a  fort  si  black : 

And,  save  the  scarrx-seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 
No  trace  of  man.     The  year  before 
A  Turkish  army  had  march'd  o'er ; 
And  where  the  Spain's  hoof  hath  trod, 
The  verdure  flies  the  bloody  sod : — 
The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  gray> 
And  a  low  breeze  crept  moaning  by— 
I  couJd  have  answer'd  with  a  sigh- 
But  fast  we  fled,  away,  away — 
And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray  ; 
And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser's  bristling  mane  : 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career : 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed, 
He  must  have  slacken'd  in  his  speed : 
But  no— my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might, 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became : 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoin  limbs  from  their  agony 
Increased  his  fury  and  affright : 
I  tried  ray  voice, — 't  was  faint  and  low, 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow ; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang : 
Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore, 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  orer , 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

xn. 

"  We  nearM  the  wild  wood — 't  was  so  wide, 

I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side  : 

*T  was  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees, 

That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 

Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste, 

And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste, — 

But  these  were  few,  and  far  between, 

Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  voung  and  green. 

Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves, 

Ere  strown  bv  those  autumnal  eves 

That  nip  the  forest's  foliage  dead, 

DiscoloorM  with  a  Bfeless  red, 

Which  stands  thereon  like  stiflen'd  gore 

Upon  the  slain  when  battle 's  o'er, 

And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 

Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head, 

So  cold  and  stark  the  raven's  beak 

May  peck  unpierced  each  frozen  cheek  • 

T  was  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 

And  here  and  there  a  chesnut  stood, 

The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine ; 

But  for  apart — and  well  it  were, 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mine — 
The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  fear 
My  limbs  ;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarr'd  with  cold — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track, 
Their  troop  came  hard  upcn  our  back 


MAZEPPA. 


223 


With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fire : 
Where'er  we  flew  they  foilow'd  on, 
Nor  left  us  roth  the  nK>rning  sun ; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood, 
At  daybreak  winding  through  the  wood, 
And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
Oh !  how  I  wish'd  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 
And  perish — if  it  must  be  so— 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  (be. 
When  first  my  courser's  race  begun, 
I  wish'd  the  goal  already  won  ; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt !  his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain-roe  ; 
Nor  faster  falls  the  blinding  snow 
Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 
Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more, 
Bewilder'd  with  the  dazzling  blast, 
Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  past — 
Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild ; 
All  furious  as  a  favour' d  child 
Balk'd  of  its  wish  ;  or  fiercer  stiB— 
A  woman  piqued — who  has  her  will. 

XIII. 

"  The  wood  was  past ;  't  was  more  than  noon  ; 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June  ; 
Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold — 
Prolong'd  endurance  tames  the  bold : 
And  I  was  then  not  what  I  seem, 
But  headlong  as  a  wintry  stream, 
And  wore  my  feelings  out  before 
I  weu  could  count  their  causes  o'er : 
And  what  with  fury,  fear,  and  wrath, 
The  tortures  which  beset  my  path, 
Cold,  hunger,  sorrow,  shame,  distress, 
Thus  bound  in  nature's  nakedness  ; 
Sprung  from  a  race  whose  rising  blood 
When  stirr'd  beyond  its  calmer  mood, 
And  trodden  hard  upon,  is  like 
The  rattlesnake's,  in  act  to  strike, 
What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 
Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk  7 
The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  roU'd  round, 
I  seem'd  to  sink  upon  the  ground ; 
But  err'd,  for  I  was  fastly  bound. 
My  heart  turn'd  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore, 
And  throbb'd  awhile,  then  beat  no  more: 
The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel ; 
I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel, 
And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes, 
Which  sx.w  no  farther:  he  who  dies 
Con  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 
O'ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 
I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strove  to  wake  ;  but  could  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below : 
I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea, 
When  all  the  waves  that  dash -o'er  thee, 
At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm, 
And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 
My  undulating  life  was  as 
The  fancied  lights  that  flitting  pass 
X    "  ^4 


Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 
Fever  begins  upon  the  brain; 
But  soon  it  pass'd,  with  little  pain, 
But  a  confusion  worse  than  such : 
I  own  that  I  should  deem  it  much, 
Dying,  to  'eel  the  same  again  ; 
And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 
Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust : 
No  matter ;  I  have  bared  my  brow 
Full  in  Death's  face — before — ami  now. 

XIV. 

"My  thoughts  came  back;  where  was  I? 

And  numb,  and  giddy :  pulse  by  pulse 
Life  reassumed  its  lingering  bold, 
And  throb  by  throb  ;  till  grown  a  pang 

Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse, 

My  blood  reflow'd,  though  thick  and  chill , 
My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang, 

My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill ; 
My  sight  retum'd,  though  dim,  alas ! 
And  thickerfd,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 
Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh  ; 
There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky, 
Studded  with  stars  ; — it  is  no  dream  ; 
The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream ! 
The  bright  broad  river's  gushing  tide 
Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 
And  we  are  half-way  struggling  o'er 
To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shoie. 
The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance. 
And  with  a  temporary  strength 

My  stiffen'd  nrabs  were  rebapuzed, 
My  coursers  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 
And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 
And  onward  we  advance  ! 
We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length 

A  haven  I  but  bole  prized, 
For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear, 
And  all  before  was  night  aad  fear. 
How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 
In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 
I  could  not  leU ;  I  scarcely  knew 
If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 

XV. 

"  With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 

And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 
The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  snain 

Up  the  repelling  bank. 
We  gain  the  top :  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 

And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seem* 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 
To  stretch  beyond  the  sight; 
And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 

Or  scattered  spot  of  dusky  green. 
In  masses  broke  into  the  light, 
AM  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right. 

But  nought  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste,  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  a  hospitable  star; 
Not  even  an  ignis-fatuu*  rate 
To  make  him  merry  with  my  • 


5*6 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Thai  very  cheat  had  cheer'd  me  then ! 
Although  detected,  welcome  still, 
Reminding  me,  through  every  ill, 

Of  the  abodes  of  men. 

XVI. 

"  Onward  we  went — but  slack  and  slow ; 

His  savage  force  at  length  o'erspent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 

All  feebly  foaming  went. 
A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour ; 

But  useless  all  to  me. 
His  new-born  lameness  nought  avail'd, 
My  limbs  were  bound  ;  my  force  had  fail'd, 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  effort  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied—- 
But still  it  was  in  vain ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er, 

Which  but  prolong'd  their  pain  : 
The  dizzy  race  seem'd  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won : 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun — 

How  slow,  alas  !  he  came ! 
Metliought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  into  day ; 
How  heavily  it  roll'd  away — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars, 
And  call'd  the  radiance  from  their  cars, 
And  fill'd  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne, 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

XVII. 

"  Up  rose  the  sun ;  the  mists  were  curl'd 
Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around — behind — before : 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 
Plain,  forest,  river?  Man  nor  brute, 
Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 
Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil ; 
No  sign  of  travel — none  of  toil ; 
The  very  «ir  was  mute  ; 
And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.    Many  a  werst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 
The  weary  brute  still  stagger'd  on  ; 
And  still  we  were — or  seem'd — alone : 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh, 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  ? 
No,  no !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop ;  I  see  them  come  ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance ! 

I  strove  to  cry — my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride ; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 
A  thousand  horse — and  none  to  ride ! 
Wiui  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils — never  stretch'd  by  pain, 
Mouths  Oioodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 


And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 
And  flanks  unscarr'd  by  spur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on, 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet ; 
The  sight  renerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answer'd,  and  then  fell ; 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 

And  reeking  limbs  immoveable, 

His  first  and  last  carerr  is  done  ! 
On  came  the  troop— they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong : 
They  stop — they  start — they  snuff'  'he  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there, 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  anH  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seem'd  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide ; 
They  snort — they  foam— neigh — swerve 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 
By  instinct  from  a  human  eye — 

They  left  me  there,  to  my  despair, 
Link'd  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me — and  there  we  lay, 

The  dying  on  the  dead ! 
I  little  deem'd  another  day 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 
And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 
I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round, 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 
My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me, 
In  hopeless  certainty  of  mind, 
That  makes  us  feel  at  length  reslgn'd 
To  that  which  our  foreboding  years 
Presents  the  worst  and  last  of  fears 
Inevitable — even  a  boon, 
Nor  more  unkind  for  coming  soon  ; 
Yet  shunn'd  and  dreaded  with  such  care 
As  if  it  only  were  a  snare 

That  prudence  might  escape: 
At  times  both  wish'd  for  and  implored, 
At  times  sought  with  self-pointed  sword, 
Yet  still  a  dark  and  hideous  close 
To  even  intolerable  woes, 

And  welcome  in  no  shape. 
And,  strange  to  say,  the  sons  of  pleasure, 
They  who  have  revell'd  beyond  measure 
In  beauty,  wassail,  wine,  and  treasure, 
Die  calm,  or  calmer  oft  than  he 
Whose  heritage  was  misery : 
For  he  who  hath  in  turn  run  through 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  new, 

Hath  nought  to  hope,  and  nought  to  lear«, 
And,  save  the  future  (which  is  view'd 
Not  quite  as  men  are  base  or  good, 
But  as  their  nerves  may  be  endued), 

With  nought  perhaps  to  grieve  • 


MAZEPPA. 


The  wrelcK  still  hopes  his  woes  must  end, 
And  Death,  whom  he  should  deem  his  friend, 
Appears  to  his  distemper'd  eyes 
Arrived  to  rob  him  of  his  prize, 
The  tree  of  his  new  Paradise. 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  all, 
llopaid  his  pangs,  repair'd  his  fall ; 
To-morrow  would  have  been  the  first 
Of  days  no  more  deplored  or  curst, 
But  bright,  and  long,  and  beckoning  years. 
Seen  dazzling  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
Guerdon  of  many  a  painful  hour ; 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  power 
To  rule,  to  shine,  to  smite,  to  save — 
And  must  it  dawn  upon  his  grave  ? 

XVIII. 

'The  sun  was  sinking — still  I  lay 

Chain'd  to  the  chill  and  stiffening  steed, 
I  thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay ; 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need, 

No  hope  arose  of  being  freed : 
I  cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky, 

And  there  between  me  and  the  sun 
I  saw  the  expecting  raven  fly, 
Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die, 

Ere  his  repast  begun  ; 
He  flew,  and  perch'd,  then  flew  once  more, 
And  each  time  nearer  than  before ; 
I  saw  his  wing  through  twilight  flit, 
And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

1  could  hav-e  smote,  but  lack'd  the  strength; 
But  the  slight  motion  of  my  hand, 
And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand, 
The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggling  noise, 
Which  scarcely  could  be  call'd  a  voice, 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length.— 
I  know  no  more — my  latest  dream 

Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 

Which  fix'd  my  dull  eyes  from  afar, 
And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam, 
And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 
And  then  subsiding  back  to  death, 
And  then  again  a  little  breath, 
A  little  thrill,  a  short  suspense, 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 
My  heart,  and  sparks  that  cross'd  my  brain— 
A  gasp,  a  throb,  a  start  of  pain, 

A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 

XIX. 

"  I  woke — Where  was  I  ? — Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me  7 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  ? 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose? 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie  ? 
And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 
Thai  watches  me  with  gentle  glance? 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  long-hair'd,  and  tall, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall ; 


The  sparkle  of  her  eye  t  caugm, 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  though,.; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free : 
I  gazed,  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be, — 
But  that  I  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast : 
And  when  the  Cossack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unseal'd, 
She  smiled — and  I  essay'd  to  speak, 

But  fail'd — and  she  approach'd,  and  mad* 
With  lip  and  finger  signs  that  said, 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free  ; 
And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 
And  smooth'd  the  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread, 
And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers — ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet 
Even  music  follow'd  her  light  feet ! 

But  those  she  call'd  were  not  awake, 
And  she  went  forth  ;  but  ere  she  pass'd, 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast, 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say, 
That  I  had  nought  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call, 

And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return  ; — while  she  was  gone, 
Methought  1  felt  too  much  alone. 

XX. 

"  She  came  with  mother  and  with  sm-' 
What  need  of  more  7 — I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest, 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest : 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut — 
They  brought  me  into  life  again — 
Me— one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign ! 

Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain, 

Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness, 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone, 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne. — 

What  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess? 

Let-none  despond,  let  none  despair ! 
To-morrow  the  Borysthenes 
May  see  our  courser's  graze  at  ease 
Upon  his  Turkish  bank, — and  never 
Had  I  such  welcome  for  a  river 

As  I  shall  yield  when  safely  there. 
Comrades,  good  night!" — The  hetman  threw 

His  length  beneath  the  oak-tree  shade, 

With  leafy  couch  alitady  made, 
A  bed  nor  comfortless  nor  new 
To  him,  who  took  his  rest  whenever 
The  hour  arrived,  no  matter  wnere  : — 

His  eyes  the  hastening  slumbers  steer*. 
And  if  ye  marvel  Charles  forgot 
To  thank  his  tale,  he  wonder'd  not,   - 

The  king  had  been  an  hour  isleer 


%     228     ^ 

J&auftretr; 

A  DRAMATIC  POEM. 


"  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MANFRED. 

CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 

ABBOT  or  ST.  MAURICE. 

MANUEL. 

HERMAN-. 


WITCH  or  THE  ALPS. 

ARIMANES. 

NEMESIS. 

THE  DESTINIES. 

SPIRITS,  etc. 


The  Scene  of  the  Drama  is  amongst  the  Higher  Alps 
— partly  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred,  and  partly  in  the 
Mountains. 


MANFRED. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  L 

A  Gothic  Gallery.— Time,  Midnight. 

MANFRED  (alone). 

The  lamp  must  be  replenish'*!,  but  even  then 
If.  will  not  burn  so  long  as  I  must  watch : 
My  slumbers — if  I  slumber — are  not  sleep, 
But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought, 
Which  then  I  can  resist  not :  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within :  and  yet  I  live,  and  bear 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men. 
But  grief  should  be  the  instructor  of  the  wise : 
Sorrow  is  knowledge  :  they  who  know  the  most 
Must  mourn  the  deepest  o'er  the  fatal  truth, 
The  tree  of  knowledge  is  not  that  of  life. 
Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
I  have  essay'd,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A  power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself— 
But  they  avail  not :  I  have  done  men  good, 
And  I  have  met  with  good  even  among  men— 
But  this  avail'd  not :  I  have  had  my  foes, 
And  none  have  baffled,  many  fallen  before  me— 
But  this  avail'd  not :— good  or  evil,  life, 
Powers,  passions,  all  I  see  in  other  beings, 
Have  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands, 
Since  that  all-nameless  hour.     I  have  no  dread, 
And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear, 
Nor  fluttering  throb,  that  beats  with  hopes  or  wishes, 
Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth.— 
Now  to  my  task — 

Mysterious  Agency ! 
Ye  spirits  of  the  unbounded  universe! 
Vhom  I  have  sought  in  darkness  and  In  light— 
Ve.  who  do  compass  earth  about,  and  dwell 


In  subtler  essence — ye,  to  whom  the  tops 

Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts, 

And  earth's  and  ocean's  caves  familiar  things- 

I  call  upon  ye  by  the  written  charm 

Which  gives  me  power  upon  you — Rise !  appear ! 

[Apavtt 

They  come  not  yet. — Now  by  the  voice  of  him 
Who  is  the  first  among  you — by  this  sign, 
Which  makes  you  tremble — by  the  claims  of  him 
Who  is  undying, — rise !  appear ! — Appear ! 

[ApauM. 

If  it  be  so. — Spirits  of  earth  and  air, 
Ye  shall  not  thus  elude  me :  by  a  power, 
Deeper  than  all  yet  urged,  a  tyrant-spell, 
Which  had  its  birth-place  in  a  star  condemn'd, 
The  burning  wreck  of  a  demolish'd  world, 
A  wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space ; 
By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my  soul, 
The  thought  which  is  within  me  and  around  me, 
I  do  compel  ye  to  my  will. — Appear  ! 

[A.  star  is  seen  at  the  darker  end  of  the  gal 
lery;  it  is  stationary  ;  and  a  voice  it  heard 
singing.] 

FIRST    SPIRIT. 

Mortal !  to  thy  bidding  bow'd, 
From  my  mansion  in  the  cloud, 
Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds, 
And  the  summer's  sunset  gilds 
With  the  azure  and  vermilion, 
Which  is  mix'd  for  my  pavilion ; 
Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden, 
On  a  star-beam  I  have  ridden ; 
To  thine  adjuration  bow'd, 
Mortal — be  thy  wish  avow'd !     ' 

Voice  of  the  SECOND  SPIRIT. 
Mont-Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains, 

They  crown'd  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  avalanche  in  his  hand  ; 
But  ere  it  fall,  the  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 
The  glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onward  day  by  day ; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  cavern'd  base— 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  thou  ? 

Voice  of  the  THIRD  SPIRI  r 
In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters, 
Where  the  wave  hath  no  strife 


MANFRED. 


22U 


Where  the  wind  is  a  stranger, 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life, 
Where  the  mermaid  is  decking 

Her  green  hair  with  shells ; 
Like  the  storm  on  the  surface 

Came  the  sound  of  thy  spells; 
O'er  my  calm  hall  of  coral 

The  deep  echo  roll'd — 
To  the  Spirit  of  Ocean 

Thy  wishes  unfold ! 

FOURTH    SPIRIT. 

Where  the  slumbering  earthquake 

Lies  pillow'd  on  fire, 
And  the  lakes  of  bitumen 

Rise  boilingly  higher; 
Where  the  roots  of  the  Andes 

Strike  deep  in  the  earth, 
As  their  summits  to  heaven 

Shoot  soaringly  forth ; 
[  have  quitted  my  birth-place, 

Thy  bidding  to  bide — 
fliy  spell  hath  subdued  me, 

Thy  will  be  my  guide ! 

FIFTH    SPIRIT. 

I  'm  the  rider  of  the  wind, 

The  stirrer  of  the  storm ; 
fhe  hurricane  I  left  behind 

Is  yet  with  lightning  warm ; 
fo  speed  to  thcc,  o'er  shore  and  sea 

I  swept  upon  the  blast : 
The  fleet  I  met  sail'd  well,  and  yet 

'T  will  sink  ere  night  be  past. 

SIXTH    SPIRIT. 

My  dwelling  is  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
Why  doth  thy  magic  torture  me  with  light  7 

SEVENTH    SPIRIT. 

The  star  which  rules  thy  destiny, 

Was  ruled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me : 

It  was  a  world  as  fresh  and  fair 

As  e'er  revolved  round  sun  in  air ; 

Its  course  was  free  and  regular, 

Space  bosom'd  not  a  lovelier  star. 

The  hour  arrived — and  it  became 

A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 

A  pathless  comet,  and  a  curse, 

The  menace  of  the  universe  ; 

Still  rolling  on  with  innate  force, 

Without  a  sphere,  without  a  course, 

A  bright  deformity  on  high, 

The  monster  of  the  upper  sky ! 

And  thou !  beneath  its  influence  born — 

Thou,  worm  !  whom  I  obey  and  scorn — 

Forced  by  a  power  (which  is  not  thine, 

And  lent  thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 

For  this  brief  moment  to  descend, 

Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend, 

And  partly  with  a  thing  like  thee — 

What  wouldst  thou,  child  of  clay,  with  me  ? 

THE    SEVEN    SPIRITS. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  night,  mountains,  winds,  thy  star, 
Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  child  of  clay ! 

Before  thee,  at  thy  quest,  their  spirits  are — 
What  wouldst  thou  with  us,  son  of  mortals — Bay? 

MANFRED. 

Forgetfulne 
I  2 


FIRST    SPIRIT. 

Of  what— of  whom — and  whj  7 

MANFRED. 

Of  that  which  is  within  me  ;  read  it  there 
Ye  know  it,  and  I  cannot  utter  it. 

SPIRIT. 

We  can  but  give  thee  that  which  we  possess : 
Ask  of  us  subjects,  sovereignty,  the  power 
O'er  earth,  the  whole,  or  portion,  or  a  sign 
Which  shall  control  the  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dominators — each  and  all, 
These  shall  be  thine. 

MANFRED. 

Obliyion,  self-oblivion- 
Can  ye  not  wring  from  out  the  hidden  realms 
Ye  offer  so  profusely  what  I  ask  ? 

SPIRIT. 

It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill ; 
But — thou  may'st  die. 

MANFRED. 

Will  death  bestow  it  on  me  T 

SPIRIT. 

We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  forget : 
We  are  eternal ;  and  to  us  the  past 
Is,  as  the  future,  present.  Art  thou  answer'd  ? 

MANFRED. 

Ye  mock  me — but  the  power  which  brought  ye  her* 
Hath  made  you  mine.     Slaves,  scoff"  not  at  my  will ! 
The  mind,  the  spirit,  the  Promethean  spark, 
The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  bright, 
Pervading,  and  far  darting  as  your  own,         . 
And  shall  not  yield  to  yours,  though  coop'd  in  clay  I 
Answer,  or  I  will  teach  you  what  I  am. 

SPIRIT. 

We  answer  as  we  answer'd  ;  our  reply 
Is  even  in  thine  own  words. 

MANFRED. 

Why  say  ye  BO  ? 

SPIRIT. 

Ii^  as  thou  say'at,  thine  essence  be  as  ours, 
We  have  replied  in  telling  thee,  the  thing 
Mortals  call  death  hath  nought  to  do  with  us. 

MANFRED. 

I  then  have  call'd  ye  from  your  realms  in  vain , 
Ye  cannot,  or  ye  will  not,  aid  me.  » 

SPIRIT. 

Say; 

What  we  possess  we  offer ;  it  is  thine : 
Bethink  ere  thou  dismiss  us,  ask  again — 
Kingdom,  and  sway,  and  strength,  and  length  of  dayf— 

MANFRED. 

Accursed !  what  have,  I  to  do  with  days  ? 
They  are  too  long  already. — Hence— begone ! 

SPIRIT. 

Yet  pause :  being  here,  our  will  would  do  thee  service  •. 
Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  other  gift 
Which  we  can  make  not  worthless  in  thine  eyes  T 

MANFRED. 

No,  none  :  yet  stay — one  moment,  ere  we  part- 
I  would  behold  ye  face  to  face.     I  hew 
Your  voices,  sweet  and  melancholy  sounas, 
As  music  on  the  waters  ;  and  I  see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  large  star , 
But  nothing  more.     Approach  me  as  ye  are. 
Or  one,  or  at.,  in  your  accustom'd  fornw. 


230 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


SPIRIT. 

We  have  no  forms  beyond  (he  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  principle : 
Kut  choose  a  form — in  that  we  will  appear. 

MANFRED. 

I  have  no  choice  ;  there  is  no  form  on  earth 
Hideous  or  beautiful  to  me.     Let  him, 
Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fitting — Come ! 

SEVENTH    SPIRIT. 

{Appearing  m  the  shape  of  a  beautiful  female  figure') 

Behold! 

MANFRED. 

Oh  God !  if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 

Art  not  a  madness  and  a  mockery, 

I  yet  might  be  most  happy. — I  will  clasp  thee, 

And  we  again  will  be [The  figure  vanishes. 

My  heart  is  crush'd ! 

[MANFRED  falls  senseless. 
(A  voice  is  heard  in  the  Incantation  which  fallows'). 

When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave, 
And  the  glow-worm  in  the  grass, 

And  the  meteor  on  the  grave, 
And  the  wisp  on  the  morass ; 

When  the  falling  stars  are  shooting, 

And  the  answer'd  owls  are  hooting, 

And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill, 

Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine, 

With  a  power  and  with  a  sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep, 

Yet  thy  spirit  shall  not  sleep ; 

There  are  shades  which  will  not  vanish, 

There  are  thoughts  thou  canst  not  banish ; 

By  a  power  to  thee  unknown, 

Thou  canst  never  be  alone ; 

Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a  shroud, 

Thou  art  gather'd  in  a  cloud ; 

And  for  ever  shall  thou  dwell 

In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  seest  me  not  pass  by, 

Thou  shall  feel  me  with  thine  eye 

As  a  thing  that,  though  unseen, 

Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been ; 

And  when  in  that  secret  dread 

Thou  hast  turn'd  around  thy  head ; 

Thou  shall  marvel  I  am  not 

As  thy  shadow  on  the  spot, 

And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel 

Shall  be  what  thou  must  conceal. 

And  <.  magic  voice  and  verse 

Hath  baptized  thee  with  a  curse ; 

And  a  spirit  of  the  air 

Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare  ; 

In  the  wind  there  is  a  voice 

Shall  forbid  thee  to  rejoice  ; 

And  to  fuee  shall  Night  deny 

All  the  quiet  of  her  sky ; 

And  the  day  shall  have  a  sun, 

Which  shall  make  thee  wish  it  done. 

From  thy  false  tears  I  dirt  disth 

An  essonce  which  hath  strength  to  kill : 

From  tliy  own  heart  I  then  did  wring 

Pbe  hUck  b'on<l  in  its  bVtkest  spring; 


From  thy  own  smile  I  snatch'd  the  snake, 

For  there  it  coil'd  as  in  a  brake  ; 

From  thy  own  lip  I  drew  the  charm 

Which  gave  all  these  their  chiefest  harm ; 

In  proving  every  poison  known, 

I  found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 

By  thy  cold  breast  and  serpent  smile, 

By  thy  unfathom'd  gulfs  of  guile, 

By  that  most  seeming  virtuous  eye,— 

By  thy  shut  soul's  hypocrisy  ; 

By  the  perfection  of  thine  art, 

Which  pass'd  for  human  thine  own  heart ; 

By  thy  delight  in  others'  pain, 

And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 

I  call  upon  thee !  and  compel 

Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  hell ! 

And  on  thy  head  I  pour  the  vial 

Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial ; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die, 

Shall  be  in  thy  destiny  ; 

Though  thy  death  shall  still  seem  near 

To  thy  wish,  but  as  a  fear ; 

Lo  !  the  spell  now  works  around  thee, 

And  the  clankless  chain  hath  bound  thee ; 

O'er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 

Hath  the  word  been  pass'd — now  wither ! 


SCENE  II. 

The  Mountain  of  the  Jungfrau. — Time,  Morning 
MANFRED  alone  upon  the  Cliff's. 

MANFRED. 

The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me — 

The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baffle  me — 

The  remedy  I  reck'd  of  tortured  me ; 

I  lean  no  more  on  super-human  aid, 

It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 

The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulf'd  in  darkness, 

It  is  not  of  my  search. — My  mother  earth ! 

And  thou,  fresh  breaking  day,  and  you,  ye  mo 

Why  are  ye  beautiful  ?  I  cannot  love  ye. 

And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 

That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 

Art  a  delight — thou  shinest  not  on  my  heart. 

And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 

I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 

Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 

In  dizziness  of  distance  ;  when  a  leap, 

A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 

My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 

To  rest  for  ever — wherefore  do  I  pause  ? 

I  feel  the  impulse — yet  I  do  not  plunge  ; 

[  see  the  peril — yet  do  not  recede  ; 

And  my  brain  reels — and  yet  my  foot  is  firm : 

There  is  a  power  upon  me  which  withholds 

And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live  ; 

[f  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 

This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 

My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 

To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself — 

The  last  infirmity  of  evil.     Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

[An  eagle 

Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 
Well  mav'st  thou  swoop  so  near  me — I  rhohlo  he 


MANFRED. 


231 


Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets ;  thou  art  gone 

Where  the  eve  cannot  follow  thee  ;  but  thine 

Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above, 

With  a  pervading  vision. — Beautiful ! 

How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world ! 

How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself! 

Bui  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 

Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 

To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mix'd  essence  make 

A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 

The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride, 

Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will 

Till  our  mortality  predominates, 

And  men  are — what  they  name  not  to  themselves, 

And  trust  not  to  each  other.    Hark !  the  note, 

[The  shepherd's  pipe  in  the  distance  is  heard, 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed— 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd ; 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes. — Oh,  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment — born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me ! 

Enter  from  below  a  CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 

CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 

Even  so, 

This  way  the  chamois  leapt :  her  nimble  feet 
Have  baffled  me  ;  my  gains  to-day  will  scarce 
Repay  my  break-neck  travail. — What  is  here? 
Who  seems  not  of  my  trade,  and  yet  hath  reach'd 
A  height  which  none  even  of  our  mountaineers, 
Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain  :  his  garb 
Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 
Proud  as  a  free-born  peasant's,  at  this  distanre. — 
I  will  approach  him  nearer. 

MANFRED   (not  perceiving  the  other). 

To  be  thus — 

Gray-hair'd  with  anguish,  like  these  blasted  pines, 
Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branchless, 
A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root, 
Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay — 
And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus, 
Having  been  otherwise !  Now  furrow'd  o'er 
With  wrinkles,  plough'd  by  moments,  not  by  years ; 
And  hours — all  tortured  into  ages — hours 
Which  I  outlive! — Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice! 
fe  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 
In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and  crush  me ! 
(  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath, 
Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict ;  but  ye  pass, 
And  only  fall  on  things  that  still  would  live  ; 
On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 
And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

The  mists  begin  to  rise  from  up  the  valley ; 
I  Ml  warn  him  to  descend,  or  he  may  chance 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  and  life  together. 

MANFRED. 

The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers ;  clouds 
Rise  curlinw  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury, 
*jike  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  hell, 
vVhose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore, 
Heao'd  with  the  damn'd  like  pebbles. — I  am  giddy. 


CHAMOIS    HUNTER, 

I  must  approach  him  cautiously  ;  f  near, 
A  sudden  step  will  startle  him,  and  he 
Seems  tottering  already. 

MANFRED. 

Mountains  have  fallen, 

Leaving  a  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren ;  filling  up 
The  ripe  green  valleys  with  destruction's  splintcit, 
Dai.. ming  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crusli'd  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel — thus, 
Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Mount  Rosenburg — 
Why  stood  I  not  beneath  it  ? 

CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 

Friend !  have  a  care, 

Tour  next  step  may  be  fatal ! — for  the  love 
Of  him  who  made  you,  stand  not  on  that  brink  ! 

MANFRED  (not  keyring  him). 
Such  would  have  been  for  me  a  fitting  tomb ; 
My  bones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their  depth  : 
They  had  not  then  been  strewn  upon  the  rocks 
For  the  wind's  pastime — as  thus — thus  they  shall  be-  • 
In  this  one  plunge. — Farewell,  ye  opening  heavens ! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  reproachfully — 
Ye  were  not  meant  for  me — Earth !  take  these  atomi '. 
[As  MANFRED  is  in  act  to  spring  from  the  clif, 
the  CHAMOIS  HUNTER  seizes  and  retains  him 
with  a  sudden  grasp.] 

CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 

Hold,  madman! — though  aweary  of  thy  life, 
Stain  not  our  pure  vales  with  thy  guilty  blood. — 
Away  with  me 1  will  not  quit  my  hold. 

MANFRED. 

I  am  most  sick  at  heart — nay,  grasp  me  not — 

I  am  all  feebleness — the  mountains  whirl 

Spinning  around  me — I  grow  blind. — What  art  thou  ? 

CHAMOIS   HUNTER. 

I  '11  answer  that  anon. — Away  with  me — 

The  clouds  grow  thicker — there — now  lean  on  me — 

Place  your  foot  here — here,  take  this  staff,  and  cling 

A  moment  to  that  shrub— now  give  me  your  hand, 

And  hold  fast  by  my  girdle — softly — well — 

The  Chalet  will  be  gain'd  within  an  hour — 

Come  on,  we  '11  quickly  find  a  surer  footing, 

And  something  like  a  pathway,  which  the  torrent 

Hath  wash'd  since  winter. — Come, 'tis  bravely  done— 

You  should  have  been  a  hunter. — Follow  roe. 

[As  they  descend  the  rocks  with  difficulty,  Vu 
scene  closes.] 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Cottage  amongst  the  Bernese  Alps. 
MANFRED  and  the  CHAMOIS  HUNTEI«. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

No,  no— yet  pause — thou  must  not  yet  go  fortn 
Thy  mind  and  body  are  alike  unfit 
To  trust  each  other,  for  some  hours,  at  least ; 
When  thou  art  better,  I  will  be  thy  guide- 
But  whither? 

MANFRED. 

It  imports  not :  I  do  know 
My  route  full  well,  and  need  no  further  guidance 


2.12 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

fhy  garb  and  gait  bespeak  thee  of  high  lineage — 
Or.e  of  the  many  chiefs,  whose  castled  crags 
Look  o'er  the  lower  valleys — which  of  these 
May  call  thee  lord  ?  I  only  know  their  portals ; 
My  way  of  life  leads  me  but  rarely  down 
T  5  bask  by  the  huge  hearths  of  those  old  halls, 
Carousing  with  the  vassals ;  but  the  paths, 
Which  step  from  out  our  mountains  to  their  doors, 
I  know  from  childhood — which  of  these  is  thine  ? 

MANFRED. 

No  matter. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

Well,  sir,  pardon  me  the  question, 
And  be  of  better  cheer.     Come,  taste  my  wine ; 
'T  is  of  an  ancient  vintage ;  many  a  day 
'T  has  thaw'd  my  veins  among  our  glaciers,  now 
Let  it  do  thus  for  thine — Come,  pledge  me  fairly. 

MANFRED. 

Away,  away !  there 's  blood  upon  the  brim ! 
Will  it  then  never — never  sink  in  the  earth  ? 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

What  dost  thou  mean  ?  thy  senses  wander  from  thee. 

MANFRED. 

{  say  'tis  blood — my  blood !  the  pure  warm  stream 
Which  ran  in  the  veins  of  my  fathers,  and  in  ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had  one  heart, 
And  loved  each  other  as  we  should  not  love, 
And  this  was  shed  :  but  still  it  rises  up, 
Colouring  the  clouds,  that  shut  me  out  from  heaven, 
Where  thou  art  not — and  I  shall  never  be. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

Man  of  strange  words,  and  some  half-maddening  sin, 
Which  makes  thee  people  vacancy,  whate'er 
Thy  dread  and  sufferance  be.  there 's  comfort  yet— 
The  aid  of  holy  men,  and  heavenly  patience 

MANFRED. 

Patience,  and  patience !    Hence — that  word  was  made 
For  brutes  of  burthen,  nor  for  birds  of  prey  ; 
Preach  it  to  mortals  of  a  dust  like  thine — 
I  am  not  of  thine  order. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

Thanks  to  Heaven ! 

I  would  not  be  of  thine  for  the  free  fame 
Of  William  Tell ;  but  whatsoe'er  thine  ill, 
It  must  be  borne,  and  these  wild  starts  are  useless. 

MANFRED. 

Do  I  not  bear  it  ? — Look  on  me — I  live. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

fhis  is  convulsion,  and  no  healthful  life. 

MANFRED. 

I  tell  thee,  man !  I  have  lived  many  years, 

Many  long  years,  but  they  are  nothing  now 

To  those  which  I  must  number ;  ages — ages — 

Space  and  eternity — and  consciousness, 

With  the  fierce  thirst  of  death — and  still  unslaked  ! 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

Why,  on  thy  brow  the  seal  of  middle  age 
Hath  scarce  been  set ;  1  am  thine  elder  far. 

MANFRED. 

Think's!  thou  existence  doth  depend  oh  time  ? 
It  doth .  but  actions  are  our  epochs :  mine 
Have  made  my  days  and  nights  imperishable, 
Cndle&»,  and  all  alike  as  sands  on  the  shore, 
Innumerable  atoms ;  and  one  desert, 
v--on  Mid  cold,  on  which  the  wild  wares  break. 


But  nothing  rests,  save  carcasses  and  wrecks, 
Rocks,  and  the  salt-surf  weeds  of  bitterness. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

Alas !  he 's  mad — but  yet  I  must  not  leave  him. 

MANFRED. 

I  would  I  were — for  then  the  things  I  see 
Would  be  but  a  distemper'd  dream. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

What  is  it 
That  thou  dost  see,  or  think  thou  look'st  upon  'l 

MANFRED. 

Myself  and  thee — a  peasant  of  the  Alps — 

Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home, 

And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud  and  free  ; 

Thy  self-respect,  graled  on  innocent  thoughts ; 

Thy  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep ;  thy  toils. 

By  danger  dignified,  yet  guiltless  ;  hopes 

Of  cheerful  old  age  and  a  quiet  grave, 

With  cross  and  garland  over  i's  green  turf, 

And  thy  grandchildren's  love  for  epitaph  : 

This  do  I  see — and  then  I  look  within — 

It  matters  not — my  soul  was  scorch'd  already ! 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

And  wouldst  thou  then  exchange  thy  lot  for  mine  ? 

MANFRED. 

No,  friend  !  I  would  not  wrong  thee,  nor  exchange 
My  lot  with  living  being :  I  can  bear — 
However  wretchedly,  't  is  still  to  bear — 
In  life  what  others  could  not  brook  to  dream, 
But  perish  in  their  slumber. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

And  with  this — 

This  cautious  feeling  for  another's  pain, 
Canst  thou  be  black  with  evil? — say  not  so. 
Can  one  of  gentle  thoughts  have  wreak'd  revenge 
Upon  his  enemies? 

MANFRED. 

Oh !  no,  no,  no ! 

My  injuries  came  down  on  those  who  loved  me — 
On  those  whom  I  best  loved :  I  never  quell'd 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  just  defence — 
But  my  embrace  was  fatal. 

CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

Heaven  give  thee  rest ! 
And  penitence  restore  thee  to  thyself; 
My  prayers  shall  be  for  thee. 

V4NFRED. 

I  need  them  not, 

But  can  endure  thy  pity.    I  depart — 
'T  is  time — farewell !  Here 's  gold,  and  thanks  for  thee- 
No  words — it  i«  thy  due — Follow  me  not — 
I  know  my  path — the  mountain  peril 's  past : — 
And  once  again,  I  charge  thee,  follow  not ! 

[Exit  MANFRED. 

SCENE  II. 
A  lower  Valley  in  the  Alps — A  Cataract. 

Enter  MANFRED. 

It  is  not  noon — the  sunbow's  rays '  still  arch 
The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven, 
And  roll  the  sheeted  silver's  waving  column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular, 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along 
And  to  and  fro,  like  the  pale  courser's  tai., 
The  giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death 
AM  told  in  the  Apocalypse.    No  eve* 


MANFRED. 


233 


But  mint  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness ; 

I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude, 

And  with  the  spirit  of  the  place  divide 

The  homage  of  these  waters. — I  will  call  her. 

[MANFRED  takes  some  of  the  water  into  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  and  flings  it  in  the  air, 
muttering  the  adjuration.  After  a  pause, 
the  WITCH  OF  THE  ALPS  rise*  beneath  the 
arch  of  the  sunbeam  of  the  torrent. 

MANFRED. 

Beautiful  spirit !  with  thy  hair  of  light, 

And  dazzling  eyes  of  glory,  in  whose  form 

The  charms  of  earth's  least- mortal  daughters  grow 

To  an  unearthly  stature,  in  an  essence 

Of  purer  elements  ;  while  the  hues  of  youth, — 

Carnation'd  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cheek, 

Rock'd  by  the  beating  of  her  mother's  heart, 

Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer's  twilight  leaves 

Upon  the  lofty  glacier's  virgin  snow, 

The  blush  of  earth  embracing  with  her  heaven, — 

Tinge  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 

The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o'er  thee. 

Beautiful  spirit !  in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 

Wherein  is  glass'd  serenity  of  soul, 

Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 

I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  son 

Of  earth,  whom  the  abstruser  powers  permit 

At  times  to  commune  with  them — if  that  he 

Avail  him  of  his  spells— to  call  thee  thus, 

And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

WITCH. 

Son  of  earth ! 

I  know  thcc,  and  the  powers  which  give  thee  power ; 
I  know  thee  for  a  man  of  many  thoughts, 
And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in  both, 
Fatal  and  fated  in  thy  sufferings. 
I  have  expected  this — what  wouldst  thou  with  me? 

MANFRED. 

To  look  upon  thy  beauty — nothing  further. 
The  face  of  the  earth  hath  madden'd  me,  and  I 
Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 
To  the  abodes  of  those  who  govern  her — 
But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.     I  have  sought 
From  them  what  they  could  not  bestow,  and  now 
I  search  no  further. 

WITCH. 

What  could  be  the  quest 

Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  powerful, 
The  rulers  of  the  invisible  ? 

MANFRED. 

A  boon ; 
Bat  why  should  I  repeat  it?  't  were  in  rain. 

WITCH. 

I  know  not  that ;  let  thy  lips  utter  it. 

MANFRED. 

Well,  though  it  torture  me,  't  is  but  the  same ; 

My  pang  shall  find  a  voice.     From  my  youth  upward 

My  spirit  walk'd  not  with  the  souls  of  men, 

Nor  look'd  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes, 

The  thirst  of  their  ambition  was  not  mine, 

The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine  ; 

My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers, 

Made,  me  a  stranger ;  though  I  wore  the  form, 

I  h-»d  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh, 

Nor  'midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  me 

W  an  there  but  one  who but  of  her  anon. 

35 


said,  with  men,  and  with  the  thoughts  of  mer, 
held  but  slight  communion  :  but  instead, 
fly  joy  was  in  the  wilderness,  to  breathe 
'he  difficult  air  of  the  iced  mountain's  lop, 
Vhere  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect's  wing 
'lit  o'er  the  herbless  granite  ;  or  to  plunge 
nto  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 
)n  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new-breaking  wave 
Jf  river-stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow, 
n  these  my  early  strenglh  exulted  ;  or 
'o  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon, 
stars  and  their  developement ;  or  catch 
dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim ; 
Or  to  look,  list'ning,  on  the  scatter'd  leaves, 
Vhile  autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening  song. 
These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone ; 
^or  if  the  beings,  of  whom  I  was  one, — 
lating  to  be  so,— cross'd  me  in  my  path, 
felt  myself  degraded  back  to  them, 
And  was  all  clay  again.     And  then  I  dived, 
n  my  lone  wanderings,  to  the  caves  of  death, 
Searching  its  cause  in  its  effect ;  and  drew 
•Vom  wither'd  bones,  and  skulls,  and  heap'd-up  dust, 
Conclusions  most  forbidden.     Then  I  pass'd 
The  nights  of  years  in  sciences  untaught, 
Save  in  the  old  time ;  and  with  time  and  toil, 
And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance 
As  in  itself  hath  power  upon  the  air, 
And  spirits  that  do  compass  air  and  earth, 
Space,  and  the  peopled  infinite,  I  made 
Vline  eyes  familiar  with  eternity, 
iuch  as,  before  me,  did  the  Magi,  and 
le  who  from  out  their  fountain  dwellings  raised 
Eros  and  Anteros,1  at  Gadara, 
As  I  do  thee  ; — and  with  my  knowledge  grew 
The  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power  and  joy 

Of  this  most  bright  intelligence,  until 

WITCH. 
Proceed. 

MANFRSD. 

Oh  !  I  but  thus  prolong'd  my  words, 
Boasting  these  idle  attributes,  because 
As  I  approach  the  core  of  my  heart's  grief- 
But  to  my  task.     I  have  not  named  to  thee 
Father  or  mother,  mistress,  friend,  or  being, 
With  whom  I  wore  the  chain  of  human  ties  , 
If  I  had  such,  they  seem'd  not  such  to  me — 

Yet  there  was  one 

WITCH. 

Spare  not  thyself— proceed. 

MANFRED. 

She  was  like  me  in  lineaments — her  eyes, 
Her  hair,  her  features,  all,  to  the  very  tone 
Even  of  her  voice,  they  said,  were  like  to  mine ; 
But  soften'd  all,  and  temper'd  into  beauty ; 
She  had  the  same  lone  thoughts  and  wanderings. 
The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a  mind 
To  comprehend  the  universe  :  nor  these 
Alone,  hut  with  them  gentler  powers  than  mine, 
Pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears — which  I  had  not : 
And  tenderness — but  that  I  had  for  her ; 
Humility — and  that  I  never  nad. 
Her  faults  were  mine — her  virtues  were  her  owi»- 
I  loved  her,  and  destroy'd  her! 

WITCH. 

•  With  thy  hand  7 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


MANFRED. 

Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart — which  broke  her  heart — 
[t  gazed  on  mine,  and  wilher'd.     I  hare  shed 
Blood,  but  not  hers — and  yet  her  blood  was  shed— 
I  saw — and  could  not  stanch  it, 

WITCH. 

And  for  this — 

A  being  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise, 
The  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
Mingling  with  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
The  gifts  of  our  great  knowledge,  and  shrink1  st  back 
To  recreant  mortality Away  ! 

MANFRED. 

Daughter  of  Air !  I  ell  thee,  since  that  hour — 

But  words  are  breath — look  on  me  in  my  sleep, 

Or  watch  my  watchings — Come  and  sit  by  me! 

My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more, 

But  peopled  with  the  Furies. — I  have  gnash'd 

My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn, 

Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset ; — I  have  pray'd 

for  madness  as  a  blessing — 't  is  denied  me. 

I  have  affronted  death — but  in  the  war 

Of  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me, 

And  latal  things  pass'd  harmless — the  cold  hand 

Of  an  all-pitiless  demon  held  me  back, 

Back  by  a  single  hair,  which  would  not  break. 

In  phantasy,  imagination,  all 

The  affluence  of  my  soul — which  one  day  was 

A  Croesus  in  creation — I  plunged  deep, 

But,  like  an  ebbing  wave,  it  dash'd  me  back. 

Into  the  gulf  of  my  unfathom'd  thought. 

I  plunged  amidst  mankind — Forgetfulness 

I  sought  in  all,  save  where  't  is  to  be  found, 

And  that  I  have  to  learn — my  sciences, 

My  long-pursued  and  super-human  art, 

Is  mortal  here — I  dwell  in  my  despair— 

And  live — and  live  for  ever. 

WITCH. 

It  may  be 
That  I  can  aid  thee. 

MANFRED. 

To  do  this  thy  power 

Must  wake  the  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with  them. 
Do  so-  —in  any  shape — in  any  hour—- 
With any  torture — so  it  be  the  tost. 

WITCH. 

That  is  not  in  my  province ;  but  if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  my  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may  help  thee  to  thy  wishes. 

MANFRED. 

I  will  not  swear. — Obey !  and  whom  ?  the  spirits 
Whose  presence  I  command,  and  be  the  slave 
Of  those  who  served  me — Never ! 

WITCH. 

Is  this  all  ? 

Hasi  thou  no  gentler  answer? — Yet  bethink  thee, 
\nd  pause  ere  thou  rejectest. 

MANFRED. 

I  have  said  it. 

WITCH. 

£n.Ai«h! — 1  mav  retire  then — say! 

MANFRED. 

Retire  ! 

[The  WITCH  disappear!. 
MANFRED  (alone). 
We  are  me  fools  of  lime  and  terror:  days  j 


Steal  on  us  and  steal  from  us ;  yet  we  live, 
Loathing  our  lile,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 
In  all  the  days  of  this  detested  yoke — 
This  vital  weight  upon  the  struggling  heart, 
Which  sinks  with  sorrow,  or  beats  quick  with  r^in, 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  faintness— • 
In  all  the  days  of  past  and  future,  for 
In  life  there  is  no  present,  we  can  number 
How  few — how  less  than  few — wherein  the  som 
Forbears  to  pant  for  death,  and  yet  draws  back 
As  from  a  stream  in  winter,  though  the  chill 
Be  but  a  moment's.     I  have  one  resource 
Still  in  my  science — I  can  call  the  dead, 
And  ask  them  what  it  is  we  dread  to  be  ; 
The  sternest  answer  can  but  be  the  Grave, 
And  that  is  nothing — if  they  answer  not — 
The  buried  Prophet  answer'd  to  the  Hag 
Of  Endor ;  and  the  Spartan  Monarch  drew 
From  the  Byzantine  maid's  unsleeping  spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny — he  slew 
That  which  he  loved,  unknowing  what  he  slew, 
And  died  unpardon'd — though  he  call'd  in  aid 
The  Phyxian  Jove,  and  in  Phigalia  roused 
The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 
The  indignant  shadow  to  depose  her  wrath, 
Or  fix  her  term  of  vengeance — she  replied 
In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfill'd.' 
If  I  had  never  lived,  that  which  I  love 
Had  still  been  living ;   had  I  never  loved, ' 
That  which  I  love  would  still  be  beautiful — 
Happy  and  giving  happiness.     What  is  she  ? 
What  is  she  now  ? — a  sufferer  for  my  sins — 
A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon — or  nothing. 
Within  few  hours  I  shall  not  call  in  vain — 
Yet  in  this  hour  I  dread  the  thing  I  dare : 
Until  this  hour  I  never  shrunk  to  gaze 
On  spirit,  good  or  evil — now  I  tremble, 
And  feel  a  strange  cold  thaw  upon  my  heart , 
But  I  can  act  even  what  I  most  abhor, 
And  champion  human  fears. — The  night  approaches. 

[Exit 

SCENE  III. 
The  Summit  of  the  Jungfrau  Mountain, 

Enter  FIRST  DESTINY. 

The  moon  is  rising  broad,  and  round,  and  bright ; 
And  here  on  snows,  where  never  human  foot 
Of  common  mortal  trod,  we  nightly  tread, 
And  leave  no  traces ;  o'er  the  savage  sea, 
The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain  ice, 
We  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  put  on 
The  aspect  of  a  tumbling  tempest's  foam, 
Frozen  in  a  moment — a  dead  whirlpool's  image ; 
And  this  most  steep  fantastic  pinnacle, 
The  fretwork  of  some  earthquake — where  the  clouds 
Pause  to  repose  themselves  in  passing  by — 
Is  sacred  to  our  revels,  or  our  vigils  ; 
Here  do  I  wait  my  sisters,  on  our  way 
To  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  for  to-night 
Is  our  great  festival — 't  is  strange  they  come  not, 

A.  voice  without,  singing. 
The  Captive  Usurper, 

Hurl'd  down  from  the  throne, 
Lay  buried  in  torpor, 
Forgotten  and  lone ; 


MANFRED. 


235 


I  broke  through  his  slumbers, 

I  shiver'd  his  chain, 
I  leagued  him  with  numbers— 

He 's  tyrant  again ! 

With  the  blood  of  a  million  he  '11  answer  my  care, 
With  a  nation's  destruction — his  flight  and  despair. 

Second  Voice,  without. 
The  ship  sail'd  on,  the  ship  sail'd  fast, 
But  I  left  not  a  sail,  and  I  left  not  a  mast ; 
There  is  not  a  plank  of  the  hull  or  the  deck, 
And  there  is  not  a  wretch  to  lament  o'er  his  wreck ; 
Save  one,  whom  I  held,  as  he  swam,  by  the  hair, 
And  he  was  a  subject  well  worthy  my  care ; 
A  traitor  on  land,  and  a  pirate  at  sea — 
fl'tt  I  saved  him  to  wreak  further  havoc  for  me  ! 
FIRST  DESTINY,  answering. 
The  city  lies  sleeping ; 

The  morn,  to  deplore  it, 
May  dawn  on  it  weeping : 

Sullenly,  slowly, 
The  black  plague  flew  o'er  it- 
Thousands  lie  lowly ; 
Tens  of  thousands  shall  perish—- 
The living  shall  fly  from 
The  sick  they  should  cherish ; 

But  nothing  can  vanquish 
The  touch  that  they  die  from. 

Sorrow  and  anguish, 
And  evil  and  dread, 

Envelop  a  nation — 
The  blest  are  the  dead, 
Who  see  not  the  sight 

Of  their  own  desolation.— 
This  work  of  a  night, 

Phis  wreck  of  a  realm — this  deed  of  my  doing — 
Cor  ages  I  've  done,  and  shall  still  be  renewing ! 
Enter  tiie  SECOND  and  THIRD  DESTINIES. 

The  Three. 
Our  hands  contain  the  hearts  of  men, 

Our  footsteps  are  their  graves  ; 
We  only  give  to  take  again 
The  spirits  of  our  slaves ! 

FIRST   DESTINY. 

Welcome! — Where's  Nemesis? 

SECOND  DESTINY. 

At  some  great  work ; 
But  what  I  know  not,  for  my  hands  were  full. 

THIRD  DESTINY. 

Behold  she  cometh. 

Enter  NEMESIS. 

FIRST  DESTINY. 

Say,  where  hast  thou  been  ? 
My  sisters  and  thyself  are  slow  to-night. 

NEMESIS. 

I  was  d«tain'd  repairing  shatter'd  thrones, 
Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties, 
Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies, 
And  making  them  repent  their  own  revenge ; 
(loading  the  wise  to  madness  ;  from  the  dull 
Shapino  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 

r     o 

Afresh,  for  thuy  were  waxing  out  of  date, 

And  mortals  dared  u>  ponder  for  themselves, 

To  weigh  kinjys  in  'he  balance,  and  to  speak 

V)f  freedom,  tne  lorbidden  fruit. — Away ! 

We  havp  outstaid  th';  hour — mount  we  our  clouds! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 
The  Hall  of  Arimanes — Arimanes  on  m»     vont    • 

Globe  of  Fire,  surrounded  by  the  Spirits. 

Hymn  of  the  SPIRITS. 
Hail  to  our  master ! — Prince  of  earth  and  air ! 

Who  walks  the  clouds  and  waters — in  his  hand 
The  sceptre  of  the  elements,  which  tear 

Themselves  to  chaos  at  his  high  command ! 
He  breatheth — and  a  tempest  shakes  the  sea ; 

He  speaketh — and  the  clouds  reply  in  thunder ; 
He  gazeth — from  his  glance  the  sunbeams  flee ; 

He  moveth— earthquakes  rend  the  world  asunder, 
Beneath  his  footsteps  the  volcanoes  rise  ; 

His  shadow  is  the  pestilence ;  his  path 
The  comets  herald  through  the  crackling  skies ; 

And  planets  turn  to  ashes  at  his  wrath. 
To  him  war  offers  daily  sacrifice  ; 

To  him  death  pays  his  tribute ;  life  is  his, 
With  all  its  infinite  of  agonies— 

And  his  the  spirit  of  whatever  is ! 

Enter  the  DESTINIES  and  NEMESIS. 

FIRST  DESTINY. 

Glory  to  Arimanes !  on  the  earth 

His  power  increaseth — both  my  sisters  did 

His  bidding,  nor  did  I  neglect  my  duty ! 

SECOND  DESTINY. 

Glory  to  Arimanes !  we  who  bow 

The  necks  of  men,  bow  down  before  his  throne ' 

THIRD  DESTINY. 

Glory  to  Arimanes ! — we  await  his  nod ! 

NEMESIS. 

Sovereign  of  sovereigns !  we  are  thine, 
And  all  that  liveth,  more  or  less,  is  ours, 
And  most  things  wholly  so  ;  still  to  increase 
Our  power,  increasing  thine,  demands  our  care, 
And  we  are  vigilant — Thy  late  commands 
Have  been  fulfilled  to  the  utmost. 

Enter  MANFRED. 

A  SPIRIT. 

What  is  here? 
A  mortal ! — Thou  most  rash  and  fatal  wretch, 
Bow  down  and  worship ! 

SECOND  SPIRIT. 

I  do  know  the  man— 
A  Magian  of  great  power,  and  fearful  skill ! 

THIRD  SPIRIT. 

Bow  down  and  worship,  clave ! — 

What,  know'st  thou  not 
Thine  and  our  sovereign  ? — Tremble,  and  obey ! 

ALL  THE  SPIRITS. 

Prostrate  thyself,  and  thy  condemned  clay, 
Child  of  the  Earth1  or  dread  the  worst. 

MANFRED. 

I  know  11 , 
And  yet  ye  see  I  kneel  not. 

FOURTH  SPIRIT. 

'T  will  be  taught  thec. 

MANFRED. 

'T  is  taught  already ; — many  a  night  on  the  earth, 

On  the  bare  ground,  have  I  bow'd  down  my  face. 

And  strew'd  my  head  with  ashes ;  I  have  known 

The  fulness  of  humiliation,  for 

I  sutik  before  my  vain  despair,  and  knelt 

To  my  own  desolation. 


236 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


FI»  TH  SPIRIT. 

Dost  thou  dare 

Refuse  to  Arirnanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  beholding  not 
The  terror  of  his  glory  ? — Crouch !  I  say. 

MANFRED. 

Bid  him  bow  down  to  that  which  is  above  him,— 
The  overruling  Infinite — the  Maker 
Who  made  him  not  for  worship— let  him  kneel, 
And  we  will  kneel  together. 

THE  SPIRITS. 

Crush  the  worm! 
Tear  him  in  pieces ! — 

FIRST  DESTINY. 

Hence !  Avaunt !  he 's  mine, 
Prince  of  the  powers  invisible !  this  man 
Is  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 
And  presence  here  denote :  his  sufferings 
Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 
Our  own ;  his  knowledge  and  his  power  and  will, 
As  far  as  is  compatible  with  clay, 
Which  clogs  the  ethereal  essence,  have  been  such 
As  clay  hath  seldom  borne  ;  his  aspirations 
Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth, 
And  they  have  only  taught  him  what  we  know- 
That  knowledge  is  not  happiness,  and  science 
But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 
Which  is  another  kind  of  ignorance. 
This  is  not  all — the  passions,  attributes 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power,  nor  being, 
Nor  breath,  from  the  worm  upwards,  is  exempt, 
Have  pierced  his  heart;  and  in  their  consequence 
Made  him  a  thing  which  I,  who  pity  not, 
Yet  pardon  those  who  pity.     He  is  mine, 
And  thine,  it  may  be — be  it  so,  or  not, 
No  other  spirit  in  this  region  hath 
A  soul  like  his — or  power  upon  his  soul. 

NEMESIS. 
What  doth  he  here  then  ? 

FIRST  DESTINY. 

Let  him  answer  that. 

MANFRED. 

Ye  know  what  I  have  known ;  and  without  power 
I  could  not  be  amongst  ye :  but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond — I  come  in  quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  unto  what  I  seek. 

NEMESIS. 

What  wouldst  thou  ? 

MANFRED. 

Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 
'Jail  up  the  dead — my  question  is  for  them. 

NEMESIS. 

Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal  ? 

ARIMANES. 

Yea. 

NEMESIS. 

Whom  wouloV  t» 
UiiRhurnel? 

MANFRED. 

One  without  a  tomb — call  up 


Asian* 


NEMESIS. 

Shadow!  or  Spirit! 
Whatever  thou  art, 


Which  still  doth  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  part 

Of  the  form  of  thy  birth, 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 
Which  return'd  to  the  earth, — 

Re-appear  to  the  day ! 
Bear  what  thou  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form, 

And  the  aspect  thou  worest 

Redeem  from  the  worm. 

Appear ! — appear ! — appear ! 

Who  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here ' 

[The  phantom  of  ASTARTE  n*e»  enrf 
stands  in  the  midst. 

MANFRED. 

Can  this  be  death  ?  there 's  bloom  upon  her  cheek ! 
But  now  I  see  it  is  no  living  hue, 
But  a  strange  hectic — like  the  unnatural  red 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  perish'd  leaf 
It  is  the  same  !  Oh  God  !  that  I  should  dread 
To  look  upon  the  same — Astarte ! — No, 
I  cannot  speak  to  her — but  bid  her  speak— 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

NEMESIS. 
By  the  power  which  hath  broken 

The  grave  which  enthrall'd  thee, 
Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken, 
Or  those  who  have  cali'd  thee ! 

MANFRED. 

She  is  silent, 
And  in  that  silence  I  am  more  than  answer'd 

NEMESIS. 

My  power  extends  no  further.     Prince  A  &•> 
It  rests  with  thee  alone — command  h'.r  -c-o> 

ARIMANES. 

Spirit !  obey  this  sceptre ! 

NEMESIS. 

Silu»  BtlH ! 

She  is  not  of  our  order,  but  U..c.i^ 
To  the  other  powers.    MortJ!  Jy  quest  n  v*  . 
And  we  are  baffled  also. 

MA 'U  RED. 

Hear  me,  hear  me— 
Astarte!  my  beloveo  I  s>peaktome: 
I  have  so  much  enJur'-d — so  much  endure — 
Look  on  me  !  tho  ^rave  hath  not  changed  thee  !».<•< 
Than  I  am  chtn^eJ  for  thee.     Thou  lovedst  me 
Too  much,  ?„>  I  loved  thee :  we  were  not  made 
To  torture  *hds  each  other,  though  it  were 
The  deacii^st  sin  to  love  as  we  have  loved. 
Say  thia  thou  loathest  me  not — that  I  do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both — that  thou  wilt  be 
Gnu  r,f  the  blessed — and  that  I  shall  die ; 
F  /r  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  bind  me  in  existence — in  a  life 
Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality — 
A  future  like  the  past.     I  cannot  rest. 
I  know  not  what  I  ask  nor  what  I  seek  : 
I  feel  but  what  thou  art — and  what  I  am ; 
And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 
The  voice  which  was  my  music — Speak  to  me 
For  I  have  cali'd  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 
Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the  hush'd  bo'ighi, 
And  woke  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the  caves 
Acquainted  with  thy  vainly-echoed  name, 
Which  answer'd  me — many  things  answerM  me — 


MANFRED. 


23, 


Spirits  and  men — but  thou  wort  silent  all. 
Yet  speak  to  me  '  I  have  outwatch'd  the  stars, 
And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  iliee. 
Speak  to  me !  I  have  wander'd  o'er  the  earth 
And  never  found  thy  likeness — Speak  to  me ! 
Look  on  the  fiends  around — they  feel  for  me : 
I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone — 
Speak  to  me  !  though  it  be  in  wrath ; — but  say — 
I  reck  not  what — but  let  me  hear  thee  once — 
This  once— once  more ! 

PHANTOM    OF    ASTAUTE. 

Manfred ! 

MANFRED. 

Say  on,  say  on — 
I  live  but  in  the  sound — it  is  thy  voice ! 

PHANTOM. 

Manfred !  to-morrow  ends  thine  earthly  ills. 
Farewell ! 

'  -MANFRED. 

Yet  one  word  more — am  I  forgiven  ? 

PHANTOM. 

farewell! 

MANFRED. 

Say,  shall  we  meet  again? 

PHANTOM. 

Farewell ! 

MANFRED. 

One  word  for  mercy !  say,  thou  lovest  me. 

PHANTOM. 

Manfred ! 

[The  Spirit  of  ASTAHTE  disappears. 

NEMESIS. 

She 's  gone,  and  will  not  be  recall'd ; 
Her  words  will  be  fulifiil'd.     Return  to  the  earth. 

A    SPIRIT. 

He  is  convulsed. — This  is  to  be  a  mortal, 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality. 

ANOTHER    SPIRIT. 

Yet,  see,  he  mastereth  himself,  and  makes 
His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awful  spirit. 

NEMESIS. 

Hast  thou  further  question 
Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers  ? 

MANFRED. 
None. 

NEMESIS. 

Then  for  a  time  farewell. 

MANFRED. 

We  meet  then  !  Where  ?  On  the  earth  ? — 
Even  as  thou  wilt :  and  for  the  grace  accorded 
now  depart  a  debtor.    Fare  ye  well ! 

[Exit  MANFRED. 
(Scene  doses.) 


ACT  III. 

•   SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred. 
MANFRED  AND  HERMAN. 

MANFRED. 

VTiat  is  the  hour? 

HERMAN. 

It  wants  but  one  till  sunset, 
\nd  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 


MANFRED. 

Say. 

Are  all  things  so  disposal  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed  ? 

HERMAN. 

All,  my  lord,  are  ready , 
Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 

MANFRED. 

It  is  well : 
Thou  may's!  retire.  [Exit  HERM  i » 

MANFRED   (alone). 

There  is  a  calm  upon  me—- 
Inexplicable stillness !  which  till  now 
Did  not  belong  to  what  I  knew  of  life. 
If  that  I  did  not  know  philosophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motliest, 
The  merest  word  that  ever  fool'd  the  ear 
From  out  the  schoolman's  jargon,  I  should  deem 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  "  Kalon,"  found, 
And  seated  in  my  soul.     It  will  not  last, 
But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but  once : 
It  hath  enlarged  my  thoughts  with  a  new  sense, 
And  I  within  my  tablets  would  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a  feeling.  Who  is  there  ? 

Re-enter  HERMAN. 

HERMAN. 

My  lord,  the  abbot  of  St.  Maurice  craves 
To  greet  your  presence. 

Enter  the  ABBOT  OF  ST.  MAURICE. 
ABBOT. 
Peace  be  with  Count  Manfred 

MANFRED. 

Thanks,  holy  father !  wehome  to  these  walls ; 
Thy  presence  honours  them,  and  blesseth  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

ABBOT. 

Would  it  were  so,  Count  ••. 
But  I  would  fain  confer  with  thee  alone. 

MANFRED. 

Herman,  retire.  What  would  my  reverend  guest  ? 

ABBOT. 

Thus,  without  prelude: — Age  and  zeal,  my  office, 
And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privilege  ; 
Our  near,  though  not  acquainted  neighbourhood, 
May  also  be  my  herald.     Rumours  strange, 
And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad, 
And  busy  with  thy  name ;  a  noble  name 
For  centuries ;  may  he  who  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  unimpair'd ! 

MANFRED. 

Proceed, — I  listen. 
ABBOT. 

'T  is  said  thou  boldest  converse  with  the  things 
Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  «f  man ; 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dark  abodes. 
The  many  evil  and  unheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of  death, 
Thou  communest.  I  know  that  with  mankind, 
Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 
Exchange  thy  thoughts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy. 

MANFRED 

And  what  are  they  who  do  avouch  these  thing* 

ABBOT. 

My  pious  brethren — the  scared  peasantry 
Even  thy  own  vassals — who  do  look  on  t  ice 


BYRON1  S  WORKS. 


W:th  most  unquiet  eyes.  Thy  life's  in  peril. 

MANFRED. 

Take  it. 

ABBOT. 

I  come  to  save,  and  not  destroy — 
I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  sou! ; 
But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  and  pity :  reconcile  thee 
With  tie  trvs  church,  and  through  the  churcn  to  Heaven. 

MANFRED. 

I  hear  thee.  This  b  toy  reply ;  whatever 

I  may  ban  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 

Heaven  an  j  myself.— I  shall  no:  choree  a  mrrtai 

To  be  my  mediator.  Hare  I  smn'd 

Against  your  ordinances  ?  prove  and  punish! 

ABBOT. 

My  sac!  I  did  not  speak  of  punishment, 
Bat  penitence  and  pardon ;— with  thyself 
The  choice  of  such  remains — and  for  the  last, 
Oar  insti  adoas  and  oar  strong  belief 
Hare  given  me  power  to  smooth  the  path  from  sin 
To  higher  hope  and  better  thoughts ;  the  first 
I  leave  to  Heaven — "Vengeance  is  mine  alone '." 
So  saith  the  Lord,  and  with  all  humbleness 
His  servant  echoes  back  the  awful  word. 


O!d  man !  there  b  no  power  in  holy  men, 

Nor  charm  m  prayer — nor  purifying  form 

Of  penitence— nor  outward  look — nor  fast — 

Nor  agony— nor,  greater  than  all  these, 

The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  despair 

Which  b  remorse  without  the  fear  of  heU, 

But  all  in  afl  sufficient  to  itself 

Would  make  a  hefl  of  heaven — can  exorcise 

From  oat  the  unbounded  spirit,  the  quick  sense 

Of  'U  own  sins,  wrongs,  sufferance,  and  revenge 

I/pan  itself;  there  b  no  future  pang 

Can  deal  that  justice  oa  the  sdf-condemn'd 

He  deals  on  hb  own  souL 

ABBOT. 

All  thbis  wefl; 

Par  this  wB  pass  away,  and  be  succeeded 
By  an  autpicmnt  hope,  which  shall  look  up 
With  calm  assurance  to  that  blessed  place, 
Which  ail  who  seek  may  win,  whatever  be 
Their  earthly  errors,  so  they  be  atoned : 

The  sense  of  its  necessity. — Say  on— 

And  aB  our  church  can  teach  ti>ee  shall  be  taught ; 

And  aH  we  can  absolve  thee  shaD  be  pardon'd. 

MAXFKED. 

When  ROOM'S  sixth  Emperor  was  near  hb  last, 
The  victim  of  a  setfinficted  wound, 
To  sfana  the  torments  of  a  public  death 
From  senates  once  hb  slaves,  a  certain  soldier, 
With  show  of  loyal  pity,  wouU  have  staach'd 
The  gushing  throat  with  hb  officious  robe; 
The  dying  Rowan  thrust  hb*  back  and  said— 
Same  empire  soli  m  hb  expiring  glance, 
"It  b  too  late— bthb  fidelity  7" 


And  wnat  of  thb? 


M:  i*  wo  te:e:' 


MAVFRED. 

with  the  BnauB 


ABBOT. 

It  never  can  be  so, 
To  reconcile  thyself  with  thy  own  soul, 
\nd  thy  own  soul  with  Heaven.  Hast  thou  no  hope  ' 
T  is  strange — even  those  who  do  despair  above, 
fet  shape  themselves  some  phantasy  on  earth, 
To  which  frail  twig  they  cling,  like  drowning  men. 

MAXFRED. 

\y — father !  I  have  had  those  earthly  visions 
And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth, 
To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  other  men, 
["he  enlightener  of  nations  ;  and  to  rise 
knew  not  whither — it  might  be  to  fall ; 
But  fall,  even  as  the  mountain  cataract, 
iVhich  having  leapt  from  its  more  dazzling  height, 
£ven  in  the  foaming  strength  of  its  abyss 
AVhich  casts  up  misty  columns  that  become 

louds,  raining  from  the  reascended  skies), 
Lies  low  but  mighty  still. — Bat  this  is  past, 
Hy  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 
ABBOT. 

And  wherefore  ?o? 

MAKFRED. 

[  could  not  tame  my  nature  down ;  for  he 
Most  serve  who  fain  would  sway — and  soothe — and  sue 
And  watch  all  time — and  pry  into  all  place— 
And  be  a  living  lie — who  would  become 
A  mighty  thing  amongst  die  mean,  and  such 
The  mass  are :  I  disdain'd  to  mingle  widi 
A  herd,  though  to  be  leader — and  of  wolves. 
The  Eon  b  alone,  and  so  am  I. 
ABBOT. 
And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other  men  ? 

MANFRED. 

Because  my  nature  was  averse  from  life ; 
And  yet  not  cruel ;  for  I  would  not  make, 
But  find  a  desolation : — like  the  wind, 
The  red-hot  breath  of  the  roost  lone  Simoom, 
Which  dwells  but  in  die  desert,  and  sweeps  o  er 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  no  shrubs  to  blast, 
And  revels  o'er  their  wild  and  arid  waves, 
And  seeketh  not,  so  that  it  is  not  sought, 
But  being  met  b  deadly ;  such  hath  been 
The  course  of  my  existence  ;  but  there  came 
Things  in  my  path  which  are  no  more. 
ABBOT. 

Alas ! 

I  'gin  to  fear  dial  thou  art  past  afl  aid 
From  me  and  from  my  calling  :  yet  so  young, 
I  still  would 

MAHFRED. 

Look  on  me !  there  b  an  order 
Of  HKirtals  on  die  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth  and  die  ere  middle  age, 
Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death  ; 
Some  perishing  of  pleasure — some  of  study — 
Some  worn  with  toil — some  of  mere  weariness  — 
Some  of  disease—  and  some  insanity— 
And  some  of  withered  or  of  broken  hearts; 
For  thb  but  b  a  malady  which  slays 
More  than  are  numbered  in  die  lists  of  Fate, 
Taking  all  shapes,  and  bearing  many  names, 
Look  upon  me !  for  even  of  all  these  dungs, 
Have  I  partaken;  and  of  all  these  diing#, 
One  were  enough:  then  wonder  not  that  I 


MANFRED. 


23* 


Am  what  1  am,  but  thtt  I  ever  was, 
Or,  having  been,  that  I  am  still  on  earth. 

ABBOT. 
Vet,  hear  me  still 

MAHTRED. 

Old  man!  I  do  respect 
Inline  order,  and  rerere  thy  years ;  I  deem 
Thy  purpose  pious,  but  it  is  in  rain: 
Think  me  not  churlish ;  I  would  spare  ftyseKJ 
Far  more  than  me,  in  shunning  at  this  time 
All  further  colloquy — and  BO — fkrewefl. 

[Exit  MJUTFKED. 

ABBOT. 

This  should  have  been  a  noble  creature :  be 

Hath  all  the  energy  which  would  have  mide 

A  goodly  frame  of  glorious  elements, 

Had  they  been  wisely  mingled  ;  as  it  is, 

It  is  an  awful  chaos— tight  and  darkness— 

And  mind  and  dost — and  passions  and  pore  though!*, 

Mix'd  and  contending  without  end  or  order, 

All  dormant  or  destructive  :  he  win  perish, 

And  vet  he  must  not ;  I  wiD  try  once  more, 

For  such  are  worth  redemption ;  and  my  duty 

Is  to  dare  all  things  for  a  righteous  end. 

I  'II  follow  him — bat  cautiously,  though  snrery. 

[Exit  ABBOT. 

SCENE  II 
Another  Chamhtr. 

MA5FBED    AND   HEKMA5. 
HERMAN. 

My  Lord,  you  bade  me  wait  on  you  at  sunset: 
He  nnks  behind  the  mountain. 

MANFRED. 

Doth  be  so? 
win  look  on  him. 

[MANFRED  adntnte*  t»  the  vindow  of  the  HalL 

Glorious  orb!  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  aad  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  goat  sons* 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they,  which  did  draw  down 
The  erring  spirits  who  cut  ne'er  return — 
Most  glorious  orb !   that  wert  a  worship,  ere 
The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  rereal'd  J 
Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Aknighty, 
Which  gladden'd,  on  their  mountain  tops,  the  hearts 
Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  nH  they  pour'd 
Themselres  in  orisons  !  Thou  material  god ! 
And  representative  of  the  Unknown — 
Who  chose  thee  for  his  shadow !  Thou  chief  star 
Centre  of  many  stars !  which  mak'st  our  earth 
Endurable,  and  tenaperest  the  hoes 
And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  ran ! 
Sire  of  the  seasons!  Monarch  of  the  climes, 
And  those  who  dwell  in  them !  for  near  or  far, 
Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee, 
Even  as  our  outward  aspects ; — thou  dost  rise, 
And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.    Fare  thee  well ! 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.  Ac  my  first  glance 
Of  tore  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 
Mr  latest  look :  thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 
T "  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  hare  been 
»>i  a  more  fatal  nature.  He  is  gone : 
I  fcEow  [Exit  MASH-RE D. 


SCENE  in. 

The  Mntntvuif—Tlte  CatOe  <jf  Moafmf  at  WM  dm 

ttaux — A  Terrace  btfare  a  Tower. — Tone,  1  *ih-tt. 

HERMAN,  MANUEL,  and  other  dtpcndtou*  ^ 

MANFRED.     ' 

HERMAN, 

Tb  strange  enough:  night  alter  eight,  for  years. 
He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower, 
Without  a  witness.    I  have  been  within  it,— 
So  have  we  all  been  oft-times :  but  from  it, 
Or  its  coafentB,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute,  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.     To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  chamber  where  none  enter ;  I  would  give 
The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three  yean, 
To  pore  upon  tfs  mysteries. 

JtANL'EL. 

T  were  dangerous; 
Content  thyself  with  what  thou  know'st  already. 

HEBMAK. 

Ah  I  Manuel !  thou  art  elderly  and  wise, 
And  couldst  say  much;  thou  hast  dwelt  within  the  cat  De- 
How  many  fears  is  !i  ? 

MANUEL, 

Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth, 
I  served  his  father,  whom  he  nought  resembles. 


There  be  more  sons  in  like  predicament. 
But  wherein  do  they  differ? 

MANUEL. 

I  speak  not 

Of  features  or  of  form,  but  mind  and  habits : 
Count  Stgisronnd  was  proud, — but  gay  and  free, — 
A  warrior  and  a  reveller;  he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time, 
Merrier  than  day;  be  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
And  forests  Eke  a  wolf,  nor  turn  aside 
From  men  and  their  defights. 

HERMAN. 

Beshrew  the  hour, 
But  those  were  jocund  times!  I  wodU  lhat  such 
Would  visit  the  old  wafls  again;  they  look 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 

MAS  U  EL. 

These  waSs 

Host  change  their  chieftain  first.  Oh !  I  hare  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  them,  Herman. 

HERMAN. 

Come,  be  friendly 
Relate  me  some  to  while  away  our  watch : 
I  Ve  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  happened  hereabouts,  by  this  same  tower. 

MANTEL. 

That  was  a  night  indeed ;  I  do  remember 
Twas  twilight  as  it  may  be  now,  and  such 
Another  evening : — yon  red  cloud,  which  restt 
On  Eigher's  pinnacle,  so  rested  tnen, — 
So  like  that  it  might  be  the  same :  the  wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  the  n^unta-n  snows 
Began  to  gntter  with  the  combing  moo* ; 
Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  within  h»  tower — 
How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  but  wtth  him 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderingi 
And  watdungs— her,  whom  tf  a=  <4rthr/  thsv 


240 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Tv»al  li>«d,  the  only  thing  he  seem'd  to  love, — 
A*  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do, 

The  lady  Astarte,  his 

Hush !  who  comes  here  7 
Enter  the  ABBOT. 

ABBOT. 

Where  is  your  master  ? 

HERMAN. 

Yonder,  in  the  tower. 

ABBOT. 

I  mus*  speak  with  him. 

MANUEL. 

'T  is  impossible ; 

He  is  most  private,  and  must  not  be  thus 
Intruded  on. 

ABBOT. 

Upon  myself  I  take 

The  forfeit  of  my  fault,  if  fault  there  be— 
But  I  must  see  him. 

HERMAN. 

Thou  hast  seen  him  once 
This  eve  already. 

ABBOT. 

Herman !  I  command  thee, 
Knock,  and  apprize  the  Count  of  my  approach. 

HERMAN. 

We  dare  not. 

ABBOT. 

Then  it  seems  I  must  be  herald 
Of  my  own  purpose. 

MANUEL. 

Reverend  father,  stop— 
I  pray  you  pause. 

ABBOT. 
Why  so? 

MANUEL. 

But  step  this  way, 
And  I  will  tell  you  further. 

[Exeunt, 


SCENE  IV. 

Interior  of  the  Tower. 
MANFRED,  alone. 

MANFRED. 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 

Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beautiful ! 

I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 

Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 

Than  that  of  man ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 

Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I  Inarn'd  the  languqje  of  another  world. 

1  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 

When  I  was  wandering,-  —upon  such  a  night 

I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall 

'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome ; 

Fhe  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 

Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 

Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 

The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber ;  and 

More  near  from  out  the  Caesar's  palace  came 

The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 

Hegun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 

AppearM  to  sum  the  horizon,  vet  they  stood 


Within  a  bow-shot — where  'he  Caesars  dwelt, 

And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 

A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd  battlemenu 

And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth  ; — 

But  the  gladiator's  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection ! 

While  Caesar's  chambers,  and  the  Augustan  halts, 

Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay.— 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up, 

As  't  were  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries : 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 

Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  !— 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 

'T  was  such  a  night ! 
'T  is  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time  ; 
But  I  have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  in  pensive  order. 

Enter  the  ABBOT. 

ABBOT. 

My  good  lord ! 

I  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach  ; 
But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 
By  its  abruptness — a.1  it  hath  of  ill 
Recoils  on  me  ;  its  good  in  the  effect 
May  light  upon  your  head — could  I  say  heart— 
Could  I  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers,  I  shou'd 
Recall  a  noble  spirit  which  hath  wander'd ; 
But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 

MANFRED. 

Thou  know'st  me  not: 

My  days  are  number'd,  and  my  dee<ls  recorded . 
Retire,  or  't  will  be  dangerous — Away  ! 

ABBOT. 
Thou  dost  not  mean  to  menace  me  ? 

MANFRED. 

Not  I; 

I  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand, 
And  would  preserve  thee. 

ABBOT. 

What  dost  mean  7 

MANFRED. 

Look  there 
What  dost  thou  see  7 

ABBOT. 

Nothing. 

MANFRED. 

Look  there,  I  say, 
And  stedfastly ; — now  tell  me  what  thou  seest  7 

ABBOT. 

That  which  should  shake  me, — but  I  fear  it  not-~ 
I  see  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise 
Like  an  infernal  god  from  out  the  earth  ; 
His  face  wrapt  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds  ;  he  stands  betwewi 
Thyself  and  me — but  I  do  fear  him  not. 

MANFRED. 

Thou  hast  no  cause — he  shall  not  harm  thee — Du 
His  sight  may  shock  thine  'VI  limbs  iri«o  nalr». 
I  say  to  thee — Retire ' 


MANFRED. 


211 


ABBOT. 

And  I  reply — 

Never — till  I  have  battled  with  this  fiend — 
What  doth  he  here  ? 

MANFRED. 

Why — ay — what  doth  he  here  7 
I  did  not  send  for  him, — he  is  unbidden. 

ABBOT. 

Alas !  lost  mortal !  what  with  guests  like  these 
Hast  thou  to  do  ?  I  tremble  for  thy  sake. 
Why  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on  him  7 
Ah !  he  unveils  his  aspect ;  on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven  ;  from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell — 
A vaunt! 

MANFREL 

Pronounce — what  is  thy  mission  ? 
SPIRIT. 

Come! 
ABBOT. 
What  art  thou,  unknown  being  ?  answer ! — speak ! 

SPIRIT. 
The  genius  of  this  mortal. — Come !  't  is  time. 

MANFRED. 

i  am  prepared  for  all  things,  but  deny 
Fhe  power  which  summons  me.   Who  sent  thee  here  ? 

SPIRIT. 
rhou  'It  know  anon — Come !  come ! 

MANFRED. 

I  have  commanded 

Fhings  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine, 
And  striven  with  thy  masters.     Get  thee  hence ! 

SPIRIT. 
Mortal !  thine  hour  is  come — Away !  I  say. 

MANFRED. 

I  knew,  and  know  my  hour  is  come,  but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee : 
Away!  I'll  die  as  I  have  lived — alone. 

SPIRIT. 
Then  I  must  summon  up  my  brethren. — Rise ! 

[Other  Spirits  rise  uj 

ABBOT. 

Avaunt !  ye  evil  ones  ! — Avaunt !  I  say, — 
Ye  have  no  power  where  piety  hath  power, 
And  I  do  charge  ye  in  the  name 

SPIRIT. 

Old  man . 

We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine  order ; 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses, 
It  were  in  vain ;  this  man  is  forfeited. 
Once  more  I  summon  him — Away !  away ! 

MANFRED. 

I  do  defy  ye, — though  I  feel  my  soul 

Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I  do  defy  ye ; 

Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthly  breath 

To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye — earthly  strength 

To  wrestle,  though  with  spirits  ;  what  ye  take 

Shall  be  ta'en  limb  by  limb. 

SPIRIT. 

Reluctant  mortal ! 

is  .his  tne  Magian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal? — Can  it  be  that  thou 
Art  thus  in  love  with  life  ?  the  very  life 
Which  made  thee  wretched! 

i  a          36 


MANFRED. 

Thou  false  fiend,  thou  lies 
My  life  is  in  its  last  hour,— that  I  know, 
Nor  would  redeem  a  moment  of  that  hour  • 
I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 
And  thy  surrounding  angels :  my  past  power 
Was  purchased  by  no  compact  with  thy  crew, 
But  by  superior  science— penance — daring— 
And  length  of  watching — strength  of  mind — and  skill 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers — when  the  earth 
Saw  men  and  spirits  walking  side  by  side, 
And  gave  ye  no  supremacy :  I  stand 
Upon  my  strength — I  do  defy — deny — 
Spurn  back,  and  scorn  ye  ! — 
SPIRIT. 

But  thy  many  crimes 
Have  made  thee 

MANFRED. 

What  are  they  to  such  as  thee  ' 
Must  crimes  be  punish'd  but  by  other  crimes, 
And  greater  criminals? — Back  to  thy  hell ' 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I  feel ; 
Thou  never  shall  possess  me,  that  I  know : 
What  I  have  done  is  done  ;  I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine : 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end — 
And  its  own  place  and  time — its  innate  sense, 
When  stripp'd  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  colour  from  the  fleeting  things  without ; 
But  is  absorb'd  in  sufferance  or  in  joy, 
Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert. 
Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not  tempt  mt» 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  noi  am  thy  prey — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter. — Back,  ye  baffled  fiends ! 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me — but  not  yours  ! 

[ The  Demons  disappear 

ABBOT. 

Alas !  how  pale  thou  art — thy  lips  are  white — 
And  thy  breast  heaves — and  in  thy  gasping  throat 
The  accents  rattle. — Give  thy  prayers  to  Heaven — 
Pray — albeit  but  in  thought, — but  die  not  thus. 

MANFRED. 

'T  is  over — my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee  not ; 
But  all  things  swim  around  me,  and  the  earth 
Heaves  as  it  were  beneath  me.     Fare  thee  well — 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

ABBOT. 

Cold — cold — even  to  the  heart- 
But  yet  one  prayer — alas !  how  fares  it  with  thee  ?— 

MANFRED. 

Old  man !  't  is  not  so  difficult  to  die. 

[MANFRED  expve* 
ABBOT. 

He  *s  gone — his  soul  hath  ta'en  its  earthless  flight — 
Whither?  I  dread  to  think — but  he  is  gone. 


NOTES. 


Note  1.  Page  232,  lines  114  and  115. 

the  siinbow's  rays  still  area 

The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  i*f  heaven. 

THIS  Iris  is  formed  by  the  rays  of  tne    rii  over  tn» 


212 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ewer  ;iai  I  of  <ho  Alpine  torrents :  it  is  exactly  like  a. 
lainbow,  comit  down  to  pav  a  visit,  and  so  close  that 
foil  may  walk  into  it : — this  effect  lasts  till  noon. 

Note  2.  Page  233,  lines  100  and  101. 
He  who  from  out  their  fountain  dwellings  railed 
Eros  and  Anteros,  at  Gadara. 

The  philosopher  lamblicus.  The  story  of  the  raising 
of  Eros  and  Anteros  may  be  found  in  his  life,  by 
Eunapius.  It  is  well  told. 

Note  3.  Page  234,  lines  91  and  92. 

she  replied 

In  wocds  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfill'd. 

The  story  of  Pausanias,  king  of  Sparta,  (who  com- 
manded the  Greeks  at  the  battle  of  Platea,  and  after- 


wards perished  for  an  attempt  to  betray  the  Lacedft- 
monians),  and  Cleonice,  is  told  in  Plutarch's  life  ot 
Cimon  ;  and  in  the  Laconics  pf  Pausanias  the  Sophist, 
in  bis  description  of  Greece. 

Note  4.  Page  239,  lines  39  and  40. 

the  giant  soni 

Of  the  embrace  of  angels. 

"  That  the  Sons  of  God  saw  the  daughters  of  men 
that  they  were  fair,"  etc. 

"  There  were  giants  in  the  earth  in  those  days ;  and 
also  after  that,  when  the  Sons  of  God  came  in  unto 
the  daughters  of  men,  and  they  bare  children  to  them, 
the  same  became  mighty  men  which  were  of  old,  men 
of  renown." — Genesis,  ch.  vi.  verses  2  and  4. 


iFaUero,  23ofje  of  Venice; 

A  HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY. 


PREFACE. 

THE  conspiracy  of  the  Doge  Marino  Faliero  is  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  events  in  the  annals  of  the  most 
singular  government,  city,  and  people  of  modern  his- 
tory. It  occurred  in  the  year  1355.  Every  thing  about 
V  enice  is,  or  was,  extraordinary — her  aspect  is  like  a 
dream,  and  her  history  is  like  a  romance.  The  story 
of  this  Doge  is  to  be  found  in  all  her  Chronicles,  and 
tiarticuWly  detailed  in  the  "  Lives  of  the  Doges,"  by 
Marin  Saaito,  which  is  given  in  the  Appendix.  It  is 
«impl_-  mi  jlearly  related,  and  is,  perhaps,  more  dra- 
matic in  itself  than  any  scenes  which  can  be  founded 
•jjioi.  the  subject. 

Marino  Faliero  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of  tal- 
ents and  of  courage.  1  find  him  commander-in-chief 
of  the  land  forces  at  the  siege  of  Zara,  where  he  beat 
the  King  of  Hungary  and  his  army  of  eighty  thousand 
men,  killing  eight  thousand  men,  and  keeping  the  be- 
sieged at  the  same  time  in  check,  an  exploit  to  which 
I  know  none  similar  in  history,  except  that  of  Caesar 
a»  Elesia,  and  of  Prince  Eugene  at  Belgrade.  He  was 
afterwards  commander  of  the  fleet  in  the  same  war. 
He  took  Capo  d'Isiria.  He  was  ambassador  at  Genoa 
and  Rome,  at  which  last  he  received  the  news  of  his 
election  to  the  dukedom  j  his  absence  being  a  proof 
that  he  sought  it  by  no  intrigue,  since  he  was  apprized 
of  his  predecessor's  death  and  his  own  succession  at 
the  same  moment.  But  he  appears  to  have  been  of 
an  ungovernable  temper.  A  story  is  told  by  Sanuto, 
of  his  hav.ns,  many  years  before,  when  podesta  and 
cantain  at  Treviso,  boxed  the  ears  of  the  bishop,  who 
*va:>  somewhat  tardy  in  bringing  the  Host.  For  this 
honest  Sanuto  "saddles  him  with  a  judgment,"  as 
Thwackum  did  Square  ;  but  he  does  not  tell  us  whether 
h»-  »as  punished  or  rebuked  by  the  senate  for  this 
outrage  at  the  time  of  its  commission.  He  seems,  in- 
ueed,  to  have  teen  afterwards  at  peace  with  the  church, 
611  we  find  him  ambassador  at  Rome,  and  invested 
*iih  the  fief  of  Val  di  Marino,  in  the  March  of  Tre- 
»iso.  and  with  the  title  of  Count,  by  Lorenzo  Count- 
Biwiop  of  Ceneda.  For  these  facts  my  authorities  are, 


Sanuto,  Vettor  Sandi,  Andrea Navagero,  and  the  account 
of  the  siege  of  Zara,  first  published  by  the  indefatigable 
Abbate  Morelii,  in  his  "Monumenti  Veneziani  di  varia 
letteratura,"  printed  in  1796,  all  of  which  I  have  looked 
over  in  the  original  language.  The  modems,  Daru, 
Sismondi,  and  Laugier,  nearly  agree  w>th  the  ancient 
chroniclers.  Sismondi  attributes  the  conspiracy  to  his 
jealousy;  bull  find  this  nowhere  asserted  by  tho  na- 
tional historians.  Veltor  Sandi,  indeed,  says,  that  "  Altn 

scrissero  che dalla  gelosa  suspizion  di  esso  Doge 

siasi  fatto  (Michel  Steno)  staccar  con  violenza,"  etc.,etc, ; 
but  this  appears  to  have  been  by  no  means  the  general 
opinion,  nor  is  it  alluded  to  by  Sanuto  or  by  Nava- 
gero ;  and  Sandi  himself  adds,  a  moment  after,  that 
"  per  altre  Veneziane  memorie  traspiri,  che  non  il  solo 
desiderio  di  vendetta  lo  dispose  alia  congiura  ma  anche 
la  innata  abituale  ambizion  sua,  per  cui  anelava  a  farsi 
principe  mdcpendente."  The  first  motive  appears  lo 
have  been  excited  by  the  gross  affront  of  the  words 
written  by  Michel  Steno  on  the  ducal  chair,  and  by 
the  lisht  and  inadequate  sentence  of  the  Fortv  on  the 
offender,  who  was  one  of  their  "tre  capi."  The  at- 
tentions of  Steno  himself  appear  to  have  been  directed 
towards  one  of  her  damsels,  and  not  to  the  "  Doga- 
ressa"  herself,  against  whose  fame  not  the  slightest 
insinuation  appears,  while  she  is  praised  for  her  heauty, 
and  remarked  for  her  youth.  Neither  do  I  find  it 
asserted  (unless  the  hint  of  Sandi  be  an  assertion)  that 
the  Doge  was  actuated  by  jealousy  of  his  wife ;  but 
rather  by  respect  for  her,  and  for  his  own  honour, 
warranted  by  his  past  services  and  present  dignity. 

I  know  not  that  the  historical  facts  are  alluded  to 
in  English,  unless  by  Dr.  Moore  in  his  view  of  Italy. 
His  account  is  false  and  flippant,  full  of  stale  jests 
about  old  men  and  young  wives,  and  wondering  at  so 
great  an  effect  from  so  slight  a  cause.  How  so  acute 
and  severe  an  observer  of  mankind  as  the  author  of 
Zeluco  could  wonder  at  this  is  inconceivable.  He  knew 
that  a  basin  of  water  spilt  on  Mrs.  Masham's  gown  de- 
prived the  Duke  of  Malborough  of  bis  command,  and 
led  to  the  inglorious  peace  of  Utrecht — thai  Louis  XIV. 
was  plunged  into  the  most  desolating  wars  because 
his  minister  was  nettled  at  las  finding  fault  wilu  a 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


•243 


windo-v,  and  wished  to  give  him  another  occupation — 
that  Hclcr  lost  Troy — that  Lucretia  expelled  the  Tar- 
quins  from  Rome — and  that  Cava  brought  the  Moors  to 
Spain — that  an  insulted  husband  led  the  Gauls  to  Clu- 
gium,  and  thence  to  Rome — that  a  single  verse  of  Fred- 
eric II.  of  Prussia,  on  the  Abbe  de  Bemis,  and  a  jest 
on  Madame  de  Pompadour,  led  to  the  battle  of  Ros- 
bach — that  the  elopement  of  Dearbhorgil  with  Mac 
Murchad,  conducted  the  English  to  the  slavery  of  Ire- 
land— that  a  personal  pique  between  Marie  Antoinette 
and  the  Duke  of  Orleans  precipitated  the  first  expulsion 
of  the  Bourbons — and,  not  to  multiply  instances,  that 
Commodus,  Domitian,  and  Caligula  fell  victims,  not  to 
their  public  tyranny,  but  to  private  vengeance — and  that 
an  order  to  make  Cromwell  disembark  from  the  ship  in 
which  he  would  have  sailed  to  America,  destroyed  both 
king  and  commonwealth.  After  these  instances,  on  the 
least  reflection,  it  is  indeed  extraordinary  in  Dr.  Moore 
to  seem  surprised  that  a  man,  used  to  command,  who 
had  served  and  swayed  in  the  most  important  offices, 
should  fiercely  resent,  in  a  fierce  age,  an  unpunished 
affront,  the  grossest  that  can  be  offered  to  a  man,  be  he 
prince  or  peasant.  The  age  of  Faliero  is  little  to  ^he 
purpose,  unless  to  favour  it. 

"  The  youne  man's  wrath  is  like  straw  on  fire, 
Bui  like  red-hot  steel  is  the  old  man's  ire." 
"  Young  mpn  soon  give  and  soon  forget  affronts. 
Old  age  is  slow  at  both." 

Laugier's  reflections  are  more  philosophical : — "Tale 
fu  il  fine  ignominioso  di  un  uomo,  che  la  sua  nascita, 
la  sua  eth,  il  suo  carattere  dovevano  tener  lontano  dalle 
passioni  produttrici  di  grandi  delitti.  I  suoi  talenti  per 
lungo  tempo  csercitati  ne'  maggiori  impieghi,  la  sua 
capacita  sperimentata  ne'  governi  e  nelle  ambasciate, 
gli  avevano  acquistato  la  stirna  c  la  fiducia  de'  cittadini, 
ed  avevano  uniti  i  suffragi  per  collocarlo  alia  testa  della 
republica.  Innalzato  ad  un  grado  che  terminava  glo- 
riosamenta  la  sua  vita,  il  risentimento  di  un'  ingiuria 
leggiera  insinuii  nel  suo  cuore  tal  veleno  che  baslb  a 
corrompere  le  antiche  sue  qualita,  e  a  condulo  al  ter- 
mine  dei  scellerati ;  serio  esempio,  che  prova  rum  es- 
servi  etfi,  in  cui  la  prudenza  umana  sia  sicura  e  che  neW 
uomo  reslano  sempre  pasxioni  capaci  a  disonorarlo,  quan- 
do  non  iniigili  sopra  se  stesso." — LAUGIEK,  Italian 
translation,  vol.  iv.  pp.  30,  31. 

Where  did  Dr.  Moore  find  that  Marino  Faliero  begged 
his  life?  I  have  searched  the  chroniclers,  and  find 
nothing  of  the  kind  ;  it  is  true  that  he  avowed  all. 
He  was  conducted  to  the  place  of  torture,  but  there  is 
no  mention  made  of  any  application  for  mercy  on  his 
part ;  and  the  very  circumstance  of  their  having  taken 
him  to  the  rack,  seems  to  argue  any  thing  but  his  hav- 
ing shown  a  want  of  firmness,  which  would  doubtless 
have  been  also  mentioned  by  those  minute  historians 
who  by  no  means  favour  him :  such,  indeed,  would  be 
contrary  to  his  character  as  a  soldier,  to  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  and  at  which  he  died,  as  it  is  to  the 
truth  of  history.  I  know  no  justification  at  any  distance 
of  time  for  calumniating  a  historical  character ;  surely 
truth  belo:^  to  the  dead  and  to  the  unfortunate,  and 
they  who  have  died  upon  a  scaffold  have  generally  had 
faults  enough  of  their  own,  without  attributing  to  them 
that  which  the  very  incurring  of  the  perils  which  con- 
duct-Mi them  to  their  violent  death  renders,  of  all  others, 
the  most  improbable.  The  black  veil  which  is  painted 
ov*  the  place  of  Marino  Faliero  amongst  the  doges, 


and  the  Giant's  Staircase,  where  he  was  crowned,  and 
discrowned,  and  decapitated,  striiCK  forcibly  upon  m» 
imagination,  as  did  his  fiery  character  and  strange  story 
I  went  in  1819,  in  search  of  his  tomb,  more  than  once, 
to  the  church  of  San  Giovanni  e  San  Paolo ;  and,  as 
was  standing  before  the  monument  of  another  family 
a  priest  came  up  to  me  and  said,  "I  can  show  you 
finer  monuments  than  that."  I  told  him  that  I  was  ii 
search  of  that  of  the  Faliero  family,  and  particularly  ot 
the  Doge  Marino's.  "Oh,"  said  he,  "I  will  show  it 
you  j"  and,  conducting  me  to  the  outside,  pointed  out 
a  sarcophagus  in  the  wall,  with  an  illegible  inscription. 
He  said  that  it  had  been  in  a  convent  adjoining,  bu' 
was  removed  after  the  French  came,  and  placed  in  its 
present  situation ;  that  he  had  seen  the  tomb  opened  at 
its  removal ;  there  were  still  some  bones  remaining,  but 
no  positive  vestige  of  the  decapitation.  The  equestrian 
statue,  of  which  I  have  made  mention  in  the  third  act 
as  before  that  church,  is  not,  however,  of  a  Faliero, 
but  of  some  other  now  obsolete  warrior,  although  of  a 
later  date.  There  were  two  other  Doges  of  this  family 
prior  to  Marino :  Ordelafo,  who  fell  in  battle  at  Zara, 
in  1117  (where  his  descendant  afterwards  conquered 
the  Huns),  and  Vital  Faliero,  wno  reigned  in  1082. 
The  family,  originally  from  Fano,  was  of  the  most  il- 
lustrious in  blood  and  wealth  in  the  chy  of  once  the 
most  wealthy,  and  still  the  most  ancient  families  in  Eu- 
rope. The  length  I  have  gone  into  on  this  subject,  will 
show  the  interest  I  have  taken  in  it.  Whether  I  have 
succeeded  or  not  in  the  tragedy,  I  have  at  least  trans- 
ferred into  our  language  a  historical  fact  worthy  of 
commemoration. 

It  is  now  four  years  that  I  have  meditated  this  work, 
and,  before  I  had  sufficiently  examined  the  records,  I 
was  rather  disposed  to  have  made  it  turn  on  a  jealousy 
in  Faliero.  But  perceiving  no  foundation  for  this  in 
historical  truth,  and  aware  that  jealousy  is  an  exhausted 
passion  in  the  drama,  I  have  given  it  a  more  historical 
form.  I  was,  besides,  well  advised  by  the  late  Matthew 
Lewis  on  that  point,  in  talking  with  him  of  my  inten- 
tion, at  Venice,  in  1817.  "If  you  make  him  jealous," 
said  he,  "  recollect  that  you  have  to  contend  with  es- 
tablished writers,  to  say  nothing  of  Shakspeare,  and  an 
exhausted  subject ; — stick  to  the  old  fiery  Doge's  natu- 
ral character,  which  will  bear  you  out,  if  properly 
drawn  ;  and  make  your  plot  as  regular  as  you  can."— 
Sir  William  Drummond  gave  me  nearly  the  same 
counsel.  How  far  I  have  followed  these  instructions, 
or  whether  they  have  availed  me,  is  not  for  me  to  de- 
cide. I  have  had  no  view  to  the  stage  ;  in  its  present 
state  it  is,  perhaps,  not  a  very  exalted  object  of  ambi- 
tion ;  besides,  I  have  been  too  much  behind  the  scenes 
to  have  thought  it  so  at  any  time.  And  I  cannot  con- 
ceive any  man  of  irritable  feeling  putting  himself  at 
the  mercies  of  an  audience  : — the  sneering  reader,  and 
the  loud  critic,  and  the  tart  review,  are  scattered  and 
distant  calamities ;  but  the  trampling  of  an  intelligent 
or  of  an  ignorant  audience,  on  a  production  which,  be 
it  good  or  bad,  has  been  a  mental  labour  to  the  writer, 
is  a  palpable  and  immediate  grievance,  heightened  by 
a  man's  doubt  of  their  competency  to  judge,  and  ht» 
certainty  of  his  own  imprudence  in  electing  them  his 
judges.  Were  I  capable  of  writing  a  play  which  could 
be  deemed  stage-worthy,  success  would  give  me  IK 
pleasure,  and  failure  great  pain.  It  is  for  this  re**or 


244 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


lhat,  even  during  the  time  of  being  one  of  the  com- 
mittee of  one  of  the  theatres,  I  never  made  the  attempt, 
and  never  will.1  But  surely  there  is  dramatic  power 
somewhere, — where  Joanna  Baillie,  and  Milman,  and 
John  Wilson  exist.  The  "City  of  the  Plague"  arid 
the  "Fall  of  Jerusalem,"  are  full  of  the  best  malMel 
for  tragedy  that  has  been  seen  since  Horace  Walpole, 
except  passages  of  "  Ethwald"  and  "  De  Montfort." — 
It  is  the  fashion  to  underrate  Horace  Walpole,  firstly, 
because  he  was  a  nobleman,  and  secondly,  because  he 
was  a  gentleman  ;  but,  to  say  nothing  of  the  composi- 
tion of  his  incomparable  "  Letters,"  and  of  the  "Castle 
of  Otranto,"  he  is  the  "  Ultimus  Romanorum,"  the 
author  of  the  "  Mysterious  Mother,"  a  tragedy  of  the 
highest  order,  and  not  a  puling  love-play.  He  is  the 
father  of  the  first  romance,  and  of  the  last  tragedy  in 
our  language,  and  surely  worthy  of  a  higher  place  than 
any  living  writer,  be  he  who  he  may. 

In  speaking  of  the  drama  of  Marino  Faliero,  I  forgot 
to  mention  that  the  desire  of  preserving,  though  still  too 
remote,  a  nearer  approach  to  unity  than  the  irregulari- 
ty, which  is  the  reproach  of  the  English  theatrical  com- 
positions, permits,  has  induced  me  to  represent  the 
conspiracy  as  already  formed,  and  the  Doge  acceding 
to  it,  whereas,  in  fact,  it  was  of  his  own  preparation 
and  that  of  Israel  Bertuccio.  The  other  characters 
(except  that  of  the  duchess),  incidents,  and  almost  the 
time,  which  was  wonderfully  short  for  such  a  design  in 
real  life,  are  strictly  historical,  except  that  all  the  con- 
sultations took  place  in  the  palace.  Had  I  followed 
this,  the  unity  would  have  been  better  preserved ;  but 
I  wished  to  produce  the  Doge  in  the  full  assembly  of 
the  conspirators,  instead  of  monotonously  placing  him 
always  in  dialogue  with  the  same  individuals.  For  the 
real  facts,  I  refer  to  the  extracts  given  in  the  Appendix 
in  the  Italian,  with  a  translation. 


1  "  While  I  was  in  the  sub-committee  of  Drury-Lane  The- 
atre, I  can  vouch  for  my  colleagues,  and  I  hope  for  myself, 
that  we  did  our  best  to  bring  back  the  legitimate  drama.  1 
tried  what  1  could  to  get  "  De  Montfort"  revived,  but  in  vain, 
and  equally  in  vain  in  favour  of  Sotheby's  "Ivan,"  which 
was  thought  an  acting  play ;  and  1  endeavoured  also  to  wake 
Mr.  Coleridge  to  write  a  tragedy.  Those  who  are  not  in  the 
secret,  will  hardly  believe  that  the  "School  for  Scandal"  is 
the  play  which  has  brought  least  money,  averaging  the  num- 
ber of  times  it  has  been  acted  since  its  production ;  so  Mana- 
ger Dibdin  assured  me.  Of  what  has  occurred  since  Matu- 
rin'i  "  Bertram,"  I  am  not  aware  ;  so  that  I  may  be  traducing, 
through  ignorance,  some  excellent  new  writers  ;  if  so,  I  beg 
their  pardon.  I  have  been  absent  from  England  nearly  five 
years,  and,  till  last  year,  I  never  read  an  English  newspaper 
lince  my  departure,  and  am  now  only  aware  of  theatrical 
matter*  through  the  medium  of  the  Parisian  English  Gazette 
of  Galignani,  and  only  for  the  last  twelve  months.  Let  me 
then  deprecate  all  offence  to  tragic  or  comic  writnrs,  to  whom 
I  wish  well,  and  of  whom  I  know  nothing.  The  long  com- 
plaints of  the  actual  state  of  the  drama  arise,  however,  from 
no  fault  of  the  performers.  I  can  conceive  nothing  better 
than  Kemble,  Cooke,  and  Kean,  in  their  very  different  man- 
ners, or  than  Elliston  in  grittlcman'x  comedy,  and  in  seme 
parts  of  tragedy.  MLss  O'Neill  I  never  saw,  having  made 
tnd  kept  a  determination  to  see  nothing  which  should  divide 
>r  durturb  my  recollection  of  Siddons.  Siddons  and  Kemble 
were  llie  ideal  of  tragic  action  ;  I  never  saw  any  thing  at  all 
resembling  them,  even  in  person :  for  this  reason  we  shall 
lever  see  again  Coriolanus  or  Macbeth.  When  Kean  is 
•limed  for  want  of  dignity,  we  should  remember  that  it  i» 
B  grace  and  not  an  art.  and  not  to  be  attained  by  study.  In 
Ul  not  tupcrnatural  parts,  he  is  perfect ;  even  his  very  de- 
fects belong,  or  seem  to  belong,  to  the  parts  themselves,  and 
appear  truer  to  nature.  But  of  Kemble  we  may  sajr,  with 
reference  to  his  acting,  what  the  Cardinp',  de  Rutz  said  of  the 
Marquis  o*' Montrose,  "that  he  was  the  only  man  he  ever 
«•<»  who  reminded  him  of  -ne  heroes  of  Plutarch." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN. 

MARINO  FALIERO,  Doge  of  Venice. 
BEHTUCCIO  FALIERO,  Nephew  of  tht  Dogt. 
LIONI,  a  Patrician  and  Senator. 
BENINTEHDE,  Chief  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 
MICHEL  STENO,  one  of  the  three  Capi  of  the  Forty. 
ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO,  Chief  of  the  Arsenal. 
PHILIP  CALENDARO,    1 
> 


DAGOLIXO, 
BERTRAND, 

Signer  of  the  Tfi 


5 

ht,  > 
) 


Conspirators. 


"  Signore  di  Notte,"  one  of  tht 
Officers  belonging  to  the  Rf 
public. 
first  Citizen. 
Second  Citizen. 
Third  Citizen. 

VlNCENZO,     1 

PIETRO,        >  Officers  belonging  to  the  Ducal  Palace. 
BATTISTA,    j 

Secretary  of  the  Council  of  Ten, 

Guards,  Conspirators,  Citizens,  the  Council  of  Ten,  At 
Giunta,  etc,,  etc. 

WOMEN. 

ANGIOLINA,  Wife  to  the  Doge. 
MARIANNA,  her  Friend. 
Female  Attendants,  etc. 


Scene,  VENICE — in  the  year  1355. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Antechamber  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
PIETRO  speaks,  in  entering,  to  BATTIST*. 

PIETRO. 

Is  not  the  messenger  return'd  ? 

BATTISTA. 

Not  yet ; 

I  have  sent  frequently,  as  you  commanded, 
But  still  the  signory  is  deep  in  council 
And  long  debate  on  Steno's  accusation. 

PIETRO. 

Too  long — at  least  so  thinks  the  Doge. 

BATTISTA. 

How  bears  he 

These  moments  of  suspense  ? 
PIETRO. 

With  struggling  patience. 
Placed  at  the  ducal  table,  cover'd  o'er 
With  all  the  apparel  of  the  state  ;  petitions, 
Despatches,  judgments,  acts,  reprieves,  reports, 
He  sits  as  rapt  in  duty :  but  whene'er 
He  hears  the  jarring  of  a  distant  door, 
Or  aught  that  intimates  a  coming  step, 
Or  murmur  of  a  voice,  his  quick  eye  wanders, 
And  he  will  start  up  from  his  chair,  then  or  usu, 
And  seat  himself  again,  and  fix  his  gazt 
Upon  some  edict ;  but  I  have  observed 
For  the  last  hour  he  has  not  turn'd  a  leaf 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


245 


BATTISTA. 

Tis  said  he  is  much  moved,  and  doubtless  'twas 
Foul  scorn  in  Steno  to  offend  so  grossly. 

PIETRO. 

Ay,  if  a  poor  man :  Steno 's  a  patrician, 
Young,  galliard,  gay,  and  haughty. 

BATTISTA. 

Then  you  think 
He  will  not  be  judged  hardly. 

PIETRO. 

'T  were  enough 

He  be  judged  justly ;  but 't  is  not  for  us 
To  anticipate  the  sentence  of  the  Forty. 

BATTISTA. 

And  here  it  comes. — What  news,  Vincenzo? 
Enter  VINCENZO. 

TINCENZO. 

'Tis 

Decided ;  but  as  yet  his  doom 's  unknown : 

I  saw  the  president  in  act  to  seal 

The  parchment  which  will  bear  the  Forty's  judgment 

Unto  the  Doge,  and  hasten  to  inform  him. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. . 

The  Ducal  Chamber. 
MARINO  FALIERO,  Doge;  and hisnephew,  BERTPCCIO 

FALIERO. 

BERTUCCIO  FALIERO. 
It  cannot  be  but  they  will  do  you  justice. 

DOGE. 

Ay,  such  as  the  Avogadori  did, 
\Vho  sent  up  my  appeal  unto  the  Forty 
To  try  him  by  his  peers,  his  own  tribunal. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

His  peers  will  scarce  protect  him ;  such  an  act 
Would  bring  contempt  on  all  authority. 

DOGE. 

Know  you  not  Venice  ?  know  you  not  the  Forty  ? 
But  we  shall  see  anon. 

BERTUCCIO  FALIERO  (addressing  VINCENZO,  then 
entering). 

How  now — what  tidings  ? 
TINCENZO. 

I  am  charged  to  tell  his  highness  that  the  court 
Has  pass'd  its  resolution,  and  that,  soon 
As  the  due  forms  of  judgment  are  gone  through, 
The  sentence  will  be  sent  up  to  the  Doge : 
In  the  mean  time  the  Forty  doth  salute 
The  prince  of  the  republic,  and  entreat 
His  acceptation  of  their  duty. 

DOGE. 

Yes— 

They  are  wondrous  dutiful,  and  ever  humble. 
Sentente  is  past,  you  say  ? 

VINCENZO. 

It  is,  your  highness : 
The  president  was  sealing  it,  when  I 
Was  call'd  in,  that  no  moment  might  be  lost 
In  forwarding  the  intimation  due, 
Not  only  to  the  chief  of  the  republic, 
But  the  complainant,  both  in  one  united. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

Are  you  aware,  from  aught  you  hare  perceived, 
Of  their  decision? 


VINCENZO. 

No,  my  lord  ;  you  know 
The  secret  customs  of  the  courts  in  Venice. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

True ;  but  there  still  is  something  given  to  guess. 
Which  a  shrewd  gleaner  and  quick  eye  would  caVcn  a 
Ae  whisper,  or  a  murmur,  or  an  air 
More  or  less  solemn  spread  o'er  the  tribunal. 
The  Forty  are  but  men — most  worthy  men, 
And  wise,  and  just,  and  cautious — this  I  grant — 
And  secret  as  the  grave  to  which  they  doom 
The  guilty ;  but  with  all  this,  in  their  aspects — 
At  least  in  some,  the  juniors  of  the  number — 
A  searching  eye,  an  eye  like  yours,  Vincenzo, 
Would  read  the  sentence  ere  it  was  pronounced. 

VINCENZO 

My  lord,  I  came  away  upon  the  moment, 
And  had  no  leisure  to  take  note  of  that 
Which  pass'd  among  the  judges,  even  in  seeming ; 
My  station  near  the  accused  too,  Michael  Steno 
Made  me— — 

DOGE   (abruptly). 
And  how  look'd  he  ?  deliver  that, 

VINCENZO. 

Calm,  but  not  overcast,  he  stood  resign'd 
To  the  decree,  whate'er  it  were  ; — but  lo ! 
It  comes,  for  the  perusal  of  his  hignness. 

Enter  the  SECRETARY  of  the  Forty. 

SECRETARY. 

The  high  tribunal  of  the  Forty  sends 
Health  and  respect  to  the  Doge  Faliero, 
Chief  magistrate  of  Venice,  and  requests 
His  highness  to  peruse  and  to  approve 
The  sentence  pass'd  on  Michel  Steno,  born 
Patrician,  and  arraign'd  upon  the  charge 
Contain'd,  together  with  its  penalty, 
Within  the  rescript  which  I  now  present. 

DOGE. 
Retire,  and  wait  without. — Take  thou  this  papei : 

[Exeunt  SECRETARY  and  VINCENZO 
The  misty  letters  vanish  from  my  eyes ; 
I  cannot  fix  them. 

BERTUCCIO  FALIERO. 

Patience,  my  dear  uncle : 
Why  do  you  tremble  thus  ? — nay,  doubt  not,  all 
Will  be  as  could  be  wish'd. 

DOGE. 

Say  on. 
BERTUCCIO  FALIERO  (reading). 

"Decreed 

In  council,  without  one  dissenting  voice, 
That  Michel  Steno,  by  his  own  confession, 
Guilty  on  the  last  night  of  carnival 
Of  having  graven  on  the  ducal  thronfc 
The  following  words " 

DOGE. 

Wouldst  thou  repeat  I  «n  ' 
Wouldst  thou  repeat  them — thou,  a  Faliero, 
Harp  on  the  deep  dishonour  of  our  house, 
Dishonour^  in  its  chief— that  chief  the  prince 
Of  Venice,  first  of  cities? — To  the  sentence. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

Forgive  me,  my  good  lord  ;  I  will  obey — 
(Reads)  «  That  Michel  Steno  be  detain'd  a  monU> 
[n  close  arrest." 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


DOGE. 

Proceed. 

BERTCCCIO    FALIERO. 

My  lord,  't  is  finish1  d. 
DOOE. 

H  >w,  say  you  ?— finish' d !  Do  I  dream  ?— 'T  is  false- 
Give  me  the  paper — (Snatches  the  paper,  and  reads). 

"  'Tis  decreed  in  council 
That  Michel  Steno" Nephew,  thine  arm. 

BEB.TUCC10    FALIERO. 

Nay, 

Cheer  up,  be  calm ;  this  transport  is  uncall'd  for— 
Let  me  seek  some  assistance. 
DOGE. 

Stop,  sir — stir  not*— 
Tis  past. 

BEB.TUCCIO    FALIERO. 

I  cannot  but  agree  with  you 
The  sentence  is  too  slight  for  the  offence : 
[t  is  not  honourable  in  the  Forty 
To  affix  so  slight  a  penalty  to  that 
Which  was  a  foul  affront  to  you,  and  even 
To  them,  as  being  your  subjects  ;  but 't  is  not 
Yet  without  remedy ;  you  can  appeal 
To  them  once  more,  or  to  the  Avogadori, 
Who,  seeing  that  true  justice  is  withheld, 
Will  now  take  up  the  cause  they  once  declined, 
And  do  you  right  upon  the  bold  delinquent. 
Think  you  not  thus,  good  uncle  ?  why  do  you  stand 
So  fix'd  ?  you  heed  me  not : — I  pray  you,  hear  me ! 
DOGE  (dashing  down  the  ducal  bonnet,  and  offering 

to  trample  upon  it,  exclaims,  ax  he  is  uith- 

held  by  his  nephew). 

Oh,  that  the  Saracen  were  in  Saint  Mark's 
Thus  would  I  do  him  homage. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

For  the  sake 
Of  heaven  and  all  its  saints,  my  lord 

DOGE 

Away! 

Oh,  that  the  Genoese  were  in  the  port ! 

Oh  that  the  Huns  whom  I  o'erthrew  at  Zara 

Were  ranged  around  the  palace ! 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

T  is  not  well 

IP  Vernce  L»uke  to  say  so. 
DOGE. 

Venice'  Duke ! 

Who  now  is  Duke  in  Venice  ?  let  me  see  him, 
That  he  may  do  me  right. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

If  you  forget 

Tour  office,  and  its  dignity  and  duty, 
Remember  that  of  man,  and  curb  this  passion. 

The  Duke  of  Venice 

DOGE   (interrupting  him). 

There  is  no  such  thing — 

it  is  a  word — nay,  worse — a  worthless  by- word: 
Tne  most  despised,  wrong'd,  outraged,  helpless  wretch, 
Who  begs  h.s  bread,  if  't  is  refused  by  one, 
May  win  it  from  another  kinder  heart; 
But  he  who  is  denied  his  right  by  those 
Wli.ise  place  it  is  to  do  no  wrong,  is  poorer 
Thii"  ti.e  rejected  beggar — he's  a  slave—- 
And that  am  I,  and  thou,  and  all  our  house, 
fc'vez  from  this  hou"-;  the  meanest  artisan 


Will  point  the  finger,  and  the  haughty  noble 
May  spit  upon  us :   where  is  our  redress  ? 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

The  law,  my  prince — 

DOGE   (interrupting  him). 

You  see  what  it  has  don» : 
I  ask'd  no  remedy  but  from  the  la\v — 
I  sought  no  vengeance  but  redress  by  law — 
I  call'd  no  judges  but  those  named  bv  law — 
As  sovereign,  I  appeal'd  unto  my  suojecis, 
The  very  subjects  who  had  made  me  sovereign, 
And  gave  me  thus  a  double  right  to  be  so. 
The  rights  of  place  and  choice,  of  birih  and  service. 
Honours  and  years,  these  scars,  these  hoary  hairs, 
The  travel,  toil,  the  perils,  the  fatigues, 
The  blood  and  sweat  of  almost  eighty  years, 
Were  weigh'd  i'  the  balance,  'gainst  the  foulest  stain, 
The  grossest  insult,  most  contemptuous  crime 
Of  a  rank,  rash  patrician — and  found  wanting  ! 
And  this  is  to  be  borne  ? 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

I  say  not  that : 
In  case  your  fresh  appeal  should  be  rejected, 
We  will  find  other  means  to  make  all  even. 

DOGE. 

Appeal  again !  art  thou  my  brother's  son  ? 
A  scion  of  the  house  of  Faliero  ? 
The  nephew  of  a  Doge  ?  and  of  that  blood 
Which  hath  already  given  three  dukes  to  Venice? 
But  thou  say'st  well — we  must  be  humble  now. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

My  princely  uncle !  you  are  too  much  moved  :— 
I  grant  it  was  a  gross  offence ;  and  grossly 
Left  without  fitting  punishment ;  but  still 
This  fury  doth  exceed  the  provocation, 
Or  any  provocation :  if  we  are  wrong'd, 
We  will  ask  justice  ;  if  it  be  denied, 
We  '11  take  it ;  but  may  do  all  this  in  calmness — 
Deep  vengeance  is  the  daughter  of  deep  silence. 
I  have  yet  scarce  a  third  part  of  your  years, 
I  love  our  house,  I  honour  you,  its  chief, 
The  guardian  of  my  youth,  and  its  instroctor- 
But  though  I  understand  your  grief,  and  enter 
In  part  of  your  disdain,  it  doth  appal  me 
To  see  your  anger,  like  our  Adrian  waves, 
O'ersweep  all  bounds,  and  foam  itself  to  air. 

DOGE. 

I  tell  thee — must  I  tell  thee — what  thy  father 
Would  have  required  no  words  to  comprehen  j  7 
Hast  thou  no  feeling  save  the  external  sense 
Of  torture  from  the  touch?  hast  thou  no  soul — 
No  pride — no  passion — no  deep  sense  of  honour? 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

'T  is  the  first  time  that  honour  has  been  doubted, 
And  were  the  last,  from  any  other  sceptic. 

DOGE. 

You  know  the  full  offence  of  this  born  villain, 
This  creeping,  coward,  rank,  acquitted  felon, 
Who  threw  his  sting  into  A  poisonous  libel, 
And  on  the  honour  of— Oh,  God  ! — my  wife, 
The  nearest,  dearest  part  of  all  men's  honour 
Left  a  base  slur  to  pass  from  mouth  to  mouth 
Of  loose  mechanics,  with  all  coarse  foul  commtuu 
And  villanous  jests,  and  blasphemies  obscene  ; 
While  sneering  nobles,  in  more  polish'd  gui»e, 
Whisper'd  the  tale  and  smiled  uoon  the  lie 


MAR1XO  FALIERO. 


247 


Which  made  me  look  like  them — a.  courteous  witiai, 
Patient — ay,  proud,  it  may  be,  of  dishonour. 

EERTUCCIO    FAL1ERC. 

But  stiP.  il  was  a  lie — you  knew  it  fake, 
And  so  did  all  men. 

DOGE. 

Nephew,  the  high  Roman 

Said  "  Csesar's  wife  must  not  even  be  suspected," 
And  put  her  from  him. 

BERTCCCIO    FALIEBO. 

True — but  in  those  days 

DOGE. 

What  is  it  that  a  Roman  would  not  suffer, 
That  a  Venetian  prince  must  bear  ?  Old  Dandolo 
Refused  the  diadem  x>f  all  the  Caesars, 
And  wore  the  ducal  cap  I  trample  on, 
Because  't  is  now  degraded. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

T  is  even  so. 

DOGE. 

It  is — it  is : — I  did  not  visit  on 

The  innocent  creature,  thus  most  vilely  s!anderM, 

Because  she  took  an  old  man  for  her  lord, 

For  that  he  had  been  long  her  father's  friend 

And  patron  of  her  house,  as  if  there  were 

No  love  in  woman's  heart  but  lust  of  youth 

And  beardless  faces ; — I  did  not  for  this 

Visit  the  villain's  infamy  on  her, 

But  craved  my  country's  justice  on  his  head, 

The  justice  due  unto  tie  humblest  being 

Who  hath  a  wife  whose  faith  is  sweet  to  him, 

Who  hath  a  home  whose  hearth  is  dear  to  him, 

Who  hath  a  name  whose  honour 's  all  to  him, 

When  these  are  tainted  by  the  accursing  breath 

Of  calumny  and  scorn. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

And  what  redress 
Did  you  expect  as  his  fit  punishment  ? 

DOGE. 

Death !  Was  I  not  the  sovereign  of  the  state — 
Insulted  on  his  very  throne,  and  made 
A  mockery  to  the  men  who  should  obey  me  ? 
Was  I  not  injured  as  a  husband  ?  scorn'd 
As  man  ?  reviled,  degraded,  as  a  prince  ? 
Was  not  offence  like  his  a  complication 
Of  insult  and  of  treason  ?  aiid  he  lives ! 
Had  he,  instead  of  en  the  Doge's  throne, 
Smmp'd  the  same  brand  upon  a  peasant's  stool, 
His  blood  had  gilt  the  threshold,  for  the  carle 
Had  stabb'd  him  on  the  instant. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

Do  not  doubt  it : 

He  shall  not  live  till  sunset — leave  to  me 
The  means,  and  calm  your 

DOGE. 

Hol<|,  nephew!  th» 

Would  have  sufficed  but  yesterday :  at  present 
t  have  no  further  wrath  against  this  man. 

BERTCCCIO    FALIERO. 

What  mean  you  ?  is  not  the  offence  redoubled 
By  this  most  rank — I  will  not  say — acquittal, 
For  it  is  worse,  being  fufl  acknowledgment 
Of  the  offence,  and  leaving  it  unpunished  7 

DOGE. 
[t  is  redoubted,  but  not  now  by  him ; 


The  Forty  hath  decreed  a  month's  arrest — 
We  must  obey  the  Forty. 

BEB.TUCCIO    FALIEh-5. 

Obey  than  ! 
Who  hare  forgot  their  duty  to  the  sovereign  T 

DOGE. 

Why,  yes ; — boy,  you  perceive  it  then  at  last : 
Whether  as  fellow-citizen  who  sues 
For  justice,  or  as  sovereign  who  commands  it, 
They  have  defrauded  me  of  both  my  rights 
(For  here  the  sovereign  is  a  citizen); 
But,  notwithstanding,  harm  not  thou  a  hair 
Of  Steno's  head — he  shall  not  wear  it  long. 

BERTCCCIO    FALIERO. 

Not  twelve  hours  longer,  had"  you  left  to  me 
The  mode  and  means :  if  you  had  calmly  heard  DM 
I  never  meant  this  miscreant  should  escape, 
Bat  wish'd  you  to  repress  such  gusts  of  passion, 
That  we  more  surely  might  devise  together 
His  taking  oS 

DOGE. 

No,  nephew,  he  must  live  ; 
At  least,  just  now — a  life  so  vile  as  his 
Were  nothing  at  this  hour ;  in  th'  olden  time 
Some  sacrifices  ask'd  a  single  victim ; 
Great  expiations  had  a  hecatomb. 

BERTL'CCIO    FALIERO. 

Your  wishes  are  my  law  ;  and  vet  I  fain 
Woold  prove  to  you  how  near  unto  my  heart 
The  honour  of  our  house  must  ever  be. 

DOGE. 

Fear  nut ;  you  shall  have  time  and  place  of  proa!. 
But  be  net  thou  too  rash,  as  I  have  been. 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  own  anger  now ; 
I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

BERTCCCIO    FALIERO. 

Why,  that 's  my  uncle ! 
The  leader,  and  the  statesman,  and  the  chief 
Of  commonwealths,  and  sovereign  of  himself! 
I  wonder' d  to  perceive  you  so  forget 
All  prudence  in  your  fury,  at  these  years, 
Although  the 


DOCC. 

Ay,  think  upon  the  cause 
Forget  it  not : — when  you  lie  down  to  rest, 
Let  it  be  black  among  your  dreams ;  and  whea 
The  mom  returns,  so  let  it  stand  between 
The  sun  and  you,  as  an  iil-omen'd  cloud 
Upon-  a  summer-day  of  festival : 
So  will  it  stand  to  me ; — but  speak  not,  sur  not,— 
Leave  all  to  me ; — we  shafl  have  much  to  do, 
And  you  shall  have  a  part, — But  now  retire, 
T  is  fit  I  were  alone. 

BERTCCCIO    FALIERO. 

( Taking  up  mil  placing  the  ducal  tonne*  on  the  tab*) 

Ere  I  depart, 

I  pray  you  to  resume  what  you  have  spurn'd, 
TiSl  you  can  change  it  hapiy  for  a  crown. 
And  now  I  take  any  leave,  imploring  you 
In  all  things  to  rely  upon  my  duty 
As  doth  become  yotir  near  and  faithful  kinsman. 
And  not  less  loyal  citizen  and  subject. 

[Eiit  BERTCCCIO  FALIEB* 
DOGE  (««:'«.«). 
Adieu,  toy  worthy  nephew. — Hollow  bauble ! 

[Takntf  *p  J«e  aucnl  em 


248 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Besei  with  all  the  thorns  that  line  a  crown, 

Without  investing  the  insulted  brow 

With  the  all-swaying  majesty  of  kings ; 

Thou  idle,  gilded,  and  degraded  toy, 

L  2t  me  resume  thee  as  I  would  a  vizor.        [Pu&  it  on, 

How  my  brain  aches  beneath  thee  '  and  my  temples 

Throb  feverish  under  thy  dishonest  weight. 

Could  I  not  turn  thee  to  a  diadem  ? 

Could  I  not  shatter  the  Briarean  sceptre 

Which  in  this  hundred-handed  senate  rules, 

Making  the  people  nothing,  and  the  prince 

A  uageant  ?  In  my  life  I  have  achieved 

Tasks  no'  less  difficult — achieved  for  them 

Who  thus  repay  me ! — Can  I  not  requite  them? 

Oh,  for  one  year  !  Oh,  but  for  even  a  day 

Of  my  full  youth,  while  yet  my  body  served 

My  soul,  as  serves  the  generous  steed  his  lord ! 

I  would  have  dash'd  amongst  them,  asking  few 

In  aid  to  overthrow  these  swoln  patricians ; 

But  now  I  must  look  round  for  other  hands 

To  serve  this  hoary  head  ;  but  it  shall  pjan 

In  such  a  sort  as  will  not  leave  the  task 

Herculean,  though  as  yet 't  is  but  a  chaos 

Of  darkly-brooding  thoughts :  my  fancy  'a 

In  her  first  work,  more  nearly  to  the  light 

Holding  the  sleeping  images  of  things, 

For  the  selection  of  the  pausing  judgment— 

The  troops  are  few  in 

Enter  ViltCENZo. 

There  is  one  without 
Craves  audience  of  your  highness. 
DOGE. 

I  'm  unwell— 

1  can  see  no  i  ne,  not  even  a  patrician — 
Let  him  refer  his  business  to  the  council. 

YINCENZO. 

My  lord,  I  will  deliver  your  reply ; 

It  cannot  much  import — he 's  a  plebeian, 

The  master  of  a  galley,  I  believe. 

DOGE. 

How  !  did  you  say  the  patron  of  a  galley  7 
That  is — I  mean — a  servant  of  the  state : 
Admit  him,  he  may  be  on  public  service. 

[Exit  VISCENZO 

DOGE  (solus). 

This  patron  may  be  sounded  ;  I  will  try  him. 

I  know  the  people  to  be  discontented  ; 

They  have  cause,  since  Sapienza's  adverse  day, 

When  Genoa  conquer'd :  they  have  further  cause, 

Since  they  are  nothing  in  the  state,  and  in 

The  city  worse  than  nothing — mere  machines, 

To  serve  the  nobles'  most  patrician  pleasure. 

'Ifte  troops  have  long  arrears  of  pay,  oft  promised, 

And  murmur  deeply — any  hope  of  change 

\Vifi  draw  them  forward :  they  shall  pay  themselves 

With  plunder :  —but  the  priests — I  doubt  the  priesthood 

Will  not  be  with  us  ;  they  have  hated  me 

Since  that  rash  hour,  when,  madden'd  with  the  drone, 

mote  the  tardy  bishop  at  Treviso,1 
Quickening  his  holy  march :  yet,  ne'ertheless, 
They  may  be  won,  at  least  their  chief  at  Rcme, 
Hy  some  well-timed  concessions  ;  but,  above 
A.I1  things,  I  must  be  speedy ;  at  my  hour 
Uf  twihgnt,  little  light  of  life  remains. 
I'ould  '  free  Venice,  and  avenge  my  wiongs, 
n«d  lived  too  long,  and  willing'./  would  sleep 


Next  moment  with  my  sires ;   and,  wanting  this, 

Better  that  sixty  of  my  fourscore  years 

Had  been  already  where — how  soon,  I  care  not-  — 

The  whole  must  be  extinguish'd  ; — better  that 

They  ne'er  had  been,  than  drag  me  on  to  be 

The  thing  these  arch  oppressors  fain  would  make  me. 

Let  me  consider— of  efficient  troops 

There  are  three  thousand  posted  at 

Enter  YIHCEXZO  and  ISRAEL  BERTCCCIO. 
VINCEXZO. 

May  it  please 

Your  highness,  the  same  patron  whom  I  spake  of 
Is  here  to  crave  your  patience. 
DOGE. 

Leave  the  chamber, 
Vincenzo. — 

[Exit  VIWCESZO. 
Sir,  you  may  advance — what  would  you  7 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Redress. 

DOGE. 

Of  whom  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Of  God  and  of  the  Doge, 

DOGE. 

Alas !  my  friend,  you  seek  it  of  the  twain 
Of  least  respect  and  interest  in  Venice. 
You  must  address  the  council. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

'T  were  in  vain ; 
For  he  who  injured  me  is  one  of  them. 

DOGE. 
There 's  blood  upon  thy  face — how  came  it  there  7 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

'T  is  mine,  and  not  the  first  I  've  shed  for  Venice, 
But  the  first  shed  by  a  Venetian  hand : 
A  noble  smote  me. 

DOGE. 
Doth  he  live  7 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Not  long — 

But  for  thejiope  I  had  and  have,  that  you, 
My  prince,  yourself  a  soldier,  will  redress 
Him,  whom  the  laws  of  discipline  and  Venice 
Permit  not  to  protect  himself;  if  not — 
I  say  no  more. 

DOGE. 

But  something  you  would  do— 
Is  it  not  so  7 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  am  a  man,  my  lord. 

DOGE. 
Why,  so  is  he  who  smote  you. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

He  is  call'd  so ; 

Nay,  more,  a  noble  one — at  least,  in  Venice : 
But  since  he  hath  forgotten  that  I  am  one, 
And  treats  me  like  a  brute,  the  brute  may  turn-* 
'T  is  said  the  worm  will. 

DOGE. 

Say  his  name  and  lineagt  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTCCCIO. 

Barbaro. 

DOGE. 
What  was  the  cause,  or  the  pretext? 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

I  am  the  chief  of  the  arsenal,  employ'd 

At  present  in  repairing  certain  galleys 

But  roughly  used  by  the  Genoese  last  year. 

This  morning  comes  the  noble  Barbaro 

Full  of  reproof,  because  our  artisans 

Had  left  some  frivolous  order  of  his  house, 

T->  execute  the  state's  decree  :  I  dared 

To  justify  the  men — he  raised  his  hand  ; — 

Behold  my  blood !  the  first  time  it  e'er  flow'd 

Dishonourably. 

DOGE. 
Have  you  long  time  senred  ? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

80  long  as  to  remember  Zara's  siege, 

And  fight  beneath  the  chief  who  beat  the  Huns  there, 

Sometime  my  general,  now  the  Doge  Faliero. — 

DOOE. 

How  !  are  we  comrades  ? — the  state's  ducal  robes 
Sit  newly  on  me,  and  you  were  appointed 
Chief  of  the  arsenal  ere  I  came  from  Rome  ; 
So  that  I  recognised  you  not.    Who  placed  you  7 

rhe  late  Doge  ;  keeping  still  my  old  command 
As  pati  on  of  a  galley  :  my  new  office 
Was  given  as  the  reward  of  certain  scars 
(So  was  your  predecessor  pleased  to  say): 
I  little  thought  his  bounty  would  conduct  me 
To  his  accessor  as  a  helpless  plaintiff, 
At  least,  in  such  a  cause. 

DOGE. 
Are  you  much  hurt? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Irreparably  in  my  self-esteem. 
DOGS. 

Speak  out ;  fear  nothing :  being  stung  at  heart, 
What  would  you  do  to  be  revenged  on  this  man  ? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

That  which  I  dare  not  name,  and  yet  win  do. 

DOGE. 

Then  wherefore  came  you  here  ? 

ISRAEL   BERTCCCIO. 

I  come  (or  justice, 

Because  my  general  is  Doge,  and  will  not 
See  his  old  soldier  trampled  on.    Had  any, 
Save  Faliero,  fill'd  the  ducal  throne, 
This  blood  had  been  wash'd  out  in  other  blood. 

DOGE. 

You  come  to  me  for  justice — unto  me  ! 
The  Doge  of  Venice,  and  I  cannot  give  it  ; 
I  cannot  even  obtain  it — 't  was  denied 
To  me  most  solemnly  an  hour  ago. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

How  says  your  highness  ? 

DOGE. 

Steno  is  condemn'd 
To  a  month's  confinement, 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

What !  the  same  who  dam 
To  stain  the  ducal  throne  with  those  foul  words, 
That  have  cried  shame  to  every  ear  in  Venice  ? 

DOGE. 

Ay,  doubtless  they  have  echo'd  o'nr  the  arsenal, 
Keeping  due  time  with  every  hammer's  clink, 
As  &  good  jest  to  jolly  artisans  ; 
Or  miking  chorus  to  the  creaking  oar, 
Z  37 


n  the  vile  tune  of  every  galley  slave, 
Vho,  as  he  sung  the  merry  stave,  exulted 
le  was  not  a  shamed  dotard,  like  the  Do<>e 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

s  it  possible  ?  a  month's  imprisonment  ! 
No  more  for  Steno  ? 

DOGE. 

You  have  heard  the  offence, 
And  now  you  know  his  punishment ;  and  then 
t'ou  ask  redress  of  me !  Go  to  the  Forty, 
Vho  pass'd  the  sentence  upon  Michel  Steno ; 
fhey  '11  do  as  much  by  Barbaro,  no  doubt. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Ah  !  dared  I  speak  my  feelings  ! 
DOGE. 

Give  them  breath. 
Vline  have  no  further  outrage  to  endure. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Then,  in  a  word,  it  rests  but  on  your  word 
To  punish  and  avenge — I  will  not  say 
My  petty  wrong,  for  what  is  a  mere  blow, 
However  vile,  to  such  a  thing  as  I  am  ? — 
But  the  base  insult  done  your  state  and  person. 

DOGE. 

You  overrate  my  power,  which  is  a  pageant. 
This  cap  is  not  the  monarch's  crown ;  these  robe* 
Might  move  compassion,  like  a  beggar's  rags  ; 
Say,  more,  a  beggar's  are  his  own,  and  these 
But  lent  to  the  poor  puppet,  who  must  play 
[is  part  with  all  its  empire  in  this  ermine. 

ISKAF.L  BEHTUCCIO. 

Wouldst  thou  be  king  ? 

DOGE. 

f  Yes— of  a  happy  people. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Wouldst  thou  be  sovereign  lord  of  Venice  ? 


If  that  the  people  shared  that  sovereignty, 

So  that  nor  they  nor  I  were  further  slaves 

To  this  o'ergrown  aristocratic  hydra, 

The  poisonous  heads  of  whose  envenom'd  body         ' 

Have  breathed  a  pestilence  upon  us  alL 

ISRAEL  BE1TI.-CCIO. 

Yet,  thou  wast  bom  and  still  hast  lived  patrician. 

DOGE. 

In  evil  hour  was  I  so  born  ;  my  birth 

Hath  made  me  Doge  to  be  insulted :  but 

I  lived  and  toil'd  a  soldier  and  a  servan. 

Of  Venice  and  her  people,  not  the  senate ; 

Their  good  and  my  own  honour  were  my  guerdon. 

I  have  fought  and  bled ;  commanded,  ay,  and  conqu*  t 

Have  made  and  marr'd  peace  oft  in  embassies, 

As  it  might  chance  to  be  our  country's  'vantage ; 

Have  traversed  land  and  sea  in  constant  duty, 

Through  almost  sixty  years,  and  still  for  Venice, 

My  fathers'  and  my  birth-place,  whose  dear  spuf*, 

Rising  at  distance  o'er  the  blue  Lagoon, 

It  wan  reward  enough  for  me  to  view 

Once  more  ;  but  not  for  any  knot  of  men. 

Nor  sect,  nor  faction,  did  I  bleed  or  sweat ! 

Bat  would  you  know  why  I  have  done  all  thai  t 

Ask  of  the  bleeding  pelican  why  she 

Hath  ripp'd  her  bosom  ?  Had  the  bird  a  voi<«. 

She  'd  tell  thee  't  was  for  aU  her  b'ttle  ooet. 


250 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

And  vet  they  made  thee  Duke. 

DOGE. 

They  made  me  so ; 

I  sought  it  not ;  the  flattering  fetters  met  me 
Returning  from  my  Roman  embassy 
And  never  having  hitherto  refused 
Toil,  charge,  or  duty  for  the  s!ate,  I  did  not, 
At  these  late  years,  decline  what  was  the  highest 
Of  all  in  seeming,  but  of  all  most  base 
In  what  we  have  to  do  and  to  endure : 
Bear  witness  for  me  thou,  my  injured  subject, 
When  I  can  nei'her  right  myself  nor  thee. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

You  shall  do  both,  if  you  possess  the  will, 
And  many  thousands  more  not  less  oppress'd, 
Who  wait  but  for  a  signal — will  you  give  it  ? 

DOGE.  ' 

You  speak  in  riddles. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Which  shall  soon  be  read, 
At  peril  of  my  life,  if  you  disdain  not 
To  lend  a  patient  ear. 

DOGE. 
Say  on. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Not  thou, 

Nor  I  alone,  are  injured  and  abused, 
Contemn'd  and  trampled  on,  but  the  whole  people 
Groan  with  the  strong  conception  of  their  wrongs : 
The  foreign  soldiers  in  the  senate's  pay 
Are  discontented  for  their  long  arrears  ; 
The  native  mariners  and  civic  troops 
Feel  with  their  friends ;  for  who  is  he  amongst  them 
Whose  brethren,  parents,  children,  wives,  or  sisters, 
Have,  not  partook  oppression,  or  pollution, 
From  the  patricians  ?  And  the  hopeless  war 
Against  the  Genoese,  which  is  still  maintain' J 
With  the  plebeian  blood,  and  treasure  wrung 
From  their  hard  earnings,  has  inflamed  them  further : 
Even  now — but  I  forget  that,  speaking  thus, 
1'erhups  I  pass  the  sentence  of  my  death! 

DOGE. 

And,  suffering  what  thou  hast  done,  fear'st  thou  death  ? 
Be  silent  then,  and  live  on,  to  be  beaten 
By  those  for  whom  thou  hast  bled. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

No,  I  will  speak 

At  every  hazard  ;  and  if  Venice'  Doge 
Shouid  turn  delator,  be  the  shame  on  him, 
And  sorrow  too  :  for  he  will  lose  far  more 
Than  I. 

POGE. 
from  me  fear  nothing  ;  out  with  it. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Know,  then,  iliat  there  arc  met  and  sworn  in  secret 

A  hand  of  brethren,  valiant  hearts  and  true ; 

MCI-  i»iio  have  proved  all  fortunes,  and  have  long 

Gri<  ved  ovei  that  of  Venice,  and  have  right 

T«  -lo  so  •  having  served  her  in  all  climes, 

Anil  having  rescued  her  from  foreign  foes, 

Would  do  the  same  from  those  within  her  walls. 

They  aie  not  numerous,  nor  yet  too  few 

For  the.r  great  purpose  ;  they  have  arms,  and  means, 

•Itir- he?.t*  and  hopes,  and  faith  and  patient  courage. 


DOGE. 

For  what  then  do  they  pause  ? 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

An  hour  to  strike. 
DOGE  (aside). 
Saint  Mark's  shal.  strike  that  hour ! 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

I  now  have  placed 

My  life,  my  honour,  all  my  earthly  hopes 
Within  thy  power,  but  in  the  firm  belief 
That  injuries  like  ours,  sprung  from  one  cause, 
Will  generate  one  vengeance :  should  it  be  so, 
Be  our  chief  now— our  sovereign  hereafter 

DOGE. 
How  many  are  ye  ? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

I  '11  not  answer  that 
Till  I  am  answer'd. 

DOGE. 
How,  Sir  !  do  you  menace  ? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

No ;  I  affirm.     I  have  betray'd  myself; 

But  there 's  no  torture  in  the  mystic  wells 

Which  undermine  your  palace,  nor  in  those 

Not  less  appalling  cells,  "  the  leaden  roofs," 

To  force  a  single  name  from  me  of  others. 

The  Pozzi  and  the  Piombi  were  in  vain  ; 

They  might  wring  blood  from  me,  but  treachery  nerd, 

And  I  would  pass  the  fearful  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,'" 

Joyous  that  mine  must  be  the  last  that  e'er 

Would  echo  o'er  the  Stygian  wave  which  flows 

Between  the  murderers  and  the  murder'd,  washing 

The  prison  and  the  palace  walls :  there  are 

Those  who  would  live  to  think  on 't  and  avenge  me. 

DOGE. 

If  such  your  power  and  purpose,  why  come  here 
To  sue  for  justice,  being  in  the  course 
To  do  yourself  due  right  ? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Because  the  man 

Who  claims  protection  from  authority, 
Showing  his  confidence  and  his  submission 
To  that  authority,  can  hardly  be 
Suspected  of  combining  to  destroy  it. 
Had  I  sate  down  too  humbly  with  this  Wow, 
A  moody  brow  and  mutter'd  threats  had  made  me 
A  mark'd  man  to  the  Forty's  inquisition  ? 
But  loud  complaint,  however  angrily 
It  shapes  its  phrase,  is  little  to  be  fear'd, 
And  less  distrusted.     But,  besides  al!  this, 
I  had  another  reason. 

DOGE. 
What  was  that  ? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Some  rumours  that  the  Doge  was  greatly  movea 

By  the  reference  of  the  Avogadori 

Of  Michel  Steno's  sentence  to  the  Forty 

Had  reach'd  me.     I  had  served  you,  honour'd  /M*, 

And  felt  that  you  were  dangerously  insulted. 

Being  of  an  order  of  such  spirits  as 

Requite  tenfold  both  good  and  evil ;   't  was 

My  wish  to  prove  and  urge  you  to  redress. 

Now  you  know  all ;  and  that  I  speaV  th»  **uth. 

My  peril  be  the  proof. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


251 


DOGE. 

You  have  deeply  ventured ; 
But  all  mus*  do  so  who  would  greatly  win : 
Thus  far  I  '11  answer  you — your  secret's  safe. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

And  is  this  all  ? 

DOCG. 

Unless  will:  all  entrusted, 
What  would  you  have  me  answer  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  would  have  you 
Trust  him  who  leaves  his  life  in  trust  with  you. 

DOGE. 

But  I  must  know  your  plan,  your  names,  and  numbers ; 
The  last  may  then  be  doubled,  and  the  former 
Matured  and  strengthen'd. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

We  're  enough  already ; 
You  are  the  sole  ally  we  covet  now. 

DOGE. 
But  bring  me  to  the  knowledge  of  your  chiefs. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

That  shall  be  done,  upon  your  formal  pledge 
To  keep  the  faith  that  we  will  pledge  to  you. 

DOGE. 
When?  where? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

This  night  I  '11  bring  to  your  apartment 
Two  of  the  principals ;  a  greater  number 
Were  hazardous. 

DOGE. 

Stay,  I  must  think  of  this. 
What  if  I  were  to  trust  myself  amongst  you, 
And  leave  the  palace'/ 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

You  must  come  alone. 

DOGE. 

With  but  my  nephew. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Not  were  he  your  son. 
DOGE. 

Wretch !  darest  thou  name  my  son  ?  He  died  in  arms, 
At  Sapienza,  for  this  faithless  state. 
Oh !  that  he  were  alive,  and  I  in  ashes ! 
Or  that  he  were  alive  ere  I  be  ashes! 
should  not  need  the  dubious  aid  of  strangers. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Not  one  of  all  those  strangers  whom  thou  doubtest 

But  will  regard  thee  with  a  filial  feeling, 

So  that  thou  keep'st  a  father's  faith  with  them. 

DOGE. 
The  die  is  cast.    Where  is  the  place  of  meeting  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

At  midnight  I  will  be  alone  and  mask'd 
Where'er  your  highness  pleases  to  direct  me, 
To  wait  your  coming,  and  conduct  jou  where 
You  shall  receive  our  homage,  and  pronounce 
Upon  our  project. 

DO*»F. 

At  wh?t  hcur  arises 
flic1  moon  ? 

ISR  •>*•*,    BERTUCCIO. 

Late;  j.it  the  slmosphere  is  thick  and  dusky; 
T  i»  »  saur-'o, 

DOGE. 
A>  Hie  midnight  hour  then 


Near  to  the  church  where  sleep  my  sires  ;  the  same. 

Twin-named  fr^m  the  apostles  John  and  Paul  •      * 

A  gondola,5  with  one  oar  only,  will 

Lurk  in  the  narrow  channel  which  glides  by. 

Be  there. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  will  not  fail. 

DOGE. 

And  now  retire 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

In  the  full  hope  your  highness  will  not  falter 

In  your  great  purpose.     Prince,  I  take  my  leave. 

[Exit  ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 
DOGE  (solus). 

At  midnight,  by  the  church  Saints  John  and  Pan., 
Where  sleep  my  noble  fathers,  I  repair — 
To  what  ?  to  hold  a  council  in  the  dark 
With  common  ruffians  leagued  to  ruin  states ! 
And  will  not  my  great  sires  leap  from  the  vault, 
Where  lie  two  Doges  who  preceded  me, 
And  pluck  me  down  amongst  them  ?  Would  they  couVl 
For  I  should  rest  in  honour  with  the  honour'd. 
Alas !  I  must  not  think  of  them,  but  those 
Who  have  made  me  thus  unworthy  of  a  name, 
Noble  and  brave  as  aught  of  consular 
On  Roman  marbles:  but  I  will  redeem  it 
Back  to  its  antique  lustre  in  our  annals, 
By  sweet  revenge  on  all  that's  base  in  Venice, 
And  freedom  to  the  rest,  or  leave  it  black 
To  all  the  growing  calumnies  of  time, 
Which  never  spare  the  fame  of  him  who  fails, 
But  try  the  Csesar,  or  the  Catiline, 
By  the  true  touchstone  of  desert — success. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Ducal  Palace 
ANGIOLINA  (wife  of  the  Doge)  and  MARIA** *. 

ANGIOLINA. 

What  was  the  Doge's  answer? 

KIARIAKNA. 

That  he  was 

That  moment  summon'd  to  a  conference  ; 
But 't  is  by  this  time  ended.     I  perceived 
Not  long  ago  the  senators  embarking  ; 
And  the  last  gondola  may  now  be  seen 
Gliding  into  the  throng  of  barks  which  stud 
The  glittering  waters. 

ANGIOLIWA. 

Would  he  were  retum'd ' 
He  has  been  much  disquieted  of  late ; 
And  Time,  which  has  not  tamed  his  fiery  spiri* 
Nor  yet  enfeebled  even  his  mortal  frame, 
Which  seems  to  be  more  no>irish'd  by  a  soul 
So  quick  and  restless  that  it  would  consume 
Less  hardy  clay — Time  has  but  little  powei 
On  his  resentments  or  his  griefs.     Unlike 
To  other  spirits  of  his  order,  who, 
In  the  first  burst  of  passion,  pour  away 
Their  wrath  or  sorrow,  all  things  wear  \n  him 
An  aspect  of  eternity :  his  thoughts, 
His  feelings,  passious,  good  or  evil,  all 
Have  nothing  of  old  age  ;  and  his  boia  brox 
Bears  but  the  scars  of  mind,  iae  incugnu  of  VMI* 


2.'-2 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Not  theii  decrepitude     and  he  of  late 
Has  been  inoie  agitated  than  his  wont. 
Would  lie  were  com".  I  for  I  alone  have  power 
Upon  his  troubled  spirit. 

MARIANNA. 

It  is  true, 

His  highness  has  of  late  been  greatly  moved 
By  the  affront  of  Steno,  and  with  cause ; 
But  the  offender  doubtless  even  now 
Is  doom'd  to  expiate  his  rash  insult  with 
Such  chastisement  as  will  enforce  respect 
To  female  virtue,  and  to  noble  blood. 

ANOIOLINA. 

*T  was  a  gross  insult ;  but  I  heed  it  not 
For  the  rash  scorner's  falsehood  in  itself, 
But  for  the  effect,  the  deadly  deep  impression 
Which  it  has  made  upon  Faliero's  soul, 
The  proud,  the  fiery,  the  austere — austere 
To  all  save  me  :  I  tremble  when  I  think 
To  what  it  may  conduct. 

MARIAN!»A. 

Assuredly 
The  Doge  cannot  suspect  you  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Suspect  me  ! 

Why  Steno  dared  not :  when  he  scrawl'd  his  lie, 
Grovelling  by  stealth  in  the  moon's  glimmering  light, 
His  own  still  conscience  smote  him  for  the  act, 
And  every  shadow  on  the  walls  frown' d  shame 
Upon  his  coward  calumny. 

MARIANNA. 

'T  were  fit 
He  should  be  punishM  grievously. 

ANGIOLINA. 

He  is  so. 

MARIANNA. 

What !  is  the  sentence  pass'd  ?  is  he  condemn'd  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  know  not  that,  but  he  has  been  detected. 

MARIANNA. 

And  deem  you  this  enough  for  such  foul  scorn  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

}  would  not  be  a  judge  in  my  own  cause, 
*Jor  do  I  know  what  sense  of  punishment 
May  reach  the  soul  of  ribalds  such  as  Sleno ; 
But  if  his  insults  sink  no  deeper  in 
The  minds  of  the  inquisitors  than  they 
Have  ruffled  mine,  he  will,  for  all  acquittance, 
Be  left  to  his  own  shamelessness  or  shame. 

MARIANNA. 

Seme  sacrifice  is  due  to  slander'd  virtue. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Why,  what  is  virtue  if  it  needs  a  victim  ? 
Or  if  it  mast  depend  upon  men's  words? 
The  dying  Roman  said,  "  't  was  but  a  name :" 
It  were  indeed  no  more,  if  human  breath 
Could  make  or  mar  it. 

MARIANNA.. 

Yet  full  many  a  dame, 

Stainless  and  faithful,  would  feel  all  the  wrong 
Of  sucV  a  slander  •  and  less  rigid  ladies, 
Such  a»  abound  i.i  Venice,  would  be  loud 
\na  all-inexorable  in  their  cry 
If  or  "isticc. 

AXGIOLINA. 

This  but  proves  it  is  the  name 


And  not  the  quality  they  prize ;  the  first 

Have  found  it  a  hard  task  to  hold  their  honour, 

If  they  require  it  to  be  blazon'd  forth ; 

And  those  who  have  not  kept  it  seek  its  seeming 

As  they  would  look  out  for  an  ornament 

Of  which  they  feel  the  want,  but  not  because 

They  think  it  so ;  they  live  in  others'  thoughts, 

And  would  seem  honest  as  they  must  seem  fair 

MARIANNA. 

You  have  strange  thoughts  for  a  patrician  dame. 

ANOIOLINA.  . 

And  yet  they  were  my  father's ;  with  his  name. 
The  sole  inheritance  he  left. 

MARIANNA. 

You  -,vant  none ; 
Wife  to  a  prince,  the  chief  of  the  republic. 

ANOIOLINA. 

I  should  have  sought  none,  though  a  peasant's 
But  feel  not  less  the  love  and  gratitude 
Due  to  my  father,  who  bestow'd  my  hand 
Upon  his  early,  tried,  and  trusted  friend, 
The  Count  V&l  di  Marino,  now  our  Doge. 

MARIANNA. 

And  with  that  hand  did  he  bestow  your  heart? 

ANGIOLINA. 

He  did  so,  or  it  had  not  been  bestow'd. 

MARIANNA. 

Yet  this  strange  disproportion  in  your  years, 
And,  let  me  add,  disparity  of  tempers, 
Might  make  the  world  doubt  whether  such  an  union 
Could  make  you  wisely,  permanently  happy. 

ANOIOLINA. 

The  world  will  think  with  worldlings :  but  my  heart 
Has  still  been  in  my  duties,  which  are  many, 
But  never  difficult. 

MARIANNA. 

And  do  you  love  him  ? 

ANOIOLINA. 

I  love  all  noble  qualities  which  merit 

Love,  and  I  loved  my  father,  who  first  taught  me 

To  single  out  what  we  should  love  in  others, 

And  to  subdue  all  tendency  to  lend 

The  best  and  purest  feelings  of  our  nature 

To  baser  passions.     He  bestow'd  my  hand 

Upon  Fahero :  he  had  known  him  noble, 

Brave,  generous,  rich  in  all  the  qualities 

Of,  soldier,  citizen,  and  friend  ;  in  all 

Such  have  I  found  him  as  my  father  said. 

His  faults  are  those  that  dwell  in  the  high  bosoms 

Of  men  who  have  commanded  ;  too  much  pride, 

And  the  deep  passions  fiercely  foster'd  by 

The  uses  of  patricians,  and  a  life 

Spent  in  the  storms  of  state  and  war ;  and  also 

From  the  quick  sense  of  honour,  which  becomes 

A  duty  to  a  certain  sign,  a  vice 

When  overstrain'd,  and  this  I  fear  in  him. 

And  then  he  has  been  rash  from  his  y»uth  upwards, 

Yet  temper'd  by  redeeming  nobleness 

In  such  sort,  that  the  wariest  of  republics 

Has  lavished  all  its  chief  employs  upon  him, 

From  his  first  fight  to  his  last  embassy, 

From  which  on  his  return  the  dukedom  met  him. 

MARIANNA. 

But,  previous  to  this  marriage,  had  your  heart 

Ne'er  beat  for  any  of  the  noble  youth, 

Such  as  in  years  had  been  more  meet  to  match 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


Beauty  like  yours  ?  or  since  have  you  ne'er  seen 
One,  who,  if  your  fair  hand  were  still  to  give, 
Might  now  pretend  to  Loredano's  daughter  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  answer' d  your  first  question  when  I  said 
married. 

MARIANNA. 

And  the  second  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Needs  no  answer. 

MARIANNA. 

I  pray  you  pardon,  if  I  have  offended. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  feel  no  wrath,  but  some  surprise  :  I  knew  not 
That  wedded  bosoms  could  permit  themselves 
To  ponder  upon  what  they  now  might  choose, 
Or  aught,  save  their  past  choice. 

MARIANNA. 

'T  is  their  past  choice 

That  far  too  often  makes  them  deem  they  would 
Now  choose  more  wisely,  could  they  cancel  it. 

ANGIOLINA. 

It  may  be  so.     I  knew  not  of  such  thoughts. 

MARIANNA. 

Here  comes  the  Doge — shall  I  retire  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

It  may 

Be  better  you  should  quit  me ;  he  seems  wrapt 
in  thought. — How  pensively  he  takes  his  way ! 

[Exit  MARIANNA. 
.Enter  the  DOGE  and  PIETRO. 

DOGE  (musing). 

There  is  a  certain  Philip  Calendaro 
Now  in  the  arsenal,  who  holds  command 
Of  eighty  men,  and  has  great  influence 
Besides  on  all  the  spirits  of  his  comrades. 
This  man,  I  hear,  is  bold  and  popular, 
Sudden  and  daring,  and  yet  secret :  't  would 
Be  well  that  he  were  won :  I  needs  must  hope 
That  Israel  Bertuccio  has  secured  him, 
But  fain  would  be 

PIETRO. 

My  lord,  pray  pardon  me 
For  breaking  in  upon  your  meditation  ; 
The  Senator  Bertuccio,  your  kinsman, 
Charged  rfie  to  follow  and  inquire  your  pleasure 
To  fix  an  hour  when  he  may  speak  with  you. 

DOGE. 

At  sunset. — Stay  a  moment — let  me  see — 
Say  in  the  second  hour  of  night.  [Exit  PIETRO. 

ANGIOLINA. 

My  lord! 

DOGE. 

My  dearest  child,  forgive  me — why  delay 
So  long  approaching  me  ? — I  saw  you  not 

ANGIOLINA. 

You  were  absorb'd  in  thought,  and  he  who  now 
Has  parted  from  you  might  have  words  of  weight 
To  bear  you  from  the  senate. 
DOGE. 

From  the  senate  7 

ANGIOLINA. 

would  not  interrupt  him  in  his  duty 
\nd  theirs. 

DOGE. 

The  senate's  duty!  you  mistake  ; 
"T  ia  we  who  owe  all  service  to  the  senate. 

kl 


ANGIOLINA. 

I  thought  the  Duse  had  held  command  in  Venice. 

DOGE. 

He  shall.— But  let  that  pass.— We  will  b«  jocuna. 
How  fares  it  with  you  ?  have  you  been  abroad  ? 
The  day  is  overcast,  but  the  calm  wave 
Favours  the  gondolier's  light  skimming  oar; 
Or  have  you  held  a  levee  of  your  friends  ? 
Or  has  your  music  made  you  solitary  ? 
Say — is  there  aught  that  you  would  will  within 
The  little  sway  now  left  the  Duke  ?  or  aught 
Of  fitting  splendour,  or  of  honest  pleasure, 
Social  or  lonely,  that  would  glad  your  heart, 
To  compensate  for  many  a  dull  hour,  wasted 
On  an  old  man  oft  moved  with  many  cares  1 
Speak,  and  'l  is  done. 

ANGIOLINA. 

You  're  ever  kind  to  me— 
I  have  nothing  to  desire,  or  to  request, 
Except  to  see  you  otlener  and  calmer. 

DOGE. 
Calmer  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Ay,  calmer,  my  good  lord, — Ah,  why 
Do  you  still  keep  apart,  and  walk  alone, 
And  let  such  strong  emotions  stamp  your  brow, 
As,  not  betraying  their  full  import,  yet 
Disclose  too  much  7 

DOGE. 

Disclose  too  much  I— of  what ' 
What  is  there  to  disclose  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

A  heart  so  ill 
At  ease. 

DOGE. 

'T  is  nothing,  child. — But  in  the  state 
You  know  what  daily  cares  oppress  all  those 
Who  govern  this  precarious  commonwealth  ; 
Now  suffering  from  the  Genoese  without, 
And  malcontents  within — 't  is  this  which  makes  m» 
More  pensive  arxl  less  tranquil  than  my  wont. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yet  this  existed  long  before,  and  never 
Till  in  these  late  days  did  I  see  you  thus. 
Forgive  me :  there  is  something  at  your  heart 
More  than  the  mere  discharge  of  public  duties, 
Which  long  use  and  a  talent  like  to  yours 
Have  renderM  light,  nay,  a  necessity, 
To  keep  your  mind  from  stagnating.  'T  is  not 
In  hostile  states,  nor  perils,  thus  to  shake  you  : 
You,  who  have  stood  all  storms  and  never  sunk 
And  climb'd  up  to  the  pinnacle  of  power, 
And  never  fainted  by  the  way,  and  stand 
Upon  it,  and  can  look  down  steadily 
Along  the  depth  beneath,  and  ne'er  feel  dizzy. 
Were  Genoa's  galleys  riding  in  the  port, 
Were  civil  fury  raging  in  Saint  Mark's, 
You  are  not  to  be  wrought  on,  but  would  fall, 
As  you  have  risen,  with  an  unalter'd  brow: 
Your  feelings  now  are  of  a  different  kind ; 
Something  has  stung  your  pride,  not  patriotism. 

DOGE. 
Pride!  Angiolina?  Alas!  none  is  left  me 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yea — the  same  sin  that  overthrew 
And  of  all  sini  most  easily  beset* 


254 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Mortals  Ine  n-»r»-?t  to  the  angelic  nature : 
The  vilo  are  '»nly  vain  ;  the  great  are  proud. 

DOGE. 

I  had  the  pnde  of  honour,  of  your  honour, 
Deep  at  my  heart — But  let  us  change  the  theme. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Ah  no ! — As  I  have  ever  shared  your  kindness 
In  all  things  else,  let  me  not  be  shut  out 
From  your  distress  :  were  it  of  public  import, 
You  know  I  never  sought,  would  never  seek 
To  win  a  word  from  you ;  but  feeling  now 
Your  grief  is  private,  it  belongs  to  me 
To  lighten  or  divide  it.     Since  the  day 
When  foolish  Steno's  ribaldry,  detected, 
Unfix'd  your  quiet,  you  are  greatly  changed, 
And  I  would  soothe  you  back  to  what  you  were. 

DOGE. 

To  what  I  was  ! — Have  you  heard  Steno's  sentence  1 

ANGIOLINA. 

No. 

DOGE. 

A  month's  arrest. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Is  it  not  enough  7 

DOGE. 

Enough ! — Yes,  for  a  drunken  galley  slave, 
Who,  stung  by  stripes,  may  murmur  at  his  master ; 
But  not  for  a  deliberate,  false,  cool  villain, 
Who  stains  a  lady's  and  a  prince's  honour, 
Even  on  the  throne  of  his  authority. 

ANGIOLINA. 

There  seems  to  be  enough  in  the  conviction 
Ol  a  patrician  guilty  of  a  falsehood : 
A-  other  punishment  were  light  unto 
His  loss  of  honour. 

DOGE. 

Such  men  have  no  honour; 
They  have  but  their  vile  lives — and  these  are  spared. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Fou  would  not  have  him  die  for  this  offence  1 

DOGE. 

Not  now  : — being  stiil  alive,  I  'd  have  him  live 
Long  as  he  can  ;  he  has  ceased  to  merit  death ; 
The  guilty  saved  hath  damn'd  his  hundred  judges, 
And  he  is  pure,  for  now  his  crime  is  theirs. 

ANOIOLINA. 

Oh  !  had  this  false  and  flippant  libeller 
Shed  his  young  blood  for  his  absurd  lampoon, 
Ne'er  from  that  moment  could  this  breast  have  known 
A  joyous  hour,  or  dreamless  slumber  more. 

DOGE. 

Does  not  the  law  of  Heaven  say  blood  for  blood  1 
And  he  who  taints  kills  more  than  he  who  sheds  it. 
Is  it  the  pain  of  blows,  or  shame  of  blows, 
That  makes  such  deadly  to  the  sense  of  man  1 
Do  not  the  laws  of  man  say  blood  for  honour  1 
And  !ess  than  honour,  for  a  little  gold  1 
Say  not  tne  laws  ol  nations  blood  for  treason? 
Is  't  nothing  to  have  fill'd  these  veins  with  poison 
For  their  once  healthful  current?  is  it  nothing 
To  have  stain'd  your  name  and  mine?  the  noblest  names? 
Is  't  nothing  to  have  brought  into  contempt 
A  prince  before  his  people  7  to  have  fail'd 
In  the  respect  accorded  by  nankind 
To  youth  in  woman,  and  old  age  it:  man  ? 
To  virtue  ju  your  >ex,  and  dignity 


[n  ours  ? — But  let  them  IOOK  to  it  who  have  saved  him 

ANOIOLINA. 

Heaven  bids  us  to  forgive  our  enemies. 

DOGE. 

Doth  Heaven  forgive  her  own  ?  Is  Satan  saved 
From  wrath  eternal  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Do  not  speak  thus  wildly— 
Heaven  will  alike  forgive  you  and  your  foes. 

DOGE. 
Amen !  May  Heaven  forgive  them. 

ANGIOLINA. 

And  will  you  7 

DOGE. 

Yes,  when  they  are  in  heaven ! 

ANGIOLIXA. 

And  not  till  then  7 
DOGE. 

What  matters  my  forgiveness  ?  an  old  man's, 
Worn  out,  scorn'd,  spurn'd,  abused ;  what  matters  the 
My  pardon  more  than  my  resentment?  both 
Being  weak  and  worthless  ?  I  have  lived  too  long. 
But  let  us  change  the  argument. — My  child ! 
My  injured  wife,  the  child  of  Loredano, 
The  brave,  the  chivalrous,  how  little  deem'd 
Thy  father,  wedding  thee  unto  his  friend, 
That  he  was  linking  thee  to  shame  ! — Alas 
Shame  without  sin,  for  thou  art  faultless.  Hadst  ui« 
But  had  a  different  husband,  any  husband 
In  Venice  save  the  Doge,  this  blight,  this  brand, 
This  blasphemy  had  never  fallen  upon  thee. 
So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good,  so  pure, 
To  suffer  this,  and  yet  be  unavenged ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

[  am  too  well  avenged,  for  you  still  love  me, 
And  trust,  and  honour  me  ;  and  all  men  know 
That  you  are  just,  and  I  am  true :  what  more 
Could  I  require,  or  you  command  7 

D0QX. 

»T  is  well, 

And  may  be  better ;  but  whate'er  betide, 
Be  thou  at  least  kind  to  my  memory. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Why  speak  you  thus  ? 

DOGE. 

It  is  no  matter  why , 
But  I  would  still,  whatever  others  think, 
Have  your  respect  both  now  and  in  my  grave. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Why  should  you  doubt  it?  has  it  ever  fail'd  ? 

DOGE. 

Come  hither,  child ;  I  would  a  word  with  you. 
Your  father  was  my  friend  ;  unequal  fortune 
Made  him  my  debtor  for  some  courtesies, 
Which  bind  the  good  more  firmly :  when  oppres- 
With  his  last  malady,  he  will'd  our  union  • 
It  was  not  to  repay  me,  long  repaid 
Before  by  his  great  loyalty  in  friendship  ; 
His  object  was  to  place  your  orphan  beauty 
In  honourable  safety  from  the  perils 
Which,  in  this  scorpion  nest  of  vice,  assail 
A  lonely  ai.J  undower'd  maid.     I  did  not 
Think  with  him,  but  would  not  oppose  the  thougl* 
Which  soothed  his  death-bed. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  have  not  forgotten 
The  nobleness  with  which  you  bade  me  speak, 


MARINO  FALiERO. 


255 


tf  my  young  heart  held  any  preference 
Which  would  have  made  me  happier ;  nor  your  offer 
To  make  my  dowry  equal  to  the  rank 
Of  .aught  in  Venice,  and  forego  all  claim 
My  father's  last  injunction  gave  you. 
DOGE. 

Thus, 

'T  was  not  a  foclish  dotard's  vile  caprice, 
Nor  the  false  edge  of  aged  appetite, 
Which  made  me  covetous  of  girlish  beauty, 
And  a  young  bride ;  for  in  my  fieriest  youth 
I  sway'd  such  passions  ;  nor  was  this  my  age, 
Infected  with  that  leprosy  of  lust 
Which  taints  the  hoariest  years  of  vicious  men, 
Making  them  ransack  to  the  very  last 
The  dregs  of  pleasure  for  their  vanish'd  joys ; 
Or  buy  in  selfish  marriage  some  young  victim, 
Too  helpless  to  refuse  a  state  that 's  honest, 
Too  feeling  not  to  know  herself  a  wretch. 
Our  wedlock  was  not  of  this  sort ;  you  had 
Freedom  from  me  to  choose,  and  urged  in  answer 
Your  father's  choice. 

ANGIOLIXA. 

I  did  so ;  I  would  do  so 

In  face  of  earth  and  heaven  ;  for  I  have  never 
Repented  for  my  sake  ;  sometimes  for  yours, 
In  pondering  o'er  your  late  disquietudes. 

DOGE. 

I  knew  my  heart  would  never  treat  you  harshly ; 
I  knew  my  days  could  not  disturb  you  long ; 
And  then  the  daughter  of  my  earliest  friend, 
His  worthy  daughter,  free  to  choose  again 
Wealthier  and  wiser,  in  the  ripest  bloom 
Of  womanhood,  more  skilful  to  select 
By  passing  these  probationary  years ; 
Inheriting  a  prince's  name  and  riches ; 
Secured,  by  the  short  penance  of  enduring 
An  old  man  for  some  summers,  against  all 
That  law's  chicane  or  envious  kinsmen  might 
Have  urged  against  her  right :  my  best  friend's  child 
Would  choose  more  fitly  in  respect  of  years, 
And  not  less  truly  in  a  faithful  heart. 

ANGIOLINA. 

My  lord,  I  look'd  but  to  my  father's  wishes, 

Hallow'd  by  his  last  words,  and  to  my  heart 

For  doing  all  its  duties,  and  replying 

With  faith  to  him  with  whom  I  was  affianced. 

Ambitious  hopes  ne'er  cross'd  my  dreams ;  and,  should 

The  hour  you  speak  of  come,  it  will  be  seen  so. 

DOGE. 

I  do  believe  you  ;  and  I  know  you  true: 
For  love,  romantic  love,  which  in  my  youth 
I  knew  to  be  illusion,  and  ne'er  saw 
Lasting,  but  often  fatal,  it  had  been 
No  lure  for  me,  in  my  most  passionate  days, 
And  could  not  be  so  now,  did  such  exist. 
But  such  respect,  and  mildly  paid  regard 
As  a  true  feeling  for  your  welfare,  and 
A  free  compliance  with  all  honest  wishes ; 
A  kindness  to  your  virtues,  watchfulness 
Not  shown,  but  shadowing  o'er  such  little  failing 
As  youth  is  apt  in  ;  so  as  not  to  check 
Rashly,  hut  win  you  from  them  ere  you  knew 


And  not  a  doting  hor.iage — friendship,  faiih — 
Such  estimation  in  your  eyes  as  these. 
Might  claim,  I  hoped  for. 

ANGIOLIXA. 

And  have  ever  ha... 
DOGE. 

[  think  so.     For  the  difference  in  our  years, 
You  knew  it,  choosing  me,  and  chose :  I  trusted 
Not  to  my  qualities,  nor  would  have  faith 
In  such,  nor  outward  ornaments  of  nature, 
Were  I  still  in  my  five-and-twenlieth  spring: 
I  trusted  to  the  blood  of  Loredano, 
Pure  in  your  veins  ;   I  trusted  to  the  soul 
God  gave  you — to  the  truths  your  father  taught  v«r»- 
To  your  belief  in  heaven — to  your  mild  virtues—- 
To your  own  faith  and  honour,  for  my  own. 

ANGIOLINA. 

You  have  done  well. — I  thank  you  for  that  trust, 
Which  I  have  never  for  one  moment  ceased 
To  honour  you  the  more  for. 

DOGE. 

Where  is  honour, 

Innate  and  precept-strengthen'd,  't  is  the  rock 
Of  faith  connubial ;  where  it  is  not — where 
Light  thoughts  are  lurking,  or  the  vanities 
)f  worldly  pleasure  rankle  in  the  heart, 
)r  sensual  throbs  convulse  it,  well  I  know 
Twere  hopeless  for  humanity  to  dream 
)f  honesty  in  such  infected  blood, 
Although  't  were  wed  to  him  it  covets  most : 
An  incarnation  of  the  poet's  god 
In  all  his  marble-chiseli'd  beauty,  or 
The  demi-deity,  Alcides,  in 
His  majesty  of  superhuman  manhood, 
Would  not  suffice  to  bind  where  virtue  is  not ; 
It  is  consistency  which  forms  and  proves  it  • 
Vice  cannot  fix,  and  virtue  cannot  change. 
The  once  fallen  woman  must  for  ever  fall, 
For  vice  must  have  variety,  while  virtue 
Stands  like  the  sun,  and  all  which  rolls  around 
Drinks  life,  and  light,  and  glory  from  her  as|*cL 

ANGIOLINA. 

And  seeing,  fee'ing  thus  this  truth  in  others. 
(I  pray  you  pardon  me),  but  wherefore  yiei  j  you 
To  the  most  fierce  of  fatal  passions,  and 
Disquiet  your  great  thoughts,  with  restless  hate 
Of  such  a  thing  as  Steno  1 

DOGE. 

You  mistake  me. 

It  is  not  Steno  who  could  move  me  thus ; 
Had  it  been  so,  he  should but  let  that  pass. 

ANGIOHNA. 

What  b  't  you  fe*>  so  deeply,  Uien,  even  r-ow  ' 
POCK. 

The  violated  majesty  of  Venic\ 

At  once  insulted  in  her  lord  and  laws. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Alas !  why  will  you  thus  consider  it? 

DOGE. 

I  have  thought  on't  till— but  let  me  lead  you  bar* 
To  what  I  urged ;  a!!  these  things  being  noted, 
I  wedded  yoa  ;  the  world  then  did  me  justice 
Upon  the  motive,  and  my  conduct  proved 


had  been  won,  but  thought  the  change  your  choice ; 
A  pride  not  in  your  beauty,  but  your  conduct. — 
A  trust  in  you — a  patriarchal  love. 


They  did  me*right,  while  youn  was  all  to  nraisa 
You  had  all  freedom-  -all  respect — all  tnm 
From  me  and  mine ;  and,  born  of  those  «ho  «n*J» 


•256 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Princes  at  home,  and  swept  kings  from  their  thrones 
On  foreign  shores,  in  all  things  you  appear' d 
Worthy  to  be  our  first  of  native  dames. 

ANGIOLINA. 

To  what  does  this  conduct  ? 

DOGE. 

To  thus  much — tha. 

A  miscreant's  angry  breath  may  blast  it  all — 
A  villain  whom,  for  his  unbridled  bearing 
Even  in  the  midst  of  our  great  festival, 
I  caused  to  be  conducted  forth,  and  taught 
How  to  demean  himself  in  ducal  chambers ; 
A  wretch  like  this  may  leave  upon  the  wall 
The  blighting  venom  of  his  sweltering  heart, 
And  this  shall  spread  itself  in  general  poison ; 
And  woman's  innocence,  man's  honour,  pass 
Into  a  by-word ;  and  the  doubly  felon 
(Who  first  insulted  virgin  modesty 
By  a  gross  affront  to  your  attendant  damsels, 
Amidst  the  noblest  of  our  dames  in  public) 
Requite  himself  for  his  most  just  expulsion, 
By  blackening  publicly  his  sovereign's  consort, 
And  be  absolved  by  his  upright  compeers. 

ANOIOLINA. 
But  he  has  been  condemn'd  into  captivity. 

DOGE. 

For  such  as  him,  a  dungeon  were  acquittal ; 
And  his  brief  term  of  mock-arrest  will  pass 
Within  a  palace.     But  I  've  done  with  him  ; 
The  rest  must  be  with  you. 

ANGIOLINA. 

With  me,  my  lord  ? 
DOGE. 

Yes,  Angiolina.     Do  not  marvel ;  I 
Have  let  this  prey  upon  me  till  I  feel 
My  life  cannot  be  long ;  and  fain  would  have  you 
Regard  the  injunctions  you  will  find  within 

This  scroll.     (Giw'ng-  her  a  paper) Fear  not ;  they 

are  for  your  advantage : 
Read  them  hereafter,  at  the  fitting  hour. 

ANGIOLINA. 

My  lord,  in  fife,  and  after  life,  you  shall 
Be  honour'd  still  by  me  :  but  may  your  days 
Be  many  yet — and  happier  than  the  present ! 
This  passion  will  give  way,  and  you  will  be 
Serene,  and  what  you  should  be — what  you  were. 

DOGE. 

I  will  be  what  I  should  be,  or  be  nothing ; 
But  never  more — oh !  never,  never  more, 
O'er  the  few  days  or  hours  which  yet  await 
The  blighted  old  age  of  Faliero,  shall 
Sweet  quiet  shed  her  sunset !    Never  more 
Those  summer  shadows  rising  from  the  past 
Of  a  not  ill-spent  nor  inglorious  life, 
Mellowing  the  last  hours  as  the  night  approaches, 
Shall  soothe  me  to  my  moment  of  long  rest. 
I  had  but  little  more  to  ask,  or  hope, 
Save  the  regards  due  to  the  blood  and  sweat, 
And  the  soul's  labour  through  which  I  have  toil'd 
To  make  mv  country  honour'd.     As  her  servant— 
Her  servant,  tnou«h  her  chief — I  would  have  gone 
Down  to  my  minors  with  a  nanr.e  serene 
And  (tare  as  theirs  ;  but  this  has  been  denied  me. — 
Wo»M  1  na<i  Htea  at  Zara  ! 

AROIOLINA. 

There  you  saved 


The  state  ;  then  live  to  save  her  still.    A  day, 
Another  day  like  that  wouhl  be  the  best 
Reproof  to  them,  and  sole  revenge  for  you. 

DOGE. 

But  one  such  day  occurs  within  an  age  , 
My  life  is  little  less  than  one,  and  't  is 
Enough  for  Fortune  to  have  granted  once, 
That  which  scarce  one  more  favour'd  citizen 
May  win  in  many  states  and  years.     But  why 
Thus  speak  I  ?    Venice  has  forgot  that  day — 
Then  why  should  I  remember  it  ? — Farewell, 
Sweet  Angiolina !  I  must  to  my  cabinet ; 
There  's  much  for  me  to  do — and  the  hour  hasten* 

ANGIOLINA. 

Remember  what  you  were. 

DOGE. 

It  were  in  vain , 

Joy's  recollection  is  no  longer  joy, 
While  sorrow's  memory  is  a  sorrow  still. 

ANGIOLINA. 

At  least,  whate'er  may  urge,  let  me  implore 
That  you  will  take  some  little  pause  of  rest : 
Your  sleep  for  many  nights  has  been  so  turbid, 
That  it  had  been  relief  to  have  awaked  you, 
Had  I  not  hoped  that  nature  would  o'erpower 
At  length  the  thoughts  which  shook  your  slumbers  thus 
An  hour  of  rest  will  give  you  to  your  toils 
With  fitter  thoughts  and  freshen'd  strength. 
DOGE. 

I  cannot-' 

I  must  not,  if  I  could  ;  for  never  was 
Such  reason  to  be  watchful :  yet  a  few — 
Yet  a  few  days  and  dream-perturbed  nights, 
And  I  shall  slumber  well — but  where  ? — no  matter. 
Adieu,  my  Angiolina. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Let  me  be 

An  instant — yet  an  instant  your  companion  ; 
I  cannot  bear  to  leave  you  thus. 
DOGE. 

Come  then, 

My  gentle  child — forgive  me  ;  thou  wert  made 
For  better  fortunes  than  to  share  in  mine, 
Now  darkling  in  their  close  toward  the  deep  vale 
Where  Death  sits  robed  in  his  all-sweeping  shadow 
When  I  am  gone — it  may  be  sooner  than 
Even  these  years  warrant,  for  there  is  that  stirring 
Within — above — around,  that  in  this  city 
Will  make  the  cemeteries  populous 
As  e'er  they  were  by  pestilence  or  war, — 
When  I  am  nothing,  let  that  which  I  was 
Be  still,  sometimes  a  name  on  thy  sweet  lips, 
A  shadow  in  thy  fancy,  of  a  thing 
Which  would  not  have  thee  mourn  it,  but  remember ;— • 
Let  us  begone,  my  child — the  time  i«  pressing. 

\  Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 

A.  retired  spot  near  the  Arsenal. 
ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO  and  PHILIP  CALENDAKO. 

CALENDARO. 

How  sped  you,  Israel,  in  your  late  complaint  7 

ISRAEL  FERTU    ft) 

Why,  well 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


25" 


CALENDARO. 

Is't  possible?  will  he  be  punish' cl? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Yes. 

CALENDARO. 

With  what  7  a  mulct  or  an  arrest  7 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

With  death  !— 

CALENDARO. 

Now  you  rave,  or  must  intend  revenge, 

Such  as  I  counseled  you,  with  your  own  hand. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Yes ;  and  for  one  sole  draught  of  hate,  forego 

The  great  redress  we  meditate  for  Venice, 

And  change  a  life  of  hope  for  one  of  exile ; 

Leaving  one  scorpion  crush'd,  and  thousands  stinging 

My  friends,  my  family,  my  countrymen ! 

No,  Calendaro ;  these  same  drops  of  blood, 

Shed  shamefully,  shall  have  the  whole  of  his 

For  their  requital — but  not  only  his  ; 

Wo  will  not  strike  for  private  wrongs  alone : 

Such  are  for  selfish  passions  and  rash  men, 

But  are  unworthy  a  tyrannicide. 

CALENDARO. 

You  have  more  patience  than  I  care  to  boast. 
Had  I  been  present  \vhtn  you  bore  this  insult, 
1  must  have  siaiti  him,  or  expired  myself 
In  th«  vain  effort  to  repress  my  wrath. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Thank  Heaven  you  were  not — all  had  else  been  marr'd : 
As  't  is,  our  cause  looks  prosperous  still. 

CALENDARO. 

You  saw 
The  Doge — what  answer  gave  he  ? 

•  ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

That  there  was 
No  punishment  for  such  as  Barbaro. 

CALENDARO. 

I  toia  you  so  before,  and  that 't  was  idle 
To  think  of  justice  from  such  hands. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

At  least, 

It  lull'd  suspicion,  showing  confidence. 
Had  I  been  silent,  not  a  sbirro  but 
Had  kept  me  in  his  eye,  as  meditating 
A  silent,  solitary,  deep  revenge. 

CALENDARO. 

But  wherefore  not  address  you  to  the  Council  7 
The  Doge  is  a  mere  puppet,  who  can  scarce 
Obtain  right  for  himself.     Why  speak  to  him  1 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Fou  shall  know  that  hereafter. 

CALENDARO. 

Why  not  now  7 

ISRAFL    BERTUCCIO. 

Be  patient  but  till  midnight.     Get  your  musters, 
\nd  bid  your  friends  prepare  their  companies  :— 
'Set  all  in  readiness  to  strike  the  blow, 
Perhaps  in  a  few  hours  ;  we  have  long  waited 
for  a  fit  time — that  hour  is  on  the  dial, 
tt  may  be,  of  to-morrow's  sun :  delay 
Beyond  may  oreed  us  double  danger.     See 
That  all  be  punctual  at  our  place  of  meeting, 
And  arm'd,  excepting  those  of  the  Sixteen, 
Who  will  remain  among  the  troops  to  wait 
The  signal. 

38 


CALENDARO. 

These  brave  words  have  breathed  new  life 
Into  my  veins  ;  I  am  sick  of  these  protracted 
And  hesitating  councils :  day  on  day 
Crawl'd  on,  and  added  but  another  link 
To  our  long  fetters,  and  some  fresher  wrong 
Inflicted  on  our  brethren  or  ourselves, 
Helping  to  swell  our  tyrants'  bloated  strength. 
Let  us  but  deal  upon  them,  and  I  care  not 
For  the  result,  which  must  be  death  or  freedom ! 
I  'm  weary  to  the  heart  of  finding  neither. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

We  will  be  free  in  life  or  death !  the  grave 
Is  chainless.     Have  you  all  the  musters  ready  7 
And  are  the  sixteen  companies  completed 
To  sixty  7 

CALENDARO. 

All  save  two,  in  which  there  are 
Twenty-five  wanting  to  make  up  the  number. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

No  matter;  we  can  do  without.     Whose  are  they  7 

CALENDARO. 

Bertram's  and  old  Soranzo's,  both  of  whom 
Appear  less  forward  in  the  cause  than  we  are. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Your  fiery  nature  makes  you  deem  all  those 
Who  are  not  restless,  cold :  but  there  exists 
Oft  in  concentred  spirits  not  less  daring 
Than  in  more  loud  avengers.     Do  not  doubt  them. 

CALENDARO. 

I  do  not  doubt  the  elder ;  but  in  Bertram 

There  is  a  hesitating  softness,  fatal 

To  enterprise  like  ours :  I  've  seen  that  man 

Weep  like  an  infant  o'er  the  misery 

Ot  others,  heedless  of  his  own,  though  greater ; 

And,  in  a  recent  quarrel,  I  beheld  him 

Turn  sick  at  sight  of  blood,  although  a  villain's 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

The  truly  brave  are  soft  of  heart  and  eyes, 
And  feel  for  what  their  duty  bids  them  do. 
I  have  known  Bertram  long  ;  there  doth  not 
A  soul  more  full  of  honour. 

CALENDARO. 

It  may  be  so, 

I  apprehend  less  treachery  than  weakness ; 
Yet,  as  he  has  no  mistress,  and  no  wife 
To  work  upon  his  milkiness  of  spirit, 
He  may  go  through  the  ordeal ;  it  is  well 
He  is  an  orphan,  friendless  save  in  us : 
A  woman  or  a  child  had  made  him  less 
Than  either  in  resolve. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Such  ties  are  not 

For  those  who  are  called  to  the  high  destinies 
Which  purify  corrupted  commonwealths  ; 
We  must  forget  all  feelings  save  the  one — 
We  must  resign  all  passions  save  our  purpcse- 
We  must  behold  no  object  save  our  country — 
And  only  look  on  dea.h  as  beautiful, 
So  that  the  sacrifice  ascend  to  heaven. 
And  draw  down  freedom  on  her  evermore. 

CALENDARO, 

But,  if  we  fail? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO 

They  never  fail  who  me 
In  a  great  cause :  the  block  may  soak  'heir  xor 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Their  head»  n  ay  s  xlden  ji  the  sun  ;  their  limbs 

Be  strung  tr  c  ty  gxtes  add  castle  walls — 

But  still  their  spirit  walks  abroad.     Though  years 

Eiapsc,  anJ  others  share  as  dark  a  doom, 

They  but  augment  the  deep  and  sweeping  thoughts 

Which  o'erpower  all  others,  and  conduct 

The  world  at  last  to  freedom.     What  were  we, 

If  Brutus  had  not  lived  V  He  died  in  giving 

Rome  liberty,  but  left  a  deathless  lesson — 

A  name  which  is  a  virtue,  and  a  soul 

Which  multiplies  itself  throughout  all  time, 

When  wicked  men  wax  mighty,  and  a  state 

Turns  servile :  he  and  his  high  friend  were  styled 

"  The  last  of  Romans !"     Let  us  be  the  first 

Of  true  Venetians,  sprung  from  Roman  sires. 

CALENDARO. 

Our  fathers  did  not  fly  from  Attila 

Into  these  isles,  where  palaces  have  sprung 

On  banks  redeem'd  from  the  rude  ocean's  ooze, 

To  own  a  thousand  despots  in  his  place. 

Better  bow  down  before  the  Hun,  and  call 

A  Tartar  lord,  than  these  swoln  silk-worms  masters ! 

The  first  at  least  was  man,  and  used  his  sword 

As  sceptre :  these  unmanly  creeping  things 

Command  our  swords,  and  rule  us  with  a  word 

As  with  a  spell. 

ISRAEL    BERTPCCIO. 

It  shall  be  broken  soon. 
You  say  that  all  things  are  in  readiness  ; 
To-day  I  have  not  been  the  usual  round, 
And  why  'hou  knowest;  but  thy  vigilance 
Will  better  have  supplied  my  care :  these  orders 
In  recent  council  to  redouble  now 
Our  efforts  to  repair  the  galleys,  have 
Lent  a  fair  colour  to  the  introduction 
Of  many  of  our  cause  into  the  arsenal, 
As  new  artificers  for  their  equipment, 
Ot  fresh  recruits  obtain'd  in  haste  to  man 
The  hoped-for  fleet. — Are  all  supplied  with  arms? 

CALENDARO 

Ab  who  were  deem'd  trust-worthy :  there  are  some 

Whom  it  were  we.1  to  keep  in  ignorance 

Till  it  be  time  to  strike,  and  then  supply  them  ; 

When  n  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  hour 

They  have  no  opportunity  to  pause  ; 

But  needs  must  on  with  those  who  will  surround  them. 

ISRAEL   BERTUCCIO. 

You  have  said  well. — Have  you  remark'd  all  such  ? 

CALENDARO. 

I  've  noted  most :  and  caused  the  other  chiefs 
To  use  like  caution  in  their  companies. 
As  far  as  I  have  seen,  we  are  enough 
To  make  the  enterprise  secure,  if  'tis 
Commenced  to-morrow ;  but  till 't  is  begun, 
Each  hour  is  pregnant  with  a  thousand  perils. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Let  the  Sixteen  meet  at  the  tvonted  hour, 
Except  Soranzo,  Nicoletto  Blondo, 
And  Marco  Giuda,  who  will  keep  their  watch 
Within  the  <irsenal,  and  hald  all  ready, 
ExpeeUnr.  of  the  signal  we  will  fix  on. 

CAtENDARO. 

We  will  10*  fail 

ISRAEL    BERTCCCIO. 

Let  ail  the  rest  be  there : 
1  hat«     *t  ranger  to  present  to  them. 


CALENDARO. 

A  stranger!  doth  he  know  the  secret? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Yes. 

CALENDARO. 

And  have  you  dared  to  peril  your  friends'  lives 
On  a  rash  confidence  in  one  we  know  not? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  have  risk'd  no  man's  life  except  my  own — 
Of  that  be  certain :  he  is  one  who  may 
Make  our  assurance  doubly  sure,  according 
His  aid :  and,  if  reluctant,  he  no  less 
Is  in  our  power :  he  comts  alone  with  me, 
And  cannot  'scape  us ;  but  he  will  not  swerve, 

CALENDARO. 

I  cannot  judge  of  this  until  I  know  him: 
Is  he  one  of  our  order  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTCCCIO. 

Ay,  in  spirit, 

Although  a  child  of  greatness ;  he  is  one 
Who  would  become  a  throne,  or  overthrow  one — 
One  who  has  done  great  deeds,  and  seen  great  change! , 
No  tyrant,  though  bred  up  to  tyranny ; 
Valiant  in  war,  and  sage  in  council ;  noble 
In  nature,  although  haughty  ;  quick,  yet  wary : 
Yet,  for  all  this,  so  full  of  certain  passions, 
That  if  once  stirr'd  and  baffled,  as  he  has  been 
Upon  the  tendcrest  points,  there  is  no  Fury 
In  Grecian  story  like  to  that  which  wrings 
His  vitals  with  her  burning  hands,  till  he 
Grows  capable  of  all  things  for  revenge ; 
And  add  too,  that  his  mind  is  liberal ; 
He  sees  and  feels  the  people  are  oppress'd, 
And  shares  their  sufferings.     Take  him  all  in  all, 
We  have  need  of  such,  and  such  have  need  of  us. 

CALENDARO. 

And  what  part  would  you  have  him  take  witli  us  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

It  may  be,  that  of  chief. 

CALENDARO. 

What !  and  resign 
Your  own  command  as  leader  ? 

ISRAEL    EERTUCCIO, 

Even  so. 

My  object  is  to  make  your  cause  end  well, 
And  not  to  push  myself  to  power.     Experience, 
Some  skill,  and  your  own  choice,  had  mark'd  me  out 
To  act  in  trust  as  your  commander,  till 
Some  worthier  should  appear :  if  I  have  found  sue1* 
As  you  yourselves  shall  own  more  worthy,  think  you 
That  I  would  hesitate  from  selfishness, 
And,  covetous  of  brief  authority, 
Stake  our  deep  interest  on  my  single  thoughts, 
Rather  than  yield  to  one  above  me  in 
All  leading  qualities  ?     No,  Calendaro, 
Know  your  friend  better  ;  but  you  all  shall  judge.— 
Away !   and  let  us  meet  at  the  iix'd  hour. 
Be  vigilant,  and  all  will  yet  go  well. 

CALENDARO. 

Worthy  Bertuccio,  I  have  known  you  ever 
Trustv  and  brave,  with  head  and  heart  to  plan 
What  I  have  still  been  prompt  to  execute. 
For  my  own  part,  I  seek  no  other  chiet ; 
What  the  rest  will  decide  I  know  not,  but 
I  am  with  you,  as  I  have  ever  been 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


/ii  all  our  undertakings.    Now  farewell, 
"ntil  the  hour  of  midnight  sees  us  meet. 


[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

S.;c?if,  the  Space  between  the  Canal  and  the  Church  of 
San  Giovanni  e  San  Paolo.  An  equestrian  Statue 
jefore  it. — A  Gondola  lien  in  the  Canal  at  some  dis- 
tance. 

Enter  theDoaz  alone,  disguised, 

DOGE  (solus}. 

'  am  before  the  hour,  the  hour  whose  voice, 
Pealing  into  the  arch  of  night,  might  strike 
Hiese  palaces  with  ominous  tottering, 
And  rock  their  marbles  to  the  corner-stone, 
Waking  the  sleepers  from  some  hideous  dream 
Of  indistinct  but  awful  augury 
Of  that  which  will  befall  them.     Yes,  proud  city  ! 
Thou  must  be  cleansed  of  the  black  blood  which  makes 

thee 

A  War-house  of  tyranny :  the  task 
Is  forced  upon  me,  I  have  sought  it  not ; 
And  therefore  was  I  punished,  seeing  this 
Patrician  pestilence  spread  on  and  on, 
Until  at  length  it  smote  me  in  my  slumbers, 
And  I  am  tainted,  and  must  wash  away 
The  plague-spots  in  the  healing  wave.     Tall  fane ! 
Where  sleep  my  fathers,  whose  dim  statues  shadow 
The  floor  which  doth  divide  us  from  the  dead, 
Where  all  the  pregnant  hearts  of  our  bold  blood, 
Moulder'd  into  a  mite  of  ashes,  hold 
In  one  shrunk  heap  what  once  made  many  heroes, 
When  what  is  now  a  handful'  shook  the  earth — 
Fane  of  the  tutelar  saints  w  10  guard  our  house  ! 
Vault  where  two  Doges  re-rt — my  sires !   who  died 
The  one  of  toil,  the  other  in  the  field, 
With  a  long  race  of  other  lineal  chiefs 
And  sages,  whose  great  labours,  wounds,  and  state 
I  have  inherited, — let  the  graves  gape, 
Till  all  thine  aisles  be  peopled  with  the  dead, 
And  pour  them  from  thy  portals  to  gaze  on  me ! 
I  call  them  up,  and  them  and  thce  to  witness 
What  it  hath  been  which  put  me  to  this  task — 
Their  pure  high  blood,  their  blazon-roll  of  glories, 
Their  mighty  name  dishonour'd  all  in  me, 
Not  by  me,  but  by  the  ungrateful  nobles 
We  fought  to  make  our  equals,  not  our  lords : — 
And  chiefly  thou,  Ordelafo  the  brave, 
Who  perish'd  in  the  field  where  I  since  conquer'd, 
Battling  at  Zara,  did  the  hecatombs 
Of  thine  and  Venice'  foes,  there  ofTer'd  up 
By  thy  descendant,  merit  such  acquittance? 
Spirits !  smile  down  upon  me,  for  my  cause 
Is  yours,  in  all  life  now  can  be  of  yours— 
Your  fame,  your  name,  all  mingled  up  in  mine, 
And  in  the  future  fortunes  of  our  race ! 
ly>t  me  but  prosper,  and  I  make  this  city 
Free  and  immortal,  and  our  hous-'s  name 
Worthier  of  what  you  were,  now  and  hereafter ! 
Enter  ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Who  goes  there  7 


DOGE. 

A  friend  to  Venice. 

ISRAEL    LERTUCC10 


is  he, 


Welcome,  my  lord,  —  you  are  before  ire  time. 

DOGE. 
I  am  ready  to  proceed  to  your  assembly. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Have  with  you.  —  I  am  proud  and  pleased  to  se« 

Such  confident  alacrity.     Your  doubts 

Since  our  last  meeting,  then,  are  all  dispell'd? 

DOGE. 

Not  so  —  but  I  have  set  my  little  left 
Of  life  upon  this  cast:  the  die  was  thrown 
When  I  first  listen'd  to  your  treason  —  Start  not  ! 
That  is  the  word  ;  I  cannot  shape  my  tongue 
To  syllable  black  deeds  into  smooth  names, 
Though  I  be  wrought  on  to  commit  them.     When 
I  heard  you  tempt  your  sovereign,  and  forbore 
To  have  you  dragg'd  to  prison,  I  became 
Your  guiltiest  accomplice  :  now  you  may, 
If  it  so  please  you,  do  as  much  by  me. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Strange  words,  my  lord,  and  most  unmerited  ; 
I  am  no  spy.  and  neither  are  we  traitors. 

DOGE. 

IVe!  —  We!  —  no  matter  —  you  have  earn'd  the  n^i 

To  talk  of  us.  —  But  to  the  point.  —  If  this 

Attempt  succeeds,  and  Venice,  render'd  free 

And  flourishing,  when  we  are  in  our  graves, 

Conducts  her  generations  to  our  tombs, 

And  makes  her  children,  with  their  little  hands, 

Strew  flowers  o'er  their  deliverers'  ashes,  then 

The  consequence  will  sanctify  the  deed, 

And  we  shall  be  like  the  two  Bruti  in 

The  annals  of  hereafter  ;  but  if  not, 

If  we  should  fail,  employing  bloody  means 

And  secret  plot,  although  to  a  good  end, 

Still  we  are  traitors,  honest  Israel  ;  —  thou 

No  less  than  he  who  was  thy  sovereign 

Six  hours  ago,  and  now  thy  brother  rebel. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

'Tis  not  the  moment  to  consider  thus, 

Else  I  could  answer.  —  Let  us  to  the  meeting, 

Or  we  may  be  observed  in  lingering  here. 

DOGE. 
We  are  observed,  and  have  been. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

We  observed' 

Let  me  discover  —  and  this  steel  - 
DOGE. 

Put  up  ; 

Here  are  no  human  witnesses  :  —  look  there—- 
What see  you  ? 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Only  a  tall  warrior's  statue 
Bestriding  a  proud  steed,  in  the  dim  light 
Of  the  dull  moon.  * 

DOGE. 

That  warrior  was  the  sue 
Of  my  sire's  fathers,  and  that  statue  was 
Decreed  to  him  by  the  twice-rescued  city  :- 
Think  you  that  he  looks  down  on  us,  or  no  ' 

ISRAEL    BERTUCC'O. 

My  lord,  these  are  mere  phantasies  ;  there  ar» 
No  eyes  in  marble. 


260 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


DOGE. 

But  there  are  m  death. 
(  tell  thee,  man,  there  is  a  spirit  in 
Such  things  that  acts  and  sees,  unseen,  though  felt ; 
And,  if  there  be  a  spell  to  stir  the  dead, 
'T  is  in  such  deeds  as  we  are  now  upon. 
Deem'st  thou  the  souls  of  such  a  race  as  mine 
Can  rest,  when  he,  their  last  descendant  chief, 
Stands  plotting  on  the  brink  of  their  pure  graves 
With  stung  plebeians  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

It  had  been  as  well 

To  «a»e  ponder'd  this  before,— ere  you  embark'd 
In  our  great  enterprise. — Do  you  repent  ? 

DOGE. 

No — but  I  feel,  and  shall  do  to  the  last. 
I  cannot  quench  a  glorious  life  at  once, 
Nor  dwindle  to  the  thing  I  now  must  be, 
And  take  men's  lives  by  stealth,  without  some  pause : 
Yet  doubt  me  not ;  it  is  this  very  feeling, 
And  knowing  what  has  wrung  me  to  be  thus, 
W  hich  is  your  best  security.    There 's  not 
A  roused  mechanic  in  your  busy  plot 
So  wrong'd  as  I,  so  fallen,  so  loudly  call'd 
To  his  redress :  the  very  means  I  am  forced 
By  these  fell  tyrants  to  adopt  is  such, 
That  I  abhor  them  doubly  for  the  deeds 
Which  I  must  do  to  pay  them  back  for  theirs. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Lflt  us  away ! — hark  ! the  hour  strikes. 

DOGE. 

On — on — 
It  a  ova  knell,  or  that  of  Venice. — On. — 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Say,  rather,  't  is  her  freedom's  rising  peal 

Of  triumph — This  way — we  ar?  near  the  place. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  H. 

The  House  where  the  Conspirators  meet. 

DAGOLINO,  DORO,  BERTRAM,  FEDELE  TREVISAWO, 

CALENDARO,  ANTONIO  DELLE  BENDE,  etc.,  etc 

CALENDARO  (entering). 
Are  all  here  ? 

DACOLINO. 

All  with  you :  except  the  three 
On  duty,  and  our  leader  Israel, 
Who  is  expected  momently. 

CALENDARO. 

Where 's  Bertram  ? 

BERTRAM, 

Here! 

CALENDARO. 

Have  you  not  been  able  to  complete 
The  number  wanting  in  your  company  ? 

BERTRAM. 

I  had  rnaru'd  out  some  ;  but  I  have  not  dared 
To  trust  them  with  the  s%cret,  till  assured 
That  they  were  worthy  faith. 

CALEJTDARO. 

There  is  no  need 

Of  trusting  to  their  faith:  who,  save  ourselves 
\nd  our  more  chosen  comrades,  is  aware 
Kully  of  our  intent  ?  they  think  themselves  * 
IP  secret  to  the  Signory, 


To  punish  some  more  dissolute  young  nobles 

Who  have  defied  the  law  in  their  excesses ; 

But  once  drawn  up,  and  their  new  swords  well  flesh'd 

In  the  rank  hearts  of  the  more  odious  senators, 

They  will  not  hesitate  to  follow  up 

Their  blow  upon  the  others,  when  they  see 

The  example  of  their  chiefs ;  and  I  for  ofie 

Will  set  them  such,  that  they  for  very  shame 

And  safety,  will  not  pause  till  all  have  perish'd. 

BERTRAM. 

How  say  you ?  all? 

CALENDARO. 

Whom  wouldst  thou  spare  ? 

BERTRAM. 

/  tpo.it 

I  have  no  power  to  spare.     I  only  question'd, 
Thinking  that  even  amongst  these  wicked  men, 
There  might  be  some,  whose  age  and  qualities 
Might  mark  them  out  for  pity. 

CALENDARO. 

Yes,  such  pity 

As  when  the  viper  hath  been  cut  to  pieces, 
The  separate  fragments  quivering  in  the  sun 
In  the  last  energy  of  venomous  life, 
Deserve  and  have.    Why,  I  should  think  as  soon 
Of  pitying  some  particular  fang  which  made 
One  in  the  jaw  of  the  swoln  serpent,  as 
Of  saving  one  of  these  :  they  form  but  links 
Of  one  long  chain — one  mass,  one  breath,  one  body  , 
They  eat,  and  drink,  and  live,  and  breed  together, 
Revel  and  lie,  oppress,  and  kill  in  concert, — 
So  let  them  die  as  one  ! 

DAGOLINO. 

Should  one  survive, 

He  would  be  dangerous  as  the  whole  :  it  is  not 
Their  number,  be  it  tens  or  thousands,  but 
The  spirit  of  this  aristocracy, 
Which  must  be  r«"»«d  out ;  and  ;f  »here  were 
A  single  shoot  of  the  whole  tree  in  life, 
'T  would  fasten  in  the  soil,  and  spring  again 
To  gloomy  verdure  and  to  bitter  fruit. 
Bertram,  we  must  be  firm ! 

CALENDARO. 

Look  to  it  well, 
Bertram ;  I  have  an  eye  upon  thee. 

BERTRAM. 

Who 
Distrusts  me  ? 

CALENDARO. 

Not  I ;  for  if  I  did  so, 

Thou  wouldst  not  now  be  there  to  talk  of  trus» 
It  is  thy  softness,  not  thy  want  of  faith, 
Which  makes  thee  to  be  doubted. 

BERTRAM. 

You  should  know, 

Who  hear  me,  who  and  what  I  am ;   a  man 
Roused  like  yourselves  to  overthrow  oppression  ; 
A  kind  man,  I  am  apt  to  think,  as  some 
Of  you  have  found  me ;  and  if  brave  or  no, 
You,  Calendaro,  can  pronounce,  who  have  seen  rae 
Put  to  the  proo*";  or,  if  you  should  have  doubts, 
I  '11  clear  them  on  your  person. 

CALENDARO. 

You  are  welcome 

When  once  our  enterprise  is  o'er,  whicb  m  jst  re 
Be  interrupted  by  a  private  brawl. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


2CI 


BERTRAM. 

1  am  no  brawler ;  but  can  bear  myself 
As  far  among  the  foe  as  any  he 
Who  hears  me  ;  else  why  have  I  been  selected 
To  be  of  your  chief  comrades  ?  but  no  less 
[  own  my  natural  weakness :  I  have  not 
Yet  learn'd  to  think  of  indiscriminate  mjrder 
Without  some  sense  of  shuddering ;  and  khe  sight 
Of  blood  which  spouts  through  hoary  scalps  is  not 
To  me  a  thing  of  triumph,  nor  the  death 
Of  men  surprised  a  glory.    Well — too  well 
i  know  that  we  must  do  such  things  on  those 
Whose  acts  have  raised  up  such  avengers ;  but 
If  there  were  some  of  those  who  could  be  saved 
From  out  this  sweeping  fate,  for  our  own  sakes 
And  for  our  honour,  to  take  off  some  stain 
Of  massacre,  which  else  pollutes  it  wholly, 
I  had  been  glad ;  and  see  no  cause  in  this 
For  sneer,  nor  for  suspicion  ! 

DAGOLIWO. 

Calm  thee,  Bertram; 

For  we  suspect  thee  not,  and  take  good  heart. 
It  is  the  cause,  and  not  our  will,  which  asks 
Such  actions  from  our  hands :  we  '11  wash  away 
All  stains  in  Freedom's  fountain ! 
Enter  ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO  and  the  DOGE,  disguised. 

DAQOLINO. 

Welcome,  Israel. 

CONSPIRATORS. 

Most  welcome. — Brave  Bertuccio,  thou  art  late— 
Who  is  this  stranger? 

CALENDARO. 

It  is  time  to  name  him. 

Our  comrades  are  even  now  prepared  to  greet  him 
In  brotherhood,  as  I  have  made  it  known 
That  thou  wouldst  add  a  brother  to  our  cause, 
Approved  by  thee,  and  thus  approved  by  all, 
Such  is  our  trust  in  all  thine  actions.    Now 
Let  him  unfold  himself. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Stranger,  step  forth ! 
[The  DOGE  discovers  himself. 

CONSPIRATORS. 

To  arms ! — we  are  betray'd — it  is  the  Doge ! 
Down  with  them  both !  our  traitorous  captain,  and 
The  tyrant  he  hahh  sold  us  to. 

CALENDARO  (drawing  his  sword). 
Hold!  Hold! 

Who  moves  a  step  against  them  dies.     Hold !  hear, 
Bertuccio. — What !  are  you  appall'd  to  see 
A  lone,  unguarded,  weaponless  old  man 
Amongst  you  ? — Israel,  speak !  what  means  this  mystery? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Let  them  advance  and  strike  at  their  own  bosoms, 

Ungrateful  suicides  !  for  on  our  lives 

Depend  their  own,  their  fortunes,  and  their  hopes. 

DOGE. 

Strike ! — If  I  dreaded  death,  a  death  more  fearful 
Than  any  your  rash  weapons  can  inflict, 
I  should  not  now  be  here : — Oh,  noble  Courage ! 
The  eldest  born  of  Fear,  which  makes  you  brave 
Against  this  solitary  hoary  head ! 
See  th«  bold  chiefs,  who  would  reform  a  state 
And  shake  down  senates,  mad  with  wrath  and  dread 
At  sight  of  one  patrician. — Butcher  me. 
2  A 


You  can :  I  care  not— Israel,  are  these  men 
The  mighty  hearts  you  spoke  of?  look  upon  them ' 

CALENDARO. 

Faith !  he  hath  shamed  us,  and  deservedly. 
Was  this  your  trust  in  your  true  chief  Bertuccio, 
To  turn  your  swords  against  him  and  his  guest'' 
Sheathe  them,  and  hear  him. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

I  disdain  to  speak. 

They  might  and  must  have  known  a  heart  like  mirw 
Incapable  of  treachery ;  and  the  power 
They  gave  me  to  adopt  all  fitting  means 
To  further  their  design  was  ne'er  abused. 
They  might  be  certain  that  whoe'er  was  brough. 
By  me  into  this  council,  had  been  led 
To  take  his  choice — as  brother,  or  as  victim. 

DOGE. 

And  which  am  I  to  be  ?  your  actions  leave 
Some  cause  to  doubt  the  freedom  of  the  choice. 

.ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

My  lord,  we  would  have  perish'd  here  together, 
Had  these  rash  men  proceeded  ;  but,  behold, 
They  are  ashamed  of  that  mad  moment's  impulse, 
And  droop  their  heads  ;  believe  me,  they  are  suet: 
As  I  described  them. — Speak  to  them. 

CALENDARO. 

Ay,  speak 
We  are  all  listening  in  wonder. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

(Addressing  the  Conspirators'). 

You  are  safe, 

Nay,  more,  almost  triumphant — listen  then, 
And  know  my  words  for  truth. 
DOGE. 

You  see  me  her* 

As  one  of  you  hath  raid,  an  old,  unarm'd, 
Defenceless  man  ;  and  yesterday  you  saw  n>t 
Presiding  in  the  hall  of  ducal  state, 
Apparent  sovereign  of  our  hundred  isles, 
Robed  in  official  purple,  dealing  out 
The  edicts  of  a  power  which  is  not  mine, 
Nor  yours,  but  of  our  masters — the  patricians 
Why  I  was  there  you  know,  or  think  you  know , 
Why  I  am  here  he  who  hath  been  most  wrong'd, 
He  who  among  you  hath  been  most  insulted, 
Outraged  and  trodden  on,  until  he  doubt 
If  he  be  worm  or  no,  may  answer  for  me, 
Asking  of  his  own  heart  what  brought  i.im  here  ? 
You  know  my  recent  story,  all  men  know  it, 
And  judge  of  it  far  differently  from  those 
Who  sate  in  judgment  to  heap  scorn  on  scorn. 
But  spare  me  the  recital — it  is  here, 
Here  at  my  heart,  the  outrage — but  my  words, 
Already  spent  in  unavailing  plaints, 
Would  only  show  my  feebleness  the  more, 
And  I  come  here  to  strengthen  even  thf  stron^, 
And  urge  them  on  to  deeds,  and  not  to  wai 
With  woman's  weapons  ;  but  I  need  not  urge  yoo 
Our  private  wrongs  have  sprung  from  public  vice* 
In  this — I  cannot  call  it  commonwealth 
Nor  kingdom,  which  hath  neither  prince  nor  peop» 
But  all  the  sins  of  the  old  Spartan  state 
Without  its  virtues — temperance  and  valour. 
The  lords  of  Lacedemon  were  true  soldiers, 
But  ours  are  Sybarites,  while  we  are  Helots, 
Of  whom  I  am  the  lowest,  mos  enslaveo. 


262 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


Although  drest  out  to  head  a  pageant,  as 

The  Greeks  of  yore  made  drunk  their  slaves  to  form 

A  pastime  for  their  children.     You  are  met 

To  overthrow  this  monster  of  a  state, 

This  mockery  of  a  government,  this  spectre, 

Which  must  be  exorcised  with  blood,  and  then 

We  will  renew  the  times  of  truth  and  justice, 

Condensing  in  a  fair  free  commonwealth 

Not  rash  equality,  but  equal  rights, 

Proportion'd  like  the  columns  to  the  temple, 

Giving  and  taking  strength  reciprocal, 

And  making  firm  the  whole  with  grace  and  beauty, 

So  thai  i.o  j»a».  could  be  removed  without 

Infringement  of  the  general  symmetry. 

In  operating  this  great  change,  I  claim 

To  be  one  of  you — if  you  trust  in  me  ; 

If  not,  strike  home, — my  life  is  compromised, 

And  I  would  rather  fall  by  freemen's  hands 

Than  live  another  day  to  act  the  tyrant 

As  delegate  of  tyrants :  such  I  am  not, 

And  never  have  been — read  it  in  our  annals : 

I  can  appeal  to  my  past  government 

In  many  lands  and  cities ;  they  can  tell  you 

If  I  were  an  oppressor,  or  a  man 

Feeling  and  thinking  for  my  fellow-men. 

Haply  had  I  been  what  the  senate  sought, 

A  thing  of  robes  and  trinkets,  dizen'd  out 

To  sit  in  state  as  for  a  sovereign's  picture  ; 

A  popular  scourge,  a  ready  sentence-signer, 

A  stickler  for  the  Senate  and  "  The  Forty," 

A  sceptic  of  all  measures  which  had  not 

The  sanction  of  "  The  Ten,"  a  council  fawner, 

A  tool,  a  fool,  a  puppet, — they  had  ne'er 

Foster'd  the  wretch  who  stung  me.    What  I  suffer 

Has  reach'd  me  through  my  pity  for  the  people  ; 

That  many  know,  and  they  who  know  not  yet 

Will  one  day  learn :  meantime,  I  do  devote, 

Whate'er  the  issue,  my  last  days  of  life — 

My  present  power,  such  as  it  is,  not  that 

Of  Doge,  but  of  a  man  who  has  been  great 

Lefbre  he  was  degraded  to  a  Doge, 

Ancl  still  has  individual  means  and  mind ; 

I  stake  my  fame  (and  I  had  fame) — my  breath 

(The  least  of  all,  for  its  last  hours  are  nigh) — 

My  heart — my  hope — my  soul — upon  this  cast ! 

Such  as  I  am,  I  offer  me  to  you 

And  to  your  chiefs,  accept  me  or  reject  me, 

A  prince  who  fain  would  be  a  citizen 

Or  nothing,  and  who  has  left  his  throne  to  be  so. 

CALEXDARO. 

Long  live  Faliero ! — Venice  shall  be  free ! 

CONSPIRATORS. 
Long  live  Faliero ! 

ISRAEL  EERTUCCIO. 

Comrades !  did  I  well  7 
Is  not  this  man  a  host  in  such  a  cause  ? 

DOGE. 

TKw  is  no  time  for  eulogies,  nor  place 
Foe  exultation.    Am  I  one  of  you? 

CALENDARO. 

4 y,  and  the  ft-st  amongst  us,  as  thou  hast  bc£n 
Of  V«mce — be  our  general  and  chief. 

CCGE. 

Ohii-f! — General! — I  was  general  at  Zara, 
Ami  rhiet  in  RhoJes  and  Cyprus,  prince  in  Vonic«; 
<.u>n«><  uoiiu that  is.  I  am  not  fit 


To  lead  a  band  of--' — patriots :  when  I  lay 
AsiJe  the  dignities  wMch  I  have  borne, 
T  is  not  to  put  on  othei-s,  but  to  be 
Mate  to  my  fellows — but  now  to  the  point  • 
Israel  has  stated  to  me  your  whole  plan— 
'TIs  bold,  but  feasible  if  I  assist  it, 
And  must  be  set  in  motion  instantly. 

CALENDARO. 

E'en  when  thou  wilt — is  it  not  so,  my  friendi  / 
I  have  disposed  all  for  a  sudden  blow  ; 
When  shall  it  be  then  ? 

DOGE. 

At  sunrise. 

BERTRAM. 

So  soon  ' 

DOGE. 

So  soon ! — so  late — each  hour  accumulates 

Peril  on  peril,  and  the  more  so  now 

Since  I  have  mingled  with  you ;  know  you  not 

The  Council,  and  "  The  Ten!"  the  spies,  the  eye* 

Of  the  patricians  dubious  of  their  slaves, 

And  now  more  dubious  of  the  prince  they  have  made  one? 

I  tell  you  you  must  strike,  and  suddenly, 

Full  to  the  hydra's  heart — its  heads  will  Mow. 

CALENDARO. 

With  all  my  soul  and  sword  I  yield  assent ; 
Our  companies  are  ready,  sixty  each, 
And  all  now  under  arms  by  Israel's  order ; 
Each  at  their  different  place  of  rendezvous, 
And  vigilant,  expectant  of  some  blow ; 
Let  each  repair  for  action  to  his  post ! 
And  now,  my  lord,  the  signal  ? 
DOGE. 

When  you  hear 
The  great  bell  of  Saint  Mark's,  which  may  not  ">e 
Struck  without  special  order  of  the  Doge 
(The  last  poor  privilege  they  leave  their  prince), 
March  on  Saint  Mark's ! 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

And  there? 
DOGE. 

By  different  route* 
Let  your  march  be  directed,  every  sixty 
Entering  a  separate  avenue,  and  still 
Upon  the  way  let  your  cry  be  of  war 
And  of  the  Genoese  fleet,  by  the  first  davm 
Discern'd  before  the  port ;  form  round  the  palace, 
Within  whose  court  will  be  drawn  out  in  arm* 
My  nephew  and  the  clients  of  our  house, 
Many  and  martial ;  while  the  bell  tolls  on, 
Shout  ye,  "  Saint  Mark ! — the  foe  is  on  our  waters  !" 

CALENDARO. 

I  see  it  now — but  on,  my  noble  lord. 

DOGE. 

All  the  patricians  flocking  to  the  Council, 
(Which  they  dare  not  refuse,  at  the  dread  signal 
Pealing  from  out  their  patron  saint's  proud  tower) 
Will  then  be  gathered  in  unto  the  harvest, 
And  we  will  reap  them  wilii  the  sword  fw  sickle. 
If  some  few  should  be  tardy  or  absent  then. 
'T  will  be  but  to  be  taken  faint  and  single 
When  the  majority  are  put  to  rest. 

CALENDAR*,. 

Would  that  the  hour  were  cow: '   rv«  will  rot  «co»«a 
But  kill 


MARINO   FALIERO. 


263 


BERTRAM. 

Once  more,  sir,  with  your  pardons,  I 
Would  now  repeat  the  question  which  I  ask'd 
Before  Bertuccio  added  to  our  cause 
This  great  ally  who  renders  it  more  sure, 
And  therefore  safer,  and  as  such  admits 
Some  dawn  of  mercy  to  a  portion  of 
Our  victims — must  all  perish  in  this  slaughter  7 

CALENDARO. 

AD  who  encounter  me  and  mine,  be  sure, — 
rhe  mercy  they  have  shown,  I  show. 

CONSPIRATORS. 

All!  an! 

la  this  a  time  to  talk  of  pity  ?  when 
Have  they  e'er  shown,  or  felt,  or  feign'd  it? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Bertram, 

This  false  compassion  is  a  folly,  and 
Injustice  to  thy  comrades  and  thy  cause ! 
Dost  thou  not  see,  that  if  we  single  out 
Some  for  escape,  they  live  but  to  avenge 
The  fallen  ?  and  how  distinguish  now  the  innocent 
From  out  the  guilty  ?  all  their  acts  are  one— 
A  single  emanation  from  one  body, 
Together  knit  for  our  oppression !    'Tis 
Much  that  we  let  their  children  live ;  I  doubt 
If  al!  of  these  even  should  be  set  apart : 
The  hunter  may  reserve  some  single  cub 
From  out  the  tiger's  litter,  but  who  e'er 
Would  seek  to  save  the  spotted  sire  or  dam, 
Unless  to  perish  by  their  fangs  ?  However, 
(  will  abide  by  Doge  Faliero's  counsel : 
Let  him  decide  if  any  should  be  saved. 

DOGE. 

Ask  me  not — tempt  me  not  with  such  a  question — 
Decide  yourselves. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

You  know  their  private  virtues 
Far  better  than  we  can,  to  whom  alone 
Their  public  vices,  and  most  foul  oppression, 
Have  made  them  deadly ;  if  there  be  amongst  them 
One  who  deserves  to  be  repeal'd,  pronounce. 

DOGE. 

Dolfino's  father  was  my  friend,  and  Lando 
Fought  by  my  side,  and  Marc  Cornaro  shared 
Mv  Genoese  embassy;  I  saved  the  life 
Of  Veniero — shall  I  save  it  twice  ? 
Would  that  I  could  save  them  and  Venice  also ! 
All  these  men,  or  their  fathers,  were  my  friends 
Till  they  became  my  subjects ;  then  fell  from  me 
As  faithless  leaves  drop  from  the  o'erbiown  flower, 
And  left  me  a  lone  blighted  thorny  stalk, 
Which,  in  its  solitude,  can  shelter  nothing ; 
So,  as  they  let  me  wither,  let  them  perish  ! 

CALEJJDARO. 

They  cannot  co-exist  with  Venice'  freedom! 

DOGE. 

Ye,  though  you  know  and  feel  our  mutual  mass 
Of  many  wrongs,  even  ye  are  ignorant 
\Yhat  fatal  poison  to  the  springs  of  life, 
To  human  tics,  and  all  that's  good  and  dear, 
L-irks  in  the  present  institutes  of  Venice. 
Ml  these  men  were  my  friends ;  I  loved  them,  they 
Iteijuited  honourably  my  regards; 
We  served  and  fought ;  we  smiled  and  wept  in  concert ; 
We  levell'd  or  we  sorrow'd  side  by  side ; 


We  made  alliances  of  blood  and  marriage ; 

We  grew  in  years  and  honours  fairly,  tiU 

Their  own  desire,  not  my  ambition,  made 

Them  choose  me  for  their  prince,  and  then  farewell ! 

Farewell  all  social  memory!  all  thoughts 

In  common!    and  sweet  bonds  which  link  old  friend 

ships, 

When  the  survivors  of  long  years  and  actioi.s, 
Which  now  belong  to  history,  soothe  the  days 
Which  yet  remain  by  treasuring  each  other, 
And  never  meet,  but  each  beholds  the  mirror 
Of  half  a  century  on  his  brother's  brow, 
And  sees  a  hundred  beings,  now  in  earth, 
Flit  round  them,  whispering  of  the  days  gone  by, 
And  seeming  not  all  dead,  as  long  as  two 
Of  the  brave,  joyous,  reckless,  glorious  band, 
Which  once  were  one  and  many,  still  retain 
A  breath  to  sigh  for  them,  a  tongue  to  speak 
Of  deeds  that  else  were  silent,  save  on  marble —    • 
Oime !  Oime  ! — and  must  I  do  this  deed  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO 

My  lord,  you  are  much  moved :  it  is  not  now 
That  such  things  must  be  dwelt  upon. 
DOGE. 

Youi  patience 

A  moment — I  recede  not :  mark  with  me 
The  gloomy  vices  of  this  government. 
From  the  hour  that  made  me  Doge,  the  Doge  THI  r 

mode  me — 

Farewell  the  past !  I  died  to  all  that  had  been, 
Or  rather  they  to  me :  no  friends,  no  kindness, 
No  privacy  of  life — all  were  cut  off: 
They  came  not  near  me,  such  approach  gave  umbrapt ' 
They  could  not  love  me,  such  was  not  the  law ; 
They  thwarted  me,  't  was  the  state's  policy ; 
They  baffled  me,  't  was  a  patrician's  duty ; 
They  wrong'd  rne,  for  such  was  to  right  the  stale ; 
They  could  not  right  me,  that  would  give  suspicion : 
So  that  I  was  a  slave  to  my  own  subjects  ; 
So  that  I  was  a  foe  to  my  own  friends ; 
Begirt  with  spies  for  guards — with  robes  for  powe    • 
With  pomp  for  freedom — gaolers  for  a  council — 
Inquisitors  for  friends — and  hell  for  life ! 
1  had  one  only  fownt  of  quiet  left, 
And  that  they  poison'd !  My  pure  household  goJa 
Were  shiver'd  on  my  hearth,  and  o'er  their  shrine 
Sate  grinning  ribaldry  and  sneering  scorn. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

You  have  been  deeply  wrong'd,  and  now  shall  b*> 
Nobly  avenged  before  another  night. 

DOGE. 

I  had  borne  all — it  hurt  me,  but  I  bore  it — 
Till  this  last  running  over  of  the  cup 
Of  bitterness — until  this  last  loud  insult, 
Not  only  unredress'd,  but  sanction'd  ;  then 
And  thus,  I  cast  all  further  feelings  from  me 
The  feelings  which  they  crush'd  for  me,  long,  IDIJJ; 
Before,  even  in  their  oath  of  false  allegiance  ! 
Even  in  that  very  hour  and  vow,  they  abjured 
Their  friend,  and  made  a  sovereign,  as  boys  mak» 
Playthings,  to  do  their  pleasure  and  be  broken  ' 
I  from  that  hour  have  seen  but  senators 
In  dark  suspicious  conflict  with  the  Doge, 
Brooding  with  him  in  rniit.ial  hate  and  fear  ; 
They  dreading  he  should  snatch  the  t.yrannv 
From  out  their  grasp,  and  he  abhorring  tyrant* 


264 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


To  me,  then,  these  men  have  no  private  life, 
Nor  claim  to  ties  they  have  cut  off  from  others  ; 
As  senators  for  arbitrary  acts 
Amenable,  I  look  on  them — as  such 
Let  them  be  dealt  upon. 

CALE.3DARO. 

And  now  to  action  ! 

Hence,  breihien,  to  our  posts,  and  may  this  be 
The  last  night  of  mere  words  :  I  'd  fain  be  doing ! 
Saint  Mark's  great  bell  at  dawn  shall  find  me  wakeful ! 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Disperse  then  to  your  posts  ;  be  firm  and  vigilant ; 
Think  on  the  wrongs  we  bear,  the  rights  we  claim. 
This  day  and  night  shall  be  the  last  of  peril ! 
Watch  for  the  signal,  and  then  march :  I  go 
To  join  my  band  ;  let  each  be  prompt  to  marshal 
His  separate  charge :  the  Doge  will  now  return 
To  the  palace  to  prepare  all  for  the  blow. 
We  part  to  meet  in  freedom  and  in  glory ! 

CALENDARO. 

Doge,  when  I  greet  you  next,  my  homage  to  you 
Shall  be  the  head  of  Steno  on  this  sword ! 

DOGE. 

No ;  let  him  be  reserved  unto  the  last, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  strike  at  such  a  prey, 
Till  nobler  garni"  is  ouarried  :  his  offence 
Was  a  mere  eouuition  of  the  vice, 
The  general  corruption  generated 
By  the  foul  aristocracy  ;  he  could  not — 
He  dared  not  in  more  honourable  days 
Have  risk'd  it !  I  have  merged  all  private  wrath 
Against  him,  ir  the  thought  of  our  great  purpose. 
A  slave  iiisx'j  me — I  require  his  punishment 
From  his  proud  master's  hands  ;  if  he  refuse  it, 
The  offence  grows  his,  and  let  him  answer  it. 

CALENDARO. 

Yet,  as  the  immediate  cause  of  the  alliance 
Which  consecrates  our  undertaking  more, 
I  owe  him  such  deep  gratitude,  that  fain 
I  would  repay  him  as  he  merits  ;   may  I  ? 

DOGE. 

You  would  but  lop  the  hand,  and  I  the  head ; 
You  would  but  smite  the  scholar,  I  the  master ; 
You  would  but  punish  Steno,  I  the  senate. 
I  cannot  pause  on  individual  hate, 
In  the  absorbing,  sweeping,  whole  revenge, 
Which,  like  the  sheeted  fire  from  heaven,  must  blast 
Without  distinction,  as  it  fell  of  yore, 
Where  the  Dead  Sea  hath  quench'd  two  cities'  ashes. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Away,  then,  to  your  posts  !  I  but  remain 
A  moment  to  accompany  the  Doge 
To  our  late  place  of  tryst,  to  see  no  spies 
Have  been  upon  the  scout,  and  thence  I  hasten 
To  where  my  allotted  band  is  under  arms. 

CALENDARO. 

Farewell,  then,  until  dawn. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Success  go  with  you ! 

CONSPIRATORS. 

We  wid  not  fail — away !  My  lord,  farewell ! 

I  Thf  loitupiratort  salute  the  DOGE  and  Isr  AEL  BER- 

r-o<  a.,  and  retire,  headed  by  PHILIP  CALENDARO. 

t'H    lioi.E  and  ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO  remain. 


ISRAEL       ERTUCCIO. 

We  have  them  in  the  toi  ---  -it  cannot  fail ! 
Now  thou'rt  indeed  a  sovereign,  and  wilt  make 
A  name  immortal  greatei  than  the  greatest : 
Free  citizens  have  struck  "i  kings  ere  now ; 
Caesars  have  fallen,  and  even  patrician  hands 
Have  crush'd  dictators,  as  the  popular  steel 
Has  reach'd  patricians ;  but  until  this  hour, 
What  prince  has  plotted  for  his  people's  freedom ' 
Or  risk'd  a  life  to  liberate  his  subjects  ? 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  they  conspire 
Against  the  people,  to  abuse  their  hands 
To  chains,  but  laid  aside  to  carry  weapons 
Against  the  fellow  nations,  so  that  yoke 
On  yoke,  and  slavery  and  death  may  whet, 
Not  glut,  the  never-gorged  Leviathan ! 
Now,  my  lord,  to  our  enterprise  ;  't  is  great, 
And  greater  the  reward ;  why  stand  you  rapt  ? 
A  moment  back,  and  you  were  all  impatience ! 

DOGE. 
And  is  it  then  decided  ?  must  they  die  ? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Who? 

DOGE. 

My  own  friends  by  blood  and  courtesy, 
And  many  deeds  and  days — the  senators? 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

You  pass'd  their  sentence,  and  it  is  a  just  one. 

DOGE. 

Ay,  so  it  seems,  and  so  it  is  to  you  ; 
You  are  a  patriot,  a  plebeian  Gracchus — 
The  rebel's  oracle — the  people's  tribune — 
I  blame  you  not,  you  act  in  your  vocation  ; 
They  smote  you,  and  oppress'd  you,  and  despised  yo» , 
So  they  have  me  :  but  you  ne'er  spake  with  them  ; 
You  never  broke  their  bread,  nor  shared  their  salt-; 
You  never  had  their  wine-cup  at  your  lips ; 
You  grew  not  up  with  them,  nor  laugh'd,  nor  wept, 
Nor  held  a  revel  in  their  company  ; 
Ne'er  smiled  to  see  them  smile,  nor  claim'd  their  smn« 
In  social  interchange  for  yours,  nor  trusted, 
Nor  wore  them  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  as  I  have : 
These  hairs  of  mine  are  gray,  and  so  are  theirs, 
The  elders  of  the  council ;  I  remember 
When  all  our  locks  were  like  the  raven's  wing, 
As  we  went  forth  to  take  our  prey  around 
The  isles  wrung  from  the  false  Mahometan : 
And  can  I  see  them  dabbled  o'er  with  blood 
Each  stab  to  them  will  seem  my  suicide. 

ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO. 

Doge  !  Doge  !  this  vacillation  is  unworthy 

A  child ;  if  you  are  not  in  second  childhood 

Call  back  your  nerves  to  your  own  purpose,  nor 

Thus  shame  yourself  and  me.    By  heavens  !  I  'd  rath* 

Forego  even  now,  or  fail  in  our  intent, 

Than  see  the  man  I  venerate  subside 

From  high  resolves  into  such  shallow  weakness ! 

You  have  seen  blood  in  battle,  shed  it,  both 

Your  own  ind  that  of  others :  can  you  shrink  then 

From  a  few  drops  from  veins  of  hoary  vampires, 

Who  but  give  back  what  they  have  drain'd  from  millions? 

DOGE. 

Bear  with  me  !  Step  by  step,  and  blow  on  blow 
I  will  divide  with  you ;  think  not  I  waver : 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


2C5 


Ah  !  no ;  it  is  the  certainty  of  all 

Which  I  must  do  doth  make  me  tremble  thus. 

Hut  let  these  last  and  lingering  thoughts  have  way, 

I'o  which  you  only  and  the  night  are  conscious, 

And  both  regardless :   when  the  hour  arrives, 

•T  is  mine  to  sound  the  knell,  and  strike  the  blow, 

Which  shall  unpeople  many  palaces, 

And  hew  the  highest  genealogic  trees 

Down  to  the  earth,  strew'd  with  their  bleeding  fruit, 

And  crush  their  blossoms  into  barrenness ; 

This  will  I — must  I — have  I  sworn  to  do, 

Nor  aught  can  turn  me  from  my  destiny : 

But  still  I  quiver  to  behold  what  I 

Must  be,  and  think  what  I  have  been !  Bear  with  me. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Re-man  your  breast ;  I  feel  no  such  remorse, 
I  understand  it  not :  why  should  you  change  ? 
You  acted,  and  you  act  on  your  free  will. 

DOGE. 

Ay,  there  it  is — you  feel  not,  nor  do  I, 
Else  I  should  stab  thee  on  the  spot,  to  save 
A  thousand  lives,  and,  killing,  do  no  murder ; 
You  feel  not — you  go  to  this  butcher-work 
As  if  these  high-born  men  were  steers  for  shambles! 
When  all  is  over,  you  '11  be  free  and  merry, 
And  calmly  wash  those  hands  incarnadine ; 
But  I,  outgoing  thee  and  all  thy  fellows 
In  this  surpassing  massacre,  shall  be, 
Shall  see,  and  feel— oh  God  !  oh  God!  'tis  true, 
And  thou  dost  well  to  answer  that  it  was 
"  My  own  free  will  and  act ;"  and  yet  you  err, 
For  I  will  do  this !  Doubt  not— fear  not ;  I 
Will  be  your  most  unmerciful  accomplice ! 
And  yet  I  act  no  more  on  my  free  will, 
Nor  my  own  feelings — both  compel  me  back  ; 
But  there  is  hell  within  me  and  around, 
And,  like  the  demon  who  believes  and  trembles, 
Must  I  abhor  and  do.     Away !  away ! 
Get  thee  unto  thy  fellows,  I  will  hie  me 
To  gather  the  retainers  of  our  house. 
Doubt  not,  Saint  Mark's  great  bell  shall  wake  all  Venice 
Except  her  slaughter'd  senate:  ere  the  sun 
Be  broad  upon  the  Adriatic,  there 
Shall  be  a  voice  of  weeping,  which  shall  drown 
The  roar  of  waters  in  the  cry  of  blood ! 
I  am  resolved — come  on. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

With  all  my  soul ! 

Keep  a  firm  rein  upon  these  bursts  of  passion ; 
Remember  what  these  men  have  deult  to  thee, 
And  that  this  sacrifice  will  be  succeeded 
By  ages  of  prosperity  and  freedom 
To  this  unshackled  city :  a  true  tyrant 
Would  have  depopulated  empires,  nor 
Have  felt  the  strange  compunction  which  hath  wrung  you 
To  punish  a  few  traitors  to  the  people ! 
Trust  me,  such  were  a  pity  more  misplaced 
Than  the  late  mercy  of  the  state  to  Steno. 

DOGE. 

Man,  tliou  hast  struck  upon  the  chord  which  jars 
AJI  nature  from  my  heart.     Hence  to  our  task ! 

[Exevnt 

2A2  39 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

Palazzo  of  the  Patrician  LIONI.  LIONI  laying  asvit 
the  mask  and  cloak  which  the  Venetian  Nobles  war 
in  public,  attended  by  a  Domestic. 

LIONI. 

will  to  rest,  right  weary  of  this  revel, 
The  gayest  we  have  held  for  many  moons, 
And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  it  cheer'd  me  not ; 
There  came  a  heaviness  across  my  heart, 
Which  in  the  lightest  movement  of  the  dance, 
Though  eye  to  eye  and  hand  in  hand  united, 
Even  with  the  lady  of  my  love,  oppress'd  me, 
And  through  my  spirit  chill'd  my  blood,  until 
A  damp  like  death  rose  o'er  my  brow ;  I  strove 
To  laugh  the  thought  away,  but 't  would  not  be  ; 
Through  all  the  music  ringing  in  my  ears 
A  knell  was  sounding  as  distinct  and  clear, 
Though  low  and  far,  as  e'er  the  Adrian  wave 
Rose  o'er  the  city's  murmur  in  the  nioht, 
Dashing  against  the  outward  Lido's  bulwark ; 
So  that  I  left  the  festival  before 
It  reach'd  its  zenith,  and  will  woo  my  pillow 
For  thoughts  more  tranquil,  or  forgetfulness. 
Antonio,  take  my  mask  and  cloak,  and  light 
The  lamp  within  my  chamber. 
ANTONIO. 

Yes,  my  lord ; 
Command  you  no  refreshment? 

Lion. 

Nought,  save  sleep, 
Which  will  not  be  commanded.     Let  me  hope  it, 

[Exit  ANTOKIO 
Though  my  breast  feels  too  anxious  ;  I  will  try 
Whether  the  air  will  calm  my  spirits  ;  't  is 
A  goodly  night ;  the  cloudy  wind  which  blew 
From  the  Levant  hath  crept  into  its  cave, 
And  the  broad  moon  has  brighten'd.   What  a  stillness 

[  Grits  to  an  open  lattiae. 
And  what  a  contrast  with  the  scene  I  left, 
Where  the  tall  torches'  glare,  and  silver  lamps' 
More  pallid  gleam  along  the  tapestried  walls, 
Spread  over  the  reluctant  gloom  which  haunts 
Those  vast  and  dimly-latticed  galleries 
A  dazzling  mass  of  artificial  light, 
Which  show'd  all  things,  but  nothing  as  they  were. 
There  Age  essaying  to  recall  the  past, 
After  long  striving  for  the  hues  of  youth 
At  the  sad  labour  of  the  toilet,  and 
Full  many  a  glance  at  the  too  faithful  mirror, 
Prankt  forth  in  all  the  pride  of  ornament, 
Forgot  itself,  and  trusting  to  the  falsehood 
Of  the  indulgent  beams,  which  show,  yet  hide, 
Believed  itself  forgotten,  and  was  fool'a. 
There  Youth,  which  needed  not,  nor  thought  of  sued 
Vain  adjuncts,  lavish'd  its  true  bloom,  and  health, 
And  bridal  beauty,  in  the  unwholesome  press 
Of  flush'd  and  crowded  wassailers,  and  wasted 
Its  hours  of  rest  in  dreaming  this  was  pleasure, 
And  so  shall  waste  them  till  the  sunrise  streams 
On  sallow  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes,  which  should  n* 
Have  worn  this  aspect  yet  for  many  a  year. 
The  music,  and  the  banquet,  and  the  wine- 


266 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  garlands,  the  rose  odours,  and  the  flowers  — 
The  sparkling  eyej  and  flashing  ornaments — 
The  white  arms  and  the  raven  hair — the  braids 
And  bracelets  ;  svvanlike  bosoms,  and  the  necklace, 
An  India  in  itself,  yet  dazzling  not 
The  eye  like  what  it  circled ;  the  thin  robes 
Floating  like  light  clouds  'twixt  our  gaze  and  heaven ; 
The  many  twinkling  feet  so  small  and  sylphlike, 
Suggesting  the  more  secret  symmetry 
Of  the  fair  forms  which  terminate  so  well — 
All  the  delusion  of  the  dizzy  scene, 
Its  false  and  true  enchantments — art  and  nature, 
Which  swam  before  my  giddy  eyes,  that  drank 
The  sight  of  beauty  as  the  parch'd  pilgrim's 
On  Arab  sands  the  false  mirage,  which  offers 
A  lucid  lake  to  his  eluded  thirst, 
4re  gone. — Around  me  are  the  stars  and  waters— 
Worlds  mirror'd  in  the  ocean,  goodlier  sight 
Than  torches  glared  back  by  a  gaudy  glass ; 
And  the  great  element,  which  is  lo  space 
What  ocean  is  to  earth,  spreads  its  blue  depths, 
Soften'd  with  the  first  breathings  of  the  spring ; 
The  high  moon  sails  upon  her  beauteous  way, 
Serenely  smoothing  o'er  the  lofty  walls 
Of  those  tall  piles  and  sea-girt  palaces, 
Whose  porphyry  pillars,  and  whose  costly  fronts, 
Fraught  with  the  orient  spoil  of  many  marbles, 
Like  altars  ranged  along  the  broad  canal, 
Seem  each  a  trophy  of  some  mighty  deed 
Rear'd  up  from  out  the  waters,  scarce  less  strangely 
Than  those  more  massy  and  mysterious  giants 
Of  architecture,  those  Titanian  fabrics, 
Which  point  in  Egypt's  plains  to  times  that  have 
No  other  record.     All  is  gentle:  nought 
Stirs  rudely  ;   but,  congenial  with  the  night, 
Whatever  walks  is  gliding  like  a  spirit. 
The  tinklings  of  some  vigilant  guitars 
Of  sleepless  lovers  to  a  wakeful  mistress, 
And  cautious  opening  of  the  casement,  showing 
That  he  is  not  unheard  ;  while  her  young  hand, 
Fair  as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  seems  part, 
So  delicately  white,  it  trembles  in 
The  act  of  opening  the  forbidden  lattice, 
To  let  in  love  through  music,  makes  his  heart 
Thrill  like  his  lyre-strings  at  the  sight ; — the  dash 
Phosphoric  of  the  oar,  or  rapid  twinkle 
Of  (he  far  lights  of  skimming  gondolas, 
And  the  responsive  voices  of  the  choir 
Of  boatmen  answering  back  with  verse  for  verse ; 
Some  dusky  shadow  chequering  the  Rialto ; 
Some  glimmering  palace  roof,  or  tapering  spire, 
Are  all  the  sights  and  sounds  which  here  pervade 
The  ocean-born  and  earth-commanding  city. 
How  sweet  and  soothing  is  this  hour  of  calm ! 
I  thank  thee,  night !  for  thou  nast  chased  away 
Those  horrid  bodements  which,  amidst  the  throng, 
1 1 ould  not  dissipate:  and,  with  the  blessing 
Ol  thy  benign  and  quiet  influence, 
ticw  wiu  I  to  my  couch,  although  to  rest 

IB  *imost  wronging  such  a  night  as  this 

[A  knocking  is  heard  from  without. 
Rurk !  wnat  is  that?  or  who  at  such  a  moment? 
Enter  ANTONIO. 

ANTONIO. 

My  lord,  a  man  without,  on  iu  gent  business, 
Implores  to  be  admitted. 


LIONI. 

Is  he  a  stranger? 
ANTONIO. 

His  face  is  muffled  in  his  cloak,  but  both 
His  voice  and  gestures  seern  familiar  to  me  ; 
I  craved  his  name,  but  this  he  seem'd  reluctant 
To  trust,  save  to  yourself;  most  earnestly 
He  sues  to  be  permitted  to  approach  you. 

LIONI. 

'T  is  a  strange  hour,  and  a  suspicious  bearing 
And  yet  there  is  slight  peril :  'tis  not  in 
Their  houses  noble  men  are  struck  at ;  still, 
Although  I  know  not  that  I  have  a  foe 
In  Venice,  't  will  be  wise  to  use  some  caution. 
Admit  him,  and  retire ;  but  call  up  quickly 
Some  of  thy  fellows,  who  may  wait  without. — 
Who  can  this  man  be  ? 
Exit  ANTONIO,  and  returns  with  BERTRAM  muffled. 

BERTRAM. 

My  good  lord  Lioni, 

I  have  no  time  to  lose,  nor  thou— dismiss 
This  menial  hence ;  I  would  be  private  with  you. 

LIONI. 
It  seems  the  voice  of  Bertram — go,  Antonio. 

[Exit  ANTONIO. 
Now,  stranger,  what  would  you  at  such  an  hour  ? 

BERTRAM  (discovering  himself), 
A  boon,  my  noble  patron ;  you  have  granted 
Many  to  your  poor  client,  Bertram ;  add 
This  one,  and  make  him  happy. 

Lion. 

Thou  hast  known  DM 
From  boyhood,  ever  ready  to  assist  thee 
In  all  fair  objects  of  advancement,  which 
Beseem  one  of  thy  station ;  I  would  promise 
Ere  thy  request  was  heard,  but  that  the  hour, 
Thy  bearing,  and  this  strange  and  hurried  mode 
Of  suing,  gives  me  to  suspect  this  visit 
Hath  some  mysterious  import — but  say  on — 
What  has  occurred,  gome  rash  and  sudden  broJ  '— 
A  cup  too  much,  a  scuffle,  and  a  stab? — 
Mere  things  of  every  day  ;  so  that  thou  hast  not 
Spilt  noble  blood,  I  guaranty  thy  safety  ; 
But  then  thou  must  withdraw,  for  angry  friends 
And  relatives,  in  the  first  burst  of  vengeance, 
Are  things  in  Venice  deadlier  than  the  laws. 

BERTRAM. 

My  lord,  I  thank  you ;  but 

LIOSI. 

But  what?  You  have  M 
Raised  a  rash  hand  against  one  of  our  order  ? 
If  so,  withdraw  and  fly,  and  own  it  not ; 
I  would  not  slay — but  then  I  must  not  save  thee ! 
He  who  has  shed  patrician  blood 

BERTRAM. 

I  come 

To  save  patrician  blood,  and  not  to  thed  it ! 
And  thereunto  I  must  be  speedy,  for 
Each  minute  lost  may  lose  a  life :  since  Time 
Has  changed  his  slow  scythe  for  the  two-edged  swnra 
And  is  about  to  take,  instead  of  sand, 
The  dust  from  sepulchres  to  fill  his  hour-glass ! — 
Go  not  thou  forth  to  morrow ! 

LIONI. 

Wherefo  enot?- 
What  means  this  menace ) 


BERTRAM. 

Do  not  seek  its  meaning, 
But  do  as  I  implore  thee ; — stir  not  forth, 
Whate'er  be  stirring ;  though  the  roar  of  crowds — 
The  cry  of  women,  and  the  shrieks  of  babes — 
Tht  groans  of  men — the  clash  of  arms — the  sound 
Of  rolling  drum,  shrill  trump,  and  hollow  bell, 
Pea!  in  one  wide  alarum ! — Go  not  forth 
Until  the  tocsin 's  silent,  nor  even  then 
Till  I  return ! 

Lion. 
Again,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

BERTRAM. 

Again,  I  tell  thee,  ask  not ;  but  by  all 
Thou  boldest  dear  on  earth  or  heaven — by  all 
The  souls  of  thy  great  fathers,  and  thy  hope 
To  emulate  them,  and  to  leave  behind 
Descendants  worthy  both  of  them  and  thee— 
By  all  thou  hast  of  blest  in  hope  or  memory— 
By  all  thou  hast  to  fear  here  or  hereafter — 
By  all  the  good  deeds  thou  hast  done  to  me, 
Good  I  would  now  repay  with  greater  good, 
Remain  within — trust  to  thy  household  gods 
And  to  my  word  for  safety,  if  thou  dost 
As  I  now  counsel — but  if  not,  thou  art  lost ! 

LIONI. 

[  am  indeed  already  lost  in  wonder: 
Surely  thou  ravest !  what  have  /  to  dread  ? 
Who  are  my  foes  ?  or,  if  there  be  such,  why 
A:t  thou  leagued  with  them  ? — thou  !  or,  if  so  leagued, 
Why  comest  thou  to  tell  me  at  this  hour, 
And  not  before  ? 

BERTRAM. 

I  cannot  answer  this. 
Wilt  thou  go  forth  despite  of  this  true  warning  ? 

LIOXI. 

I  was  not  born  to  shrink  from  idle  threats, 
The  cause  of  which  I  know  not:  at  the  hour 
Of  council,  be  it  soon  or  late,  I  shall  not 
Be  found  among  the  absent. 

BERTRAM. 

Say  not  so ! 
Once  more,  art  thou  determined  to  go  forth  ? 

LIONI. 
I  am ,  nor  is  there  aught  which  shall  impede  me ! 

BERTRAM. 

Then  Heaven  have  mercy  on  thy  soul ! — Farewell 

[Going-. 

LIONI. 

Stay — there  is  more  in  this  than  my  own  safety 
Which  makes  me  call  thee  back ;  we  must  not  part  thus: 
Bertram,  I  have  known  thee  long. 

BERTRAM. 

From  childhood,  signor, 
Vou  have  been  my  protector :  in  the  days 
Of  reckless  infancy,  when  rank  forgets, 
Or,  lather,  is  not  yet  taught  to  remember 
Its  coid  prerogative,  we  play'd  together; 
Our  sports,  our  smiles,  our  tears,  were  mingled  oft ; 
My  father  was  your  father's  client,  I 
His  son's  scarce  less  than  foster-brother;  years 
Saw  us  together — hai)|iv,  heart-full  hours ! — 
Oh  God !   the  difference  'twixt  those  hours  and  this ! 

LIONI. 
B«"  :-am,  't  is  tnou  who  hast  forgotten  them. 


BERTRAM. 

Nor  now,  nor  ever ;  whatsoe'er  betide, 

I  would  have  saved  you :  when  to  manhooj  i  growth 

We  sprung,  and  you,  devoted  to  the  stute, 

As  suits  your  station,  the  more  humble  Bertram 

Was  left  unto  the  labours  of  the  humble, 

Still  you  forsook  me  not :  and  if  my  fortunes 

Have  not  been  towering,  't  was  no  fault  of  him 

Who  oft-times  rescued  and  supported  me 

When  struggling  with  the  tides  of  circumstance 

Which  bear  away  the  weaker :  noble  blood 

Ne'er  mantled  in  a  nobler  heart  than  thine 

Has  proved  to  me,  the  poor  plebeian  Bertram. 

Would  that  thy  fellow  senators  were  like  thee ! 

LIOXI. 
Why,  what  hast  thou  to  say  against  the  senate  > 

BERTRAM. 

Nothing. 

LIONI. 

I  know  that  there  are  angry  spirits 
And  turbulent  mutterers  of  stifled  treason, 
Who  lurk  in  narrow  places,  and  walk  out 
Muffled  to  whisper  curses  to  the  night ; 
Disbanded  soldiers,  discontented  ruffians, 
And  desperate  libertines  who  brawl  in  taverns. 
Thou  herdest  not  with  such:   't  is  true,  of  late 
I  have  lost  sight  of  thee,  but  thou  wert  won'. 
To  lead  a  temperate  life,  and  break  thy  bread 
With  honest  mates,  and  bear  a  cheerful  aspect 
What  hath  come  to  thee  ?  in  thy  hollow  eye 
And  hueless  cheek,  and  thine  unquiet  motions, 
Sorrow  and  shame  and  conscience  seem  at  war 
To  waste  thee. 

BERTRAM. 

Rather  shame  and  sorrow  light 
On  the  accursed  tyranny  which  rides 
The  very  air  in  Venice,  and  makes  men 
Madden  as  in  the  last  hours  of  the  plague 
Which  sweeps  the  soul  deliriously  from  life ! 

LIOM. 

Some  villains  have  been  tampering  with  thee,  Bertram 
This  is  not  thy  old  language,  nor  own  thoughts ; 
Some  wretch  has  made  thee  drunk  with  disaffection  . 
But  thou  must  not  be  lost  so ;  thou  wert  good 
And  kind,  and  art  not  fit  for  such  base  acts 
As  vice  and  villany  would  put  thee  to : 
Confess — confide  in  me — thou  khow'st  my  na  uta-- 
What  is  it  thou  and  thine  are  bound  to  do, 
Which  should  prevent  thy  friend,  the  only  son 
Of  him  who  was  a  friend  unto  thy  father, 
So  that  our  good-will  is  a  heritage 
We  should  bequeath  to  our  posterity 
Such  as  ourselves  received  it,  or  augmented , 
I  say,  what  is  it  thou  must  do,  that  I 
Should  deem  thee  dangerous,  and  keep  the  hous« 
Like  a  sick  girl  ? 

BERTRAM. 

Nay,  question  me  no  further : 

I  must  be  gone 

LIONI. 

And  I  be  murder'd! — say, 
Was  it  not  thus  thou  said'st,  my  gentle  Bertram  ' 

BERTRAM. 

Who  talks  of  murder?  what  said  I  of  murder  ' 
'T  is  false !  I  did  not  utter  auch  a  we'd 


268 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LIONI. 

Thou  didst  not  ,  but  from  out  thy  wolfish  eye, 

So  changed  fiom  what  I  ki>ew  it,  there  glares  forth 

The  gladiator.     Jf  my  life's  thine  object, 

Take  it — I  am  unarm'd, — and  then  away ! 

I  would  not  hold  my  breath  on  such  a  tenure 

As  the  capricious  mercy  of  such  things 

As  thou  and  those  who  have  set  thee  to  thy  task-work. 

BERTRAM. 

Sooner  than  spill  thy  blooH,  I  peril  mine  ; 
Sooner  than  harm  a  hair  of  thine,  I  place 
In  jeopardy  a  thousand  heads,  and  some 
As  noble,  nay,  even  nobler  than  thine  own. 

LIONI. 

Ay,  is  it  even  so  ?  Excuse  me,  Bertram ; 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  singled  out 
From  such  exalted  hecatombs — who  are  they 
That  are  in  danger,  and  that  make  the  danger? 

BERTRAM. 

Venice,  and  all  that  she  inherits,  are 

Divided  like  a  house  against  itself, 

And  so  will  perish  ere  to-morrow's  twilight ! 

LIONI. 

More  mysteries,  and  awful  ones !  But  now, 
Or  thou,  or  I,  or  both,  it  may  be,  are 
Upon  the  verge  of  ruin ;   speak  once  out, 
And  thou  art  safe  and  glorious  ;  for  't  is  more 
Glorious  to  save  than  slay,  and  slay  i'  the  dark  too—- 
Fie, Bertram !  that  was  not  a  craft  for  thee ! 
How  would  it  look  to  see  upon  a  spear 
The  head  of  him  whose  heart  was  open  to  thee, 
Borne  by  thy  hand  before  the  shuddering  people? 
And  such  may  be  my  doom;   for  here  I  swear, 
Whate'er  the  peril  or  the  penalty 
Of  thy  denunciation,  I  go  forth, 
Unless  thou  dost  detail  the  cause,  and  show 
The  consequence  of  all  which  led  thee  here ! 

BERTRAM. 

Is  there  no  way  to  save  thee  ?  minutes  fly, 
And  thou  art  lost !  thou  !  my  sole  benefactor, 
The  only  being  who  was  constant  to  me 
Through  every  change.    Yet,  make  me  not  a  traitor ! 
Let  me  save  thee — but  spare  my  honour ! 
LIONI. 

Where 

Can  lie  the  honour  in  a  league  of  murder? 
And  who  are  traitors  save  unto  the  state  ? 

BERTRAM. 

A  league  is  still  a  compact,  and  more  binding 
In  honest  hearts  when  words  must  stand  for  law ; 
And  in  my  mind,  there  is  no  traitor  like 
He  whose  domestic  treason  plants  the  poniard 
Within  the  breast  which  trusted  to  his  truth. 

LIONI. 

And  who  will  strike  the  steel  to  mine  ? 

BERTRAM. 

Not  I; 

1  could  have  wound  my  soul  up  to  all  things 
Save  this.    Thou  must  not  die !  and  think  how  dear 
Thy  life  is,  when  I  risk  so  many  lives, 
Nay,  more,  the  life  of  lives,  the  liberty 
Of  future  generations,  not  to  be 
The  assassin  thou  miscall'st  me ;— once,  once  more 
I  dc  »djure  tnee,  pass  not  o'er  thy  threshold ! 

LIONI. 

It  »  t)  ruin-  -irnB  moment  I  go  forth. 


BERTRAM. 

Then  perish  Venice  rather  than  my  friend ! 
I  will  disclose — ensnare— betray — destroy — 
Oh,  what  a  villain  I  become  for  thee ! 

LIONI. 

Say  rather,  thy  friend's  saviour  and  the  state's  '  — 
Speak — pause  not — all  rewards,  all  pledges  for 
Thy  safety  and  thy  welfare  ;  wealth  such  as 
The  state  accords  her  worthiest  servants  ;  nay, 
Nobility  itself  I  guaianty  thee, 
So  that  thou  art  sincere  and  penitent. 

BERTRAM. 

I  have  thought  again :  it  must  not  be — I  love  thee — 
Thou  knowest  it — that  I  stand  here  is  the  proof, 
Not  least  though  last ;  but,  having  done  my  duty 
By  thee,  I  now  must  do  it  by  my  country ! 
Farewell ! — we  meet  no  more  in  life  ! — farewell ! 

LIONI. 

What,  ho !  Antonio — Pedro— to  the  door ! 

See  that  none  pass — arrest  this  man ! 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  other  armed  Domestics,  who  seizt 

BERTRAM. 

LIONI  (continue*). 

Take  cart 

He  hath  no  harm ;  bring  me  my  sword  and  cloak, 
And  man  the  gondola  with  four  oars — quick — 

[Exit  ANTONIO. 

We  will  unto  Giovanni  Gradenigo's, 
And  send  for  Marc  Cornaro: — Fear  not,  Bertram  ; 
This  needful  violence  is  for  thy  safety, 
No  less  than  for  the  general  weal. 

BERTRAM. 

Where  wouldst  too* 
Bear  me  a  prisoner  7 

LIONI. 

Firstly,  to  "  The  Ten ;" 
Next,  to  the  Doge. 

BERTRAM. 

To  the  Doge? 

LIONI. 

Assuredly ; 
Is  he  not  chief  of  the  state  ? 

BERTRAM. 

Perhaps  at  sunrise 

LIONI. 
What  mean  you? — but  we'll  know  anon. 

BERTRAM. 

Art  sure? 

LIONI. 

Sure  as  all  gentle  means  can  make ;  and  if 
They  fail,  you  know  "  The  Ten  "  and  their  tribunal, 
And  that  Saint  Mark's  has  dungeons,  and  the  dungeoni 
A  rack. 

BERTRAM. 

Apply  to  it  before  the  dawn 

Now  hastening  into  heaven. — One  moie  such  woid, 
And  you  shall  perish  piecemeal,  by  the  death 
Ye  think  to  doom  to  me. 

Re-enter  ANTONIO. 
ANTONIO. 

The  bark  is  readv, 
My  lord,  and  all  prepared. 

LIONI. 

Look  to  the  prisoner. 
Bertram,  I  '11  reason  with  thee  as  we  go 
To  the  Magnifico's,  sage  Gradenigo. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


271 


SCENE  II.  -ell  thy  life's  worth, 

T>L    n.     i  n  i         ,t     r,      i^s  function? 
The  Ducal  Palace — the  Doge's 

HT. 
The  DOGE  and  his  nephew  BERTUCCIU  . 

DOGE. 

Are  all  the  people  of  our  house  in  muster? 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

They  are  array'd,  and  eager  for  the  signal, 
Within  our  palace  precincts  at  San  Polo.* 
I  come  for  your  last  orders. 

DOGE. 

It  had  been 

As  well  had  there  been  time  to  have  got  together 
From  my  own  fief,  Val  di  Marino,  more 
Of  our  retainers — but  it  is  too  late. 

BERTUCCIO   FALIERO. 

Methinks,  my  lord,  't  is  better  as  it  is ; 

A  sudden  swelling  of  our  retinue 

Had  waked  suspicion  ;  and,  though  fierce  and  trusty, 

The  vassals  of  that  district  are  too  rude 

And  quick  in  quarrel  to  have  long  maintain'd 

The  secret  discipline  we  need  for  such 

A  service,  till  our  foes  are  dealt  upon. 

DOGE. 

True  ;  but  when  once  the  signal  has  been  given, 
These  are  the  men  for  such  an  enterprise  : 
These  city  slaves  have  all  their  private  bias, 
Their  prejudice  against  or  for  this  noble, 
Which  may  induce  them  to  o'erdo,  or  spare 
Where  mercy  may  be  madness  ;  the  fierce  peasants, 
Serfs  of  my  country  of  Val  di  Marino, 
Would  do  the  bidding  of  their  lord  without 
Distinguishing  for  love  or  hate  his  foes ; 
Alike  to  them  Marcello  or  Cornaro, 
A  Gradenigo  or  a  Foscari ; 
They  are  not  used  to  start  at  those  vain  names, 
Nor  bow  the  knee  before  a  civic  senate : 
A  chief  in  armour  is  their  suzerain, 
And  not  a  thing  in  robes. 

BERTUCCIO  FALIERO. 

We  are  enough ; 

And  for  the  dispositions  of  our  clients 
Against  the  senate,  I  will  answer. 
DOGE. 

Well, 

The  die  is  thrown  ;  but  for  a  warlike  service, 
Done  in  the  field,  commend  me  to  my  peasants  ; 
They  made  the  sun  shine  through  the  host  of  Huns 
When  sallow  burghers  slunk  back  to  their  tents, 
And  cower'd  to  hear  their  own  victorious  trumpet. 
If  there  be  small  resistance,  you  will  find 
These  citizens  all  lions,  like  their  standard  ; 
But  if  there  's  much  to  do,  you  '11  wish  with  me 
A.  band  of  iron  rustics  at  our  backs. 

BERTl'CCIO  FALIERO. 

Thus  thinking,  I  must  marvel  you  resolved 
To  st.-ike  the  blow  so  suddenly. 
DOGE. 

Such  blows 

Must  be  struck  suddenly  or  never.     When 
(  had  i>'ermaster'd  the  weak  false  remorse 
Which  >  carn'd  about  my  heart,  too  fondly  yielding 
*  moment  to  the  feelings  of  old  days, 
1  was  most  fain  to  strike  ;  and,  firstly,  that 
(  might  not  yield  again  to  such  emotions  ; 
And,  secondly  because  of  all  these  men, 


DOGE   (aside). 

There  now  is  nothing  left  me  save  to  die  •, 
And  yet  how  near  success  !  I  wyild  have  fallen, 
And  proudly,  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  but 
TVmiBo  it. thus  ! 

tuey  must  on  for  the,.  ,«.  THE  NIGHT  with  BERTULCI  » 
And  the  mere  instinct  of  the  prisoner. 
Which  ever  lurks  somewhere  in  t.u., 
Though  circumstance  may  keep  it  in  ai.,«t 
Will  urge  the  rest  on  like  to  wolves  ;  the  sigur 
Of  blood  to  crowds  begets  the  thirst  of  more, 
As  the  first  wine-cup  leads  to  the  long  revel ; 
And  you  will  find  a  harder  task  to  quell 
Than  urge  them  when  they  have  commenced  ;  but  tiO 
That  moment,  a  mere  voice,  a  straw,  a  shadow, 
Is  capable  of  turning  them  aside. — 
How  goes  the  night  ? 

BERTUCCIO  FALIERO. 

Almost  upon  the  dawn. 

DOGE. 

Then  it  is  time  to  strike  upon  the  bell. 
Are  the  men  posted  ? 

BERTUCCIO  FALIERO. 

By  this  time  they  are  ; 
But  they  have  orders  not  to  strike,  until 
They  have  command  from  you  through  me  in  person. 

DOGE. 

'T  is  well. — Will  the  morn  never  put  to  rest 
These  stars  which  twinkle  yet  o'er  all  the  heavens  ? 
I  am  settled  and  bound  up,  and  being  so 
The  very  effort  which  it  cost  me  to 
Resolve  to  cleanse  this  commonwealth  with  fire 
Now  leaves  my  mind  more  steady.     I  have  wept, 
And  trembled  at  the  thought  of  this  dread  duty ; 
But  now  I  have  put  down  all  idle  passion, 
And  look  the  growing  tempest  in  the  face, 
As  doth  the  pilot  of  an  admiral  galley ; 
Yet  (wouldst  thou  think  it,  kinsman?)  it  hath  oeen 
A  greater  struggle  to  me,  than  when  nations 
Beheld  their  fate  merged  in  the  approaching  fight, 
Where  I  was  leader  of  a  phalanx,  where 
Thousands  were  sure  to  perish — Yes,  to  spill 
The  rank  polluted  current  from  the  veins 
Of  a  few  bloated  despots  needed  more 
To  steel  me  to  a  purpose  such  as  made 
Timoleon  immortal,  than  to  face 
The  toils  and  dangers  of  a  life  of  war. 

BERTUCCIO  FALIERO. 

[t  gladdens  me  to  see  your  former  wisdom 
Subdue  the  furies  which  so  wrung  you  ere 
You  were  decided. 

DOGE. 

It  was  ever  th»s 
With  me ;  the  hour  of  agitation  came 
[n  the  first  glimmerings  of  a  purpose,  when 
Passion  had  too  much  room  to  sway ;  but  ir. 
The  hour  of  action  I  have  stood  as  calm 
As  were  the  dead  who  lay  around  me :  tnis 
They  knew  who  made  me  what  I  am,  and  trust** 
To  the  subduing  power  which  I  preserved 
3ver  my  mood,  when  its  first  burst  was  spent 
But  they  were  not  aware  that  there  are  things 
Which  make  revenge  a  virtue  by  reflection, 
And  not  an  impulse  of  mere  anger  :   though 
The  laws  sleep,  justice  wakes,  and  injured  strum 
Oft  do  a  public  right  with  private  wrong. 


268 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


X.IONI. 

Thou  didst  not  ,  but  from  out  thy  wolfish  eye, 

So  changed  fiom  what  I  knew  it,  there  glares  forth 

The  gladiator.     Jf  my  life's  thine  object, 

Take  it — I  am  unarm'd, — and  then  away ! 

I  would  not  hold  my  breath  on  such.  »-*—»-— 

As  the  capricious  mercy  of  su- 


As  thou  and  those  who-b~ 

.ig  in  the  sky. 

Sooner  than  i 
Sooner  i 


True, 


Away,  then! 


—  .      u>at  they  strike  without  delay,  ana  wun 

The  first  toll  from  St.  Mark's,  march  on  the  palace 

With  all  our  house's  strength  ;  here  I  will  meet  you — 

The  Sixteen  and  their  companies  will  move 

In  separate  columns  at  the  self-same  moment — 

Be  sure  you  post  yourself  by  the  great  gate, 

1  would  not  trust  "  The  Ten  "  except  to  us — 

The  rest,  the  rabble  of  patricians,  may 

Glut  the  more  careless  swords  of  those  leagued  with  us. 

Remember  that  the  cry  is  still  "  Saint  Mark! 

The  Genoese  are  come — ho  !  to  the  rescue  ! 

Saint  Mark  and  liberty  !"— Now— now  to  action  ! 

BERTUCCIO  FALIERO. 

Farewell  then,  noble  uncle !  we  will  meet 
In  freedom  and  true  sovereignty,  or  never! 

DOGE. 

Come  hither,  my  Bertuccio — one  embrace — 
Speed,  for  the  day  grows  broader — Send  me  soon 
A  messenger  to  tell  me  how  all  goes 
When  you  rejoin  our  troops,  and  then  sound — sound 
The  storm-bell  from  Saint  Mark's ! 

[Exit  BERTUCCIO  FALIERO. 
DOGE  (solus). 

He  is  gone, 

And  on  each  footstep  moves  a  life. — 'T  is  done. 
Now  the  destroying  angel  hovers  o'er 
Venice,  and  pauses  ere  he  pours  the  vial, 
Even  as  the  eagle  overlooks  his  prey, 
And  for  a  moment  poised  in  middle  air, 
Suspends  the  motion  of  his  mighty  wings, 
Then  swoops  with  his  unerring  beak. — Thou  day ! 
That  slowly  walk's!  the  waters  !   march — march  on — 
I  would  not  smite  i'  the  dark,  but  rather  see 
That  no  stroke  errs.     And  you,  ye  blue  sea-waves ' 
I  have  seen  you  dyed  ere  now,  and  deeply  too, 
With  Genoese,  Saracen,  and  Hunnish  gore, 
While  that  of  Venice  flow'd  too,  but  victorious: 
Now  thou  must  wear  an  unmix'd  crimson  ;  no 
Barbaric  blood  can  reconcile  us  now 
Unto  that  horrible  incarnadine, 
But  friend  or  foe  will  roll  in  civic  slaughter. 
And  have  I  lived  to  fourscore  years  for  this  ? 
I,  who  was  named  preserver  of  the  city  ? 
I,  at  whose  name  the  million's  caps  were  flung 
Into  the  air,  and  cries  from  tens  of  thousands 
Rose  up,  imploring  Heaven  to  send  me  blessings, 
And  fame  and  length  of  days — to  see  this  day  ? 
But  this  day,  black  within  the  calendar, 
Shall  be  succeeded  by  a  bright  millennium. 
Do"t>  Dandolo  survived  to  ninety  summers 
To  vanquisn  empires  and  refuse  their  crown ; 

will  resign  a  crown,  and  make  the  state 
Renuw,  its  freedom — but  oh  !  by  what  means? 
The  noble  end  must  justny  them — What 
Are.  u  few  drops  of  human  blood  'I  't  is  false, 
The  blood  of  tyrants  is  not  human  ?  they. 


olochs.  feed  on  ours, 
Then  perish  V  enice  r     ., 
.     ...  *     ,  ive  them  to  the  tombs 

I  will  disclose — en?          ,  i  r^,          ,  , , 

.    e  made  so  populous. — Oh  work1 ! 

'  That  are  ye,  and  our  best  designs, 

_     _    »-e  must  work  by  crime  to  punish  crime  1 
And  sky  as  if  Death  had  but  this  one  gate, 
»Vhen  a  few  years  would  make  the  sword  superfluouf 
And  I,  upon  the  verge  of  the  unknown  realm, 
Yet  send  so  many  heralds  on  before  me  1 — 
[  must  not  ponder  this. 

[A  paute. 
Hark  !  was  there  not 


A  murmur  as  of  distant  voices,  and 
The  tramp  of  feet  in  martial  unison  1 
What  phantoms  even  of  sound  our  wishes  raise ! 
It  cannot  be — the  signal  hath  not  rung — 
Why  pauses  it?  My  nephew's  messenger 
Should  be  upon  his  way  to  me,  and  he 
Himself  perhaps  even  now  draws  grating  back 
Qpon  its  ponderous  hinge  the  steep  tower  portal, 
Where  swings  the  sullen  huge  oracular  bell, 
Which  never  knells  but  for  a  princely  death, 
Or  for  a  state  in  peril,  pealing  forth 
Tremendous  bodements ;  let  it  do  its  office, 
And  be  this  peal  its  awfullest  and  last. 
Sound  till  the  strong  tower  rock ! — What,  silent  still  ? 
I  would  go  forth,  but  that  my  post  is  here, 
To  be  the  centre  of  re-union  to 
The  oft-discordant  elements  which  form 
Leagues  of  this  nature,  and  to  keep  compact 
The  wavering  or  the  weak,  in  case  of  conflict: 
For  if  they  should  do  battle,  't  will  be  here, 
Within  the  palace,  that  the  strife  will  thicken ; 
Then  here  must  be  my  station,  as  becomes 
The  master-mover. — Hark !  he  comes — he  comes, 
My  nephew,  brave  Bertuccio's  messenger. — 
What  tidings  1  Is  he  marching  ?  Hath  he  sped  ? — 
They  here ! — all's  lost — yet  will  I  make  an  effort. 
Enter  a  SIGNOR  OF  THE  NIGHT,*  with  Guards,  etc. 

SIGNOR  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Doge,  I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason  ! 
DOGE. 

Me! 

Thy  prince,  of  treason ! — Who  are  they  that  dare 
Cloak  their  own  treason  under  such  an  order  ? 

SIGNOR  OF  THE  NIGHT   (showing  hit  order). 
Behold  my  order  from  the  assembled  Ten. 

DOGE. 

And  where  are  th«y,  and  why  assembled  ?  no 
Such  council  can  be  lawful,  till  the  prince 
Preside  there,  and  that  duty 's  mine :  on  thine 
I  charge  thee,  give  me  way,  or  marshal  me 
To  the  council  chamber. 

SIGNOR  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Duke,  it  may  not  be ; 

Nor  are  they  in  the  wonted  Hall  of  Council, 
But  sitting  in  the  convent  of  Saint  Saviour's. 

DOGE. 
You  dare  to  disobey  me  then  ? 

SIGNOR  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

I  serve 

The  state,  and  needs  must  serve  it  faithfully. 
My  warrant  is  the  will  of  those  who  rul«"  it 

DOGE. 

And  till  that  warrant  has  my  signature. 
It  b  illegal,  and,  as  now  applied, 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


27J 


Rebellious — *  [ast  thou  weigh'd  well  thy  life's  worth, 
That  thus  you  dare  assume  a  lawless  function  ? 

SIGNOR    Or    THE     NIGHT. 

*T  is  not  my  office  to  reply,  but  act— 

I  am  placed  here  as  guard  upon  thy  person, 

And  not  as  judge  to  hear  or  to  decide. 

DOGE  (aside). 

I  must  gain  time — So  that  the  storm-bell  sound, 
All  may  be  well  yet. — Kinsman,  speed — speed — speed ! 
Our  fate  is  trembling  in  the  balance,  and 
Woe  to  the  vanquish'd !  be  they  prince  and  people, 
Or  slaves  and  senate — 

[The  great  bell  of  St.  Mark's  tolls. 
Lo !  it  sounds — it  tolls  ! 

DOGE  (aloud). 

Hark,  Signor  of  the  Night !  and  you,  ye  hirelings, 
Who  wield  your  mercenary  slaves  in  fear, 
It  is  your  knell — Swell  on,  thou  lusty  peal ! 
Now,  knaves,  what  ransom  for  your  lives? 

SIGNOR    OF    THE    NIGHT. 

Confusion! 

Stand  to  your  arms,  and  guard  the  door — all 's  lost, 
Unless  that  fearful  bell  be  silenced  soon. 
The  officer  hath  miss'd  his  path  or  purpose, 
Or  met  some  unforeseen  and  hideous  obstacle. 
Anselmo,  with  thy  company  proceed 
Straight  to  the  tower ;  the  rest  remain  with  me. 

[Exit  a  part  of  the  Guard. 
DOGE. 

Wretch !  if  thou  wouldst  have  thy  vile  life,  implore  it ; 
It  is  not  now  a  lease  of  sixty  seconds. 
Ay,  send  ihy  miserable  ruffians  forth  ; 
They  never  shall  return. 

SIGNOR    OF    THE    NIGHT. 

So  let  it  be  ! 
They  die  then  in  their  duty,  as  will  I. 

DOGE. 

Fool !  the  high  eagle  flies  at  nobler  game 
Than  thou  and  thy  base  myrmidons, — live  on, 
So  thou  provok'st  not  peril  by  resistance, 
And  learn  (if  souls  so  much  obscured  can  bear 
To  gaze  upon  the  sunbeams)  to  be  free. 

SIGNOR    OF    THE    NIGHT. 

And  learn  thou  to  be  captive — It  hath  ceased, 

[The  bell  ceases  to  toll. 

The  traitorous  signal,  which  was  to  have  set 
The  bloodhound  mob  on  their  patrician  prey— 
The  knell  hath  rung,  but  it  is  not  the  senate's ! 

DOGE  (after  a  pause). 
M's  silent,  and  all's  lost! 

SIGNOR    OF    THE    NIGHT. 

Now,  Doge,  denounce  me 
As  rebel  slave  of  a  revolted  council ! 
Have  I  not  done  my  duty  ? 

DOGE. 

Peace,  thou  thing ! 

Thou  hast  done  a  worthy  deed,  and  eam'd  the  price 
Of  blood,  and  they  wh'o  use  thee  will  reward  thee. 
But  thou  wert  sent  to  watch,  and  not  to  prate, 
As  thou  said'st  even  now — then  do  thine  office, 
But  let  «  be  in  silence,  as  behoves  thee, 
Since,  though  thy  prisoner,  I  am  thy  prince. 

SIGNOH    Or    THE    WIGHT. 

aid  not  mean  to  fail  in  the  respect 
Due  to  your  rank :  in  this  I  shall  obey  you. 


DOGE    (aside). 

There  now  is  nothing  left  m<>  save  to  die  ; 
And  yet  how  near  success  !  I  w^vild  have  fallen, 
And  proudly,  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  but 
To  miss  it  thus  ! 

Enter  other  SIGNORS  or  THE  NIGHT  wuh  BERTULCI  » 
FALIERO  prisoner. 

SECOND    SIGNOR. 

We  took  him  in  the  act 

Of  issuing  from  the  tower,  where,  at  his  order, 
As  delegated  from  the  Doge,  the  signal 
Had  thus  begun  to  sound. 

FIRST    SIGNOR. 

Are  all  the  passes 
Wliich  lead  up  to  the  palace  well  secured  ? 

SECOND    SIGNOR. 

They  are — besides,  it  matters  not ;  the  chiefs 
Are  all  in  chains,  and  some  even  now  on  trial — 
Their  followers  are  dispersed,  and  many  taKen. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

Uncle ! 

DOGE. 

It  is  in  vain  to  war  with  Fortune  ; 
The  glory  hath  departed  from  our  house. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

Who  would  have  deem'd  it  ? — Ah !  one  moment  soonc* 

DOGE. 

That  moment  would  have  changed  the  face  of  ages  ; 
This  gives  us  to  eternity — We  'II  meet  it 
As  men  whose  triumph  is  not  in  success, 
But  who  can  make  their  own  minds  all  in  all 
Equal  to  every  fortune.     Droop  not,  't  is 
But  a  brief  passage — I  would  go  alone, 
Yet  if  they  send  us,  as  't  is  like,  together, 
Let  us  go  worthy  of  our  sires  and  selves. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

I  shall  not  shame  you,  uncle. 

FIRST    SIGNOR. 

Lords,  our  orders 

Are  to  keep  guard  on  both  in  separate  chambers, 
Until  the  Council  call  ye  to  your  trial. 

DOGE. 

Our  trial !  will  they  keep  their  mockery  up 
Even  to  the  last  ?  but  let  them  deal  upon  us 
As  we  had  dealt  on  them,  but  with  less  pomp. 
'T  is  but  a  game  of  mutual  homicides, 
Who  have  cast  lots  for  the  first  death,  and  they 
Have  won  with  false  dice  ? — Who  hath  been  our  Judas  7 

FIRST    SIGNOR. 

I  am  not  warranted  to  answer  that. 

BERTUCCIO    FALIERO. 

I  '11  answer  for  thee — 't  is  a  certain  Bertram, 
Even  now  deposing  to  the  secret  giunta. 

DOGE. 

Bertram,  the  Bergamask !  With  what  vile  toois 
We  operate  to  slay  or  save !  This  creature, 
Black  with  a  double  treason,  now  will  eain 
Rewards  and  honours,  and  be  stampt  in  stoiy 
With  the  geese  in  the  Capitol,  which  gabbled 
Till  Rome  awoke,  and  had  an  annual  triumph, 
While  Manlius,  who  hurl'd  down  the  Gauls,  wa?  so* 
From  the  Tarpeian. 

FIRST    SIGNOR. 

He  aspired  to  treason 
And  sought  to  rule  the  state. 


272 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


DOGE. 

He  saved  the  state, 

And  sought  but  to  reform  what  he  revived—- 
But this  is  idle — Come,  sirs,  do  your  work. 

FIRST    SIGNOR. 

Noble  Bertuccio,  we  must  now  remove  you 
Into  an  inner  chamber. 

BERTCCCIO    FALIERO. 

Farewell,  uncle ! 

If  we  shall  meet  again  in  life  I  know  not, 
But  they  perhaps  will  let  our  ashes  mingle. 

DOGE. 

Yes,  and  our  spirits,  which  shall  yet  go  forth, 
And  do  what  our  frail  clay,  thus  clogg'd,  hath  fail'd  in  ! 
They  cannot  quench  the  memory  of  those 
Who  would  have  hurl'd  them  from  their  guilty  thrones, 
And  such  examples  will  find  heirs,  though  distant. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

'ITie  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Ten  assembled  with  the 
additional  Senators,  who,  on  the  Trials  of  the  Con- 
spirators for  the  Treason  of  MA.RISO  FALIERO,  com- 
posed what  was  called  the  Giunta. — Guards,  Offi- 
cers, etc.,  etc — ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO  and  PHILIP 
C ALENDARO  as  Prisoners. — BERTRAM,  LIONI,  and 
Witnesses,  etc. 

The  Chief  of  the  Ten,  BENUTTENDI:. 

BENINTENDE. 

There  now  rests,  after  such  conviction  of 
Their  manifold  and  manifest  offences, 
But  to  pronounce  on  these  obdurate  men 
The  sentence  of  the  law :  a  grievous  task 
To  those  who  hear  and  those  who  speak.     Alas ' 
That  it  should  fall  to  me,  and  that  my  days 
Of  office  should  be  stigmatized  through  all 
The  years  of  coming  time,  as  bearing  record 
To  this  most  foul  and  complicated  treason 
Against  a  just  and  free  state,  known  to  all 
The  earth  as  being  the  Christian  bulwark  'gainst 
The  Saracen  and  the  schismatic  Greek, 
The  savage  Hun,  and  not  less  barbarous  Frank  ; 
A  city  which  has  open'd  India's  wealth 
To  Europe ;  the  last  Roman  refuge  from 
O'erwhelming  Attila  ;  the  ocean's  queen  ; 
Proud  Genoa's  prouder  rival !  'T  is  to  sap 
The  throne  of  such  a  city,  these  lost  men 
Jlave  risk'd  and  forfeited  their  worthless  lives — 
So  let  them  die  the  death. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

We  are  prepared ; 
\  our  racks  have  done  that  for  us.     Let  us  die. 

BEMNTENDE. 

it  ye  have  that  to  say  which  would  obtain 
Abatement  of  your  punishment,  the  Giunta 
Will  hear  you  ;  i.  you  have  aught  to  confess, 
Now  is  your  time,  perhaps  it  may  avail  ye. 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

•Vc  stand  to  hear,  and  not  to  speak. 

BENINTENDE. 

Your  crimes 

Are  fully  proved  by  jour  accomplices, 
And  all  which  circumstance  can  add  to  aid  them  ; 
Y«»  we  would  hear  from  vour  own  lips  complete 


Avowal  of  your  treason  :  on  ihe  verge 
Of  that  dread  gulf  which  none  repass,  the  truth 
Alone  can  profit  you  on  earth  or  heaven — 
Say,  then,  what  was  your  motive  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Justice ; 

BENINTENDE. 

What 
Your  object? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO 

Freedom ! 

BENINTENDE. 

You  are  brief,  s». 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

So  my  life  grows :  I 
Was  bred  a  soldier,  not  a  senator. 

BENINTENDE. 

Perhaps  you.  think  by  this  blunt  brevity 

To  brave  your  judges  to  postpone  the  sentence  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Do  you  be  brief  as  I  am,  and,  believe  me, 
I  shall  prefer  that  mercy  to  your  pardon. 

BENINTENDE. 

Is  this  your  sole  reply  to  the  tribunal  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Go,  ask  your  racks  what  they  have  wrung  from  us, 

Or  place  us  there  again ;  we  have  still  some  blood  left, 

And  some  slight  sense  of  pain  in  these  wrench'd  limb»  : 

But  this  ye  dare  not  do ;  for  if  we  die  there — 

And  you  have  left  us  little  life  to  spend 

Upon  your  engines,  gorged  with  pangs  already — 

Ye  lose  the  public  spectacle  with  which 

You  would  appal  your  slaves  to  further  slavery  ! 

Groans  are  not  words,  nor  agony  assent, 

Nor  affirmation  truth,  if  nature's  sense 

Should  overcome  the  soul  into  a  lie, 

For  a  short  respite — Must  we  bear  or  die  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Say,  who  were  your  accomplices  ? 

ISRAEL    BEKTUCCIO. 

The  senate ! 

BEFINTENDE. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Ask  of  the  suffering  people, 
Whom  your  patrician  crimes  have  d  iven  to  crime. 

BENINTENDE. 

You  know  the  Doge  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  served  with  him  at  Zara 
In  the  field,  when  you  were  pleading  here  your  way 
To  present  office  ;  we  exposed  our  lives, 
While  you  but  hazarded  the  lives  of  others, 
Alike  by  accusation  or  defence ; 
And,  for  the  rest,  all  Venice  knows  her  Doge, 
Through  his  great  actions,  and  the  senate's  insulte ! 

BENINTENDE. 

You  have  held  conference  with  him  ? 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  am  weary- 
Even  wearier  of  your  questions  than  your  torture* 
I  pray  you  pass  to  judgment. 

BENINTENDE. 

It  is  cfinw  f  .— 
And  you,  too,  Philip  Calendaro,  wha* 


MARINO  FALIERO 


27.1 


Have  you  to  say  why  you  should  not  be  doom'd  ? 

CALENDARO. 

1  never  was  a  man  of  many  words, 

And  now  have  few  left  worth  the  utterance. 

BENINTENDE. 

A.  ftrthT1  implication  of  yon  engin. 
Mav  change  your  tone. 

CALENDARO. 

Most  true,  it  will  do  so ; 
A  former  application  did  so ;  but 
It  will  not  change  my  words,  or,  if  ii  did 

BENINTENDE. 

What  then  ? 

CALENDARO. 

Will  my  avowal  on  yon  rack 
Stand  good  in  law  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Assuredly. 

CALENDARO.     ' 

Whoe'er 
The  culprit  be  whom  I  accuse  of  treason  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Without  doubt,  he  will  be  brought  up  to  trial. 

CALENDARO. 

And  on  this  testimony  would  he  per jsh  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

So  your  confession  be  detail'd  and  full, 
He  will  stand  here  in  peri!  of  his  life. 

CALENDARO. 

Then  look  well  to  thy  proud  self,  President ! 
For  by  the  eternity  which  yawns  before  me, 
I  swear  that  thou,  and- only  thou,  shall  be 
The  traitor  I  denounce  upon  that  rack, 
If  I  be  stretch'd  there  for  the  second  time. 

ONE    OF    THE    GIUNTA. 

Lord  President,  't  were  best  to  proceed  to  judgment , 
There  is  no  more  to  be  drawn  from  these  men. 

BENINTENDE. 

Dnnappy  men !  prepare  for  instant  death. 
The  nature  of  your  crime — our  law — and  peril 
The  state  now  stands  in,  leave  not  an  hour's  respite—- 
Guards! lead  them  forth,  and  upon  the  balcony 
Of  the  red  columns,  where,  on  festal  Thursday,' 
The  Doge  stands  to  behold  the  chase  of  bulls, 
Let  them  be  justified :  and  leave  exposed 
Their  wavering  relics,  in  the  place  of  judgment, 
To  the  full  view  of  the  assembled  people ! 
And  Heaven  have  mofcy  on  their  souls ! 

THE    GIUNTA. 

Amen! 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Signers,  farewell !  we  shall  not  all  again 
Meet  in  one  place. 

BENINTENDE. 

And  lest  they  should  essay 
To  stir  up  the  distracted  multitude — 
Guards !  let  tli*ir  mouths  be  gagg'd,*  even  in  the  act 
Of  execution. — Lead  them  hence ! 

CALENDARO. 

What !  must  we 

Not  even  say  farewell  to  some  fond  friend, 
Not  leave  a  last  word  with  our  confessor  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

\  priest  is  waiting  in  the  ante-chamber  ; 
But,  '"«•    cur  friends,  such  interviews  would  bo 
Painful  to  them,  and  useless  all  to  you. 
2  B  40 


,  CALENDARO. 

[  knew  that  we  were  gagg'd  in  life  ;  at  least, 
All  those  who  had  not  heart  to  risk  their  lives 
Upon  their  open  thoughts ;  but  still  I  deem'd 
That,  in  the  last  few  moments,  the  same  idle 
Freedom  of  speech  accorded  to  the  dying, 
Would  not  now  be  denied  to  us ;  but  since 

ISRAEL     BERTUCCIO. 

Even  let  them  have  their  way,  brave  Calendarc 

What  matter  a  few  syllables  ?  let 's  die 

Without  the  slightest  show  of  favour  from  them ; 

So  shall  our  blood  more  readily  arise 

To  Heaven  against  them,  and  more  testify 

To  their  atrocities,  than  could  a  volume 

Spoken  or  written  of  our  dying  words ! 

They  tremble  at  our  voices — nay,  they  dread 

Our  very  silence — let  them  live  in  fear ! — 

Leave  them  unto  their  thoughts,  and  let  us  now 

Address  our  own  above ! — Lead  on ;  we  are  ready. 

CALENDARO. 

Israel,  hadst  thou  but  hearken'd  unto  me, 

It  had  not  now  been  thus  ;  and  yon  pale  villain, 

The  coward  Bertram,  would 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

Peace,  Calendarol 
What  brooks  it  now  to  ponder  upon  this  ? 

BERTRAM. 

Alas  !  I  fain  you  died  in  peace  with  me : 
I  did  not  seek  this  task  ;  't  was  forced  upon  me :   ' 
Say,  you  forgive  me,  though  I  never  can 
Retrieve  my  own  forgiveness — frown  not  thus  ! 

ISRAEL    BERTUCCIO. 

I  die  and  pardon  thee ! 

CALENDARO  (spitting  at  him). 

I  die  and  scorn  ihee ! 

[Exeunt  ISRAEL  BERTUCCIO  and  PHILIP  CALK* 
DARO,  Guards,  etc. 

BENINTENDE. 

Now  that  these  criminals  have  been  disposed  of, 

'T  is  time  that  we  proceed  to  pass  our  sentence 

Upon  the  greatest  traitor  upon  fecord 

In  any  annals,  the  Doge  Faliero ! 

The  proofs  and  pror  jss  are  complete  ;  the  time 

And  crime  require  a  quick  procedure :  shall 

He  now  be  call'd  in  to  receive  the  award  ? 

THE    GIUNTA. 

Ay,  ay. 

BENINTENDE. 

Avogadon,  order  that  the  Doge 
Be  brought  before  the  council. 

ONE    OF    THE    GI0NTA. 

And  the  rest, 
When  shall  they  be  brought  up  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

When  all  the  chieta 

Have  been  disposed  of.     Some  have  fled  tc  Chiozza 
But  there  are  thousands  in  pursuit  of  them, 
And  such  precaution  ta'en  on  terra  firma, 
As  well  as  in  the  islands,  that  we  hope 
None  will  escape  to  utter  in  strange  lands 
His  libellous  tale  of  treason  'gainst  the  senate. 
Enter  the  DOGE  as  Prisoner,  with  Guards,  etc.  nt 

BENINTENDE. 

Doge — for  such  still  you  are,  and  by  the  la-.» 
Must  be  consider'd,  till  the  hour  shall  come 
When  you  must  doff  the  ducal  bonnet  from 


271 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


That  head  wb  ich  could  not  wear  a  crown  more  noble 

Than  emp  n,s  can  confer,  in  quiet  honour, 

But  it  must  plot  to  overthrow  your  peers, 

Whi»  made  you  what  you  are,  and  quench  in  blood 

A  cit  y's  glory-  •  we  have  laid  already 

Before  you  in  your  chamber  at  full  length, 

By  the  Avogadori,  all  the  proofs 

Whiclt  have  uppear'd  against  you ;  and  more  ample 

Ne'er  i-ear'd  their  sanguinary  shadows  to 

Confront  a  traitor.  VVhat  have  you  to  say 

In  your  defence  ? 

DOGE. 

What  shall  I  say  to  ye, 

Since  my  defence  must  be  your  condemnation  ? 
You  are  at  once  offenders  and  accusers, 
Judges  and  executioners  ! — Proceed 
Upon  your  power. 

BENINTENDE. 

Your  chief  accomplices 
Raring  confess'd,  there  is  no  hope  for  you. 

DOGE. 
And  who  be  they  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

In  number  many  ;  but 
The  first  now  stands  before  you  in  the  court, 
Bertram,  of  Bergamo, — would  you  question  him  ? 

DOGE  (looking  at  him  contemptuously). 
No. 

BENINTENDE. 

And  two  others,  Israel  Bertuccio, 
And  Philip  Calendaro,  have  admitted 
Their  fellowship  in  treason  with  the  Doge  ! 

DOGE. 
And  where  are  they  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Gone  to  their  place,  and  now 
Answering  to  Heaven  for  what  they  did  on  earth. 

DOGE. 

Ah !  the  plebeian  Brutus,  is  he  gone  ? 
And  the  quic*  Cassius  of  the  arsenal  ?— 
How  did  they  meet  their  doom  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Think  of  your  own ; 
It  it  approaching.     You  decline  to  plead,  then  ? 

DOGE. 

I  cannot  plead  to  my  inferiors,  nor 
Can  recognise  your  legal  power  to  try  me : 
Show  me  the  law  ! 

BENINTENDE. 

On  great  emergencies, 
The  law  must  be  remodell'd  o'  amended  : 
Our  fathers  had  not  fix'd  the  punishment 
Of  such  a  crime,  as  on  the  old  Roman  tables 
The  sentence  against  parricide  was  left 
In  pure  forgetfulness ;  they  could  not  render 
That  penal,  which  had  neither  name  nor  thought 
In  their  great  bosoms :  who  would  have  foreseen 
That  nature  oouU  be  filed  to  such  a  crime 
As  sons  'gainst  sires,  and  princes  'gainst  their  realms  V 
You'  sin  hath  made  us  make  a  law  which  will 
Become,  a  precedent  'gainst  such  naught  traitors, 
As  wou.d  with  treason  mount  to  tyranny  ; 
No*  even  contented  with  a  sceptre,  till 
They  can  convert  .1  to  a  two-edged  sword  ! 
Was  not  the  place  of  Doge  sufficient  for  ye  ? 
What 's  nobler  tnaa  the  signory  of  Venice  ? 


DOGE. 

The  signory  of  Venice  !  You  betray'd  me — 

You — you,  who  sit  there,  traitors  as  ye  are  ! 

From  my  equality  with  you  in  birth, 

And  my  superiority  in  action, 

You  drew  me  from  my  honourable  toils 

In  distant  lands— on  flood — in  field — in  cities — 

You  singled  me  out  like  a  victim,  to 

Stand  r.rown'd,  but  bound  and  helpless,  at  the  a.tai 

Where  you  alone  could  minister.    I  knew  not — 

I  sought  not — wish'd  not — dream'd  not  the  election, 

Which  reach'd  me  first  at  Rome,  and  I  obey'd;  ' 

But  found,  on  my  arrival,  that  besides 

The  jealous  vigilance  which  always  led  you 

To  mock  and  mar  your  sovereign's  best  intents, 

You  had,  even  in  the  interregnum  of 

My  journey  to  the  capital,  curtail'd 

And  mutilated  the  few  privileges 

Yet  left  the  duke  :  all  this  I  bore,  and  would 

Have  borne,  until  my  very  hearth  was  stain'd 

By  the  pollution  of  your  ribaldry, 

And  he,  the  ribald,  whom  I  see  amongst  you — 

Fit  judge  in  such  tribunal ! 

BENINTENDE  (interrupting  him). 

*  Michel  Steno 

Is  here  in  virtue  of  his  office,  as 
One  of  the  Forty  ;  "  The  Ten  "  having  craved 
A  Giunta  of  patricians  from  the  senate 
To  aid  our  judgment  in  a  trial  arduous 
And  novel  as  the  present,  he  was  set 
Free  from  the  penalty  pronounced  upon  him, 
Because  the  Doge,  who  should  protect  the  law 
Seeking  to  abrogate  all  law,  can  claim 
No  punishment  of  others  by  the  statutes 
Which  he  himself  denies  and  violates ! 

DOGE. 

His  PUNISHMENT  !  I  rather  see  hin  there, 
Where  he  now  sits,  to  glut  him  with  my  death, 
Than  in  the  mockery  of  castigation, 
Which  your  foul,  outward,  juggling  show  of  justice 
Decreed  as  sentence  !  Base  as  was  his  crime, 
'Twas  purity  compared  with  your  protection. 

BEXINTENDE. 

And  can  it  be,  that  the  great  Doge  of  VenLco, 
With  three  parts  of  a  century  of  years 
And  honours  on  his  head,  could  thus  allow 
His  fury,  like  an  angry  boy's,  tq  master 
All  feeling,  wisdom,  faith,  and  fear,  on  Mich 
A  provocation  as  a  young  man's  petulance  ? 

DOGE. 

A  spark  creates  the  flame ;  't  is  the  last  drop 
Which  makes  the  cii[>  run  o'er,  and  mine  was  frJL 
Already :  you  oppress'd  the  prince  and  peopla ; 
I  would  have  freed  both,  and  have  fail'd  in  both: 
The  price  of  such  success  would  have  been  glory, 
Vengeance,  and  victory,  and  such  a  name 
As  would  have  made  Venetian  history 
Rival  to  that  of  Greece  and  Syracuse, 
When  they  were  freed,  and  flourish'd  ages  after, 
And  mine  to  Gelon  and  to  Thrasybulus: 
Failing,  I  know  the  penalty  of  failure 
Is  present  infamy  and  death — th«  future 
Will  judge,  when  Venice  is  no  more,  or  tree ; 
Till  then,  the  truth  is  in  abeyance.     Pause  not ; 
I  would  have  shown  no  mercy,  and  I  seek  wone  . 
My  life  was  staked  upon  a  mighty  hazard. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


27  i 


And  b  iing  lost,  lane  what  I  would  have  taken ! 
I  would  have  stood  alone  amidst  your  tombs ; 
Now  you  may  flock  round  mine,  and  trample  on  it, 
As  you  have  done  upon  my  heart  while  living. 

BENINTENDE. 

You  do  cc^fess  then,  and  admit  the  justice 
Of  our  tribunal  ? 

DOGE. 

I  confess  to  havd  fail'd : 

Fortune  is  female ;  from  my  youth  her  favours 
Were  not  withheld  ;  the  fault  was  mine  to  hope 
Her  former  smiles  again  at  this  late  hour. 

BENINTENDE. 

You  do  not  then  in  aught  arraign  our  equity  7 

DOGE. 

Noble  Venetians !  stir  me  not  with  questions. 
I  am  resign'd  to  the  worst ;  but  in  me  still 
Have  something  of  the  blood  of  brighter  days, 
And  am  not  over-patient.     Pray  you,  spare  me 
Further  interrogation,  which  boots  nothing, 
Except  to  turn  a  trial  to  debate. 
I  shall  but  answer  that  which  will  offend  you, 
And  please  your  enemies — a  host  already : 
'T  is  true,  these  sullen  walls  should  yield  no  echo ; 
But  walls  have  ears — nay,  more,*they  have  tongues  ; 

and  if 

There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to  o'erleap  them, 
You  who  condemn  me,  you  who  fear  and  slay  me, 
Yet  could  not  bear  in  silence  to  yjur  graves 
What  you  would  hear  from  me  of  good  or  evil ; 
The  secret  were  too  mighty  for  your  souls : 
Then  let  it  sleep  in  mine,  unless  you  court 
A  danger  which  would  double  that  you  escape. 
Such  my  defence  would  be,  had  I  full  scope 
To  make  it  famous  ;  for  true  words  are  things, 
And  dying  men's  are  things  which  long  outlive, 
And  oftentimes  avenge  them  ;  bury  mine, 
If  ye  would  fain  survive  me :  take  this  counsel, 
And  though  too  oft  ye  made  me  live  in  wrath, 
Let  me  die  calmly ;  you  nay  grant  me  this  ;— 
I  deny  nothing — defend  nothing — nothing 
I  ask  of  you,  but  silence  for  myself, 
And  sentence  from  the  court 

BENINTENDE. 

This  full  admission 

Spares  us  the  harsh  necessity  of  ordering 
The  torture  to  elicit  the  whole  truth. 

DOCE. 

The  torture !  you  have  put  me  there  already 
Daily  since  I  was  Doge ;  but  if  you  will 
Add  the  corporeal  rack,  you  may ;  these  limbs 
Will  yield  with  age  to  crushing  iron  ;  but 
There 's  that  within  my  heart  shall  strain  your  engines. 
Enter  an  OFFICER. 

OFFICER. 

Noble  Venetians !  Duchess  Faliero 
Requests  admission  to  the  G  Junta's  presence. 

BENINTENDE. 

Say,  conscript  fathers,*  shall  she  be  admitted  ? 

ONE    OF    THE    OIUNTA. 

She  may  have  revelations  of  importance 
(Jr.to  the  state,  to  justify  compliance 
With  her  request. 

BENINTENDF. 

Is  this  the  general  will  ? 


ft  is. 

DOGE. 

Oh,  admirable  laws  of  Venice  . 
Which  would  admit  the  wife,  in  the  full  hop* 
That  she  might  testify  against  the  husband. 
What  glory  to  the  chaste  Venetian  dames ! 
But  such  blasphemers  'gainst  all  honour,  as 
Sit  here,  do  well  to  act  in  their  vocation. 
Now,  villain  Steno !   if  this  woman  fail, 
I  '11  pardon  thee  thy  lie,  and  thy  escape. 
The  DUCHESS  enters. 

BE.NINTENDE. 

Lady !  this  just  tribunal  has  resolved, 
Though  the  request  be  strange,  to  grant  it,  and, 
Whatever  be  its  purport,  to  accord 
A  patient  hearing  with  the  due  respect 
Which  fits  your  ancestry,  your  rank,  and  virtue! 
But  you  turn  pale — ho !  there,  look  to  the  lady ! 
Place  a  chair  instantly. 

ANGIOLINA. 

A  moment's  faintness— 
'T  is  past ;  I  pray  you  pardon  me,  I  sit  not 
In  presence  of  my  prince,  and  of  my  husband, 
While  he  is  on  his  feet. 

BENINTENDE. 

Your  pleasure,  lady  ? 

ANGIOLINA. 

Strange  rumours,  but  most  true,  if  all  I  hear 
And  see  be  sooth,  have  reach'd  me,  and  I  come 
To  know  the  worst ;  even  at  the  worst ;   forgive 
The  abruptness  of  my  entrance  and  my  bearing. 

Is  it 1  cannot  speak — I  cannot  shape 

The  question — but  you  answer  it  ere  spoken, 
With  eyes  averted,  and  with  gloomy  brows — 
Oh  God !  this  is  the  silence  of  the  grave ! 
BENINTENDE  ( after  a  pause ) . 
Spare  us,  and  spare  thyself  the  repetition 
Of  our  most  awful,  but  inexorable 
Duty  to  Heaven  and  man  ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

Yet  speak  ;  I  cannot— 

I  cannot — no — even  now  believe  these  things ; 
Is  he  condemn'd  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Alas! 

ANGIOLINA. 

And  was  he  guilty  7 

BENINTENDE. 

Lady  !  the  natural  distraction  of 

Thy  thoughts  at  such  a  moment  makes  the  question 

Merit  forgiveness  ;   else  a  doubt  like  this 

j  Against  a  just  and  paramount  tribunal 

i  Were  deep  offence.     But  question  even  the  Doge, 

I  And  if  he  can  deny  the  proofs,  believe  h=ni 

|  Guiltless  as  thy  own  bosom. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Is  it  so  ? 

My  lord — my  sovereign — my  poor  father's  tnenc  • 
The  mighty  in  the  field,  the  sage  in  council ; 
Unsay  the  words  of  this  man  ' — Thou  art  si.ent 

B.^NINTENIE. 

He  hath  already  own'd  to  his  own  guilt. 
Nor,  as  thou  seest,  doth  he  deny  it  iww. 


276 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ANGIOLINA.  x 

\y,  but  h>  must  not  die !  Spare  his  few  years, 
Which  grief  and  shame  will  soon  cut  down  to  days ! 
<  )ne  day  of  baffled  crime  must  not  efface 
Near  sixteen  lustres  crowded  with  brave  acts. 

BENINTENDE. 

His  doom  must  be  fulfill'd  without  remission 
Of  time  or  penalty — 't  is  a  decree. 

ANGIOLINA. 

He  hath  been  guilty,  but  there  may  be  mercy. 

BENINTENDE. 

Not  in  this  case  with  justice. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Alas!  signor, 

He  who  is  only  just  is  cruel ;   who 
Upon  the  earth  would  live,  were  all  judged  justly  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

His  punishment  is  safety  to  the  state. 

ANGIOLINA. 

He  was  a  subject,  and  hath  served  the  state : 
He  was  your  general,  and  hath  saved  the  state ; 
He  is  your  sovereign,  and  hath  rc'ed  the  state. 

ONE    OF    THE    COUNCIL. 

He  is  a  traitor,  and  betray'd  the  state. 

ANGIOLINA. 

And,  but  for  him,  there  now  had  been  no  state 
To  save  or  to  destroy ;  and  you,  who  sit 
There  to  pronounce  the  death  of  your  deliverer, 
Had  now  been  groaning  at  a  Moslem  oar, 
Or  digging  in  the  Hunnish  mines  in  fetters ! 

ONE    OF    THE    COUNCIL. 

No,  lady,  there  are  others  who  would  die 
Rather  than  breathe  in  slavery ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

If  there  are  so 

Within  these  walls,  thou  art  not  one  of  the  number : 
The  truly  brave  are  generous  to  the  fallen  !— 
Is  there  no  hope  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Lady,  it  cannot  be. 
ANGIOLINA  (turning  to  the  DOGE). 
Then  die,  Faliero !  since  it  must  be  so ; 
But  with  the  spirit  of  my  father's  friend. 
Thou  hast  been  guilty  of  a  great  offence, 
Half-cancell'd  by  the  harshness  of  these  men. 
I  would  have  sued  to  them — have  pray'd  to  them — 
Have  begg'd  as  famish'd  mendicants  for  bread- 
Have  wept  as  they  will  cry  unto  their  God 
For  mercy,  and  be  answer'd  as  they  answer — 
Had  it  been  fitting  for  thy  name  or  mine, 
Ami  if  the  cruelty  in  their  cold  eyes 
Hail  not  announced  the  heartless  wrath  within. 
Then,  as  a  prince,  address  thee  to  thy  doom ! 

DOGE. 

[  have  li/ed  too  long  not  to  know  how  to  die! 

Thy  suing  to  these  men  were  but  the  bleating 

Of  (he  larnb  to  the  butcher,  or  the  cry 

Of  peamen  to  the  surge :  I  would  not  take 

A  life  eternal,  granted  at  the  hands 

Or  wretches,  from  whose  monstrous  villanies 

>  sought  to  free  the  groaning  nations ! 

MICHEL    STEVO. 

Doge, 

A  woid  with  thee,  and  with  this  noble  lady, 
Whom  I  liave  grievously  offended.    Would 


Sorrow,  or  shame,  or  penance  on  my  part, 
Could  cancel  the  inexorable  past ! 
But  since  that  cannot  be,  as  Christians  let  us 
Say  farewell,  and  in  peace :  with  full  contrition 
I  crave,  not  pardon,  but  compassion  from  you, 
And  give,  however  weak,  my  prayers  for  both. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Sage  Benintende,  now  chief  judge  of  Venice, 

I  speak  to  thee  in  answer  to  yon  signor, 

Inform  the  ribald  Steno,  that  his  words 

Ne'er  weigh'd  in  mind  with  Loredano's  daugh'^i 

Further  than  to  create  a  moment's  pity 

For  such  as  he  is  ;  would  that  others  had 

Despised  him  as  I  pity !  I  prefer 

My  honour  to  a  thousand  lives,  could  such 

Be  multiplied  in  mine,  but  would  not  have 

A  single  life  of  others  lost  for  that 

Which  nothing  human  can  impugn — the  sense 

Of  virtue,  looking  not  to  what  is  called 

A  good  name  for  reward,  but  to  itself. 

To  me  the  scorner's  words  were  as  the  wind 

Unto  the  rock :  but  as  there  arc — alas ! 

Spirits  more  sensitive,  on  which  such  things 

Light  as  ihe  whirlwind  on  the  waters  ;  souls 

To  whom  dishonour's  shadow  is  a  substance 

More  terrible  than  death  here  and  hereafter ; 

Men  whose  vice  is,  to  start  at  vice's  scoffing, 

And  who,  though  proof  against  all  blandishments 

Of  pleasure,  and  all  pangs  of  pain,  are  feeble 

When  the  proud  name  on  which  they  pinnacled 

Their  hopes  is  breathed  on,  jealous  as  the  eagle 

Of  her  high  aiery ;  let  what  we  now 

Behold,  and  feel,  and  suffer,  be  a  lesson 

To  wretches  how  they  tamper  in  their  spleen 

With  beings  of  a  higher  order.     Insects 

Have  made  the  lion  mad  ere  now  ;  a  shaft 

I'  the  heel  o'erthrew  the  bravest  of  the  brave , 

A  wife's  dishonour  was  the  bane  of  Troy ; 

A  wife's  dishonour  unkmg'd  Rome  for  ever ; 

An  injured  husband  brought  the  Gauls  to  Clusium, 

And  thence  to  Rome,  which  perish'd  for  a  time ; 

An  obscene  gesture  cost  Caligula 

His  life,  while  earth  yet  hore  his  cruelties ; 

A  virgin's  wrong  made  Spain  a  Moorish  provirce  / 

And  Steno's  lie,  couch'd  in  two  worthless  lines, 

Hath  decimated  Venice,  put  in  peril 

A  senate  which  hath  stood  eight  hundred  years, 

Discrown'd  a  prince,  cut  off  his  crownless  head, 

And  forged  new  fetters  for  a  groaning  people ! 

Let  the  poor  wretch,  like  to  the  courtesan 

Who  fired  Persepolis,  be  proud  of  this, 

If  it  so  please  him — 't  were  a  pride  fit  for  him ! 

But  let  him  not  insult  the  last  hours  of 

Him,  who,  whate'er  he  now  is,  was  a  hero, 

By  the  intrusion  of  his  very  prayers  ; 

Nothing  of  good  can  come  from  such  a  source, 

Nor  would  we  aught  with  him,  nor  now,  nor  ever 

We  leave  him  to  himself,  that  lowest  depth 

Of  human  baseness.     Pardon  is  for  men, 

And  not  for  reptiles — we  have  none  for  Steno, 

And  no  resentment ;  things  like  him  must  sting, 

And  higher  beings  suffer ;  't  is  the  charter 

Of  life.    The  man  who  dies  by  the  adder's  fan£ 

May  have  the  crawler  crush'd,  but  feels  no  ar.qe 

'T  was  the  worm's  nature  ;  and  some  •:  en  aro  wor»»M 

In  soul,  more  titan  the  living  things  of  tow'»s 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


DOOE  (to  BENJXTENDE). 
Signer,  complete  that  which  you  deem  your  duty. 

BENINTENDE. 

Before  we  can  proceed  upon  that  duty, 

We  would  request  the  princess  to  withdraw ; 

T  wi3  move  her  too  much  to  be  witness  to  it. 

ANGIOLINA. 

I  know  it  will,  and  yet  I  must  endure  it ; 
For  't  is  a  part  of  mine — I  will  not  quit, 
Except  by  force,  my  husband's  side. — Proceed! 
Nay,  fear  not  either  shriek,  or  s'gh,  or  tear ! 
Though  my  heart  burst,  it  shall  be  silent. — Speak ! 
I  have  that  within  which  shall  o'ermaster  alL 

BEXINTENDE. 

M  arino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice, 

Count  of  Val  di  Marino,  Senator, 

And  sometime  General  of  the  Fleet  and  Army, 

Noble  Venetian,  many  times  and  oft 

Entru»«:d  by  the  state  with  high  employments, 

Even  to  the  highest,  listen  to  the  sentence. 

Convict  by  mar.y  witnesses  and  proofs, 

And  by  thine  own  confession,  of  the  guilt 

Of  treachery  and  treason,  yet  unheard  of 

Until  this  trial — the  decree  is  death. 

Thy  goods  are  confiscate  unto  the  state, 

Thy  name  is  razed  from  out  her  records,  save 

Upon  a  public  day  of  thanksgiving 

For  this  our  most  miraculous  deliverance, 

When  thou  art  noted  in  our  calendars 

With  earthquakes,  pestilence,  and  foreign  foes, 

And  the  great  enemy  of  man,  as  subject 

Of  grateful  masses  for  Heaven's  grace  in  matching 

Our  li ves  and  country  from  thy  wickedness. 

The  place  wherein  as  Doge  thou  shouldst  be  painted, 

With  thine  illustrious  predecessors,  is 

To  be  left  vacant,  with  a  death-black  veil 

Flung  over  these  dim  words  engraved  beneath, — 

"  This  place  is  of  Marino  Faliero, 

Decapitated  for  his  crimes." 

DOGE. 

IVhat  crimes  ? 

Were  it  not  better  to  record  the  facts, 
So  that  the  contemplator  might  approve, 
Or  at  the  least  learn  whence  the  crimes  arose  ? 
When  the  beholder  knows  a  Doge  conspired, 
Let  him  be  told  the  cause — it  is  your  history. 

BENIXTENDE. 

Time  must  reply  to  that ;  our  sons  will  judge 
Their  fathers'  judgment,  which  I  now  pronounce. 
As  Doge,  clad  in  the  ducal  robes  and  cap, 
Thou  shaH  be  led  hence  to  the  Giant's  Staircase, 
Where  thou  and  all  our  princes  are  invested  ; 
And  there,  the  ducal  crown  being  first  resumed 
Upon  the  spot  where  it  was  first  assumed, 
Thy  head  shall  be  struck  off;  and  Heaven  have  mercy 
Upon  thy  soul ' 

DOGE. 
Is  this  the  Giunta's  sentence  7 


BENINTEJfDE. 


ft   IS. 


DOGE. 

I  can  endure  it. — And  the  time  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

Must  be  immediate. — Make  thy  peace  with  Gf  d ; 
Within  an  hour  thou  must  be  in  his  presence. 
2s  2 


DOOE. 

[  am  already ;  and  my  blood  will  rise 

To  Heaven  before  the  souls  of  those  who  shed  it.- 

Are  all  my  lands  confiscated  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

They  are : 

And  goods,  and  jewels,  and  all  kind  of  treasure. 
Except  two  thousand  ducats — these  dispose  of. 

DOGE. 

That 's  harsh — I  would  have  fain  reserved  the  land* 
Near  to  Treviso,  which  I  hold  by  investment 
From  Laurence,  the  Count-bishop  of  Ceneda, 
In  fief  perpetual  to  myself  and  heirs, 
To  portion  them  (leaving  my  city  spoil, 
My  palace  and  my  treasures,  to  your  forfeit) 
Between  my  consort  and  my  kinsmen. 

BENIWTENDE. 

These 

Lie  under  the  state's  ban,  their  chief,  thy  nephew 
In  peril  of  his  own  life ;  but  the  council 
Postpones  his  trial  for  the  present.     If 
Thou  will'st  a  state  unto  thy  widow'd  princess, 
Fear  not,  for  we  will  do  her  justice. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Signers, 

I  share  not  in  your  spoil !   From  henceforth,  Know 
I  am  devoted  unto  God  alone, 
And  take  my  refuge  in  the  cloister. 
DOGE. 

Come! 

The  hour  may  be  a  hard  one,  but 't  will  end. 
Have  I  aught  else  to  undergo  save  death  ? 

BENINTENDE. 

You  have  nought  to  do  except  confess  and  die 
The  priest  is  robed,  the  scimitar  is  hare, 
And  both  await  without. — But,  above  all, 
Think  not  to  speak  unto  the  people ;  they 
Are  now  by  thousands  swarming  at  the  gates, 
But  these  are  closed :  the  Ten,  the  Avogadori, 
The  Giunta,  and  the  chief  men  of  the  Forty, 
Alone  will  be  beholders  of  thy  doom, 
And  they  are  ready  to  attend  the  Doge. 

DOGE. 
The  Doge ! 

BENINTENDE. 

Yes,  Doge,  thou  hast  lived  and  thou  shall  die 
A  sovereign ;  till  the  moment  which  precedes 
The  separation  of  that  head  and  trunk, 
That  ducal  crown  and  head  shall  be  united. 
Thou  hast  forgot  thy  dignity  in  deigning 
To  plot  with  petty  traitors ;  not  so  we, 
Who  in  the  very  punishment  acknowledge 
The  prince.     Thy  vile  accomplices  have  dieu 
The  dog's  death,  and  the  wolf's ;  hut  thou  shall  fak 
As  falls  the  lion  by  the  hunters,  girt 
By  those  who  feel  a  proud  compassion  for  »hee. 
And  mourn  even  the  inevitable  death 
Provoked  by  thy  wild  wrath  and  regal  fierceness 
Now  we  remil  thee  to  thy  preparation : 
Let  it  be  brief,  and  we  ourselves  will  be 
Thy  guides  to  the  place  where  first  we  were 
United  to  thee  as  thy  subjects,  and 
Thy  senate ;  and  must  now  be  parted  from  me* 
As  such  for  ever  on  the  selfsame  spot. — 
Guards !  form  the  Doge's  escort  to  his  ch  »mbei . 

;  I'. 


278 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Doge's  Apartment. 
The  DOGE  as  prisoner,  and  the  DUCHESS  attending  him. 

DOOE. 

Now  that  the  priest  is  gone,  't  were  useless  all 
To  linger  out  the  miserable  minutes ; 
But  one  pang  more,  the  pang  of  parting  from  thee, 
And  I  will  leave  the  few  last  grains  of  sand, 
Which  yet  remain  of  the  accorded  hour, 
Still  falling — I  have  done  with  Time. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Alas! 

And  I  have  been  the  cause,  the  unconscious  cause ; 
And  for  this  funeral  marriage,  this  black  union, 
Which  thou,  compliant  with  my  father's  wish, 
Didst  promise  at  hi*  death,  thou  hast  seal'd  thine  own. 

DOOE. 

Not  so :  there  was  that  in  my  spirit  ever 
Which  shaped  out  for  ilself  some  great  reverse; 
The  marvel  is,  it  came  not  until  now — 
And  vet  it  was  foretold  me. 

ANGIOLINA. 

How  foretold  you  ? 

DOOE. 

Long  years  ago— so  long,  they  are  a  doubt 
[n  memory,  and  yet  they  live  in  annals  : 
When  I  was  in  my  youth,  and  served  the  senate 
And  signory  as  podesta  and  captain 
Of  the  town  of  Treviso,  on  a  day 
Of  festival,  the  sluggish  bishop  who 
Convey'd  the  Host  aroused  my  rash  young  anger, 
By  strange  delay,  and  arrogant  reply 
To  my  reproof;  I  raised  my  hand  and  smote  him, 
Until  he  reel'd  beneath  his  holy  burthen ; 
And,  as  he  rose  from  earth  again,  he  raised 
His  tremulous  hands  in  pious  wrath  towards  Heaven. 
Thence  pointing  to  the  Host,  which  had  fallen  from  him, 
He  turn'd  to  me,  and  said,  "  The  hour  will  come 
When  He  thou  hast  o'erthrown  shall  overthrow  thee : 
The  glory  shall  depart  from  out  thy  house, 
The  wisdom  shall  be  shaken  from  thy  soul, 
And  in  thy  best  maturity  of  mind, 
A  madness  of  the  heart  shall  seize  upon  thee ; 
Passion  shall  tear  thee  when  all  passions  cease 
In  other  men,  or  mellow  into  virtues  ; 
And  majesty,  which  decks  all  other  heads, 
Shall  crown  to  leave  thee  headless ;  honours  shall 
But  prove  to  thee  the  heralds  of  destruction, 
And  hoary  hairs  of  shame,  and  both  of  death, 
But  not  such  death  as  fits  an  aged  man." 
Thus  saying  lie  pass'd  on. — That  hour  is  come. 

ANGIOLINA. 

And  with  this  warning  couldst  thou  not  have  striven 

To  avert  the  fatal  moment,  and  atone 

By  penitence  for  that  which  thou  hadst  done? 

DOGE. 

1  own  the  words  went  to  my  heart,  so  much 
That  I  remember'd  them  amid  the  maze 
Of  life,  as  if  they  form'd  a  spectral  voice, 
Which  shook  me  in  a  supernatural  dream ; 
AnH  1  repented  ;  but 't  was  not  for  me 
Jv»  (Hill  in  resolution:  what  must  be 
i  could  not  change,  and  would  not  fear.    Nay,  more 
l*h"U  cans',  not  have  forgot  what  all  remember, 
/'hat  on  mv  day  of  landing  hore  as  Doge, 


On  my  return  from  Rome,  a  mist  of  such 
Unwonted  density  went  on  before 
The  bucentaur,  like  the  columnal  cloud 
Which  usher'd  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  till 
The  pilot  was  misled,  and  disembark'd  us 
Between  the  pillars  ot  Saint  Mark's,  wheie  'ti« 
The  custom  of  the  state  to  put  to  dea* 
Its  criminals,  instead  of  touching  at 
The  Riva  della  Paglia,  as  the  wont  n  ,— 
So  that  all  Venice  shudder'd  at  the  omen. 

ANGIOLINA. 

Ah !  little  boots  it  now  to  recollect 
Such  things. 

DOGE. 

And  yet  I  find  a  comfort  in 

The  thought  that  these  things  are  the  woric  of  Fate  ; 
For  I  would  rather  yield  to  gods  than  men, 
Or  cling  to  any  creed  of  destiny, 
Rather  than  deem  these  mortals,  most  of  whom 
I  know  to  be  as  worthless  as  the  dust, 
And  weak  as  worthless,  more  than  instruments 
Of  an  o'er-ruling  power  ;  they  in  themselves 
Were  all  incapable — they  could  not  be 
Victors  of  him  who  oft  had  conquer'd  for  them! 

ANGIOLINA. 

Employ  the  minutes  left  in  aspirations 

Of  a  more  healing  nature,  and  in  peace 

Even  with  these  wretches  take  thy  flight  to  hearen. 

DOGE. 

I  am  at  peace :  the  peace  of  certainty 
That  a  sure  hour  will  come,  when  their  sons'  son*, 
And  this  proud  city,  and  these  azure  waters, 
And  all  which  makes  them  eminent  and  bright, 
Shall  be  a  desolation  and  a  curse, 
A  hissing  and  a  scoff  unto  the  nations, 
A  Carthage,  and  a  Tyre,  an  Ocean-Babel ! 

ANGIOLINA. 

Speak  not  thus  now :  the  surge  of  passion  still 
Sweeps  o'er  thee  to  the  last ;  thou  dost  deceive 
Thyself  and  canst  not  injure  them — be  calmer. 

DOGE. 

I  stand  within  eternity,  and  see 
Into  eternity,  and  I  behold — 
Ay,  palpable  as  I  see  thy  sweet  face 
For  the  last  time — the  days  which  I  denounce 
Unto  all  time  against  these  wave-girt  walls, 
And  they  who  arc  indweKers. 

GUARD  (coming  forward). 

Doge  of  Venice, 
The  Ten  are  in  attendance  on  your  highness. 

DOGE. 

Then  farewell,  Angiolina  ! — one  embrace — 
Forgive  the  old  man  who  hath  been  to  thee 
A  fond  but  fatal  husband — love  my  memory — 
I  would  not  ask  so  much  for  me  still  living, 
But  thou  canst  judge  of  me  more  kindly  now, 
Seeing  my  evil  feelings  are  at  rest. 
Besides,  of  all  the  fruit  of  these  long  years, 
Glory,  and  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame,  and  rama. 
Which  generally  leave  some  flowers  to  bloom 
Even  o'er  the  grave,  I  have  nothing  left,  nol  e.\eq 
A  little  love,  or  friendship,  or  esteem, 
No,  not  enough  to  extract  an  epitaph 
From  ostentatious  kinsmen ;  in  one  Knur 
I  have  uprooted  all  my  former  life 
And  outlived  every  thin?,  except  thy  heart. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


279 


The  pure,  the  good,  the  gentle,  which  will  oft 
With  unimpair'd  but  not  a  clamorous  grief 

Still  keep Thou  turn's!  so  pale — Alas !   she  faints, 

She  hath  no  breath,  no  pulse !  Guards  !  lend  your  aid — 
I  cannot  leave  her  thus,  and  yet 't  is  better, 
Since  every  lifeless  moment  spares  a  pang. 
When  she  shakes  off  this  temporary  death, 
I  shall  be  with  the  Eternal — Call  her  women — 
One  look  ! — how  cold  her  hand !  as  cold  as  mine 
Shall  be  ere  she  recovers. — Gently  tend  her, 
And  take  my  last  thanks. — I  am  ready  now. 

[The  attendants  qfANGiOLiNA  enter  and  sur- 
round their  mistress,  who  has  fainted. — 
Exsunl  the  DOG/:,  Guards,  etc.,  etc. 


SCENE  IH. 

The  Court  of  the  Ducal  Palace :  the  outer  gates  are 
shut  against  the  people. — The  DOGE  enters  in  his 
ducal  robes,  in  procession  with  the  Council  of  Ten 
and  nther  Patricians,  attended  by  the  Guards,  till 
they  arrive  at  the  top  of  the  "  Giant's  Staircase" 
(where  the  Doges  took  tJie  oaths)^  the  Executioner  is 
.••tntioned  there  with  his  sword.  On  arriving,  a  Chief 
of  the  Ten  takes  off"  the  ducal  cap  from  the  Doge's 
head. 

DOGE. 

So,  now  the  Doge  is  nothing,  and  at  last 

I  am  again  Marino  Faliero : 

'T  is  well  to  be  so,  though  but  for  a  moment. 

Here  was  I  r rown'd,  and  here,  bear  witness,  Heaven ! 

With  how  much  more  contentment  I  resign 

That  shining  mockery,  the  ducal  bauble, 

Than  I  received  the  fatal  ornament. 

ONE    OF    THE    TEN. 

Thou  tremblest,  Faliero ! 

DOGE. 
'T  is  with  age,  then.' 

BENISTENDE. 

Faliero !  hast  thou  aught  further  to  commend, 
Compatible  with  justice,  to  the  senate  ? 

DOGE. 

I  would  commend  my  nephew  to  their  mercy, 
My  consort  to  their  justice  ;  for  methinks 
My  death,  and  such  a  death,  might  settle  all 
Between  the  state  and  me. 

BENINTENDE. 

They  shall  be  cared  for ; 
Even  notwithstanding  thine  unheard-of  crime. 

DOGE. 

Unheard-of!   ay,  there's  not  a  history 
But  shows  a  thousand  crown'd  conspirators 
Against  the  people  ;  but  to  set  them  free 
One  sovereign  only  died,  and  one  is  dying. 

BENISTENDE. 

And  who  are  they  who  fell  in  such  a  cause? 

DOGE. 

The  King  of  Sparta,  and  the  Doge  of  Venice — 
Agis  and  Faliero ! 

BENIN'TENDE. 

Hast  thou  more 
To  utter  or  to  do  ? 

DOGE. 
May  I  speak? 

BF.NIXTENDE. 

Thou  may'st ; 


But  recollect  the  people  are  without, 
Beyond  the  compass  of  the  human  voice. 

DOGE. 

I  speak  to  Time  and  to  Eternity, 

Of  which  I  grow  a  portion,  not  to  man. 

Ye  elements  !  in  which  to  be  resolved 

I  hasten,  let  my  voice  be  as  a  spir* 

Upon  you  !  Ye  blue  waves !   which  bore  my  banner ! 

Ye  winds !  which  flutter'd  o'er  as  if  you  loved  it, 

And  fill'd  my  swelling  sails  as  they  were  wafted 

To  many  a  triumph !  Thou,  my  native  earth, 

Which  I  have  bled  for,  and  thou  foreign  earth, 

Which  drank  this  willing  blood  from  many  a  wound ! 

Ye  stones,  in  which  my  gore  will  not  sink,  but 

Reek  up  to  Heaven !  Ye  skies,  which  will  receive  it ! 

Thou  sun  !  which  shinest  on  these  things,  and  Thou 

Who  kindlest  and  who  quenchest  suns  ! — Attest! 

I  am  not  innocent — but  are  these  guiltless  ? 

I  perish,  but  not  unavenged  ;  far  ages 

Float  up  from  the  abyss  of  time  to  be, 

And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  close,  the  doom 

Of  this  proud  city,  and  I  leave  my  curse 

On  her  and  hers  for  ever: Yes,  the  hours 

Are  silently  engendering  of  the  day, 

When  she  who  built  'gainst  Altila  a  bulwark, 

Shall  yield,  and  bloodiessly  and  basely  yield 

Unto  a  bastard  Attila,  without 

Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence 

As  these  old  veins,  oil  drain'd  in  shielding  her, 

Shall  pour  in  sacrifice. — She  shall  be  bought 

And  sold,  and  be  an  appanage  to  those 

Who  shall  despise  her ! — She  shall  stoop  to  be 

A  province  for  an  empire,  petty  town 

In  lieu  of  capital,  with  slaves  for  senates, 

Beggars  for  nobles,  panders  for  a  people!1* 

Then,  when  the  Hebrew's  in  thy  palaces,11 

The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 

Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his  ! 

When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 

In  narrow  streets,  and  in  their  shameful  need 

Make  their  nobility  a  plea  for  pity ! 

Then,  when  the  few  who  still  retain  a  wreck 

Of  their  great  fathers'  heritage  shall  fawn 

Round  a  barbarian  Vice  of  Kings'  Vice-gerent 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  sway'd  as  sovereigns. 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  slew  their  sovereign, 

Proud  of  some  name  they  have  disgraced,  or  sprui^ 

From  an  adultress  boastful  of  her  guilt 

With  some  large  gondolier  or  foreign  soldier, 

Shall  bear  about  their  bastardy  in  triumph 

To  the  third  spurious  generation  ; — when 

Thy  sons  are  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being, 

Slaves  turn'd  o'er  to  the  vanquished  by  the  victors, 

Despised  by  cowards  fur  greater  cowardice, 

And  scorn'd  even  by  the  vicious  for  such  vices 

As  in  the  monstrous  grasp  of  their  conception 

Defy  all  codes  to  image  or  to  name  them ; 

Then,  when  of  Cyprus,  now  thy  subject  kingdom, 

All  thine  inheritance  shall  be  her  shame 

Entail'd  on  thy  less  virtuous  daughters,  grown 

A  wider  proverb  for  worse  prostitution  ; — 

When  all  the  ills  of  conquer'd  states  shall  cfmg  thce 

Vice  without  splendour,  sin  without  relief 

Even  from  the  gloss  of  love  to  smooth  it  o'er, 

But  in  its  stead  coarse  lusts  of  habitude, 

Prurient  yet  passionless,  cold  studied  lewdn«u» 


280 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Depraving  nature's  frailty  to  an  art ; — 

When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when 

Smiles  without  mirth,  and  pastimes  without  pleasure, 

Youth  without  honour,  age  without  respect, 

Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a  sense  of  woe 

'Gainst  which  thou  x^ilt  not  strive,  and  dar'stnot  murmur, 

Have  made  thee  last  and  worst  of  peopled  deserts ; 

Then,  in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony, 

Amidst  thy  many  murders,  think  of  mine  ! 

Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  !'* 

Gehenna  of  the  waters !  thou  sea  Sodom ! 

Thus  I  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods ! 

Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed ! 

[Here  the  DOGE  turn*,  and  addresses  the  Exe- 
cutioner. 

Slave,  do  thine  office ; 

Strike  as  I  struck  the  foe !  Strike  as  I  would 
Have  struck  those  tyrants !  Strike  deep  as  my  curse ! 
Strike — and  but  once ! 

[The  DOGE  throws  himself  upon  his  knees, 

and  as  the  Executioner  raises  his  sword 

the  scene  closes. 


SCENE  IV. 

The  PtWa  and  Piatzetta  of  Saint  Mark's. — The  Peo- 
ple in  crowds  gathered  round  the  grated  gates  of  the 
Ducal  Palace,  which  are  shut. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

I  have  gain'd  the  gate,  and  can  discern  the  Ten, 
Robed  in  their  gowns  of  state,  ranged  round  the  Doge. 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

cannot  reach  thee  with  mine  utmost  effort. 
How  is  it  ?  let  us  hear  at  least,  since  sight 
la  thus  prohibited  unto  the  people, 
Except  the  occupiers  of  those  bars. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

One  has  approach'd  the  Doge,  and  now  they  strip 

The  ducal  bonnet  from  his  head — and  now 

He  raises  his  keen  eye  to  heaven.     I  see 

Them  glitter,  and  his  lips  move — Hush !  hush !  No, 

T  was  but  a  murmur — Curse  upon  the  distance ! 

His  words  are  inarticulate,  but  the  voice 

Swells  up  like  mutter'd  thunder ;  would  we  could 

B-it  gather  a  sole  sentence ! 

SECOND    CITIZEN. 

Hush!  we  perhaps  may  catch  the  sound. 

FIRST    CITIZEN. 

'Tis  vain. 

cannot  hear  him. — How  his  hoary  hair 
feu  cams  on  the  wind  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ! 
Now — now — he  kneels — and  now  they  form  a  circle 
Round  him,  and  all  is  hidden — but  I  see 

The  lifted  sword  in  air Ah !  hark  !  it  falls ! 

[The people  murmur. 

THIRD    CITIZEN. 

Then  they  have  murder'd  him  who  would  have  freed  us. 

FOCRTH    CITIZEN. 

He  was  a  kind  man  to  the  commons  ever. 

FIFTH    CITIZEN. 

Wisely  tney  did  to  keep  their  portals  barr'd. 
W  ould  we  had  known  the  work  they  were  preparing 
Eio  we  were  summon' d  here  ;  we  would  have  brought 
VV.ia.oons.  and  forced  them! 

SIXTH    CITIZEN. 

Are  you  sure  he  '*  dead  ? 


FIRST    CITIZEN. 

I  saw  the  sword  fall — Lo !  what  have  we  here  ? 
[Enter  on  the  Balcony  of  the  Palace  which  fronts  Saint 
Mark's  Place  a  CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN,13  with  a  bloody 
sword.     He  waves  it  thrice  before  the  people,  and 
exclaims, 
"Justice  hath  dealt  upon  the  mighty  traitor!" 

[  The  gates  are  opened  ;  the  populace  rush  in  towanlt 
the  "  Giant's  Staircase,"  where  the  execution  hat 
taken  place.     The  foremost  of  them  exclaims  to 
those  behind, 
The  gory  head  rolls  down  the  "  Giant's  steps !" 

[The  curtain  fall*. 


NOTES. 


Note  1.  Page  248,  line  59. 
I  smote  the  tardy  bishop  at  TrevUo. 
A  historical  fact.     See  Marin  Sanuto's  Lives  of  the 
Doges. 

Note  2.  Page  251,  line  69. 
A  gondola  with  one  oar  only. 

A  gondola  is  not  like  a  common  boat,  but  is  as  easily 
rowed  with  one  oar  as  with  two  (though  of  course  not 
so  swiftly),  and  often  is  so  from  motives  of  privacy,  and 
(since  the  decay  of  Venice)  of  economy. 

Note  3.  Page  260,  line  65. 

They  think  themselves 
Engaged  in  secret  to  the  Signory. 
A  historical  fact. 

Note  4.  Page  269,  line  8. 
Within  our  palace  precincts  at  San  Polo. 
The  Doge's  private  family  palace. 

Note  5.  Page  270,  line  105. 

"  Signor  of  the  Night." 

"I  Signori  di  Notte"  held  an  important  charge  \* 
the  old  Republic. 

Note  6.  Page  273,  line  43. 

Festal  Thursday. 

"  Giovedi  Grasso,"  "fat  or  greasy  Thursday,"  which 
I  cannot  literally  translate  in  the  text,  was  the  day. 

Note  7.  Page  273,  line  57. 
Guards !  let  their  mouths  be  gagg'd,  even  in  the  act. 
Historical  fact.     See  Sanuto,  in  the  appendix  to  this 
tragedy. 

Note  8.  Page  275,  line  59. 
Say,  conscript  fathers,  shall  she  be  admitted  ? 
The  Venetian  senate  took  the  same  title  as  the  Ro- 
man, of  "  Conscript  Fathers." 

Note  9.  Page  279,  line  36. 

'T  is  with  age,  then. 

This  was  the  actual  reply  of  Bailli,  maire  of  Paris,  to 
a  Frenchman  who  made  him  the  same  reproach  on  his 
way  to  execution,  in  the  earliest  part  of  their  revolution. 
I  find  in  reading  over  (since  the  completion  of  this 
tragedy),  for  the  first  time  these  six  years,  "  Venice 
Preserved,"  a  similar  reply  on  a  different  occasion  by 
Renault,  and  other  coincidences  arising  from  the  sub- 
ject. I  need  hardly  remind  the  gentlest  reader,  that 
such  coincidences  must  be  accidental,  from  the  very 
facility  of  their  detection  by  reference  to  so  popular  • 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


28i 


p.ay  on  me  stage  and  in  the  closet  as  Otway's  chef- 
4  ceuvre. 

Note  10.  Page  279,  line  35. 
Beggars  for  nobles,  panders  for  a  people 

Should  the  dramatic  picture  seem  harsh,  let  the 
rea/ler  look  to  the  historical,  of  the  period  prophesied, 
or  rather  of  the  few  years  preceding  that  period.  Vol- 
taire calculated  their  "  nostre  benemerite  Meretrici," 
at  twelve  thousand  of  regulars,  without  including  vol- 
unteers and  local  militia,  on  what  authority  I  know  not ; 
but  it  is  perhaps  the  only  part  of  the  population  not 
decreased.  Venice  once  contained  two  hundred  thou- 
sand inhabitant;  there  are  now  about  ninety  thou- 
sand, and  THEST  !  !  Few  individuals  can  conceive,  and 
none  could  des«  'ibe  the  actual  state  into  which  the 
more  than  infernal  tyranny  of  Austria  has  plunged  this 
unhappy  city. 

Note  11.  Page  279,  line  36. 
Then,  when  the  Hebrew  's  in  thy  palaces. 

The  chief  palaces  on  the  Brenta  now  belong  to  the 
Jews ;  who,  in  the  earlier  times  of  the  Republic,  were 


only  allowed  to  inhabit  Mestri,  and  not  to  enter  the1  Ducato  finche  sara  eletto  1'  altro  Doge.    E  cosi  a  dl  11 


city  of  Venice.  The  whole  commerce  is  in  the  hands 
of  the  Jews  and  Greeks,  and  the  Huns  form  the  gar- 
rison. 

Note  12.  Page  280,  line  10. 

Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes ! 
Of  the  first  fifty  Doges,  Jive  abdicated — -Jive  were 
banished  with  their  eyes  put  out — -Jive  were  MASSACRED 
—and  nine  deposed  ;  so  that  nineteen  out  of  fifty  lost 
the  throne  by  violence,  besides  two  who  fell  in  battle : 
this  occurred  long  previous  to  the  reign  of  Mar '.no 
Faliero.  One  of  his  more  immediate  predecessors  An- 
drea Dandolo,  died  of  vexation.  Marino  Faliero  him- 
self perished  as  related.  Amongst  his  successors,  Fos- 
eari,  after  seeing  his  son  repeatedly  tortured  and  ban- 
sshed,  was  deposed,  and  died  of  breaking  a  blood- 
vessel, on  hearing  the  bell  of  Saint  Mark's  loll  for  the 
election  of  his  successor.  Morosini  was  impeached  for 
lie  loss  of  Candia ;  but  this  was  previous  to  his  duke- 
dom, during  which  he  conquered  the  Morea,  and  was 
styled  the  Peloponnesian.  Faliero  might  truly  say, 

Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  ! 

'Note  13.   Page  280,  line  70. 

Chief  of  the  Ten. 

"Un  Capo  de'  Dieci"  are  the  words  ef  Sanuto's 
Chronicle. 


APPENDIX. 

I. 

MCCCLIV. 
MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  XLIX. 

"Fu  eletto  da  quarantuno  Elettori,  il  quale  era  Cav- 
tiere  e  conte  di  Valdemarino  in  Trivigiana,  ed  era 
ncco,  e  si  trovava  ambasciadore  a  Roma.  E  a  dl  9,  di 
feti-imbre,  dopo  sepolto  il  suo  predecessore,  fu  chiamato 
il  gran  Consiglio,  e  fu  preso  di  fare  il  Doge  giusta  il  so- 
lito.  E  furono  fatti  i  cinque  Correttori,  Ser  Bernardo 
Giustiniani  Procuratore,  Ser  Paolo  Loredano,  Ser  Fi- 
lippo  Aurio,  Ser  Pietro  Trivisano,  e  Ser  Tommaso 
Viadro.  I  quali  a  di  10,  misero  queste  correzioni  alia 
promozione  del  Doge :  che  i  Consiglieri  non  odano  gli 
Jratori  e  Nunzi  de'  Signori,  senza  i  Capi  de'  quaranta, 
41 


ne  possano  rispondere  ad  alcuno,  se  non  saranno  quattr? 
Consiglieri  e  due  Capi  de'  Quaranta.  E  che  osservino 
la  forma  del  suo  Capitolare.  E  che  Messer  lo  Doge 
si  metta  nella  miglior  parte,  quando  i  giudici  tra  lore 
non  fossero  d'accordo.  E  ch'  egli  non  possa  far  ven- 
dere  i  suoi  imprestiti,  salvo  con  legittima  causa,  e  co 
voler  di  cinque  Consiglieri,  di  due  Capi  de'  Quaranta, 
e  delle  due  parti  del  Consiglio  de'  Pregali.  Item.  ch« 
in  luogo  di  tre  mila  pelli  di  Conigli,  che  debbon  dare 
Zaratini  per  regalia  al  Doge,  non  trovandosi  tante  pelli 
gli  diano  Ducati  ottanta  1'anno.  E  poi  a  dl  11,  detto, 
misero  eliam  altre  correzioni,  che  se  il  Doge,  che  sara 
eletto,  fosse  fuori  di  Venezia,  i  savj  possano  provvedere 
del  suo  ritorno.  E  quando  fosse  il  Doge  ammalato,  sia 
Vicedoge  uno  de'  Consiglieri,  da  essere  eletto  tra  loro. 
E  che  il  detto  sia  nominato  Viceluogotenente  di  Messer 
lo  Doge,  quando  i  giudici  faranno  i  suoi  attl.  E  not  a. 
perche  fu  fatto  Doge  uno,  ch'era  assente,  che  fu  Vice- 
doge  Ser  Marino  Badoero  piu  vecchio  de'  Consiglieri. 
Item,  che  il  governo  del  Ducato  sia  commesso  a'  Con- 
siglieri, e  a'  Capi  de'  Quaranta,  quando  vachera  il 


di  Settembre  fu  creato  il  prefato  Marino  Faliero  Doge. 
E  fu  preso,  che  il  governo  del  Ducato  sia  commesso  a' 
Consiglieri  e  a'  Capi  de'  Quaranta.  I  quali  stiano  in 
Palazzo  di  continue,  fino  che  verra  il  Doge.  Sicch£  di 
continue  stiano  in  Palazzo  due  Consiglieri  e  un  Capo 
de'  Quaranta.  E  subito  furono  spedite  lettere  al  detto 
Doge,  il  quale  era  a  Roma  Oratore  al  Legato  di  Papa 
Innocenzo  VI.  ch'  era  in  Avignone.  Fu  preso  nel  gran 
Consiglio  d'eleggere  dodici  ambasciadori  incontro  a 
Marino  Faliero  Doge,  il  quale  veniva  da  Roma.  E  gi- 
unto  a  Chioggia,  il  Podesta  mandb  Taddeo  Giustiniani 
suo  figliuolo  incontro,  con  quindici  Ganzaruoli.  E  poi 
venuto  a  S.  Clemente  nel  Bucintoro,  venne  un  gran 
caligo,  adeo  che  il  Bucintoro  non  si  pot6  levare.  Laonde 
il  Doge  co'  gentiluomini  nelle  piatte  vennero  di  lungo 
in  questa  Terra  a'  5  d'Ottobre  del  1354.  E  dovendo 
smontare  alia  riva  della  Paglia  per  lo  caligo  andaronq 
ad  ismontare  alia  riva  dclla  Piazza  in  mezzo  alle  due  co-  • 
lonne  dove  si  fa  la  Giustizia,  che  fu  un  malissimo  au- 
gurio.  E  a'  6,  la  mattina  venne  alia  Chiesa  di  San 
Marco  alia  laudazione  di  quello.  Era  in  questo  tempo 
Canceilier  Grande  Messer  Benintende.  I  quarantuno 
Elettori  furono,  Ser  Giovanni  Contarini,  Ser'  Andrea 
Giustiniani,  Ser  Michele  Morossini,  Ser  Simone  Dan- 
dolo, Ser  Pietro  Lando,  Ser  Marino  Gradenigo,  Ser 
Marco  Dolfino,  Ser  Nicolo  Faliero,  Ser  Giovanni  Qm- 
rini,  Ser  Lorenzo  Soranzo,  Ser  Marco  Bembo,  Sere 
Stefano  Belegno,  Ser  Francesco  Loredano,  Ser  Ma- 
rino Veniero,  Ser  Giovanni  Mocenigo,  Ser  Andrea 
Barbaro,  Ser  Lorenzo  Barbarigo,  Ser  Bettino  da  Mol- 
lino,  Ser'  Andrea  Arizzo  Procuratore,  Ser  Marco  Celsi, 
Ser  Paolo  Donato,  Ser  Bertucci  Grimani,  Ser  Pietro 
Steno,  Ser  Luca  Duodo,  Ser'  Andrea  Pisani,  Ser  Fran- 
cesco Caravello,  Ser  Jacopo  Trivisano,  Sere  Schiavo 
Marcello,  Ser  Maffeo  Aimo,  Ser  Marco  Capello,  Sei 
Pancrazio  Giorgio,  Ser  Giovanni  Foscarini,  Ser  Tom- 
maso Viadro,  Sere  Schiava  Polani,  Ser  Marco  Polo, 
Ser  Marino  Sagredo,  Sere  Stefano  Mariani,  Ser  Fran- 
cesco Suriano,  Ser  Orio  Pasqualigo,  Ser'  Andrea 
Gritti,  Ser  Buono  da  Mosto. 

"  Tratiato  di  Messer  Marino  Fdifro  Doge,  tiattn  da 
una  Cronica  antica.  Essendo  Tenuto  il  Gioredl  della 
Caccia,  fu  fatta  giusta  il  solito  la  Caccia.  £  a'  ww' 


j 


282 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


tempi  dopo  fallals  < -accia  s'andava  in  Palazzo  del  Doge 
ID  una  di  quelle  sale,  e  con  donne  facevasi  una  festic- 
ciuola,  dove  si  ballava  fino  alia  prima  campana,  e  ve- 
n\va  una  coiazione ;  la  quale  spesa  faceva  Messcr  lo 
Doge,  quando  v'  era  la  Dogarcssa.  E  poscia  Uitti  anda- 
vano  a  rasa  sua.  Sopra  la  qual  festa,  pare,  che  Ser  Mi- 
ch<\e  Steno,  molto  giovane  e  povero  gentiluomo,  ma 
ardito  e  astuU,,  il  quale  era  innamorato  in  certadonzella 
delta  Degaressa,  essendo  sul  Solajo  appresso  le  donne, 
faci-sse  cert'  alto  non  convenicnte,  adeo  che  il  Doge  cc- 
mandb  ch'  e'  fosse  buttato  giu  dal  Solajo.  E  cosi  quegli 
scudieri  del  Doge  lo  spinsero  giu  di  quel  Solajo.  Laonde 
a  Ser  Michele  parve,  che  fossegli  stata  fatta  troppo 
prande  ignominia.  E  non  consirlerando  altramente  il 
fine,  ma  sopra  quella  passione  fornita  la  festa,  e  andati 
tutu  via,  quella  notte  egli  andb,  e  sulla  cadrega,  dove 
sedcva  il  Doge  nella  Sala  dell'  Udienza  (perch£  allora  i 
Dogi  non  tenevano  panno  di  seta  sopra  la  cadrega,  ma 
sedevano  in  una  cadrega  di  legno)  scrisse  alcune  parole 
disoneste  del  Doge  e  della  Dogaressa,  cioe  :  3/orin  Fa- 
liero  dalla  bella  moglie  :  jiltri  la  gode,  td  egli  la  man- 
dene.  E  la  mattina  furono  vedute  tali  parole  scritte. 
E  parve  una  brutta  cosa.  E  per  la  Signoria  fu  com- 
messa  la  cosa  agli  Avvogadori  del  Comune  con  grande 
efficacia.  I  quali  Avvogadori  subito  diedero  taglia  grande 
per  venire  in  chiaro  della  verita  di  chi  avea  scritto  tal 
lettera.  E  tandem  si  seppe,  che  Michele  Steno  aveale 
scritte.  E  fu  per  li  Quaranta  preso  di  ritenerlo ;  e  ri- 
tenuto  confess?),  che  in  quella  passione  d'  essere  stato 
spinto  giu  dal  Solajo,  presente  la  sua  amante,  egli  aveale 
scritte.  Onde  poi  fu  placitato  nel  detto  Consiglio,  e 
parve  al  Consiglio  si  per  rispetto  all'  eth,  come  per  la 
caklezza  d'amore,  di  condannarlo  a  compiere  due  mesi 
in  prigione  serrato,  e  poi  ch'  e'  fosse  bandit  o  di  Venezia 
e  dal  distretto  per  un'  anno.  Per  la  qual  condennagione 
tanto  piccola  il  Doge  ne  prese  grande  sdegno,  paren- 
dogli  che  non  fosse  stata  fatta  quella  estimazione  della 
cosa,  che  ricercava  la  sua  dignilh  del  Ducato.  E  diceva, 
ch'  eglino  doveano  averlo  fatto  appiccare  per  la  gola,  o 
•  taltem  bandirlo  in  perpetuo  da  Venezia.  E  nerch<> 
(quando  dee  succedere  un'  effetto  e  necessario  che  vi 
concorra  la  cangione  a  fare  tal'  effetto)  era  dcstinato,  che 
a  Messer  Marino  Doge  fosse  tagliata  la  testa,  percib  oc- 
corse,  che  entrata  la  Quaresima  il  giorno  dopo  che  fu 
condannato  il  detto  Ser  Michcle  Steno,  un  gentiluomo 
da  Ca  Barbaro,  di  nature  collerico,  andasse  all'  Arsenaie. 
domandasse  certe  cose  ai  Padroni,  ed  era  alia  presenza 
de'  Signori  1'Ammiraglio  dell'  Arsenaie.  II  quale  intesa 
la  domanda,  disse,  che  non  si  poteva  fare.  Quel  gen- 
tiluomo venne  a  parole  coll'  Ammiraglio,  e  diedegli  un 
pugno  su  un'occhio.  E  perch£  avea  un'anello  in  dito, 
coll'  anello  gli  ruppe  la  pelle,  e  lece  sangue.  E  1'Ammi- 
raglio  cosi  battuto  e  insanguinato  andb  al  Doge  a  lamen- 
tarsi,  acciocche  il  Doge  facesse  fare  gran  punizione  con- 
tra il  detto  da  Ca  Barbaro :  II  Doge  disse  :  Che  moi  cht 
tificcia  ?  Guards.  It  ignominiose  parole  srritte  di  me,  e 
it  modo  cVl  stato  pvnito  fuel  ribaldo  di  Mifhele  Steno, 
cht  le  fcnsse.  E  quale  ttirna  hanno  i  Quaranta  fatto 
delta  persona  nnstra  ?  Laonde  1' Ammiraglio  gli  disse  : 
Messer  lo  Doge,  se  voi  volete  farvi  Signore,  e  fare  tt- 
^iiore.  tutti  aitesti  hccrhi  gentilunmini  a  pezri,  mi  baxta 
"animo,  dandomi  voi  ajutn.  di  farvi  Signorr  di  questa 
Terri.  F.  ullora  voi  pntrcle  castigare  tutti  cosioro.  In- 
l'«o  quests,  il  Doge  disse,  Come  si  pud  fare  una  simile 
vital  E  cosi  entrarona  in  ragionamento. 
Jl  II  Uoge  manAl  a  chiamere  Ser  Bertuccio  Faliero  «uo 


nipote,  il  quale  stava  con  lui  in  Palazzo,  e  entrarono 
in  questa  macchinazione.  Ne  si  partirono  di  li,  che  man- 
darono  per  Filippo  Calendaro,  uomo  marittimo  e  di  gran 
seguito,  e  per  Bertuccio  Israello,  ingegnere  e  uomo  astu- 
tissimo.  E  consigliatisi  insieme  diede  ordine  di  chia- 
mare  alcuni  altri.  E  cosi  per  alcuni  giomi  la  nolle  si 
riducevano  insieme  in  Palazzo  in  casa  del  Doge.  Echia- 
marono  a  pane  a  parte  altri,  videlicet  Nice-old  Fa- 
giuolo,  Giovanni  da  Corfu,  Stefano  Fagiano,  Niccolb 
dalle  Bende,  Niccolb  Biondo,  e  Stefano  Trivisano.  E 
ordinb  di  fare  sedici  o  diciassette  Capi  in  diversi  luoghi 
della  Terra,  i  quali  avessero  cadaun  di  loro  quarant'  uo- 
mini  prowigionati,  preparati,  non  dicendo  a'  detti  suoi 
quaranta  quello,  che  volessero  fare.  Ma  che  il  giorno 
stabilito  si  mostrasse  di  far  quistione  tra  loro  in  diversi 
luoghi,  acciocche  il  Doge  facesse  sonare  a  San  Marco  le 
campane,  le  quali  non  si  possono  suonare,  s'  egli  nol 
comanda.  E  al  suono  delle  campane  questi  sedici  o 
•lieias?<  ite  co'  suoi  uomini  venissero  a  San  Marco  alle 
strade,  che  buttano  in  Piazza.  E  cosi  i  nobili  e  primarj 
citiadini,che  venissero  in  Piazza,  per  sapere  del  romore 
cib  ch'era,  li  tagliassero  a  pezzi.  E  seguito  questo,  che 
fosse  chiamato  per  Signore  Messer  Marino  Faliero  Doge. 
E  fermate  le  cose  tra  loro,  srnbilito  fu,  che  questo  do- 
vess'  essere  a'  15  d'Aprilc  del  1355  in  giorno  di  Merco- 
ledl.  La  quale  macchinazione  trattata  fu  tra  loro  tanto 
scgretamente,  che  mai  ne  pure  se  r.e  sospettf),  non  che 
se  ne  sapesse  cos'  alcuna.  Ma  il  Signor'  Iddio,  che  ha 
sempre  ajutato  questa  gloriosissima  citta,  e  che  per  le 
santimonie  e  giustizie  sue  mai  non  1'ha  abbandonata, 
ispiro  a  un  Beltramo  Bergamasco,  il  quale  fu  messo 
Capo  di  quarant'  uomini  per  uno  de'  detti  congnirati 
(il  quale  intese  qualche  parola,  sicche  comprese  TeiTeto, 
che  doveva  succedere,  e  il  qual  era  di  casa  di  Ser  Nic- 
coliiLionidi  Santo  Stefano)  diandare  adi  ****d'Aprile 
a  casa  del  detto  Ser  Niccolb  Lioni.  E  gli  disse  ogni 
cosa  del!'  ordin  dato.  II  quale  intese  le  cose,  rimase 
come  morto  ;  e  intese  moke  particolarita,  il  detto  Bel- 
tramo il  precb  che  lo  tenesse  segreto,  e  glielo  disse, 
arciocch£  il  detto  Ser  Niccolb  non  si  partisse  di  casa'a 
dl  15,  acciocch^  egli  non  fosse  morto.  Ed  egli  volendo 
partirsi,  il  fece  ritenere  a  suoi  di  casa,  e  serrarlo  in  una 
camera.  Ed  esso  andb  a  casa  di  M.  Giovanni  Gradenigp 
Nasone,  il  quale  fu  poi  Doge,  che  stava  anch'  egli  a 
Santo  Slefano  ;  e  dissegli  la  cosa.  La  quale  paren- 
dogli,  com'era.  d'una  grandissima  importanza,  tutti  e 
due  andarono  a  rasa  di  Ser  Marco  Cornaro,  che  stava 
a  San  Felice.  E  dettogli  il  tutto,  tutti  e  tre  delibera- 
rono  di  venire  a  casa  del  detto  Ser  Niccolb  Lioni,  ed 
esaminare  il  detto  Beltramo.  E  quello  esaminato,  in- 
lese  le  cose,  il  fecero  stare  serrato.  E  andarono  tutti  e 
tre  a  San  Salvatore  in  sacristia,  e  mandorono  i  loro  fa- 
mioli  a  chiamare  i  Consiglieri,  gli  Avvogadori,  i  Capi 
de'  Dieci,  e  que'  del  Consiglio.  E  ridolti  insieme  dissero 
loro  le  cose.  I  qnali  rimasero  morti.  E  deliberarono  di 
mandare  pel  detto  Beltramo,  e  fattolo  venire  catita- 
mente,  ed  esaminatolo,  e  verificate  le  cose,  ancorcW  ne 
sentissero  gran  passione,  pure  pensarono  la  provvisione. 
E  mandarono  pe'  Capi  de'  Quaranta,  pe'  Signon  di 
notte,  pe  Capi  de'  Seslieri,  e  p£  Cinque  della  Pace.  E 
ordmato,  ch'  eglino  co'  loro  uomini  trovassero  deglt 
altri  buoni  uomini,  e  mandas^ero  a  casa  de'  capi  de' 
congi-.irati,  ut  supra  mettessero  loro  le  mani  addosso. 
E  tolsero  ;.  detti  le  Maestrerie  dell1  Arsenaie,  accioche 
provvisicnati  de'  congiurati  non  potusero  offenderlu 
E  si  ridussero  in  Palazzo  v^rso  la  sera.  Dove  ridotu 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


28  3 


fecero  serrare  le  porte  dclla  cortc  del  Palazzo.  E  man- 
darono  a  ordmare  al  campanaro,  che  non  sonasse  le 
campane.  E  cos)  fu  eseguito,  e  messe  le  mani  addosso 
a  tutti  i  nominati  di  sopra,  furono  que'  condotti  al 
Palazzo.  E  vedcndo  il  Consiglio  de'  Dieci,  che  il  Doge 
era  nella  cospirazione,  presero  di  eleg^cre  venti  de' 
primarj  della  Terra,  di  giunta  al  detto  Consiglio  a  con- 
gigliare,  non  pert)  che  potessero  mettere  pallotta. 

"I  Consiglieri furono  quesii:  Ser  Giovanni  Mocenigo, 
del  Sestiero  di  San  Marco ;  Ser  Alrnorb  Veniero  da  Sanla 
Marina,  del  Sestiero  di  Castello ;  Ser  Tommaso  Viadro, 
del  Sestiero  di  Caneregio ;  Ser  Giovanni  Sanudo,  del 
Sestiero  di  Santa  Croce  ;  Ser  Pietro  Trivisano,  del  Se- 
stiero di  San  Paolo,  Ser  Panlalione  Barbo  il  Grande,  del 
Sestiero  d'Ossoduro.  Gli  Avvogadori  del  Comune  fu- 
rono Ser  Zufredo  Morosini,  e  Ser  Orio  Pasqualigo,  e 
questi  non  ballottarono.  Que'  del  Consiglio  de'  Dieci ; 
furono :  Ser  Giovanni  Marcello,  Ser  Tommaso  Sanudo, 
e  Ser  Micheletto  Dolfino,  Capi  del  detto  Consiglio  de' 
Dieci ;  Ser  Luca  da  Legge,  e  Ser  Pietro  da  Mosto,  Inqui- 
sitori  del  detto  Consiglio :  Ser  Marco  Polani,  Ser  Marino 


verso  il  Canale.  E  altri  presi  furono  lasciati,  perch' 
sentirono  il  fatto,  ma  non  vi  furono  tal  che  fu  dato  Ion 
ad  intendere  per  quesii  capi,  che  venissero  coll'  arme. 
per  prendere  alcuni  maJallori  in  servigio  della  Signoria, 
nfc  altro  sapeano.  Fu  encora  liberate  Nicolelto  Alberto, 
il  Guardiaga,  e  Bartolommeo  Ciriuola,  e  suo  figliuolo 
e  molti  altri,  che  non  erano  in  cclpa, 

E  a  di  16  d' Aprile,  giorno  di  Venerdl,  fu  sentenziat* 
nel  detto  Consiglio  de'  Dieci,  di  tagliare  la  testa  a  Met 
ser  Marino  Faliero  Doge  sul  pato  della  scala  di  pietra, 
dove  i  Dogi  giurano  il  primo  sagramento,  quando  mon- 
tano  prima  in  Palazzo.  E  cosl  serrato  il  Palazzo,  la 
mattina  seguente  a  ora  di  terza,  fu  tagliata  la  testa  al 
detto  Doge  ad)  17  d'  Aprile.  E  prima  la  berretta  fu 
tolta  di  testa  al  detto  Doge,  avanti  cne  venisse  giu  dalla 
scala.  E  compiuta  la  giustizia,  pare  che  un  Capo  de' 
Dieci  andasse  alle  Colonne  del  Palazzo  sopra  la  Piazza, 
e  mostrasse  la  spada  insanguinata  a  tutti,  dicendo :  E 
stata  fatta  la.  gran  giustizia.  del  Traditore.  E  aperta  la 
porta,  tutti  entrarono  dentro  con  gran  furia  a  vedere  i! 
Doge,  ch'  era  stato  giustiziato.  E'  da  sapere,  che  a  fare 


Veniero,  Ser  Lando  Lombardo,  Ser  Nicoletto  Trivisano  j  la  delta  giustizia  non  fu  Ser  Giovanni  Sanudo  il  Consi- 
da  Sant'  Angiolo.  Questi  elessero  tra  loro  una  Giunta, '  gliere,  perchS  era  andato  a  casa  per  difetto  della  persona, 
nella  notte  ridotti  quasi  sul  romper  del  giomo,  di  ver.ti  sieche  furono  quattordici  soli,  che  ballottarono,  cio6 
nobili  di  Venezia  de'  migliori,  de'  piii  savj,  e  de'  piu  an-  cinque  Consiglieri,  e  nove  del  Consiglio  de'  Dieci.  E  fu 
tichi,  per  consultare,  non  pero  che  mettessero  pallot-  preso,  che  tutti  i  beni  del  Doge  fossero  coi.fiscati  nel 
tola.  E  non  vi  vollero  alcuno  da  Ca  Faliero.  E  cac-  Comune,  e  cosl  degli  altri  traditori.  E  fu  conceduto 
ciarono  fuori  del  Consiglio  NiccoI6  Faliero,  e  un'  altro  al  detto  Doge  pel  detto  Consiglio  de  Dieci,  ch'  egli  oo- 
Niccolb  Faliero  da  San  Tommaso,  per  essere  della  ca-  tesse  ordinare  del  suo  per  ducati  due  mila.  Ancora  fu 
*ala  del  Doge.  E  questa  provigione  di  chiamare  i  venti  preso,  che  tutti  i  Consiglieri,  e  Avvogadori  del  Comune, 
della  Giunta  fu  molto  commendata  per  tutta  la  Terra.  |que'  del  Consiglio  de'  Dieci,  e  della  Giunta,  ch'  erano 
Questi  furono  i  venti  della  Giunta,  Ser  Marco  Giusti-  :  stati  a  fare  la  delta  sentenza  del  Doge,  e  d'altri,  avessero 
niani,  Procuratore,  Ser'  Andrea  Erizzo,  Procuratore,  Ser  licenza  di  portar'  arme  di  dl  e  di  notte  in  Venezia  e  da 
Lionardo  Giustiniani,  Procuratore,  Ser'  Andrea  Conta-  Grado  fino  a  Gavarzere,  ch'  e  sotto  il  Dogato,  con  due 


rini,  Ser  Sirnone  Dandolo,  Ser  Niccolb  Volpe,  Ser  Gio- 
vanni Loredano,  Ser  Marco  Diedo,  Ser  Giovanni  Gra- 
denigo,  Ser'  Andrea  Cornaro,  Cavaliere,  Ser  Marco  So- 
ranzo,  Ser  Rinieri  da  Moslo,  Ser  Gazano  Marcello,  Ser 
Marino  Morosino,  Sere  Stefano  Belegno,  Ser  Niccol6 
Lioni,  Ser  Filippo  Orio,  Ser  Marco  Trivisano,  Ser  Ja- 
copo  Bragadino,  Ser  Giovanni  Foscarini.  E  chiamali 
quesii  venti  nel  Consiglio  de'  Dieci,  fu  mandate  per 
Messer  Marino  Faliero  Doge,  il  quale  andava  pel  Pa- 
lazzo con  gran  gente,  gentiluomini,  e  altra  buona  genie, 
che  non  sapeano  ancora  come  il  fatto  slava.  In  queslo 
tempo  fu  condolto,  preso,  e  legalo,  Bertuccio  Israello, 
uno  de'  Capi  del  Irattato  per  que'  di  Santa  Croce,  e  an- 
cora fu  preso  Zanello  del  Brin,  Nicoletto  di  Rosa,  e 
Nicoletto  Alberto,  il  Guardiaga,  e  allri  uomini  da  mare, 
e  ff  allre  condizioni.  I  quali  furono  esaminali,  e  Irovala 
a  verita  del  Iradimento.  A  dl  16  d' Aprile  fu  senten- 
zialo  pel  detto  Consiglio  de'  Dieci,  che  Filippo  Calan- 
dario.  e  Berlucci  Israello  fossero  appiccati  alle  colonne 
ros?«  del  balconale  del  Palazzo,  nelle  quali  sta  a  vedere 
il  Doge  la  festa  della  Caccia.  E  cosl  furono  appiccati 
con  spranghe  in  bocca.  E  nel  giomo  seguente'  questi 
furono  condannati,  Niccolb  Zuccuolo,  Nicoletto  Blondo, 
Nicoletto  Doro,  Marco  Geuda,  Jacomello  Dagolino,  Ni- 
colello  Fedele  figliuolo  di  Filippo  Calendaro,  Marco  To- 
•ello,  delto  Israello,  Slefano  Trivisano,  cambiatore  di 
ejar.ta  Margherila,  Antonio  dalle  Bende.  Furono  tutti 
presi  a  Chiogsia,  che  fu^givano,  e  dipoi  in  diversi  giorni 
a  due  a  due,  ed  a  uno  a  uno,  per  sentenza  fatta  nel  detto 
Consiglio  de'  Dieci.  furono  appiccati  per  la  go!a  alle  co- 
e,  continue  n- lo  dalic  rosse  del  Palazzo,  seguendo  fin 


fanti  in  vita  loro,  stando  i  fanti  con  essi  in  casa  al  suo 
pane  e  al  suo  vino.  E  chi  non  avesse  fanti,  polesse  dar 
tal  licenza  a'  suoi  figliuoli  ovvero  fratelli,  due  perd  e  non 
piu .  Eziandio  fu  data  licenza  dell'  arme  a  quattro  Notaj 
della  Cancelleria,  cio£  della  Corte  Maggiore,  che  furono 
a  prendere  le  deposizioni  e  inquisizioni,  in  perpetuo  a 
loro  soli,  i  quali  furono  Amadio,  Nicolelto  di  Lorono, 
Stefianello,  e  Pielro  de'  Compostelli,  Scrivani  de'  Si- 
gnori  di  notte.  Ed  essendo  stati  impiccati  i  traditori,  c 
tagliala  la  lesla  al  Doge,  rimase  la  Terra  in  gran  riposo 
e  quiete.  E  come  in  una  cronica  ho  Irovato,  fu  por- 
lalo  il  corpo  del  Doge  in  una  barca  con  olio  doppieri 
a  seppelire  nella  sua  area  a  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  la 
quale  al  presente  e  in  quell'  andito  per  mezzo  la  Chie- 
suola  di  Santa  Maria  della  Pace,  fatta  fare  pel  Vescovo 
Gabriello  di  Bergamo,  e  un  cassone  di  pietra  con  quesle 
leltere :  Hicjactt  Dominui  Marinus  Faletro  Dux,  E 
nel  gran  Consiglio  n6n  gli  6  stato  fatto  alcun  brieve,  ma 
il  luogo  vacuo  con  letlere,  che  dicono  cosi :  Hie  ett  locut 
3/arini  Faletro,  decapiiati  pro  criminibwt.  E  pare,  che 
la  sua  casa  fosse  data  alia  Chiesa  di  Sant'  Apostolo,  la 
qual  era  quella  grande  sul  ponte.  Tcanen  vedo  il  con- 
trario  che  e  pure  di  Ca  Faliero,  o  che  i  Fallen  la  ricu- 
perassero  con  danari  dalia  Chiesa.  N6  voglio  restar  di 
scrivere  alcuni,  che  volevano,  che  fosse  messo  nel  suo 
breve,  cioe  :  Marmus  Faletro  Dux.  Temeritai  me  cepi,. 
Poenas  MI  decapitatus  pro  criminibus.  Altri  vi  feceio 
un  distico  assai  degno  al  suo  merito,  il  quale  e  que*!1.. 
da  cessere  posto  su  la  sua  sepoltura : 

"Dux  Venetum  jacet  hie,  palriam  qui  procure  tenuw 
Sceptra.  derm,  cvotum,  p*ydirfit,  atquc  caput    * 


281 


BYRON'S  WOR 


••  Non  » t  glio  restar  di  scrivere  quello  che  ho  letto  in 
»na  croron,  cioe,  che  Marino  Faliero  trovandosi  Po- 
desti  e  C'upitano  a  Treviso,  e  dovendosi  fare  una  pro- 
cessione,  il  vescovo  stctte  troppo  a  far  venire  il  Corpo 
di  Cristo.  II  detto  Faliero  era  di  tanta  superbia  e  ar- 
roganza,  die  diede  un  buffetto  al  prefato  Vescovo,  per 
modo  ch'  egli  quasi  cadde  in  terra.  Perb  fu  permesso, 
che  il  Faliero  perdette  Pintelletto,  e  fece  la  mala  morte, 
come  ho  scritto  di  sopra." 

Cranica  di  Sanuto — Muratori  S.  S.  Rerum  Italicarum 
— vol.  xxii.  6£8 — 639. 


II. 

MCCCLIV. 
MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  XLIX. 

ON  the  eleventh  day  of  September,  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord  1354,  Marino  Faliero  was  electe-i  and  chosen  to  be 
the  Duke  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Venice.  He  was 
Count  of  Valdemarino,  in  the  Marches  of  Treviso,  and 
a  Knight  and  a  wealthy  man  to  boot.  As  soon  as  the 
election  was  completed,  it  was  resolved  in  the  Great 
Council,  that  a  deputation  of  twelve  should  be  des- 
patched to  Marino  Faliero,  the  Duke,  who  was  then  on 
his  way  from  Rome ;  for,  when  he  was  chosen,  he  was 
ambassador  at  the  court  of  the  Holy  Father,  at  Rome, 
— the  Holy  Father  himself  held  his  court  at  Avignon. 
When  Messer  Marino  Faliero,  the  Duke,  was  about  to 
land  in  this  city,  on  the  fifth  day  of  October,  1354,  a 
thick  haze  came  on,  and  darkened  the  air ;  and  he  was 
enforced  to  land  on  the  place  of  Saint  Mark,  between 
the  two  columns,  on  the  spot  where  evil  doers  are  put 
to  death ;  and  all  thought  that  this  was  the  worst  of 
tokens. — Nor  must  I  forget  to  write  that  which  I  have 
read  in  a  chronicle. — When  Messer  Marino  Faliero  was 
podesta  and  Captain  of  Treviso,  the  bishop  delayed 
Doming  in  with  the  holy  sacrament,  on  a  day  when  a 
procession  was  to  take  place.  Now  the  said  Marino  Fa- 
Sero  was  so  very  proud  and  wrathful,  that  he  buffeted 
the  bishop,  and  almost  struck  him  to  the  ground.  And 
therefore,  Heaven  allowed  Marino  Faliero  to  go  out  ol 
his  right  senses,  in  order  that  he  might  bring  himself  to 
an  evil  death. 

When  this  Duke  had  held  the  dukedom  during  nine 
months  and  six  days,  he  being  wicked  and  ambitious, 
•ought  to  make  himself  lord  of  Venice,  in  the  manner 
which  I  have  read  in  an  ancient  chronicle.  When  the 
Thursday  arrived  upon  which  they  were  wont  to  hum 
the  bull,  the  bull-hunt  took  place  as  usual ;  and,  accord- 
ing to  the  usage  of  those  times,  after  the  bull-hunt  had 
ended,  they  all  proceeded  unto  the  palace  of  the  Duke, 
and  assembled  together  in  one  of  his  halls ;  and  they 
disported  themselves  with  the  women.  And  until  the 
first  bell  tolled  they  danced,  and  then  a  banquet  was 
served  up.  My  Lord  the  Duke  paid  the  expenses  there- 
of, provided  he  nad  a  Duciicss,  and  after  the  banquet 
tney  all  'eturned  to  tneir  homes. 

Now  to  this  (east  there  came  a  certain  Ser  Michele 
Sietio,  a  gentleman  of  poor  estate  and  very  young,  but 
r.raflv  ai.a  daring,  and  who  loved  one  of  the  damsels  ol 
the  Ducliess.  Srr  Michele  stood  amongst  the  woiren 
ipon  the  solajo  ;  and  lie  behaved  indiscreetly,  so  that 
my  J  .ord  tne  Duke  ordered  that  he  snould  be  kicked  off 
we  so'ajo;  and  the  esquires  of  the  Duke  flung  him 
'(own  fron  '.he  solajo  accordingly.  Ser  Michele  thought 


that  such  an  affront  was  beyond  all  beaiing;  and  when 
the  feast  was  over,  and  all  other  persons  had  left  th» 
palace,  he,  continuing  heated  with  anger,  went  to  the 
hall  of  audience,  and  wrote  certain  unseemly  words  re- 
lating to  the  Duke  and  the  Duchess,  upon  the  chair  in 
which  the  Duke  was  used  to  sit ;  for  in  those  days  the 
Duke  did  not  cover  his  chair  with  cloth  of  sendal,  but 
he  sat  in  a  chair  of  wood.  Ser  Michele  wrote  thereon: 
— "  Marin  Falier,  the  husband  of  the  fair  wife  ;  others 
kiss  her,  but  he  keeps  her.1'  In  the  morning  the  words 
were  seen,  and  the  matter  was  considered  to  be  very 
scandalous ;  and  the  Senate  commanded  the  Awogadori 
of  the  Commonwealth  to  proceed  therein  with  the 
greatest  diligence.  A  largess  of  great  amount  was  im- 
mediately proffered  by  the  Awogadori,  in  order  to  dis- 
cover who  had  written  these  words.  And  at  length  it 
was  known  that  Michele  Steno  had  written  them.  It 
was  resolved  in  the  Council  of  Forty  that  he  should  be 
arrested  ;  and  he  then  confessed,  that  in  a  fit  of  vexa- 
tion and  spite,  occasioned  by  his  being  thrust  off  the 
solajo  in  the  presence  of  his  mistress,  he  had  written 
the  words.  Therefore  the  Council  debated  thereon. 
And  the  Council  took  his  youth  into  consideration,  and 
that  he  was  a  lover,  and  therefore  they  adjudged  that 
he,  should  be  kept  in  close  confinement  during  two 
months,  and  that  afterwards  he  should  be  banished  from 
Venice  and  the  state  during  one  year.  In  consequence 
of  this  merciful  sentence  the  Duke  became  exceedingly 
wroth,  it  appearing  to  him  that  the  Council  had  not 
acted  in  such  a  manner  as  was  required  by  the  respect 
due  to  his  ducal  dignity ;  and  he  said  that  they  ought 
to  have  condemned  Ser  Michele  to  be  hanged  by  the 
neck,  or  at  least  to  be  banished  for  life. 

Now  it  was  fated  that  my  Lord  Duke  Marino  was  to 
have  his  head  cut  off.  And  as  it  is  necessary,  when  any 
effect  is  to  be  brought  about,  that  the  cause  of  such  ef 
feet  must  happen,  it  therefore  came  to  pass,  that  on  the 
very  day  after  sentence  had  been  pronounced  on  Ser 
Michele  Steno,  being  the  first  day  of  Lent,  a  gentleman 
of  the  house  of  Barbara,  a  choleric  gentleman,  went 
to  the  arsenal  and  required  certain  things  of  the  mas- 
ters of  the  galleys.  This  he  did  in  the  presence  of  the 
admiral  of  the  arsenal,  and  he,  hearing  the  request, 
answered, — No,  it  cannot  be  done.— High  words  arose 
between  the  gentleman  and  the  admiral,  and  the  gen- 
tleman struck  him  with  his  fist  just  above  the  eye  ;  and 
as  he  happened  to  have  a  ring  on  his  finger,  the  ring 
cut  the  admiral  and  drew  blood.  The  admiral,  all 
bruised  and  bloody,  ran  straight  to  the  Duke  to  com- 
plain, and  with  the  intent  of  praying  him  to  inflict 
some  heavy  punishment  upon  the  gentleman  of  Ca  Bar- 
baro. — "  What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  for  thee  ?" 
answered  the  Duke; — "think  upon  the  shameful  gibe 
which  hath  been  written  concerning  me  ;  and  think  on 
the  manner  in  which  they  have  punished  that  ribald 
Michele  Steno,  who  wrote  it ;  and  see  how  the  Council 
of  Forty  respect  our  person." — Upon  this  the  admiral 
answered ; — "  My  Lord  Duke,  if  you  would  wish  to  make 
yourself  a  prince,  and  to  cut  all  those  cuckoldy  gentle* 
men  to  pieces,  I  have  the  heart,  if  you  do  but  help  me, 
to  make  you  prince  of  all  this  state  ;  and  then  you  may 
punish  them  all." — Hearing  this,  the  Duke  said ; — "  How 
can  such  a  matter  be  brought  about?" — and  so  they 
discoursed  thereon. 

The  Duke  called  for  his  nephew,  Ser  Bertuccio  Faliero, 
who  lived  with  him  in  the  palace,  and  they  oomriuned 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


about  this  plot.  And,  without  leaving  the  place,  they 
Bent  for  Philip  Calendaro,  a  seaman  of  great  repute,  and 
'or  Bertuccio  Israello,  who  was  exceedingly  wily  and 
tunning.  Then,  taking  counsel  amongst  themselves, 
ihey  agreed  to  call  in  some  others  ;  and  so  for  several 
nights  successively,  they  met  with  the  Duke  at  home  in 
his  palace.  And  the  following  men  were  called  in  singly ; 
to  wit; — Niccolo  Fagiuolo,  Giovanni  da  Corfu,  Stefano 
Fagiano,  Niccolo  dalle  Bende,  Niccolo  Biondo,  and  Ste- 
fano Trivisano. — It  was  concerted  that  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen leaders  should  be  stationed  in  various  parts  of  the 
city,  each  being  at  the  head  of  forty  men,  armed  and 
prepared ;  but  the  followers  were  not  to  know  their  des- 
tination. On  the  appointed  day  they  were  to  make  af- 
frays amongst  themselves  here  and  there,  in  order  that 
the  Duke  might  have  a  pretence  for  tolling  the  bells  of 
San  Marco :  these  bells  arc  never  rung  but  by  the  order 
of  the  Duke.  And  at  the  sound  of  the  bells,  these  six- 
teen or  seventeen,  with  their  followers,  were  to  come 
to  San  Marco,  through  the  streets  which  open  upon  the 
Piazza.  And  when  the  noble  and  leading  citizens  should 
come  into  the  Piazza,  to  know  the  cause  of  the  riot,  then 
the  conspirators  were  to  cut  them  in  pieces ;  and  this 
work  being  finished,  my  Lord  Marino  Faliero  the  Duke 
was  to  be  proclaimed  the  Lord  of  Venice.  Things 
having  been  thus  settled,  they  agreed  to  fulfil  their  in- 
tent on  Wednesday,  the  fifteenth  day  of  April,  in  the 
year  1355.  So  covertly  did  they  plot,  that  no  one  ever 
dreamt  of  their  machinations. 

But  the  Lord,  who  hath  always  helped  this  most 
glorious  city,  and  who,  loving  its  righteousness  and 
holiness,  hath  never  forsaken  it,  inspired  one  Beltramo 
Bergamasco  to  be  the  cause  of  bringing  the  plot  to  light 
in  the  following  manner.  This  Beltramo,  who  belonged 
to  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni  of  Santo  Stefano,  had  heard  a  word 
or  two  of  what  was  to  take  place  ;  and  so,  in  the  before- 
mentioned  month  of  April,  he  went  to  the  house  of  the 
aforesaid  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni,  and  told  him  all  the  partic- 
ulars of  the  plot.  Ser  Niccolo,  when  he  heard  all 
these  things,  was  struck  dead,  as  it  were,  with  affright. 
He  heard  all  the  particulars,  and  Beltramo  prayed  him 
to  keep  it  all  secret ;  and  if  he  told  Ser  Niccolo,  it  was 
in  order  that  Ser  Niccolo  might  stop  at  home  on  the 
fifteenth  of  April,  and  thus  save  his  life.  Beltramo  was 
going,  but  Ser  Niccolo  ordered  his  servants  to  lay  hands 
upon  him  and  lock  him  up.  Ser  Niccolo  then  went  to 
the  house  -of  Messer  Giovanni  Gradenigo  Nasoni,  who 
afterwards  became  Duke,  and  who  also  lived  at  Santo 
Stefano,  and  told  him  all.  The  matter  seemed  to  him 
jo  be  of  the  very  greatest  importance,  as  indeed  it  was ; 
and  they  two  went  to  the  house  of  Ser  Marco  Cornaro, 
who  lived  at  San  Felice ;  and,  having  spoken  with  him, 
<hey  all  three  then  determined  to  go  back  to  the  house 
of  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni,  to  examine  the  said  Beltramo ; 
and  having  questioned  him,  and  heard  all  that  he  had  to 
nay,  they  left  him  in  confinement.  And  then  they  all 
ihree  went  into  the  sacristy  of  San  Salvatore,  and  sent 
^heir  men  to  summon  the  Councillors,  the  Avvogadori, 
he  Capi  de'  Dieci,  and  those  of  the  Great  Council. 

When  all  were  assembled,  the  whole  story  was  told 
to  them.  They  were  struck  dead,  as  it  were,  with 
affright.  They  determined  to  send  for  Beltramo.  He 
was  brought  in  before  them.  They  examined  him,  and 
ascertained  that  the  matter  was  true  ;  and,  although 
hey  were  exceedingly  troubled,  yet  they  determined 
\\pon  their  measures.  And  they  sent  for  the  Capi  de' 
2  C 


Quaranta,  the  Signori  di  Nolle,  the  Capi  de'  Sestieri 
and  the  Cinque  della  Pace  ;  and  they  were  ordered  it- 
associate  to  their  men  other  good  men  and  true,  who 
were  to  proceed  to  the  houses  of  the  ringleaders  of  the 
conspiracy  and  secure  them.  And  they  secured  the 
foreman  of  the  arsenal,  in  order  that  the  conspirators 
might  not  do  mischief.  Towards  nightfall  they  assem- 
bled in  the  palace.  When  they  were  assembled  in  the 
palace,  they  caused  the  gates  of  the  quadrangle  of  the 
palace  to  be  shut.  And  they  sent  to  thfc  keeper  of  th*1 
bell-tower,  and  forbade  the  tolling  of  the  bells.  All  th  » 
was  carried  into  effect.  The  before-mentioned  con- 
spirators were  secured,  and  they  were  brought  to  ih« 
palace;  and  as  the  Council  of  Ten  saw  that  the  Duke 
was  in  the  plot,  they  resolved  that  twenty  of  the  lead- 
ing men  of  the  state  should  be  associated  to  them,  for 
the  purpose  of  consultation  and  deliberation,  but  that 
they  should  not  be  allowed  to  ballot. 

The  counsellors  were  the  following:  Ser  Giovanni 
Mocenigo,  of  the  Sestiero  of  San  Marco ;  Ser  Almoro 
Veniero  da  Santa  Marina,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Castello; 
Ser  Tommaso  Viadro,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Caneregio;  Ser 
Giovanni  Sanudo,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Santa  Croce ;  Ser 
Pietro  Trivisano,  of  the  Sestiero  of  San  Paolo ;  Ser 
Pantalione  Barbo  il  Grande,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Ossoduro. 
The  Avvogadori  of  the  Commonwealth  were  Zufredo 
Morosini,  and  Ser  Orio  Pasqualigo ;  and  these  did  not 
ballot.  Those  of  the  Council  of  Ten  were  Ser  Giovanni 
Marcello,  Ser  Tommaso  Sanudo,  and  Ser  Micheletto 
Dolfmo,  the  heads  of  the  aforesaid  Council  of  Ten. 
Ser  Luca  da  Legge,  and  Ser  Pietro  da  Mosto,  inquisi- 
tors of  the  aforesaid  Council.  And  Ser  Marco  Polani, 
Ser  Marino  Veniero,  Ser  Lando  Lombardo,  and  Ser 
Nicoletto  Trivisano,  of  Sant'  Angelo. 

Late  in  the  night,  just  before  the  dawning,  they 
chose  a  junta  of  twenty  noblemen  of  Venice  from 
amongst  the  wisest  and  the  worthiest  and  the  oldest. 
They  were  to  give  counsel,  but  not  to  ballot.  And  they 
would  not  admit  any  one  of  Ca  Faliero.  And  Niccolo 
Faliero,  and  another  Niccolo  Faliero,  of  San  Tommaso 
were  expelled  from  the  Council,  because  they  belongec 
to  the  family  of  the  Doge.  And  this  resolution  of 
creating  the  junta  of  twenty  was  much  praised  through- 
out the  state.  The  following  were  the  members  of  the 
junta  of  twenty : — Ser  Marco  Giustiniani,  Procurators, 
Ser'  Andrea  Erizzo,  Procuratore,  Ser  Lionardo  Guis 
tiniani,  Procuratore,  Ser'AndreaContarini,  SereSimone 
Dandolo,  Ser  Niccolo  Volpe,  Ser  Giovanni  Loredano, 
Ser  Marco  Diedo,  Ser  Giovanni  Gradenigo,  Ser  Andrea 
Cornaro,  Cavaliere,  Ser  Marco  Soranzo,  Ser  Rinieri 
da  Mosto,  Ser  Gazano  Marcello,  Ser  Marino  Morosini, 
Ser  Stefano  Belenno,  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni,  Ser  Filippo 
Orio,  Ser  Marco  Trivisano,  Ser  Jacopo  Bragadino,  Ser 
Giovanni  Foscarini. 

These  twenty  were  accordingly  called  in  to  the 
Council  o'f  Ten;  and  they  sent  for  my  Lord  Marine 
Faliero  the  Duke ;  and  my  Lord  Marino  was  then 
consorting  in  the  palace  with  people  of  great  estate, 
gentlemen,  and  other  good  men,  none  of  whom  knew 
yet  how  the  fact  stood. 

At  the  same  time  Bertuccio  Israello,  who,  as  one  ef 
the  ringleaders,  was  to  head  the  conspirators  in  Santa 
Croce,  was  arrested  and  bound,  and  Drought  before  .nf 
Council.  Zanello  del  Brin,  Nicoletto  di  Rosa,  Micoleno 
Alberto,  and  the  Guardiaga,  were  also  taken  togetner 
with  several  seamen,  and  people  of  various  'amu. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


These  verb  etam.-wci,  and  the  truth  of  the  plot  was 
ascerta  ned. 

On  toe  itixticnth  of  April,  judgment  was  given  in  the 
Councn  of  Ten,  that  Filippo  Calendaro  and  Bertuccio 
Israello  should  be  hanged  upon  the  red  pillars  of  the 
balcony  of  the  palace,  from  which  the  Duke  is  wont  to 
look  at  the  bull-hunt :  and  they  were  nanged  with  gags 
in  their  mouth.*. 

The  next  day  the  following  were  condemned : — Nic- 
colo  Zuccuolo,  Nicoletto  Blondo,  Nicoletto  Doro,  Marco 
Giuda,  Jacomello  Dagolino,  Nicoletto  Fidele,  the  son  of 
Philip  Calendaro,  Marco  Torello,  called  Isracllo,  Stefano 
Trivisano,  the  money-changer  of  Santa  Margherita,  and 
Antonio  dalle  Bende.  These  were  all  taken  at  Chiozza, 
for  they  were  endeavouring  to  escape.  Afterwards,  by 
virtue  of  the  sentence  which  was  passed  upon  them  in 
the  Council  of  Ten,  they  were  hanged  on  successive 
days,  some  singly  and  some  in  couples,  upon  the  col- 
umns of  Ine  palace,  beginning  from  the  red  columns, 
»nd  so  going  onwards  towards  the  canal.  And  other 
prisoners  were  discharged,  because,  although  they  had 
been  involved  in  the  conspiracy,  yet  they  had  not  assist- 
ed in  it :  for  they  were  given  to  understand  by  some  of 
the  heads  of  the  plot,  that  they  were  to  come  armed 
and  prepared  for  the  service  of  the  state,  and  in  order 
to  secure  certain  criminals,  and  they  knew  nothing  else. 
Nicoletto  Alberto,  the  Guardiaga,  and  Bartolommeo 
Ciriuola  and  his  son,  and  several  others,  who  were  not 
guilty,  were  discharged. 

On  Friday,  the  sixteenth  day  of  April,  judgment  was 
also  given,  in  the  aforesaid  Council  of  Ten,  that  my 
Lord  Marino  Faliero,  the  Duke,  should  have  his  head 
cut  off,  and  that  the  execution  should  be  done  on  the 
landing-place  of  the  stone  staircase,  where  the  Dukes 
take  their  oath  when  they  first  enter  the  palace.  On 
the  following  day.  the  seventeenth  of  April,  the  doors 
of  the  palace  being  shut,  the  Duke  had  his  head  cut  off, 
about  the  hour  of  noon.  And  the  cap  of  estate  was 
taken  from  the  Duke's  head  before  he  came  down  stairs. 
When  the  execution  was  over,  it  is  said  that  one  of  the 
Council  of  Ten  went  to  the  columns  of  the  palace  over 
against  the  place  of  St.  Mark,  and  that  he  showed  the 
oloody  sword  unto  the  people,  crying  out  with  a  loud 
voice — "  The  terrible  doom  hath  fallen  upon  the  trai- 
tor!"— and  the  doors  were  opened,  and  the  people  all 
rushed  in,  to  see  the  corpse  of  the  Duke  who  had  been 
beheaded. 

It  must  be  known,  that  Ser  Giovanni  Sanudo,  the 
i  ouncillor,  was  not  present  when  the  aforesaid  sentence 
was  pronounced ;  because  he  was  unwell  and  remained 
at  home.  So  that  only  fourteen  balloted ;  that  is  to 
say,  five  councillors,  and  nine  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 
And  it  was  adjudged,  that  all  the  lands  and  chattels  of 
the  Duke,  as  well  as  of  the  other  traitors,  should  be 
forfeited  to  the  state.  And,  as  a  grace  to  the>  Duke,  it 
was  resolved  in  the  Council  of  Ten,  that  he  should  be 
allowed  to  dispose  of  two  thousand  ducats  out  of  his 
own  property.  And  it  was  resolved,  that  all  the  coun- 
cilors and  all  the  Avvogadori  of  the  commonwealth, 
liiose  of  tho  Council  of  Ten,  and  the  members  of  the 
lunta  who  had  assisted  in  passing  sentence  on  the  Duke 
aitd  tne  other  traitors,  should  have  the  privilege  of  car- 
ivmg  arms  Doth  by  day  and  by  night  in  Venice,  and 
Irom  Grarto  to  Cavazere.  And  they  were  also  to  be 
i"ow«s!  two  footmen  carrying  arms,  the  aforesaid  foot- 


men living  and  boarding  with  them  in  their  own  houses. 
And  he  who  did  not  keep  two  footmen  might  transfer 
the  privilege  to  his  sons  or  his  brothers ;  but  only  to 
two.  Permission  of  carrying  arms  was  also  granted  lit 
the  four  Notaries  of  the  Chancery,  that  is  to  say,  ol'the 
Supreme  Court,  who  took  the  depositions  ;  and  they 
were  Amedio,  Nicoletto  di  Lorino,  Steffanello,  and 
Pietro  de  Compostelli,  the  secretaries  of  the  Signori  di 
Notte. 

After  die  traitors  had  been  hanged,  and  the  Duke  had 
had  his  head  cut  off,  the  state  remained  in  great  tran- 
quillity and  peace.  And,  as  I  have  read  in  a  chronicle, 
the  corpse  of  the  Duke  was  removed  in  a  barge,  with 
eight  torches,  to  his  tomb  in  the  churcli  of  San  Giovanni 
e  Paolo,  where  it  was  buried.  Tho  tomb  is  now  in 
that  aisle  in  the  middle  of  the  little  church  of  Santa 
Maria  della  Paco,  which  was  built  by  Bishop  Gabriel  of 
Bergamo.  It  is  a  coffin  of  stone,  with  these  words  en- 
gtaved  thereon :  "  Heicjacet  Dominus  Marinus  Faletro 
Dux." — And  they  did  not  paint  his  portrait  in  the  hall 
of  the  Great  Council : — But  in  the  place  where  it  ought 
to  have  been,  you  see  these  words: — "Hie  est  locut 
Marini  Faletro  decapitati  pro  criminibus" — and  it  is 
thought  that  his  house  was  granted  to  the  church  of 
S^it'  Apostolo ;  it  was  that  great  one  near  the  bridge. 
Yet  this  could  not  be  the  case,  or  else  the  family  bought 
it  back  from  the  church  ;  for  it  still  belongs  to  Ck  Fa- 
liero. I  must  not  refrain  from  noting,  that  some  wished 
to  write  the  following  words  in  the  place  where  his 
portrait  ought  to  have  been,  as  aforesaid : — "  Marinu* 
Faletro  Dux,  temerilas  me  cepit,  ptenas  lui,  decapitatus 
procriminiLus." — Others,  also,  indited  a  couplet,  worthy 
of  being  inscribed  upon  his  tomb. 

"  Diuc  Venetum  jacet  heic,  patriam  qui  prodere  tentaot, 

Sceptra,  decui,  cei.ium,  peiiDdil,  alque  caput-* 

[I  am  obliged  for  this  excellent  translation  of  the  old  chronicle  to  Mr. 
F.  Cohen,  to  whom  the  reader  will  find  himself  indebted  for  a  version 
Itat  I  could  not  myself  (though  after  many  years'  intercourse  with  Italian,) 
have  given  bv  any  mean>  to  purely  and  to  fai'hfuUy.] 


III. 

"  AL  giovane  Doge  Andrea  Dandolo  succedette  un 
vecchio,  il  quale  tardi  si  pose  al  timone  della  repubblica, 
ma  sempre  prima  di  quel,  che  facea  d'  uopo  a  lui,  ed  alia 
patria:  egli  6  Marino  Faliero  personnaggio  a  me  noto 
per  antica  dimestichezza.  Falsa  era  1'  opinione  intorno 
a  lui,  giacche  egli  si  mostrb  fornito  piu  di  coraggio 
che  di  senno.  Non  pago  della  prima  dignita,  entro  con 
sinistro  piede  nel  pubblico  Palazzo:  imperciocchfe 
queslo  Doge  dei  Veneti,  magistrate  sacro  in  tutti  i  se- 
coli,  che  dagli  antichi  fu  sempre  venerato  qual  mime  in 
quella  citth  1'  altr'  jeri  fu  decollate  nel  vestibolo  dell' 
istesso  Palazzo.  Discorrerei  fin  dal  principio  le  cause 
di  un  tale  evento,  se  cosi  vario,  ed  ambiguo  non  ne 
fosse  il  grido.  Nessurio  peri)  lo  scusa,  tutti  arTermano, 
che  egli  abbia  voluto  cangiar  qualche  cosa  nell'  ordine 
della  repubblica  a  lui  tramandato  dai  maggiori.  Che 
desiderava  egli  di  piu  ?  lo  son  d'avviso,  che  egli  abbia 
ottenuto  cib,  che  non  si  concedette  a  nessun  altro: 
mentre  adempiva  gli  ufficj  di  legato  presso  il  Pontefice, 
e  sulle  rive  del  Rodano  trattava  la  pace,  che  io  prima 
di  lui  avevo  indarno  tentato  di  conchiudere,  gli  fu  con- 
fcrito  1'  onore  del  Ducato,  che  nfe  chiedevt,  n6  s'  aspet- 
tava.  Tomato  in  patria,  pensb  a  quel'o,  cui  nessuno 
non  pose  mente  giammai,  e  sofl'rl  quel.o  che  a  niuni 
accade  mai  de  soffrire :  giacche  «n  quel  "uogo  celeber 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


281 


nmo,  e  chiarissimo,  e  bellissimo  infra  tutti  quelli,  che 

10  v:di,  ove  i  suoi  antenati  avevano  ricevuti  grandissinn 
onori  in  mezzo  alle  pompe  trionfali,  ivi  egh  fu  trasci- 
nato  in  modo  servile,  e  spogliato  delle  insegne  ducali, 
perdette  la  testa,  e  macchib  col  proprio  sangue  le  soglie 
del  tempio,  1'  atrio  del  Palazzo,  e  le  scale  marmoree  ren- 
dute  spesse  volte  illustri  o  dalle  solenni  festivita,  o  dalle 
osti'i  spoglie.     Ho  notato  il  luogo,  ora  noto  il  tempo : 
k  1'  anno  del  Natale  di  Cristo  1355,  fu  il  giorno  18  d'A- 
prile.     Si  alto  6  il  grido  sparso,  che  se  alcuno  esaminera 
la  disciplina,  e  le  costumanze  di  quella  citia,  e  quanto 
mutamento  di  cose  venga  minacciato  dalla  morte  di  un 
sol  uomo  (quantunque  molti  altri,  come  narrano,  es- 
Bendo  complici,  o   subirono   1'  istesso   supplicio,  o   lo 
aspettano)  si  accorgera,  che  nulla  di  piu  grande  awenne 
ai  nostri  tempi  nell'  Italia.     Tu  forse  qui  attendi  il  mio 
giudizio ;  assolvo  il  popolo,  se  credere  alia  fama,  benche 
abbia  potuto  e  castigare  piu  mitamente,  e  con  maggior 
dolcezza  vendicare  il  suo  dolore :   ma  non  cosi  facil- 
raente,  si  modera  un'  ira  giusta  insieme,  e  grande  in 
un  numeroso  popolo  principalmente,  nel  quale  il  pre- 
cipitoso,  ed  instabile  volgo  aguzza  gli  stimoli  dell'  ira- 
condia  con  rapidi,  e  sconsigliati  clamori.     Compatisco, 
e  nell'  istesso  tempo  mi  adiro  con  quell'  infelice  uomo, 

11  quale  adorno  di  un'  insolito  onore,  non  so  che  cosa 
si  volesse  negli  estremi  anni  della  sua  vita :   la  eala- 


a  hero ;  and  that  his  passions  were  too  violent.  The 
paltry  and  ignorant  account  of  Dr.  Moore  tans  to  tm 
ground.  Petrarch  says,  "  that  there  had  been  no 
greater  event  in  his  times  "  (our  times  literally),  "  nostn 
tempi,"  in  Italy.  He  also  differs  from  the  historian  ir 
saying  that  Faliero  was  "  on  the  banks  of  the  R!u>ne,' 
instead  of  at  Rome,  when  elected ;  the  other  account} 
say,  that  the  deputation  of  the  Venetian  senate  mt- 
him  at  Ravenna.  How  this  may  have  been,  it  is  no 
for  me  to  decide,  and  is  of  no  great  importance.  Hac 
the  man  succeeded,  he  would  have  changed  the  face  ol 
Venice,  and  perhaps  of  Italy.  As  it  is,  what  are  they 
both? 


IV. 

Extrait  de  Couvrage. — Histoire  de  la  Rtpuhlique  dt 
Venise,  par  P.  Dam,  de  FAcadtmie  Francaise, 
torn.  v.  liv.  xxxv.  p.  95,  etc.  Edition  de  Paris, 
MDCCCXIX. 

"  A  CES  attaques  si  fr^quentes  que  le  gouvernement 
dirigeait  contre  le  clerge,  k  ces  luttes  etablies  entre  les 
differens  corps  constitues,  a  ces  entreprises  de  la  masse 
de  la  noblesse  contre  les  depositaires  du  pouvoir,  a 
toutes  ces  propositions  d'innovation  qui  se  terminaient 
toujours  par  des  coups  d'etat ;  il  faut  ajouter  une  autre 


mita  di  lui   diviene  sempre  piu   grave,  perchfe   dalla  i  cause,  non  moins  propre  &  propager  le  mepris  des  an- 


sentenza  contra  di  esso  promulgata  apparira,  che  egli  fu 
non  solo  misero,  ma  insano,  e  demente,  e  che  con  vane 
arti  si  usurp6  per  tanti  anni  una  falsa  fama  di  sapienza. 
Ammonisco  i  Dogi,  i  quali  gli  succederanno,  che  questo 
6  un  esempio  posto  innanzi  ai  loro  occhi,  quale  specchio 
nel  quale  veggano  di  essere  non  Signori,  ma  Duci,  anzi 
nemmeno  Duci,  ma  onorati  servi  della  Repubblica. 
Tu  sta  sano ;  e  giacche  fluttuano  le  publicche  cose,  sfor- 
ziamoci  di  governar  modestissimamente  i  privati  nostri 
affan." 

Levati.      Viaggi  di  Petrarca,  vol.  iv.  p.  323. 

Tne  above  Italian  translation  from  the  Latin  epistles 
of  Petrarch,  proves — 

Istlv,  That  Marino  Faliero  was  a  personal  friend  of 
Petrarch's :  "  antica  dimestichezza,"  old  intimacy,  is  the 
phrase  of  the  poet. 

2dly,  That  Petrarch  thought  that  he  had  more  courage 
than  conduct,  "  piu  di  coraggio  che  di  senno.'1 

Sdly,  That  there  was  »ome  jealousy  on  the  part  of 
Petrarch  ;  for  he  says  that  Marino  Faliero  was  treating 
of  the  peace  which  he  himself  had  "  vainly  attempted 
to  conclude." 

4thly,  That  the  honour  of  the  dukedom  was  con- 
ferred upon  him,  which  he  neither  sought  nor  expected, 
"  che  ne  chiedeva  nes'  asptttava,"  and  which  had  never 
been  granted  to  any  other  in  like  circumstances,  "  ci6 
che  non  si  concedette  a  nessun  altro;"  "proof  of  the 
high  esteem  in  which  he  must  have  been  held." 

othly,  That  he  had  a  reputation   for  wisdom,  only 


ciennes  doctrines,  c'etait  Cexcls  de  la  corruption. 

"  Cette  liberte  de  mceurs,  qu'on  avail  long-temps  van- 
tee  comme  le  charme  principal  de  la  societe  de  Venise, 
etait  devenue  un  desordre  scandaleux ;  le  lien  du  manage 
etait  moins  sacre  dans  ce  pays  catholique  que  dans  ceuz 
ou  les  lois  civiles  et  religieuses  permettent  de  le  dis- 
soudre.  Faute  de  pouvoir  rompre  le  contrat,  on  sup- 
posait  qu'il  n'avait  jamais  existe,  et  les  moyens  de  nul- 
lite,  aliegues  avec  impudeur  par  les  epoux,  etaient 
admis  avec  la  mSme  facilite  par  des  magistrals  et  par 
des  prfitres  egalement  corrompus.  Ces  divorces  Dolores 
d'un  autre  nom  devinrent  si  frequents,  quf  I'acte  >e  plus 
important  de  la  societe  civile  se  trouva  de  la  competence 
d'un  tribunal  d'exceptkm,  et  que  ce  fut  a  la  police  dc 
reprimer  le  scandale.  Le  conseil  des  dix  ordonna,  en 
1762,  que  toute  femme  qui  intentcrait  une  demande  en 
dissolution  de  mariage  serait  obligee  d'en  attendre  le 
jugement  dans  un  couvent  que  le  tribunal  designerail. ' 
Bientot  apres  il  evoqua  devant  lui  tomes  les  causes  de 
cette  nature.2  Cet  empietement  sur  la  jurisdiction 
ecclesiastique  ayant  occasionne  des  reclamations  de  la 
part  de  la  cour  de  Rome,  le  conseil  se  reserva  le  droil 
de  debouter  les  epoux  de  leur  demande  ;  et  consentit  a 
la  renvoyer  devant  1'officialite,  toutes  les  foies  qu'il  ne 
1'aurait  pas  rejetee.3  " 

"  II  y  cut  un  moment  ou  sans  doute  le  renversement 
des  fortunes,  la  perte  des  jeunes  gens,  les  discordes  do- 
mestiques,  determinerent  ie  gouvernement  a  s'ei-arter 
des  maximes  qu'il  s'etait  faites  sur  la  liberte  de  mcsura 


forfeited  by  the  last  enterprise  of  his  life,  "si  surpuj  qu'il  permettait  a  sessujets:  on  cnassa  de  V  enise  toutes 
per  tanti  anni  una  falsa  fama  di  sapienza." — "He  had  j  les  courtisanes.  Mais  leur  absence  ne  suffisait  pas  pom 
usurped  for  so  many  years  a  false  fame  of  wisdom  ;"  |  ramener  aux  bonnes  ntceurs  toule  une  population  eievet 


•atber  a  difficult  task,  I  should  think.  People  are  gene- 
rally found  out  before  eighty  years  of  age,  at  least  in  a 
•epublic. 

From  these,  and  the  other  historical  notes  which  I 
have  collected,  it  may  be  inferred  that  Marino  Faliero  i 


dans  la  plus  hotileuse  licence.     Le  desordre  uenCua 
dans  I'inteVieur  des  families,  lians  les  cloitres ;  et  1'on 


1  Corregpondance   de  M.  Schlic>    chaig6   tl'aflaut* 
France,  dcpeche  du  24  Aout,  178i!. 

2  Ibid.  Dopeche  du  3l  Aout. 


uossessed  many  of  the  qualities,  but  not  the  success  ofl     3  ibid.  Dep«che  du  3  &Diemhre.  J785 


288 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


crut  obligi  oe  raope.er,  d'indemniser  mSme  '  des  femmes 
qui  surprenaient  quelquefois  d'importants  secrets,  et 
qu'on  pouvait  employer  ulilement  a  miner  des  hommes 
que  leur  fortune  aurait  pu  rsndre  dangereux.  Depais, 
fa  licence  est  toujours  allee  croissant,  et  1'on  a  vu  non 
settlement  des  meres  trafiquer  de  la  virginite  de  leurs 
flies,  mais  la  vendre  par  un  central,  dont  1'authenticite 
etait  garantie  par  la  signature  d'un  oflicier  public,  et 
('execution  mise  sous  la  protection  des  lois.2 

"  Les  parloirs  des  couvents  ou  e'taient  renferme'es  les 
filles  nobles,  les  maisons  des  courtisanes,  quoique  la 
police  y  entretint  soigneusement  un  grand  nombre  de 
surveillans,  etaient  les  seuls  points  de  reunion  de  la  so- 
ciete  de  Venise,  et  dans  ces  deux  endroits  si  divers  on 
etait  egalement  libre.  La  musique,  les  collations,  la 
galanterie,  n'etaient  pas  plus  interdites  dans  les  parloirs 
que  dans  les  casins.  II  y  avail  un  grand  nombre  de 
casins  destines  aux  reunions  publiques,  ou  le  jeu  6tait 
la  principale  occupation  de  la  societe.  C 'etait  un  sin- 
gulier  spectacle  de  voir  autour  d'une  table  des  personnes 
des  deux  sexes  en  masque,  et  de  graves  personnages  en 
robe  de  magistrature,  implorant  le  hasard,  passant  des 
angoisses  du  desespoir  aux  illusions  de  1'esperance,  et 
ceki  sans  proferer  une  parole. 

"  Les  riches  avaient  des  casins  particuliers ;  mais  ils 
y  vivaient  avec  mystere ;  leurs  femmes  delaissees  trou- 
vaient  un  dedommagement  dans  la  liberte  dont  elles 
jouissaient ;  la  corruption  des  moeurs  les  avail  privees 
de  tout  leur  empire  ;  on  vient  de  parcourir  toute  1'his- 
toire  de  Venise,  et  on  ne  les  a  pas  vues  une  seule  fois 
exercer  la  moindre  influence." 


V. 

Extract  from  the  History  of  the  Republic  of  Venice,  by 
P.  Dam,  Member  of  the  French  Academy,  vol.  v. 
b.  xxxv.  p.  95,  etc.  Paris  Edit.  1819. 

"To  these  attacks,  so  frequently  pointed  by  the 
governr.wnt  against  the  clergy, — to  the  continual  strug- 
gles between  the  different  constituted  bodies, — to  these 
enterprises,  carried  on  by  the  mass  of  the  nobles  against 
the  depositaries  of  power, — to  all  those  projects  of  inno- 
vation, which  always  ended  by  a  stroke  of  state  policy, — 
we  must  add  a  cause  not  less  fitted  to  spread  contempt 
(or  ancient  doctrines  ;  this  was  the  ezcfss  of  corruption. 

"That  freedom  of  manners,  which  had  been  long 
boasted  of  as  the  principal  charm  of  Venetian  society, 
had  degenerated  into  scandalous  licentiousness;  the  tie 
of  marriage  was  less  sacred  in  that  Catholic  country, 
than  among  those  nations  where  the  laws  and  religion 
admit  of  its  being  dissolved.  Because  they  could  not 
break  the  contract,  they  feigned  that  it  had  not  existed  ; 
and  the  ground  of  nullity,  immodestly  alleged  by  the 
narried  pair,  was  admitted  with  equal  facility  by  priests 
nnu  magistrates,  alike  corrupt.  These  divorces,  veiled 
under  another  name,  became  so  frequent,  that  the  most 
important  act  of  civil  society  was  discovered  to  be 
amenable  to  a  tribunal  of  exceptions  ;  and  to  restrain 
ihe  upen  scandal  of  such  proceedings  became  the  office 
of  the  police.  In  1782  the  Council  of  Ten  decreed,  that 


1  Le  itecret  de  rappel  les  desienait  sous  le  nom  do  rtostre 
kenemerite  mcrttrif.i.  On  leur  nssie  IIH  un  fonds  et  des  maisons 
UMMMet  Case  rampant,  d'oii  vient  la  denomination  injurieuse 
ie  Corampa* 

9  Mayer.  T/rscription  de.  Vmist.  toih.  ii.  et  M.  Archenholtz 
Tableau  de  t'  Italic,  torn.  i.  chap.  ~ 


every  woman  who  should  sue  for  a  dissolution  of  her 
marriage  should  be  compelled  to  await  the  decision  o 
the  judges  in  some  convent,  to  be  named  by  the  cou»t. 
Soon  afterwards  the  same  council  summoned  all  cause* 
of  that  nature  before  itself.2  This  infringement  on 
ecclesiastical  jurisdiction  having  occasioned  some  re- 
monstrance from  Rome,  the  council  retained  only  the 
right  of  rejecting  the  petition  of  the  married  persons, 
and  consented  to  refer  such  causes  to  the  holy  office  as 
it  should  not  previously  have  rejected.3 

"  There  was  a  moment  in  which,  doubtless,  the  de- 
struction of  private  fortunes,  the  ruin  of  youth,  the  do- 
mestic discord,  occasioned  by  these  abuses,  determined 
the  government  to  depart  from  its  established  maxims 
concerning  the  freedom  of  manners  allowed  the  subject. 
All  the  courtesans  were  banished  from  Venice,  but  their 
absence  was  not  enough  to  reclaim  and  bring  back 
good  morals  to  a  whole  people  brought  up  in  the  most 
scandalous  licentiousness.  Depravity  reached  the  very 
bosoms  of  private  families,  and  even  into  the  cloister ; 
and  they  found  themselves  obliged  to  recall,  and  even 
to  indemnify4  women  who  sometimes  gained  posses- 
sion of  important  secrets,  and  who  might  be  usefully 
employed  in  the  ruin  of  men  whose  fortunes  might 
have  rendered  them  dangerous.  Since  that  time  licen- 
tiousness has  gone  on  increasing,  and  we  have  seen 
mothers,  not  only  selling  the  innocence  of  their  daugh- 
ters, but  selling  it  by  a  contract,  authenticated  by  the 
signature  of  a  public  officer,  and  the  performance  of 
which  was  secured  by  the  protection  of  the  laws.' 

"  The  parlours  of  the  convents  of  noble  ladies,  and 
the  houses  of  the  courtesans,  though  the  police  carefully 
kept  up  a  number  of  spies  about  them,  were  the  only 
assemblies  for  society  in  Venice ;  and  in  these  two 
places,  so  different  from  each  other,  there  was  equal  free- 
dom. Music,  collations,  gallantry,  were  not  more  forbid- 
dsn  in  the  parlours  than  at  the  casinos.  There  were  * 
number  of  casinos  for  the  purpose  of  public  assemblies, 
where  gaming  was  the  principal  pursuit  of  the  company. 
It  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  persons  of  either  sex,  mask- 
ed, or  grave  personages  in  their  magisterial  robes,  round 
a  table,  invoking  chance,  and  giving  way  at  one  instant 
to  the  agonies  of  despair,  at  the  next  to  the  illusions  of 
hope,  and  that  without  uttering  a  single  word. 

"  The  rich  had  private  casinos,  but  they  lived  incog' 
nito  in  them ;  and  the  wives  whom  they  abandoned 
found  compensation  in  the  liberty  they  enjoyed.  The 
corruption  of  morals  had  deprived  them  of  their  em- 
pire. We  have  just  reviewed  the  whole  history  of 
Venice,  and  we  have  not  once  seen  them  exercise  the 
slightest  influence." 

From  the  present  decay  and  degeneracy  of  Venice 
under  the  barbarians,  there  are  some  honourable  indi- 
vidual exceptions.  There  is  Pasqualigo,  the  last,  and, 
alas  !  posthumous  son  of  the  marriage  of  the  Doges  with 
the  Adriatic,  who  fought  his  frigate  with  far  greater 
gallantry  than  any  of  his  French  coadjutors  in  the  me 


1  Correspondence  of  Mr.  Schlick.  French  chars*  d'affaires 
Despatch  of  24th  August,  17S2. 

2  Ibid.  Despatch.  31st  August. 

3  Ibid.    Despatch.  3d  September,  1785. 

4  The  decree  for  their  recall  designates  them  ns  *ostre  lent 
rritr  merttrici.    A  fund  and  some  houses  calle.i  Case  ram 

pane  were  assigned  to  them :  hence  the  opMobriotta  appellatiot 
of"  Carampane. 

5  Mayer,  Description  of  Venire  vol.ii  sndll.  /.rchc.»ho.B 
Picture  of  hall/,  vol.  i.  ^.;.iap.  ".. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


23f 


morable  action  off  Lissa.  I  came  home  in  the  squadron 
vnth  the  prizes  in  1811,  and  recollect  to  have  heard  Sir 
William  Hoste,  and  the  other  officers  engaged  in  that 
glorious  conflict,  speak  in  the  highest  terms  of  Pasqua- 
ligo's  behaviour.  There  is  the  Abbate  Morelli.  There 
is  Alvise  Querini,  who,  after  a  long  and  honourable 
diplomatic  career,  finds  some  consolation  for  the  wrongs 
of  his  country,  in  the  pursuits  of  literature,  with  his 
nephew,  Vittor  Benzon,  the  son  of  the  celebrated  beauty, 
the  heroine  of  "  La  Biondina  in  Gondoletla."  There  are 
the  patrician  poet  Morosini,  and  the  poet  Lamberti,  the 
author  of  the  "  Biondina,"  etc.  and  many  other  estima- 
te productions ;  and,  not  least  in  an  Englishman's  esti- 
mation, Madame  Michelii,  the  translator  of  Shakspeare. 
There  are  the  young  Dandolo,  and  the  improwisatore 
Carrer,  and  Giuseppe  Albrizzi,  the  accomplished  son 
of  an  accomplished  mother.  There  is  Aglietti,  and, 
were  there  nothing  else,  there  is  the  immortality  of 
Canova.  Cicognara,  Mustoxithi,  Bucati,  etc.,  etc.  I  do 
not  reckon,  because  tne  one  is  a  Greek,  and  the  others 
were  born  at  least  a  hundred  miles  off,  which,  through- 
out Italy,  constitutes,  if  not  a  foreigner,  at  leatt  a 
Granger  (farestiere). 


VI. 

Ertrait  de  rouvrage — Hutaire  Uttsraxre  (Tltalie,  par 
P.  L.  Gingvene,  torn.  ix.  chap,  xxxvi.  p.  144.  Edi- 
tion de  Pans,  MDCCCX1X. 

"  I :.  y  a  une  prediction  fort  singuliere  sur  Venise :  'Si 
tu  ne  changes  pas,'  dit-elie  a  cette  republique  altiere, '  ta 
liberte,  qui  deja  s'enfuit,  ne  comptera  pas  un  siecle  apres 
2.  millicme  annee.' 

"  En  faisant  remonter  I'e'poque  de  la  liberte  Veni- 
tienne  jusqu'a  1'etablissement  du  gouvernement  sous  le- 
quel  la  republique  a  fleuri,  on  trouvera  que  I'electioo 
du  premier  Doge  date  de  697,  et  si  1'on  y  ajoute  un 
siecle  apres  mille,  c'est-a-dire  onze  cents  ans,  on  trou- 
vera encore  que  le  sens  de  la  prediction  est  litterale- 
ment  celui-ci :  '  Ta  liberte  ne  comptera  pas  jusqu'a  1'an 
1797.'  Rappelez-vous  maintenant  que  Venise  a  cesse 
d'etre  libre  en  1'an  cinq  de  la  Republique  francaise,  ou 
en  1799  ;  vous  verrez  qu'il  n'y  cut  jamais  de  prediction 
plus  precise  et  plus  ponctuellement  suivie  de  1'efFet. 
Vous  noterez  done  comme  Ires  remarquables  ces  trois 
vers  de  1'Alamani,  adresses  a  Venise,  que  personne 
XHirtant  n'a  remarques : 

'  Se  non  cangi  pensier.  1'an  gecol  10)0 
Non  conlera  sopra  'I  millesioio  anno 
Tua  liberta,  che  va  fuggendo  a  volo.' 

8ien  des  propheties  ont  passe  pour  telles,  et  bien  des 
^ens  ont  etc  appeles  prophetes  a  meilleur  marche." 


vn. 

Extract  from  the  Literary  History  of  Itcuy,  by  P.  L. 
Ginguint,  vol.  ix.  p.  1~44.     Paris'Edit-  1819. 

"  THERE  is  one  very  singular  prophecy  concerning 
\  enice :  '  If  thou  dost  not  change,'  it  says  to  that  proud 
republic, '  thy  liberty,  which  is  already  on  the  wing,  will 
no  reckon  a  century  more  than  the  thousandth  year.' 

"  If  we  carry  back  the  epocha  of  Venetian  freedom  to 
the  establishment  of  the  government  under  which  the  re- 
public flourished,  we  shall  find  that  the  date  of  the  elec- 


liberty  will  not  last  till  1797.'  Recollect  that  Venice 
ceased  to  be  free  in  the  year  1796,  the  fifth  year  of  ths 
French  republic ;  and  you  will  perceive  that  there  never 
was  prediction  more  pointed,  or  more  exactly  fallowed 
by  the  event.  You  wiH,  therefore,  note  as  very  remark' 
able  the  three  lines  of  Alamann'u  addressed  tc  Venice, 
which,  however,  no  one  has  pointed  out: 

'Be  mm  eanci  peoiier.  Tun  weol  solo 
Non  eootera  copra,  'I  oiillerimo  anno 
Tua  liberti.  che  ra  fuggeodo  a  rolo.' 

Many  prophecies  have  passed  for  such,  and  many  me 
have  been  called  prophets  for  much  less." 

If  the  Doge'i  prophecy  Kern  remarkable,  look  totheabor* 
made  by  Alamanni  two  hundred  and  •evenly  yean  ajo. 

THE  author  of  "Sketches  Descriptive  of  Italy,"  etc 
one  of  the  hundred  tours  lately  published,  is  extremeN 
anxious  to  disclaim  a  possible  charge  of  plagiarism 
from  "  Childe  Harold"  and  "  Beppo."  He  adds,  tha» 
still  less  could  this  presumed  coincidence  arise  fron> 
"  my  conversation,"  as  he  had  repeatedly  declined  an 
introduction  to  me  while  in  Italy. 

Who  this  person  may  be,  I  know  not ;  but  Le  must 
have  been  deceived  by  all  or  any  of  those  who  "  repeat- 
edly offered  to  introduce"  him,  as  I  have  invariably 
refused  to  receive  any  English  with  whom  I  was  not 
previously  acquainted,  even  when  they  had  letters 
from  England.  If  the  whole  assertion  is  not  an  inven- 
tion, I  request  this  person  not  to  sit  down  with  the 
notion  that  he  COULD  have  been  introduced,  since  there 
has  been  nothing  I  have  so  carefully  avoided  as  any 
kind  of  intercourse  with. his  countrymen, — excepting 
the  very  few  who  were  a  considerable  time  resident 
in  Venice,  or  had  been  of  my  previous  acquaintance. 
Whoever  made  him  any  such  offer  was  possessed  of 
impudence  equal  to  that  of  making  such  an  assertion 
without  having  had  it.  The  fact  is,  that  I  hold  in  utter 
abhorrence  any  contact  with  the  travelling  English,  as 
my  friend  the  Consul-General  Hoppner,  and  the  Coun- 
tess Benzoni  (in  whose  house  the  Conversazione  most- 
ly frequented  by  them  is  held),  could  amply  testify, 
were  it  worth  while.  I  was  persecuted  by  these  tourists 
even  to  my  riding-ground  at  Lido,  and  reduced  to  the 
'most  disagreeable  circuits  to  avoid  them.  At  Madame 
Benzoni's  I  repeatedly  refused  to  be  introduced  to 
them ; — of  a  thousand  such  presentations  pressed  upon 
me,  I  accepted  two,  and  both  were  to  Irish  women. 

I  should  hardly  have  descended  to  speak  of  such 
trifles  publicly,  if  the  impudence  of  this  "  sketcher" 
had  not  forced  me  to  a  refutation  of  a  disingenuous 
and  gratuitously  impertinent  assertion  ; — so  meant  to 
be,  for  what  could  it  import  to  the  reader  to  be  told 
that  the  author  "  had  repeatedly  declined  an  introduc- 
tion," even  had  it  been  true,  which,  for  the  reasons  1 
have  above  given,  is  scarcely  possible.  Except  Lords 
Lansdowne,  Jersey,  and  Lauderdale;  Messrs.  Scott, 
Hammond,  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  the  late  M.  Lewis,  W. 
Bankes,  Mr.  Hoppner,  Thomas  Moore,  Lord  Kinnaiic, 
his  brother,  Mr.  Joy,  and  Mr.  Hobhouse,  I  do  not  re 
collect  to  have  exchanged  a  word  with  another  English 
man  since  I  left  their  country  ;  and  almost  all  these  1 
had  known  before.  The  others — and  God  knows  then 


rion  of  the  first  Doge  is  697 ;  and  if  we  add  one  century  j  *'ere  some  hundreds — who  hored  roe  with  letters  or  n»- 
n  a  thousand,  that  is,  eleven  hundred  years,  we  shall  ''*>  I  refused  to  have  any  communication  with,  and  riia* 
e  sense  of  the  prediction  to  be  literally  this :  '  Thy  |  be  proud  and  happy  when  that  wish  becomes  mutti». 
2  C2  42 


(     290     ) 


A  HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY. 


PREFACE. 


ifr  publishing  the  Tragedies  of  Sardanapalus,  and  of 
Thf.  Ti>.o  Foscari,  I  have  only  to  repeat  that  they  were 
•lot  Composed  with  the  most  remote  view  to  the  stage. 

O»i  il.e  attempt  made  by  the  managers  in  a  former 
instant,  the  public  opinion  has  been  already  expressed. 

W  ith  regard  to  my  own  private  feelings,  as  it  seems 
tnat  they  are  to  stand  for  nothing,  I  shall  say  nothing. 

For  the  historical  foundation  of  the  compositions  in 
question,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  Notes. 

The  author  has  in  one  instance  attempted  to  pre- 
serve, and  in  the  other  to  approach  the  "  unities ;"  con- 
ceiving that,  with  any  very  distant  departure  from 
them,  there  may  be  poetry,  but  can  be  no  drama.  He 
is  aware  of  the  unpopularity  of  this  notion,  in  pre- 
sent English  literature ;  but  it  is  not  a  system  of  his 
own,  being  merely  an  opinion  which,  not  very  long 
ago,  was  the  law  of  literature  throughout  the  world, 
and  is  still  so  in  the  more  civilized  parts  of  it.  But 
"  Nous  avons  change  tout  cela,"  and  are  reaping  the 
advantages  of  the  change.  The  writer  is  far  from  con- 
ceiving that  any  thing  he  can  adduce  by  personal  pre- 
cept or  example  can  at  all  approach  his  regular,  or  even 
irregular  predecessors :  he  is  merely  giving  a  reason  why 
he  preferred  the  more  regular  formation  of  a  structure, 
however  feeble,  to  an  entire  abandonment  of  all  rules 
whatsoever.  Where  he  has  failed,  the  failure  is  in  the 
architect, — and  not  in  the  art. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Ii«  this  tragedy  it  has  been  my  intention  to  follow  the 
account  of  Diodorus  Siculus,  reducing  it,  however,  to 
such  dramatic  regularity  as  I  best  could,  and  trying  to 
approach  the  unities.  I  therefore  suppose  the  rebellion 
to  explode  and  succeed  in  one  day  by  a  sudden  con- 
spiracy, instead  of  the  long  war  of  the  history. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 
MEN. 

SAKDANAPALUS,  King  of  Nineveh  and  Assyria,  etc. 

ARBACES,  the  Mede  who  aspired  to  the  Throne. 

BELESES,  a  Chalrlean  and  Soothsayer. 

SA  J,E.MEXES,  the  King's  Brother-in-law. 

ALTAUA,  an  Assyrian  Officer  of  the  Palace. 

PAHIA. 

ZAMES. 

SFERO. 

BALEA 

WOMEN. 
/ARINA   tne  Queen. 
MYHKHA,  an  Ionian  female  slave,  and  the  favourite 

of  SARDANAPALUS. 

Women  composing  the  Harem  of  SARDANAPALUS, 

G  u unlit,  Attendants,  Chalilean  Priests, 

Medea,  etc.,  etc. 


Scene— a  Hall  in  t'ne  Roval  Palace  of  Nineveh. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SCENE  I. 

A  Hail  in  the  Palace. 

SALEMENES    (solus). 

HE  hath  wrong'd  his  queen,  but  still  he  is  her  lord ; 

He  hath  wrong'd  my  sister,  still  he  is  my  brother ; 

He  hath  wrong'd  his  people,  still  he  is  their  sovereign. 

And  I  must  be  his  friend  as  well  as  subject ; 

He  must  not  perish  thus.     I  will  not  see 

The  blood  of  Nirnrod  and  Semiramis 

Sink  in  the  earth,  and  thirteen  hundred  years 

Of  empire  ending  like  a  shepherd's  tale ; 

He  must  be  roused.    In  his  effeminate  heart 

There  is  a  careless  courage,  which  corruption 

Has  not  all  quench'd,  and  latent  energies, 

Represt  by  circumstance,  but  not  destroy'd — 

Steep'd  but  not  drown'd,  in  deep  voluptuousness 

If  born  a  peasant,  he  had  been  a  man 

To  have  reach'd  an  empire ;  to  an  empire  born, 

He  will  bequeath  none ;  nothing  but  a  name, 

Which  his  sons  will  not  prize  in  heritage : 

Yet,  not  all  lost,  even  yet  he  may  redeem 

His  sloth  and  shame,  by  only  being  that 

Which  he  should  be,  as  easily  as  the  thing 

He  should  not  be  and  is.   Were  it  less  toil 

To  sway  his  nations  than  consume  his  life  7 

To  head  an  army  than  to  rule  a  harem  ? 

He  sweats  in  palling  pleasures,  dulls  his  soul, 

And  saps  his  goodly  strength,  in  toils  which  yield  not 

Health  like  the  chase,  nor  glory  like  the  war — 

He  must  be  roused.     Alas  !  there  is  no  sound 

[Sound  of  soft  music  heard  from  within 
To  rouse  him,  short  of  thunder.     Hark !   the  lute, 
The  lyre,  the  timbrel ;  the  lascivious  tinklings 
Of  lulling  instruments,  the  softening  voices 
Of  women,  and  of  beings  less  than  women, 
Must  chime  in  to  the  echo  of  his  revel, 
While  the  great  king  of  all  we  know  of  earth 
Lolls  crown'd  with  roses,  and  his  diadem 
Lies  negligently  by,  to  be  caught  up 
By  the  first  manly  hand  which  dares  to  snatch  it. 
Lo,  where  they  come  !   already  I  perceive 
The  reeking  odours  of  the  perfumed  trains, 
And  see  the  bright  gems  of  the  glittering  girls, 
Who  are  his  comrades  and  his  council,  flash 
Along  the  gallery,  and  amidst  the  damsels, 
As  femininely  garb'd,  and  scarce  less  female, 
The  grandson  of  Semiramis,  the  man-queen,— 
He  comes  !     Shall  I  await  him?  yes,  and  front  him, 
And  tell  him  what  all  good  men  tell  each  other, 
Speaking  of  him  and  his.     They  come,  the  sla'  feSj 
Led  by  the  monarch  subject  to  his  slaves. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


-291 


SCENE  II. 

Enter  SARDANAPALUS,  effeminately  dressed,  his  Heaa 
crowned  wilh  Flowers,  and  Itis  Robe  negligently  flout- 
ing, attended  by  a  Train  of  Women  and  ytsung 
Slant. 

s  A  R  D  A  >•  A  P  A  L  v  s  ( speaking  to  some  of  fas  attendants) . 
\f\  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates 
Be  garlanded,  and  lit,  and  furnish'd  forth 
For  an  especial  banquet ;   at  the  hour 
Of  midnight  we  will  sup  there ;  see  nought  wanting, 
\nd  hid  the  galley  be  prepared.     There  is 
A  cooling  breeze  which  crisps  the  broad  clear  river : 
We  will  embark  anon.     Fair  nymphs,  who  deign 
To  share  the  soft  hours  of  Sardanapalus, 
We  '11  meet  again  in  that  the  sweetest  hour, 
When  we  shall  gather  like  the  stars  above  us, 
And  you  will  form  a  heaven  as  bright  as  theirs  j 
Till  then,  let  each  be  mistress  of  her  time, 
And  thou,  my  own  Ionian  Myrrha,  choose, 
Wilt  thou  along  with  them  or  me  '/ 

31VRRHA. 

My  lord 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  lord,  my  life  !   why  answerest  thou  so  coldly! 
t  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  so  answered. 
lJule  thy  own  hours,  thou  rulest  mine — say,  wouldst  thou 
Accompany  our  guests,  or  charm  away 
.  Che  moments  from  me  ? 

MYRRHA. 

The  king's  choice  is  mine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  pray  ihee  say  not  so :  my  chiefest  joy 

Is  to  contribute  to  thine  every  wish. 

I  do  not  dare  to  breath  my  own  desire, 

Lest  it  should  clash  with  thine  ;  for  thou  art  still 

Too  prompt  to  sacrifice  thy  thoughts  for  others. 

MYRRHA. 

I  would  remain :  I  have  no  happiness 
Save  in  beholding  thine ;  yet 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet!  what  VET? 

Thy  own  sweet  will  shall  be  the  only  barrier 
Which  ever  rises  betwixt  thee  and  me. 

MYRRHA. 

I  think  the  present  is  the  wonted  hour 
Of  council ;   it  were  better  I  retire. 

SALEMENES  (comes  forward,  and  says). 
The  Ionian  slave  says  well ;  let  her  retire. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Who  answers  ?     How  now,  brother  ? 

SALEMESES. 

The  queen's  brother, 
And  your  most  faithful  vassal,  royal  lord. 

SARDANAPALUS  (addressing  his  train). 
As  I  have  said,  let  all  dispose  their  hours 
Till  midnight,  when  again  we  pray  your  presence. 

[The  court  retiring. 
(  ro  MVRRHA,  who  is  going.) 
Mirha!  I  thought  thou  wouldst  remain. 
MYRRHA. 

Great  king, 
fhoj  didst  not  say  so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

But  thou  lookedst  it ; 
know  each  glance  of  those  Ionic  eyes, 
' '  i  wouldst  not  leave  me. 


MYRRHA. 

Sire  !  your  brother 

SAI.EMENES. 

His  consort's  brother,  minion  of  Ionia ! 
How  darest  thou  name  me  and  not  blush  ? 

SARDANA  PALUS. 

Not  blush « 

Thou  hast  no  more  eyes  than  heart  to  make  her  crimscr 
Like  to  the  dying  day  on  Caucasus, 
Where  sunset  tints  the  snow  with  rosy  shadows, 
And  then  reproach  her  with  thine  own  cold  blindness, 
Which  will  not  see  it.     What,  in  tears,  my  Mynha? 

SALEMENTS. 

Let  them  flow  on  ;  s!ie  weeps  for  more  than  one, 
And  is  herself  the  cause  of  bitterer  tears. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Cursed  be  he  who  caused  those  tears  to  flow  ! 

SALEMENES. 

Curse  not  thyself— millions  do  that  already. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thou  dost  forget  thee :  make  me  not  remember 
I  am  a  monarch. 

SALEMENES. 

Would  thou  couldst ! 

MYRRHA. 

My  sovereign. 
I  pray,  and  thou  too,  prince,  permit  my  absence 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Since  it  must  be  so,  and  this  churl  has  check'd 

Thy  gentle  spirit,  go ;  but  recollect 

That  we  must  forthwith  meet :  I  had  rather  lose 

An  empire  than  thy  presence.  [Exit  MYRRH.*, 

SALEMENES. 

It  may  be, 
Thou  wilt  lose  both,  and  both  for  ever ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Brother, 

I  can  at  least  command  myself,  who  listen 
To  language  such  as  this ;  yet  urge  me  not 
Beyond  my  easy  nature. 

SALEMENES. 

'Tis  be3'ond 

That  easy,  far  too  easy,  idle  nature, 
Which  I  would  urge  thee.   Oh  that<4  could  rouse  the* 
Though  't  were  against  myself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

By  the  god  Baal ! 
The  man  would  make  me  tyrant. 

SALEMENES. 

So  thou  art. 

Think'st  thou  there  is  no  tyranny  but  that          g 
Of  blood  and  chains  ?     The  despotism  of  vice—- 
The weakness  and  the  wickedness  of  luxury — 
The  negligence — the  apathy — the  evils 
Of  sensual  sloth — produce  ten'  thousand  tyrants, 
Whose  delegated  cruelty  surpasses 
The  worst  acts  of  one  energetic  master, 
However  harsh  and  hard  in  his  own  bearing. 
The  false  and  fond  examples  of  thy  lusts 
Corrupt  no  less  than  they  oppress,  and  sap 
In  the  same  moment  all  thy  pageant  power, 
And  those  who  should  sustain  it ;  so  that  wiictnei 
A  foreign  foe  invade,  or  civil  broil 
Distract  within,  both  will  alike  prove  fata' . 
The  first  thy  subjects  have  no  heart  to  conquer , 
The  last  they  rather  would  assist  than  vanauLsu. 


29S 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


SARCANAPALUS. 

Why,  \vhat  makes  tliee  the  moulh-piece  of  the  people? 

SAI.EMENES. 

Forgiveness  of  the  queen,  my  sister's  wrongs  ; 
A  natural  love  unto  my  infant  nephews ; 
Faith  to  the  king,  a  faith  he  may  need  shortly, 
In  more  than  words ;  respect  for  Nimrod's  line ; 
Also,  another  thing  thou  knowest  not. 

8ARDANAPALUS. 

What's  that? 

SALEMENES. 

To  thee  an  unknown  word. 

8ARBANAPALUS. 

Yet  speak  it, 
I  love  to  learn. 

SALEMENES. 

Virtue. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not  know  the  word! 

Never  was  word  yet  rung  so  in  my  ears — 
Worse  than  the  rabble's  shout,  or  splitting  trumpet; 
I  've  heard  thy  sister  talk  of  nothing  else. 

•  SALEMENES. 

To  change  the  irksome  theme,  then,  hear  of  vice. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

From  whom  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Even  from  the  winds,  if  thou  couldst  listen 
Unto  the  echoes  of  the  nation's  voice. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Come,  /  'm  indulgent  as  thou  knowest,  patient 

As  thou  hast  often  proved — speak  out,  what  moves  thee  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Thy  peril. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Say  on. 

SALEMENES. 

Thus,  then :  all  the  nations, 
For  they  are  many,  whom  thy  father  left 
la  heritage,  are  loud  a\  wrath  against  thee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Gair.3t  me  !  What  would  the  slaves? 

SALEMENES. 

A  king. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  what 
Am  I  then? 

SALEMENES. 

In  their  eyes  a  nothing ;  but 
In  mine  a  man  who  might  be  something  still. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  railing  drunkards !  why,  what  would  they  have  ? 
Have  they  not  peace  and  plenty  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Of  the  first, 

More  than  is  glorious  ;  of  the  last,  far  less 
Than  the  king  recks  of. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Whose  then  is  the  crime, 
But  iht:  false  satraps,  who  provide  no  better  ? 

SALEMENES. 

And  oomewhat  in  the  monarch  who  ne'er  looks 
Beyond  nis  palace  walls,  or  if  he  stirs 
Beyond  them,  't  is  but  to  some  mountain  palace, 
Till  summer  ncats  wear  down.     O  glorious  Baal ! 


Who  built  up  this  vast  empire,  and  wert  made 
A  god,  or  at  the  least  shinest  like  a  god 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  thy  renown, 
This,  thy  presumed  descendant,  ne'er  beheld 
As  king  the  kingdoms  thou  didst  leave  as  hero, 
Won  with  thy  blood,  and  toil,  and  time,  and  peril1 
For  what  ?  to  furnish  him  imposts  for  a  revc/ 
Or  multiplied  extortions  for  a  minion. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  understand  thee — thou  wouldst  have  me  go 
Forth  as  a  conqueror.     By  all  the  stars 
Which  the  Chaldeans  read  !  the  restless  slaves 
Deserve  that  I  should  curse  them  with  their  wishes, 
And  lead  them  forth  to  glory. 

SALEMENES. 

Wherefore  not  7 
Semiramis — a  woman  only — led 
These  our  Assyrians  to  the  solar  shores 
Of  Ganges. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  most  true.     And  how  return'd  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Whv,  like  a  man — a  hero  ;  baffled,  but 

Not  vanquish'd.     With  but  twenty  guards,  she  madb 

Good  her  retreat  to  Bactria. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  how  many 
Left  she  behind  in  India  to  the  vultures  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Our  annals  say  not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  I  will  say  for  them—- 
That she  had  better  woven  within  her  palace 
Some  twenty  garments,  than  with  twenty  guards 
Have  fled  to  Bactria,  leaving  to  the  ravens, 
And  wolves,  and  men — the  fiercer  of  the  three, 
Her  myriads  of  fond  subjects.     Is  this  glory  ? 
Then  let  me  live  in  ignominy  ever. 

SALEMENES. 

All  warlike  spirits  have  not  the  same  fate. 
Semiramis,  the  glorious  parent  of 
A  hundred  kings,  although  she  fail'd  in  India, 
Brought  Persia,  Media,  Bactria,  to  the  realm 
Which  she  once  sway'd — and  thou  mightst  sway. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  sway  them- 
She  but  subdued  them. 

SALEMENES. 

It  may  be  ere  long 
That  they  will  need  her  sword  more  than  your  sceptre 

SARDANAPALUS. 

There  was  a  certain  Bacchus,  was  there  not  ? 

I  've  heard  my  Greek  girls  speak  of  such — they  say 

He  was  a  god,  that  is,  a  Grecian  god, 

An  idol  foreign  to  Assyria's  worship, 

Who  conquer'd  this  same  golden  realm  of  Ind 

Thou  pratest  of,  where  Semiramis  was  vanquish'd. 

SALEMENES. 

I  have  heard  of  such  a  man  ;   and  thou  perceivest 
That  he  is  deem'd  a  god  for  what  he  did. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  in  his  godship  I  will  honour  him — 

Not  much  as  man.     What,  ho !  my  cuDb*»*ei . 

SALEMENE*. 

What  means  the  king  ? 


SARDANAPALUS. 


29? 


SARDANAPALUS. 

To  worship  your  new  god 
And  ancient  conqueror.     Some  wine,  I  say. 

Enter  Cupbearer. 

SARDANAI  ALUS  (addressing  the  Cupbearer'). 
Bring  me  the  golden  goblet  thick  with  gems, 
Which  bears  the  name  of  Nimrod's  chalice.     Hence, 
Fill  full,  and  hear  it  quickly.  [Exit  Cupbearer. 

SALEMENES. 

Is  this  moment 

A  fitting  one  for  the  resumption  of 
Thy  yet  unslept-off  revels  1 

Re-enter  Cupbearer,  with  wine. 
SARDANAPALUS  (taking  the  cup  from  him). 

Noble  kinsman, 

'f  these  barbarian  Greeks  of  the  far  shores 
And  skirts  of  these  our  realms  lie  not,  this  Bacchus 
Conquer'd  the  whole  of  India,  did  he  not? 

SALEMENES. 

He  did,  and  thence  was  deem'd  a  deity 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not  so :— of  all  his  conquests  h  few  columns, 

Which  may  be  his,  and  might  be  mine,  if  I 

Thought  them  worth  purchase  and  conveyance,  are 

The  landmarks  of  tht  seas  of  gore  he  shed, 

The  realms  he  wasted,  an3  the  hearts  he  broke. 

But  here,  here  in  this  goblet,  is  his  title 

To  immortality — the  immortal  grape 

From  which  he  first  express'd  the  soul,  and  gave 

To  gladden  that  of  man,  as  some  atonement 

For  the  victorious  mischiefs  he  had  done. 

Had  it  not  been  for  this,  he  would  have  been 

A  mortal  still  in  name  as  in  his  grave ; 

And,  like  my  ancestor  Semiramis, 

A  sort  of  semi-glorious  human  monster. 

Here 's  that  which  deified  him — let  it  now 

Humanize  thee ;  my  surly,  chiding  brother, 

Pledge  me  to  the  Greek  god ! 

SALEMENES. 

For  all  thy  realms 
I  would  not  so  blaspheme  our  country's  creed. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

ITiat  is  to  say,  thou  thinkest  him  a  hero, 

rhat  he  shed  blood  by  oceans  ;  and  no  god, 

Because  he  tum'd  a  fruit  to  an  enchantment, 

Which  cheers  the  sad,  revives  the  old,  inspires 

The  youn?,  makes  Weariness  forget  his  toil, 

And  Fear  her  danger ;  opens  a  new  world 

When  this,  the  present,  palls.  Well,  then  /  pledge  thee, 

And  him  as  a  true  man,  who  did  his  utmost 

In  good  or  evil  to  surprise  mankind.  [Drinks. 

SALEMENES. 

Wilt  thou  resume  a  revel  at  this  hour  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  if  I  did,  't  were  better  than  a  trophy, 

Being  bought  without  a  tear.     But  that  is  not 

Yly  present  purpose :  since  thou  wilt  not  pledge  me, 

Continue  what  thou  pleasest. 

(To  the  Cupbearer).  Boy,  retire. 

[Exit  Cupbearer. 

8ALEMENES. 

would  but  have  recafl'd  thee  from  thy  dream  : 
Better  by  me  awaken'd  than  rebellion. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Who  should  rebel  ?  or  why  ?  what  cause  ?  pretext  * 

I  am  the  lawful  king,  descended  from 

A  race  of  kings  who  knew  no  predecessors. 

What  have  I  done  to  thee,  or  to  the  people, 

That  thou  ihouldst  rail,  or  they  rise  up  against  irie  I 

SALEMENES. 

Of  what  thou  hast  done  to  me,  I  speak  not. 

8ARDANAPALU8. 

But 

Thou  think'st  that  I  have  wrong'd  the  queen :  is 't  net  if 

SALEMENES. 

Think  !  Thou  hast  wrong'd  her ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Patience,  prince,  and  hear  m* 
She  has  all  power  and  splendour  of  her  station, 
Respect,  the  tutelage  of  Assyria's  heirs, 
The  homage  and  the  appanage  of  sovereignty. 
I  married  her  as  monarchs  wed — for  state, 
And  loved  her  as  most  husbands  love  their  wives , 
If  she  or  thou  supposedst  I  could  link  me 
Like  a  Chaldean  peasant  to  his  mate, 
Ye  knew  nor  me,  nor  monarchs,  nor  mankind. 

SALEMENES. 

I  pray  thee,  change  the  theme  ;  my  blood  disda-m 
Complaint,  and  Salemenes'  sister  seeks  not 
Reluctant  love  even  from  Assyria's  lord  ! 
Nor  would  she  deign  to  accept  divided  passion 
With  foreign  strumpets  and  Ionian  slaves. 
The  queen  is  silent. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  why  not  her  brother  7 

SALEMENES. 

I  only  echo  thee  the  voice  of  empires, 

Which  he  who  long  neglects  not  long  will  govern. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  ungrateful  and  ungracious  slaves  !  they  murmu 

Because  I  have  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led  them 

To  dry  into  the  desert's  dust  by  myriads, 

Or  whiten  with  their  bones  the  banks  of  Ganges  ; 

Nor  decimated  them  with  savage  laws, 

Nor  sweated  them  to  build  up  pyramids, 

Or  Babylonian  walls. 

SALEMENES. 

Yet  these  are  trophies 
More  worthy  of  a  people  and  their  prince 
Than  songs,  and  lutes,  and  feasts,  and  concubines, 
And  lavish'd  treasures,  and  contemned  virtues. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Or  for  my  trophies  I  have  founded  cities  : 

There 's  Tarsus  and  Anchialus,  both  built 

In  one  day — what  could  that  blood-loving  beldams 

My  martial  grandam,  chaste  Semiramis, 

Do  more,  except  destroy  them  ? 

SALEMENES. 

'T  is  most  true  : 

I  own  thy  merit  in  those  founded  cities, 
Built  for  a  whim,  recorded  with  a  verse 
Which  shames  both  them  and  thee  to  coming  ag« 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Shame  me !  By  Baal,  the  cities,  though  weil  built. 
Are  not  more  goodly  than  the  verse  !  -Say  what 
Thou  wilt  'gainst  me,  mv  mode  of  life  or  ruin 
But  nothing  'gainst  the  truth  of  that  brief  recoro. 
Why,  those  few  lines  contain  the  historv 


204 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Of  all  things  human;  hear — "  Sardanapalus 

The  king,  and  son  of  Anacyndaraxes, 

In  on"  3ay  built  Anchialus  and  Tarsus. 

Eat,  arink,  and  love  ;  the  rest's  not  worth  a  fillip." 

SALEMENES. 

A  worthy  moral,  and  a  wise  inscription, 
For  a  king  co  put  up  before  his  subjects ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh,  thou  wouldst  have  me  doubtless  set  up  edicts — 
"  Obey  the  king — contribute  to  his  treasure- 
Recruit  his  phalanx — spill  your  blood  at  bidding- 
Fall  down  and  worship,  or  get  up  and  toil." 
Or  thus-  "  Sardanapalus  on  this  spot 
Slew  fifty  thousand  of  his  enemies. 
These  are  their  sepulchres,  and  this  his  trophy." 
I  leave  such  things  to  conquerors  ;  enough 
For  me,  if  I  can  make  my  subjects  feel 
The  weight  of  human  misery  less,  and  glide 
Ungroaning  to  the  tomb  ;  I  take  no  license 
Which  I  deny  to  them.     We  all  are  men. 

SALEMENES. 

Thy  sires  have  been  revered  as  gods 

SARDANAPALUS. 

In  dust 

And  death,  where  they  are  neither  gods  nor  men. 
Talk  not  of  such  to  me !  the  worms  are  gods ; 
A*  'cast  they  banqueted  upon  your  gods, 
And  died  for  lack  of  farther  nutriment. 
Those  gods  were  merely  men ;  look  to  their  issue — 
I  feel  a  thousand  mortal  things  about  me, 
But  nothing  godlike,  unless  it  may  be 
The  thing  which  you  condemn,  a  disposition 
To  love  and  to  be  merciful,  to  pardon 
The  follies  of  my  species,  and  (that's  human) 
To  be  indulgent  to  my  own. 

SALEMENES. 

Alas ! 

The  doom  or  Nineveh  is  seal'd. — Woe — woe 
To  the  unrivall'd  city ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What  dost  dread? 

SALEMENES. 

Thou  art  guarded  by  thy  foes :  in  a  few  hours 
The  tempest  may  break  out  which  overwhelms  thee 
And  thine  and  mine  ;  and  in  another  day 
What  is  shall  be  the  past  of  Belus'  race. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What  must  we  dread  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Ambitious  treachery, 

Winch  has  environ'd  thee  with  snares ;  but  yet 
There  is  resource  :  empower  me  with  thy  signet 
To  quell  the  machinations,  ami  I  lay 
Tho  heads  of  thy  chief  foes  oefore  thy  feet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

fhr.  heads — how  many  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Must  I  stay  to  number 

When  even  (nine  own  's  in  peril  ?  Let  me  go ; 
Give  me  thy  signet — trust  me  with  the  rest. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  will  trust  n<>  man  with  unlimited  lives. 

Wh<>n  we  take  those  from  others,  we  nor  know 

Whai  we  have  taken,  nor  the  thing  we  give. 

SALEMENES. 

*Voiii'is'  thou  not  take  their  lives  who  seek  for  thine  ? 


SARDANAPALUS. 

That 's  a  hard  question. — But,  I  answer  Yes. 
Cannot  the  thing  be  done  without?  Who  are  they 
Whom  thou  suspectest  ? — Let  them  be  arrestod. 

SALEMENES. 

I  would  thou  wouldst  not  ask  me ;  the  next  moment 
Will  send  my  answer  through  thy  babbling  troop 
Of  paramours,  and  thence  fly  o'er  the  palace, 
Even  to  the  city,  and  so  baffle  all — 
Trust  me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thou  knowest  I  have  done  so  ever ; 
Take  thou  the  signet.  [Gives  the  Signet. 

SALEMENES. 

I  have  one  more  request. — 

8ARDANAPALUS. 

Name  it. 

SALEMENES. 

That  thou  this  night  forbear  the  banquet 
In  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Forbear  the  banquet !  Not  for  all  the  plotters 
That  ever  shook  a  kingdom  !   Let  them  come, 
And  do  their  worst :  I  shall  not  blench  for  them  ; 
Nor  rise  the  sooner ;  nor  forbear  the  goblet ; 
Nor  crown  me  with  a  single  rose  the  less  ; 
Nor  lose  one  joyous  hour I  fear  them  not. 

SALEMENES. 

But  thou  wouldst  arm  thee,  wouldst  thou  not,  if  needful  J 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Perhaps.     I  have  the  goodliest  armour,  and 

A  sword  of  such  a  temper ;  and  a  bow 

And  javelin,  which  might  furnish  Nimrod  forth : 

A  little  heavy,  but  yet  not  unwieldy. 

And  now  I  think  on 't,  't  is  long  since  I  've  used  them, 

Even  in  the  chase.     Hast  ever  seen  them,  brother  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Is  this  a  time  for  such  fantastic  trifling  ? — 
If  need  be,  wilt  thou  wear  them  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Will  I  not  ?— 

Oh  !  if  it  must  be  so,  and  these  rash  slaves 
Will  not  be  ruled  with  less,  I  '11  use  the  sword 
Till  they  shall  wish  it  turn'd  into  a  distaff. 

SALEMENES. 

They  say,  thy  sceptre 's  turn'd  to  that  already. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That's  false!  but  let  them  say  so:  the  old  Greeks. 

Of  whom  our  captives  often  sing,  related 

The  same  of  their  chief  hero,  Hercules, 

Because  he  loved  a  Lydian  queen :  thou  seest 

The  populace  of  all  the  nations  seize 

Each  calumny  they  can  to  sink  their  sovereigns. 

SALEMENES. 

They  did  not  speak  thus  of  thy  fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

>To; 

They  dared  not.     They  were  kept  to  toil  and  combat, 
And  never  changed  their  chains  but  for  their  armour: 
Now  they  have  peace  and  pastime,  and  the  license 
To  revel  and  to  rail ;  it  irks  me  not. 
i  would  not  give  the  smile  of  one  fair  girl 
For  all  the  popular  breath  that  e'er  divided 
A  name  from  nothing.    What !  are  the  rank  tonsil'  * 
Of  this  vile  herd  grown  insolent  with  feeding, 


SARDANAPALUS. 


That  I  should  prize  their  noisy  piaise,  or  dread 
Their  noisome  clamour  ? 

SALEMENES. 

You  have  said  they  are  men ; 
As  such  their  hearts  are  something. 

SARDANAPALUS 

So  my  dogs'  are ; 

And  better,  as  more  faithful : — but,  proceed  ; 
Thou  hast  my  signet : — since  they  are  tumultuous, 
Let  them  be  temper'd  ;  yet  not  roughly,  till 
Necessity  enforce  it.     I  hate  all  pain, 
Given  or  received ;  we  have  enough  within  us, 
The  meanest  vassal  as  the  loftiest  monarch, 
Not  to  add  to  each  other's  natural  burthen 
Of  mortal  misery,  but  rather  lessen, 
By  mild  reciprocal  alleviation, 
The  fatal  penalties  imposed  on  life ; 
But  this  they  know  not,  or  they  will  not  know. 
I  have,  by  Baal !  done  all  I  could  to  soothe  them : 
I  made  no  wars,  I  added  no  new  imposts, 
I  interfered  not  with  their  civic  lives, 
I  let  them  pass  their  days  as  best  might  suit  them, 
Passing  my  own  as  suited  me. 

SALEMENES. 

Thou  stopp'st 

Short  of  the  duties  of  a  king ;  and  therefore 
They  say  thou  art  unfit  to  be  a  monarch. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They  lie. — Unhappily,  I  am  unfit 

To  be  aught  save  a  monarch  ;  else  for  me, 

The  meanest  Mede  might  be  the  king  instead. 

SALEMENES. 

There  is  one  Mede,  at  least,  who  seeks  to  be  so. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What  mean'st  thou  ? — 't  is  thy  secret ;  thou  desirest 
Few  questions,  and  I  'm  not  of  curious  nature. 
Take  the  fit  steps,  and  since  necessity 
Requires,  I  sanction  and  support  thee.     Ne'er 
Was  man  who  more  desired  to  rule  in  peace 
The  peaceful  only  ;  if  they  rouse  me,  better 
They  had  conjured  up  stern  Nimrod  from  his  ashes, 
"  The  mighty  hunter."     I  will  turn  these  realms 
To  one  wide  desert  chase  of  brutes,  who  were, 
But  would  no  more,  by  their  own  choice,  be  human. 
What  they  have  found  me,  they  belie  ;  that  which 
They  yet  may  find  me — shall  defy  their  wish 
To  speak  it  worse ;   and  let  them  thank  themselves. 

SALEMENES. 

Then  thou  at  last  canst  feel  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Feel !  who  feels  not 
Ingratitude  ? 

SALEMENES. 

I  will  not  pause  to  answer 

With  words,  but  deeds.    Keep  thou  awake  that  energy 
Which  sleeps  at  times,  but  is  not  dead  within  thee, 
And  thou  mayst  yet  be  glorious  in  thy  reign, 
As  powerful  in  thy  realm.     Farewell ! 

[Exit  SALEMENES. 

SARDANAPALUS    (solus). 

Farewell ! 

He  Js  gone  ;   and  on  his  finger  bears  my  signet, 
Which  iu  lo  him  a  sceptre.     He  is  stern 
As  I  am  heedless  ,  and  the  slaves  deserve 
To  feel  a  master.  What  may  be  the  danger, 
I  know  not   — he  hath  found  it,  let  him  quell  it. 


Must  I  consume  my  life — this  little  life 

In  guarding  against  all  may  make  it  less  ? 

It  is  not  worth  so  much  '     It  were  to  die 

Before  my  hour,  t;  live  in  dread  of  death, 

Tracing  revolts :  suspecting  all  about  me, 

Because  they  are  near ;  and  all  who  are  remote, 

Because  they  are  afar.     But  if  it  should  be  so — 

If  they  should  sweep  me  off  from  earth  and  empire 

Why,  what  is  earth  or  empire  of  the  earth  '{ 

I  have  loved,  and  lived,  and  multiplied  my  image ; 

To  die  is  no  less  natural  than  those — 

Acts  of  this  clay !  'T  is  true  I  have  not  shed 

Blood,  as  I  might  have  done,  in  oceans,  till 

My  name  became  the  synonyme  of  death — 

A  terror  and  a  trophy.     But  for  this 

I  feel  no  penitence  ;  my  life  is  love : 

If  I  must  shed  blood,  it  shall  be  by  force. 

Till  now  no  drop  from  an  Assyrian  vein 

Hath  flowed  for  me,  nor  hath  the  smallest  coin 

Of  Nineveh's  vast  treasures  e'er  been  lavish'd 

On  objects  which  could  cost  her  sons  a  tear : 

If  then  they  hate  me,  't  is  because  I  hate  not ; 

If  they  rebel,  it  is  because  I  oppress  not. 

Oh,  men  !  ye  must  be  ruled  with  scythes,  not  sceptre* 

And  mow'd  down  like  grass,  else  all  we  reap 

Is  rank  abundance,  and  a  rotten  harvest 

Of  discontents  infecting  the  fair  soil, 

Making  a  desert  of  fertility. — 

I'll  think  no  more. Within  there,  ho! 

Enter  an  ATTENDANT. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Slave,  tel' 
The  Ionian  Myrrha  we  would  crave  her  presence; 

ATTENDANT. 

King,  she  is  here. 

MFRRHA  enters. 
SARDANAPALUS   (apart  to  Attendant"). 

Away! 

(Adtlressing  MYRRHA.)     Beautiful  being ! 
Thou  dost  almost  anticipate  my  heart ; 
It  throbb'd  for  thee,  and  here  thou  comest ;  let  me 
Deem  that  some  unknown  influence,  some  sweet  oracle, 
Communicates  between  us,  though  unseen, 
In  absence,  and  attracts  us  to  each  other. 

MVRRHA. 

There  doth. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  know  there  doth ;  but  not  its  name ; 
What  is  it  7 

MVRRHA. 

In  my  native  land  a  god, 
And  in  my  heart  a  feeling  like  a  god's, 
Exalted  ;  yet  I  own  't  is  only  mortal, 
For  what  I  feel  is  humble,  and  yet  happy — 

That  is,  it  would  be  happy :  but 

[MvRRHA  pauset 

SARDANAPALUS. 

There  some* 

For  ever  something  between  us  and  what 
We  deem  our  happiness  :  let  me  remove 
The  barrier  which  that  hesitating  accent 
Proclaims  to  thine,  ana  mil      s  seal'd. 
MYRI       . 

My  lord  •• 

SARDANA          .US. 

My  lord — my  king — sire — sov  -  ign !  thus  it  •• 


296 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


For  ever  thus,  address'd  with  awe.     I  ne'er 

Can  see  a  smile,  unless  in  some  broad  banquet's 

Intoxicating  glare,  when  the  buffoons 

Have  gorged  themselves  up  to  equality, 

Or  (  have  quaff'd  me  down  to  their  abasement. 

Myirha,  I  can  hear  all  these  things,  these  names, 

Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay,  time  was  I  prized 

them, 

That  is,  I  suffer' d  them — from  slaves  and  nobles ; 
But  when  they  falter  from  the  lips  I  love, 
The  lips  which  have  been  press'd  to  mine,  a  chill 
Comes  o'er  my  heart,  a  cold  sense  of  the  falsehood 
Of  this  my  station,  which  represses  feeling 
In  those  for  whom  I  have  felt  most,  and  makes  me 
Wish  that  I  could  lay  down  the  dull  tiara, 
And  share  a  cottage  on  the  Caucasus 
With  thee,  and  wear  no  crowns  but  those  of  flowers. 

MVRRHA. 

Would  that  we  could  ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  dost  tfutu  feel  this?— Why? 

MVRRHA. 

Then  thou  wouldst  know  what  thou  canst  never  know. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  that  is 

MYRRHA. 

The  true  value  of  a  heart  j 
At  least  a  woman's. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  have  proved  a  thousand— 
A  thousand,  and  a  thousand. 

MYRRHA. 

Hearts? 

8ARDANAPALUS. 

I  think  so. 

MVRRHA. 

Not  t»ne !  the  time  may  come  thou  may'st. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It  will. 

Hear,  Myrrha ;  Salemenes  has  declared — 
Or  why  or  how  he  hath  divined  it,  Belus, 
Who  founded  our  great  realm,  knows  more  than  I — 
But  Salemenes  hath  declared  my  throne 
In  peril. 

MVRRHA. 
He  did  well. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  say'st  them  so  1 

Thou  *vhom  he  spurn'd  so  harshly,  and  now  dared 
Drive  from  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers, 
And  made  thee  weep  and  blush  ? 

MYBHHA. 

I  should  do  both 

Moie  frequently,  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  to  my  duty.     But  thou  speak'st  of  peril — 
Peril  to  thee • 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ay,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 
From  Medes — and  discontented  troops  and  nations. 

know  not  what-  a  labyrinth  of  things — 
A  maze  of  mutter'd  threats  and  mysteries : 
Thou  anow'st  the  man — it  is  his  usual  custom. 
But  he  is  honest.     Come,  we'll  think  no  more  on't — 
Hut  of  the  midnight  festival. 

MVRRHA. 

'T  is  time 


To  think  of  aught  save  festivals.     Thou  hasi  not 
Spurn'd  his  sage  cautions  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What! — and  dost  thou  fear* 

MVRRHA. 

Fear ! — I  'm  a  Greek,  and  how  should  I  fear  death  ? 
A  slave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom' 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  wherefore  dost  thou  turn  so  pale  ? 

MYRRHA. 

I  love. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  do  not  I  ?  I  love  thee  far — far  more 
Than  either  the  brief  life  or  the  wide  realm, 
Which,  it  may  be,  are  menaced : — yet  I  blench  not 

MYRRHA.. 

That  means  thou  lovest  nor  thyself  nor  me  ; 
For  he  who  loves  another  loves  himself, 
Even  for  that  other's  sake.     Tliis  is  too  rash : 
Kingdoms  and  lives  are  not  to  be  so  lost.    - 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Lost ! — why,  who  is  the  aspiring  chief  who  dared 
Assume  to  win  them  ? 

MYRRHA. 

Who  is  he  should  dread 
To  try  so  much  ?  When  he  who  is  their  ruler 
Forgets  himself,  will  they  remember  him? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Myrrha ! 

MYRRHA. 

Frown  not  upon  me :  you  have  smiled 
Too  often  on  me  not  to  make  those  frowns 
Bitterer  to  bear  than  any  punishment 
Which  they  may  augur. — King,  I  am  your  subject  I 
Master,  I  am  your  slave  !  Man,  I  have  loved  you  I—- 
Loved you,  I  know  not  by  what  fatal  weakness, 
Although  a  Greek,  and  born  a  foe  to  monarchs— 
A  slave,  and  hating  fetters — an  Ionian, 
And,  therefore,  when  I  love  a  stranger,  more 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains  ! 
Still  I  have  loved  you.     If  that  love  were  strong 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  nature, 
Shall  it  not  claim  the  privilege  to  save  you  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Save  me,  my  beauty !  Thou  art  very  fair, 
And  what  I  seek  of  thee  is  love — not  safety. 

MYRRHA. 

And  without  love  where  dwells  security? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  speak  of  woman's  love. 

MVRRHA. 

The  very  first 

Of  human  life  must  spring  from  woman's  breast, 
Your  first  small  words  a^e  taught  you  from  her  lips, 
Your  first  tears  quench'd  by  her,  and  your  last  sighs 
Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  woman's  hearing, 
When  men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  led  them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  eloquent  Ionian !  thou  speak'st  music, 

The  very  chorus  of  the  tragic  song 

I  have  heard  thee  talk  of  as  the  favourite  pastime 

Of  thy  far  father-land.     Nay,  weep  not — calm  then. 

MYRRHA. 

I  weep  not. — But  I  pray  thee,  do  not  speak 
About  my  fathers  or  their  .'and. 


SARDANAPALUS 


29? 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Yet  oft 
Thov  speakest  of  them. 

MTRRHA. 

True — true :— constant  thought 
Will  overflow  in  words  unconsciously : 
But  when  another  speaks  of  Greece,  it  wounds  roe. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well,  then,  how  wouldst  thou  *ave  me,  as  thou  saidst? 

MTRRHA. 

By  teaching  thee  to  rave  thyself,  and  not 
Thyself  alone,  but  these  vast  realms,  from  all 
The  rage  of  the  worst  war — the  war  of  brethren. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why,  child,  I  loathe  all  war,  and  warriors : 
I  live  in  peace  and  pleasure :  what  can  man 
Do  more  1 

MTRRHA. 

Alas !  my  lord,  with  common  men 
There  needs  too  oft  the  show  of  war  to  keep 
The  substance  of  sweet  peace  ;  and  for  a  king, 
'T  is  sometimes  better  to  be  fear'd  than  loved. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  I  have  never  sought  but  for  the  last. 

MYRRHA. 

And  now  art  neither. 

SARDANAPAL0S. 

Dost  thou  say  so,  Myrrha? 

MVRRHA. 

I  speak  of  civic  popular  love,  *e{/Move, 

Which  means  that  men  are  kept  in  awe  and  law, 

Vet  not  oppressed — at  least  they  must  not  think  BO  ; 

Or  if  they  think  so,  deem  it  necessary 

To  ward  off  worse  oppression,  their  own  passions. 

A  king  of  feasts,  and  flowers,  and  wine,  and  revel, 

And  love,  and  mirth,  was  never  king  of  glory. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Glory:  what's  that? 

MYRRHA. 

Ask  of  the  gods  thy  fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They  cannot  answer ;  when  the  priests  speak  for  them, 
T  is  for  some  small  addition  to  the  temple. 

MYRRHA. 

Look  to  the  annals  of  thine  empire's  founders. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They  are  so  blotted  o'er  with  blood,  I  cannot. 

But  what  wouldst  have  ?  the  empire  hat  been  founded, 

I  cannot  go  on  multiplying  empires. 

MYRRHA. 

Preserve  thine  own. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

At  least  I  will  enjoy  rt. 
Come,  Myrrha,  let  us  on  to  the  Euphrates ; 
The  hour  invites,  the  galley  is  prepared, 
And  the  pavilion,  deck'd  for  our  return, 
[n  fit  adornment  for  the  evening  banquet, 
Shall  blaze  with  beauty  and  with  light,  until 
It  seems  unto  the  stars  which  are  above  us 
Itself  an  opposite  star ;  and  we  will  sit 
Crown'd  with  fresh  flowers  like 

MTRRHA. 

Victims. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  like  fovereigM, 

The  shepherd  kings  of  patriarchal  times, 
2D  <J 


Who  knew  no  brighter  gems  than  summer  wreathe 
And  none  but  tearless  triumphs.     Let  us  on. 

Enter  PAICIA. 

PAITIA. 

May  the  king  live  for  over ! 

IARDANAPALUS. 

Not  an  hour 

Longer  than  he  can  love.     How  my  soul  hates 
This  language,  which  makes  life  itself  a  lie, 
Flattering  dust  whh  eternity.     Well,  Pania  ! 
Be  brief. 

PANIA. 

I  am  charged  by  Salemenes  to 
Reiterate  his  prayer  unto  the  king, 
That  for  this  day,  at  least,  he  will  not  quit 
The  palace :  when  the  general  returns, 
He  will  adduce  such  reasons  as  will  warrant 
His  daring,  and  perhaps  obtain  the  pardon 
Of  his  presumption. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What!  am  I  then  coop'd? 
Already  captive  ?  can  I  not  even  breathe 
The  breath  of  heaven  7  Tell  prince  Salemenes, 
Were  all  Assyria  raging  round  the  walls 
In  mutinous  myriads,  I  would  still  go  forth. 

PANIA. 

I  must  obey,  and  yet 

MTRRHA. 

Oh,  monarch,  listen.— 

How  many  a  day  and  moon  thou  hast  reclined 
Within  these  palace  walls  in  silken  dalliance, 
And  never  shown  thee  to  thy  people's  longing ; 
Leaving  thv  subjects'  eyes  ungratified, 
The  satraps  uncontroll'd,  the  gods  unworshipp'n, 
And  all  things  in  the  anarchy  of  sloth, 
Till  all,  save  evil,  slurnber'd  through  the  realm ! 
And  wilt  thou  not  now  tarry  for  a  day, 
A  day  which  may  redeem  thee  ?    Wilt  thou  not 
Yield  to  the  few  still  faithful  a  few  hours, 
For  them,  for  thee,  for  thy  past  fathers'  race, 
And  for  thy  sons'  inheritance  ? 

PANIA.  • 

'T  is  true ! 

From  the  deep  urgenc>  with  which  the  prince 
Despatch'd  me  to  your  sacred  presence,  I 
Must  dare  to  add  my  feeble  voice  to  that 
Which  now  has  spoken. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  it  must  not  be. 

MTRRHA. 

For  the  sake  of  thy  realm  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Away! 
PANIA. 

For  that 

Of  all  thy  faithful  subjects,  who  will  rally 
Round  thee  and  thine. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

These  are  mere  phantasies 
There  is  no  peril : — 't  is  a  sullen  scheme 
Of  Salemenes,  to  approve  his  zeal, 
And  show  himself  more  necessary  to  us. 

MTRRHA. 

By  all  that '»  good  and  glorious,  take  thu  coun»w 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


SARD4  NAPALUS. 

Business  to-morrow. 

MYRRIIA. 

Ay,  or  death  to-night. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

IVhy,  let  it  come,  tnen,  unexpectedly, 
'Midst  joy  and  gentleness,  and  mirth  and  love ; 
So  let  me  fall  like  the  pluck'd  rose .' — far  better 
Thus  than  be  wither'd. 

MVRRHA. 

Then  thou  wilt  not  yield, 
Even  for  the  sake  of  all  that  ever  stirr'd 
A  monarch  into  action,  to  forego 
A  trifling  revel. 

SARDANAPALUS.. 

No. 

MVRRHA. 

Then  yield  for  mine  ; 
For  my  sake ! 

BARDANAPALUS. 

Thine,  my  Myrrha  ? 

MYRRHA. 

'T  is  the  first 
Boon  which  I  e'er  ask'd  Assyria's  king. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That 's  true  ;  and,  wer  't  my  kingdom,  must  be  granted. 
Well,  for  thy  sake,  I  yield  me.     Pania,  hence ! 
fhou  hear'st  me. 

PANIA. 
And  obey.  [Exit  PANIA. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  marvel  at  thee. 
\\  hat  is  thy  motive,  Myrrha,  thus  to  urge  me  ? 

MYRRHA. 

'J"hy  safety  ;  and  the  certainty  that  nought 
<  !ould  urge  the  prince,  thy  kinsman,  to  require 
Thus  much  from  thee,  but  some  impending  danger. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  if  I  do  not  dread  it,  why  shouldst  thou? 

HYRHHA. 

ISecause  thou  dost  not  fear,  I  fear  for  thee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

To-morrow  thou  wiit  smile  at  these  vain  fancies. 

MYRRHA. 

It'  the  worst  come,  I  shall  be  where  none  weep, 
And  that  is  better  than  the  power  to  smile. 

And  thou  V 

SARDANAPALUS. 

1  shall  be  king,  as  heretofore. 

MYRRHA. 

fV&ere  7 

SARDANAPALUS. 

With  Baal,  Nimrod,  and  Semiramis, 
S*e  in  Assyria,  or  with  them  elsewhere. 
Fate  made  me  what  I  am — may  make  me  nothing- 
Hut  either  that  or  nothing  must  I  be : 
I  w  ill  not  live  degraded. 

MYRRHA. 

Hadst  thou  felt 
Tliii»  a'way»,  none  would  ever  dare  degrade  thee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

A  no  who  will  do  so  now? 

MYRRHA. 

Dost  thou  suspect  none  ? 

HARDANAPALUS. 

SiMpect ! — that 's  a  spy's  office.    Oh !  we  lose 


Ten  thousand  precious  moments  in  vain  words, 

And  vainer  fears.   Within  there  ! — Ye  slaves,  deck 

The  hall  of  Nimrod  for  the  evening  revel : 

If  I  must  make  a  prison  of  our  palace, 

At  least  we  '11  wear  our  fetters  jocundly : 

If  the  Euphrates  be  forbid  us,  and 

The  summer  dwelling  on  its  beauteous  border, 

Here  we  are  still  unmenaced.     Ho !  within  there ! 

[Exit  SARD  ANA  PALI;*,. 

MYRRHA  (solus). 

Why  do  I  love  this  man  ?  My  country's  daughters 

Love  none  but  heroes.     But  I  have  no  country ! 

The  slave  hath  lost  all  save  her  bonds.     I  love  him ; 

And  that 's  the  heaviest  link  of  the  long  chain — 

To  love  whom  we  esteem  not.     Be  it  so : 

The  hour  is  coming  when  he  '11  need  all  love, 

And  find  none.     To  fall  from  him  now  were  baser 

Than  to  have  stabb'd  him  on  his  throne  when  highest 

Would  have  been  noble  in  my  country's  creed ; 

I  was  not  made  for  either.     Could  I  save  him, 

I  should  not  love  him  better,  but  myself; 

And  I  have  need  of  the  last,  for  I  have  fallen 

In  my  own  thoughts,  by  loving  this  soft  stranger : 

And  yet  methinks  I  love  him  more,  perceiving 

That  he  is  hated  of  his  own  barbarians, 

The  natural  foes  of  all  the  blood  of  Greece. 

Could  I  but  wake  a  single  thought  like  those 

Which  even  the  Phrygians  felt,  when  battling  long 

'Twixt  Ilion  and  the  sea,  within  his  heart, 

He  would  tread  down  the  barbarous  crowds,  and  triumph, 

He  loves  me,  and  I  love  him ;  the  slave  loves 

Her  master,  and  would  free  him  from  his  vices. 

If  not,  I  have  a  means  of  freedom  still, 

And  if  I  cannot  teach  him  how  to  reign, 

May  show  him  how  alone  a  king  can  leave 

H:s  throne.    I  must  not  lose  him  from  my  sight. 

[Ex*. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Portal  of  the  game  Hall  of  the  Palace. 

SELESES   (solus). 

The  sun  goes  down ;  methinks  he  sets  more  slowly, 

Taking  his  last  look  of  Assyria's  empire. 

How  red  he  glares  amongst  those  deepening  clouds, 

Like  the  blood  he  predicts.     If  not  in  vain, 

Thou  sun  that  sinkest,  and  ye  stars  which  rise, 

I  have  outwatch'd  ye,  reading  ray  by  ray 

The  edicts  of  your  orbs,  which  make  Time  tremble 

For  what  he  brings  the  nations,  't  is  the  furthest 

Hour  of  Assyria's  years.*  And  yet  how  calm  ! 

An  earthquake  should  announce  so  great  a  fall— 

A  summer's  sun  discloses  it.     Yon  disk, 

To  the  star-read  Chaldean,  bears  upon 

Its  everlasting  page  the  end  of  what 

Seem'd  everlasting ;  but  oh  !  thou  true  sun ! 

The  burning  oracle  of  all  that  live, 

As  fountain  of  all  life,  and  symbol  of 

Him  who  bestows  it,  wherefore  dost  thou  limit 

Thy  lore  unto  calamity  ?  Why  not 

Unfold  the  rise  of  days  more  worthy  thine 

All-glorious  burst  from  ocean  ?  why  not  dart 

A  beam  of  hope  athwart  the  future'   years 


SARDANAPALUS. 


As  of  wrath  to  its  days  ?  Hear  me !  oh  !   hear  rae ! 
I  am  thy  worshipper,  thy  priest,  thy  servant — 
[  have  gazed  on  thee  at  thy  rise  and  full, 
And  bow'd  my  head  beneath  thy  mid-day  beams, 
When  my  eye  dared  not  meet  thee.     I  ha  /e  watch'd 
For  thee,  and  after  thee,  and  pray'd  to  thee, 
And  sacrificed  to  thee,  and  read,  and  fear'd  thee, 
And  ask'd  of  thee,  and  thou  hast  answer'd — but 
Only  to  thus  much :  while  I  speak,  he  sinks- 
Is  gone — and  leaves  his  beauty,  not  his  knowledge, 
To  the  delighted  west,  which  revels  in 
Its  hues  of  dying  glory.     Yet  what  is 
Death,  so  it  be  but  glorious  ?  T  is  a  sunset ; 
And  mortals  may  be  happy  to  resemble 
The  gods  but  in  decay. 

Enter  ARBACES,  by  an  inner  door, 

ARBACES. 

Beleses,  why 

So  wrapt  in  thy  devotions  ?  Dost  thou  stand 
Gazing  to  trace  thy  disappearing  god 
Into  some  realm  of  undiscover'd  day  7 
Our  business  is  with  night — 't  is  come. 

BELESES. 

But  not 

Gone. 

ARBACES. 

Let  it  roll  on — we  are  ready. 
BELESES. 

Yes. 
•Vould  it  were  over ! 

ARBACES. 

Does  the  prophet  doubt, 
To  whom  th-;  very  stars  shine  victory  7 

BELESES. 
I  do  not  doubt  of  victory — but  the  victor. 

ARBACES. 

Well,  let  thy  science  settle  lhat.     Meantime, 
I  have  prepared  as  many  glittering  spears 
As  will  out-sparkle  our  allies — your  planets. 
There  is  no  more  to  thwart  us.     The  she-king, 
That  less  than  woman,  is  even  now  upon 
The  waters  with  his  female  mates.     The  order 
Is  issued  for  the  feast  in  the  pavilion. 
The  first  cup  which  he  drains  will  be  the  last 
Quaff'd  by  the  line  of  Nimrod. 

BELESES. 

'T  was  a  brave  one. 

ARBACES. 
And  is  a  weak  one — 't  is  worn  out — we  '11  mend  it. 

BELESES. 

Art  sure  of  that  7 

ARBACES. 

Its  founder»was  a  hunter — 
t  am  a  soldier — what  is  there  to  fear  ? 

BELESES. 
I"he  soldier. 

ARBACES. 

And  the  priest,  it  may  be  ;  but 
If  you  thought  thus,  or  think,  why  not  retain 
Vour  king  of  concubines  ?  why  stir  me  up  ? 
Why  spur  me  to  this  enterprise  7  your  own 
No  los/  than  mine? 

BELESES. 
Look  to  the  sky ! 

ARBACES. 

I  took. 


BELESES. 

What  seest  thou  7 

ARBACES. 

A  fair  summer's  twilight,  and 
The  gathering  of  the  stars. 

BELESES. 

And  midst  them  mark 

Yon  earliest,  and  the  brightest,  which  so  quivers, 
As  it  would  quit  its  place  in  the  blue  ether. 

ARBACES. 
Well! 

BELESES. 

T  is  thy  natal  ruler — thy  birth  planet. 
ARBACES  (touching  his  scabbard), 
My  star  is  in  this  scabbard :  when  it  shines, 
It  shall  out-dazzle  comets.     Let  us  think 
Of  what  is  to  be  done  to  justify 
Thy  planets  and  their  portents.    When  we  conquer 
They  shall  have  temples — ay,  and  priests — an  1  tliov 
Shalt  be  the  pontiff  of — what  gods  thou  wilt ; 
For  I  observe  that  they  are  ever  just, 
And  own  the  bravest  for  the  most  devout. 

BELESES. 

Ay,  and  the  most  devout  for  brave — thou  hast  not 
Seen  me  turn  back  from  battle. 

ARBACES. 

No ;  I  own  thee 

As  firm  in  fight  as  Babylonia's  captain, 
As  skilful  in  Chaldea's  worship  ;  now, 
Will  it  but  please  thee  to  forget  the  priest, 
And  be  the  warrior  7 

BELESES. 
Why  not  both  7 

ARBACES. 

The  better; 

And  yet  it  almost  shames  me,  we  shall  have 
So  little  to  effect.     This  woman's  warfare 
Degrades  the  very  conqueror.     To  have  pluck'd 
A  bold  and  bloody  despot  from  his  throne, 
And  grappled  with  him,  clashing  steel  with  steel, 
That  were  heroic  or  to  win  or  fall ; 
But  to  upraise  my  sword  against  this  silkworm, 
And  hear  him  whine,  it  may  be 

BELESES. 

Do  not  deem  i\ 

He  has  that  in  him  which  may  make  you  strife  yet  • 
And,  were  he  all  you  think,  his  guards  are  hardy, 
And  headed  by  the  cool,  stern  Salemenes. 

ARBACES. 
They  '11  not  resist. 

BELESES. 

Why  not  ?  they  are  soldiers. 

ARCAttS. 

TlUD. 

And  therefore  need  a  soldier  to  command  them. 

BELESES. 
That  Salemenes  is. 

ARBACES. 

But  not  their  king. 

Besides,  he  hates  the  effeminate  thing  that  govern* 
For  the  queen's  sake,  his  sister.     Mark  you  aot 
He  keeps  aloof  from  all  the  revels  7 

BELESES. 

,iut 
Not  from  the  council — there  he  is  ever  constant. 


300 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ABBACES. 

And  «vrf  tf  /esrted ;  what  would  you  have  more 
To  nake  a  -ebel  out  of?  A  fool  reigning, 
His  Llood  dishonour'd,  and  himself  disdain'd ; 
Why,  it  is  hit  revenge  we  work  for. 
BELESES. 

Could 
He  but  be  brought  to  think  so :  this  I  doubt  of. 

ARBACES. 

What  if  we  sound  him  ? 

BELESES. 

Yes — if  the  time  served. 
Enter  BALEA. 

BALEA. 

Satraps !  the  king  commands  your  presence  at 
The  feast  to-night. 

BELESES. 
To  hear  is  to  obey. 

In  the  pavilion? 

BALEA. 

No ;  here  in  the  palace. 

ARBACES. 

How !  in  the  palace  ?  it  was  not  thus  order'd. 

BALEA. 

It  is  so  order'd  now. 

ARBACES. 

And  why  ? 

BALEA. 

I  know  not. 
May  I  retire  ? 

ARBACES. 

Stay. 
BELESES  (to  ARBACES  aside1). 

Hush  !  let  him  go  his  way. 
(A'ternately  to  BALEA.) 
Yes,  Balca,  thank  the  monarch,  kiss  the  hem 
Of  his  imperial  robe,  and  say,  his  slaves 
Will  take  the  crumbs  he  deigns  to  scatter  from 
His  royal  table  at  the  hour — was 't  midnight  ? 

BALEA. 

I'  was ;  the  place,  the  Hall  of  Nimrod.     Lords, 

I  humble  me  before  you,  and  depart.       [Exit  BALEA. 

ARBACES. 

I  like  not  this  same  sudden  change  of  place — 
There  is  some  mystery ;  wherefore  should  he  change  it  ? 

BELESES. 

Doth  he  not  change  a  thousand  times  a-day  ? 
Sloth  is  of  all  things  the  most  fanciful — 
And  moves  more  parasangs  in  its  intents 
Than  generals  in  their  marches,  when  they  seek 
To  leave  their  foe  at  fault. — Why  dost  thou  muse  7 

ARBACES. 

He  loved  that  gay  pavilion — it  was  ever 
His  summer  dotage. 

BELESES. 

And  he  loved  his  queen — 
And  thrice  a  thousand  harlotry  besides — 
A  nd  he  has  loved  all  t  lings  by  turns,  except 
Wisdom  and  giory. 

ARBACES. 
Still— I  like  it  not. 

If  i.e  has  changed — why  so  must  we  !  the  attack 
^V  ere  easy  in  the  isolated  bower, 
Be*et  with  drowsy  guards  and  drunken  courtier* ; 
Bii»  in  the  3d!  of  Nimrod 

BELESES. 

Is  it  so? 


Methought  the  haughty  soldier  fear'd  to  mount 
A  throne  too  easily :  does  it  disappoint  thee 
To  find  there  is  a  slipperier  step  or  two 
Than  what  was  counted  on  ? 

ARBACES. 

When  the  hour  comtd, 
Thou  shall  perceive  how  far  I  fear  or  no. 
Thou  hast  seen  my  life  at  stake — and  gaily  play'd  for . 
But  here  is  more  upon  the  die — a  kingdom. 

BELESES. 

I  have  foretold  already — thou  wilt  win  it : 
Then  on,  and  prosper. 

ARBACES. 

Now,  were  I  a  soothsayer, 
I  would  have  boded  so  much  to  myself. 
But  be  the  stars  obey'd — I  cannot  quarrel 
With  them,  nor  their  interpreter.    Who 's  here  7 
Enter  SALEMENES. 

SALEMENES. 

Satraps ! 

BELESES. 

My  prince ! 

SALEMENES. 

Well  met — I  sought  ye  both, 
But  elsewhere  than  the  palace. 

ARBACE8. 

Wherefore  so  ? 

SALEMENES. 

'T  is  not  the  hour. 

ARBACES. 

The  hour — what  hour  7 

SALEMENES. 

Of  midnight 

BELEIES. 

Midnight,  my  lord ! 

SALEMENES. 

What,  are  you  not  invited  7 

BELESES. 
Oh !  yes — we  htd  forgotten. 

SALEMENES. 

Is  it  usual 
Thus  to  forget  a  sovereign's  invitation  7 

ARBACES. 

Wny — we  but  now  received  it, 

SALEMENES. 

Then  why  her*  7 

ARBACES. 

On  duty. 

SALEMENES. 

On  what  duty  7 

BELESES. 

On  the  state's. 

We  have  the  privilege  to  approach  the  presence, 
But  (bund  the  monarch  absent. 

SALEMENES. 

And  I  too 
Am  upon  duty. 

ARBACES. 

May  we  crave  its  purport  7 

SALEMENES. 

To  arrest  two  traitors.    Guards !  within  there 

Enter  Guards. 


•ALEMENES  (continuing). 


Your  swords. 


Satrap* 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SELESES  (ilflti'tring  his). 
My  lord,  behold  my  scimitar. 
ARBACES  (drawing  his  sword). 
Take  mine. 

SALEMENES  (advancing:). 
IwilL 

ARBACES. 

But  in  your  heart  the  blade — 
The  hilt  quits  nbt  this  hand. 

SALEMENES  (drawing). 

How !  dost  thou  brave  me  ? 
T  i*  well — this  saves  a  trial  and  false  mercy. 
Soldiers,  hew  down  the  rebel ! 

ARBACE8. 

Soldiers!  Ay— 
Alone  you  dare  not. 

SALEMENES. 

Alone !  foolish  slave—- 
What is  there  in  thee  that  a  prince  should  shrink  from 
Of  open  force  ?  We  dread  thy  treason,  not 
Thy  strength :  thy  tooth  is  nought  without  its  venom — 
The  serpent's  not  the  lion's.    Cut  him  down. 

SELESES  (interposing), 
Arbaces  !  are  you  mad  ?  Have  I  not  render'd 
My  sword  ?  Then  trust  like  me  our  sovereign's  justice. 

ARBACES. 

No— I  will  sooner  trust  the  stars  thou  prat'st  of, 
And  this  slight  arm,  and  die  a  king  at  least 
Of  my  own  breath  and  body — so  far  that 
None  else  shall  chain  them. 

SALEMENES   (to  the    Guirds). 

You  hear  Aim,  and  me. 
Take  him  not — kill. 

[The  Guards  attack  ARBACES,  who  defends  him- 
self valiantly  and  dexterously  till  they  waver. 

SALEMENES. 

Is  it  even  so ;  and  must 
I  do  the  hangman's  office  ?  Recreants !  see 
How  you  should  fell  a  traitor. 

[SALEMENES  attacks  ARBACES. 
Enter  SARDANAPALUS  ami  Train. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Hold  your  hands—- 
Upon your  lives,  1  say.     What,  deaf  or  drunken? 
My  sword !  oh  fool,  I  wear  no  sword :  here,  fellow, 
Give  me  thy  weapon.  [To  a  Guard. 

[SARDANAPALUS  matches  a  sward  from  one  of  the 
soldiers,  and  makes  between  the  combatants — they 
separate. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

In  my  very  palace ! 

<Vhat  hinders  me  from  cleaving  you  in  twain, 
Audacious  brawlers  ? 

BELESE8. 

Sire,  your  justice. 

fALEMENES. 

Or— 
Your  weakness. 

SARDANAPALUS  (raising  the  sword). 
How? 

SALEMENES. 

Strike !  so  the  blow 's  repeated 
Cpon  yon  traitor — whom  you  spare  a  moment, 
Uust,  for  torture — I  'm  content. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What— him! 

Who  dares  assai.  Arbaces  ? 
2D  2 


SALEMENES. 
I! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Indeed ! 
Prince,  you  forget  yourself.     Upon  what  warrat  T 

SALEMENES  (allowing  the  signet). 
Thine. 

ARBACES  (confused). 
The  king's ! 

SALEMENES. 

Yes !  and  let  the  king  confirm  it. 

SARDANAPA  LUE. 

I  parted  not  from  this  for  such  a  purpose. 

SALEMENES. 

You  parted  with  it  for  your  safety — I 
Employ'd  it  for  the  best.     Pronounce  in  person. 
Here  I  am  but  your  slave — a  moment  past 
I  was  your  representative. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  sheathe 
Your  swords. 

[ARBACES  and  SALEMENES  return  their  sworas  t» 
the  scabbards. 

EALEMENES. 

Mine 's  sheath'd :  I  pray  you  sheathe  not  yours ; 
'T  is  the  sole  sceptre  left  you  now  with  safety. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

A  heavy  one ;  the  hilt,  too,  hurts  my  hand. 

(To  a  Guard.)     Here,  fellow,  take  thy  weapon  nack. 

Well,  sirs, 
What  doth  this  mean  ? 

BELESES. 

The  prince  must  answer  that. 

SALEMENES.  . 

Truth  upon  my  part,  treason  upon  theirs. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Treason — Arbaces !  treachery  and  Belcses ! 
That  were  an  union  I  will  not  believe. 

BELESES. 

Where  is  the  proof? 

SALEMENES. 

I'll  answer  that,  if  once 
The  king  demands  your  fellow  traitor's  sword. 

ARBACES  (to  SALEMENES). 
A  sword  which  hath  been  drawn  as  oft  as  thine 
Against  his  foes. 

SALEMENES. 

And  now  against  his  brother, 
And  in  an  hour  or  so  against  himself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That  is  not  possible :  he  dared  not ;  no — 
No— I  '11  not  hear  of  such  things.  These  vain  bicnennjp 
Are  spawn'd  in  courts  by  base  intrigues  and  baser 
Hirelings,  who  live  by  lies  on  good  men's  lives. 
You  must  have  been  deceived,  my  brother. 

SALEMENES. 

First 

Let  him  deliver  up  his  weapon,  and 
Proclaim  himself  your  subject  by  that  duty. 
And  I  will  answer  all. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why,  if  I  thought  so— 
But  no,  it  cannot  be ;  the  Mede  Arbace* — 
The  trusty,  rough,  true  soldier — the  best  cantata 

Of  all  who  discipline  our  nations ISo, 

I  'Q  not  insult  him  thus,  tc  bid  him  rentier 


302 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Tlie  sc-milar  to  me  he  never  yielded 

Unto  our  enemies.     Chief,  keep  your  weapon. 

SALEMr  NES  (delivering  back  the  signet). 
Monarch,  take  jack  your  signet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  retain  it ; 
But  use  it  with  more  moderation. 

SALEMENES. 

Sire, 

1  tiaed  it  for  your  honour,  and  restore  it 
Because  I  cannot  keep  it  with  my  own. 
Bestow  it  on  Arbaces. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So  I  should : 
He  never  ask'd  it. 

8ALEMENES. 

Doubt  not,  he  will  have  it 
Without  that  hollow  semblance  of  respect. 

BELESES. 

I  know  noV  what  hath  prejudiced  the  prince 

So  strongly  'gainst  two  subjects,  than  whom  none 

Have  been  more  zealous  for  Assyria's  weal. 

SALEMENES. 

Peace,  factious  priest  and  faithless  soldier !  thou 
Unit'st  in  thy  own  person  the  worst  vices 
Of  the  most  dangerous  orders  of  mankind. 
Keep  thy  smooth  words  and  juggling  homilies 
Tor  those  who  know  thee  not.    Thy  fellow's  sin 
te,  at  the  least,  a  bold  one,  and  not  temper'd 
By  the  tricks  taught  thee  in  Chaldea. 
BELESES. 

Hear  him, 

My  liege— the  son  of  Belus!  he  blasphemes 
The  worship  of  the  land  which  bows  the  knee 
Before  your  fathers. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh !  for  that  I  pray  you 
Let  him  have  absolution.     I  dispense  with 
The  worship  of  dead  men  ;  feeling  that  I 
Am  mortal,  and  believing  that  the  race 
From  whence  I  sprung  are — what  I  see  them — ashes. 

BELESES. 

King !  do  not  deem  so :  they  arc  with  the  stars, 
And 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You  shall  join  them  there  ere  they  will  rise, 
It  you  preach  further. — Why,  this  is  rank  treason. 

SALEMENES. 

My  lord ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

To  school  me  in  the  worship  of 
Assyria's  idols !  Let  him  be  released — 
Give  him  his  sword. 

SALEMENES. 

My  lord,  and  king,  and  brother, 
I  pray  ye,  pause. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,  and  be  sermonized, 

And  dinn'd,  and  deafen'd  with  dead  men  and  Baal, 
And  aU  Chaldea's  starry  mysteries. 

BELESES. 
Monarch !  respect  them. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh !  for  that — I  love  them ; 
love  10  watch  them  in  the  deep  blue  vault, 
Ana  to  compare  them  with  my  Myrrha's  eyes : 


[  love  to  see  their  rays  redoubled  in 

The  tremulous  silver  of  Euphrates'  wave, 

As  the  light  breeze  of  midnight  crisps  the  broad 

And  rolling  water,  sighing  through  the  sedges 

Which  fringe  his  banks :   but  whether  they  may  b«» 

Gods,  as  some  say,  or  the  abodes  of  gods, 

As  others  hold,  or  simply  lamps  of  night, 

Worlds  or  the  lights  of  worlds,  I  know  nor  care  not. 

There 's  something  sweet  in  my  uncertainty 

I  would  not  change  for  your  Chaldean  lore ; 

Besides,  I  know  of  these  all  clay  can  know 

Of  aught  above  it  or  below  it — nothing. 

I  sec  their  brilliancy  and  feel  their  beauty — 

When  they  shine  on  my  grave,  I  shall  know  neither 

BELESES. 
For  neither,  sire,  say  better. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  will  wait, 

If  it  so  please  you,  pontiff,  for  that  knowledge. 
In  the  meantime  receive  your  sword,  and  know 
That  I  prefer  your  service  militant 
Unto  your  ministry — not  loving  either. 

SALEMENES  (osi'lf). 

His  lusts  have  made  him  mad.     Then  must  I  save  hi* 
Spite  of  himself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Please  you  to  hear  me,  Satraps ! 
And  chiefly  thou,  my  priest,  because  I  doubt  thee 
More  than  the  soldier,  and  \voula  doubt  thee  all 
Wert  thou  not  half  a  warrior :  let  us  part 
In  peace — I  '11  not  say  pardon — which  must  be 
Earn'd  by  the  guilty ;  this  I  '11  not  pronounce  ye, 
Although  upon  this  breath  of  mine  depends 
Your  own ;  and,  deadlier  for  ye,  on  my  fears. 
But  fear  not — for  that  I  am  soft,  not  fearful — 
And  so  live  on.     Were  I  the  thing  some  think  me, 
Your  heads  would  now  be  dripping  the  last  drops 
Of  their  attainted  gore  from  the  high  gates 
Of  this  our  palace  into  the  dry  dust, 
Their  only  portion  of  the  coveted  kingdom 
They  would  be  crown'd  to  reign  o'er — let  that  pass. 
As  I  have  said,  I  will  not  deem  ye  guilty, 
Nor  doom  ye  guiltless.     Albeit,  better  men 
Than  ye  or  I  stand  ready  to  arraign  you  ; 
And  should  I  leave  your  fate  to  sterner  judges, 
And  proofs  of  all  kinds,  1  might  sacrifice 
Two  men,  who,  whatsoe'er  they  now  are,  were 
Once  honest.     Ye  are  free,  sirs. 

ARBACES. 

Sire,  this  clemency— 
BELESES  (interrupting  him). 
Is  worthy  of  yourself ;  and,  although  innocent, 
We  thank- — 

SARDAMAPALUS. 

Priest !  keep  your  thanksgiving  for  Beluj  j 
His  offspring  needs  none. 

BELKSE8. 

But,  being  innocent 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Be  silent — Guilt  is  loud.     If  ye  are  loyal, 

Ye  are  injured  men,  and  should  be  sad,  not  gratr  Sal. 

BELESES. 

So  we  should  be,  were  justice  always  done 
By  earthly  power  omnipotent ;  but  innocence 
Mu«t  oft  receive  her  right  as  a  mere  favtu." 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

That 's  a  good  sentence  for  a  homily, 
Fhough  not  for  this  occasion.     Prithee  keep  it 
To  plead  thy  sovereign's  cause  before  his  people. 

SELESES. 
1  trust  there  is  no  cause. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No  cause,  perhaps ; 

But  many  causers : — If  ye  meet  with  such 
In  the  exercise  of  your  inquisitive  function 
On  earth,  or  should  you  read  of  it  in  heaven 
In  some  mysterious  twinkle  of  the  stars, 
Which  are  your  chronicles,  I  pray  you  note, 
That  there  are  worse  things  betwixt  earth  and  heaven 
That  him  who  ruleth  many  and  slays  none ; 
And,  hating  not  himself,  yet  loves  his  fellows 
Enough  to  spare  even  those  who  would  not  spare  him, 
Were  they  once  masters — but  that 's  doubtful.  Satraps ! 
Your  swords  and  persons  are  at  liberty 
To  use  them  as  ye  will — but  from  this  hour 
I  have  no  call  for  either.     Salemenes ! 
Follow  me. 

[Exeunt  SARDANAPALUS,  SALEMENES,  and  fa 
7Voin,  etc.,  leaving  AKBACES  and  BELESES. 

ARBACES. 
Beleses ! 

SELESES. 

Now,  what  think  you? 

ARBACES. 

That  we  are  lost. 

BELESES. 

That  we  have  won  the  kingdom. 

ARBACES. 

Whit !  thus  suspected — with  the  sword  slung  o'er  us 
But  by  a  single  hair,  and  that  still  wavering 
To  be  blown  down  by  his  imperious  breath, 
Which  spared  us— why,  I  know  not. 

BELESES. 

Seek  not  why ; 

But  let  us  profit  by  the  interval. 
'1  he  hour  is  still  our  own — our  power  the  same—- 
The night  the  same  we  destined.     He  hath  changed 
Nothing,  except  our  ignorance  of  all 
Suspicion  into  such  a  certainty 
As  must  make  madness  of  delay. 
ARBACES. 

And  yet 

BELESES. 

What,  doubting  still ! 

ARBACES. 

He  spared  our  lives — nay,  more, 
Saved  them  from  Salemenes. 

BELESES. 

And  how  long 
Will  he  so  spare  ?  till  the  first  drunken  minute. 

AR»-  '  IBS. 

Or  sober,  rather.    Yet  he  did  it  nobly ; 
G»VR  royally  what  we  had  forfeited 
flaseiv 

BELESES. 
Say,  bravely. 

ARBACES.     % 

Somewhat  of  both,  perhaps, 
But  it  has  touch'd  me,  and  whate'er  betide, 
J  will  no  further  on. 


BELESES. 
.        And  lose  the  world  7 

ARBACES. 

Lose  any  thing,  except  my  own  esteem. 

BELESES. 

I  blush  that  we  should  owe  our  lives  to  such 
A  king  of  distaffs ! 

ARBACES. 

But  no  less  we  owe  them  ; 
And  I  should  blush  far  more  to  take  the  granter'a 

BELESES. 

Thou  may'st  endure  whate'er  thou  wilt,  the  star* 
Have  written  otherwise. 

ARBACES. 

Though  they  came  down, 
And  marshall'd  me  the  way  in  all  their  brightness, 
I  would  not  follow. 

BELESES. 

This  is  weakness — worse 
Than  a  scared  beldam's  dreaming  of  the  dead, 
And  waking  in  the  dark. — Go  to — go  to. 

ARBACES. 

Methought  he  look'd  like  Nimrod  as  he  spoke, 
Even  as  the  proud  imperial  statue  stands, 
Looking  the  monarch  of  the  kings  around  it, 
And  sways,  while  they  but  ornament,  the  tempi*. 

BELESES. 

I  told  you  that  you  had  too  much  despised  hint, 
And  that  there  was  some  royalty  within  him. 
What  then  ?  he  is  the  nobler  foe. 

ARBACES. 

But  we 
The  meaner : — would  he  had  not  spared  us ! 

BELESES. 

So- 
Wouldst  thbu  be  sacrificed  thus  readily  ? 

ARBACES. 

No— but  it  had  been  better  to  have  died    * 
Than  live  ungrateful. 

BELESES. 

Oh,  the  souls  of  some  men 
Thou  wouldst  digest  what  some  call  treason,  and 
Fools  treachery — and,  behold,  upon  the  sudden, 
Because,  for  something  or  for  nothing,  this 
Rash  reveller  steps,  ostentatiously, 
'T  wixt  thee  and  Salemenes,  thou  art  turn'd 
Into — what  shall  I  say  ? — Sardanapalus 
I  know  no  name  more  ignominious. 

ARBACES. 

But 

An  hour  ago,  who  dared  to  term  me  such 
Had  held  his  life  but  lightly— as  it  is, 
I  must  forgive  you,  even  as  he  forgave  us — 
Semiramis  herself  would  not  have  done  it. 

BELESES. 

No— the  queen  liked  no  sharers  of  the  kingdom, 
Not  even  a  husband. 

ARBACES. 
I  must  serve  him  truly- 

BELESES. 
And  humbly  7 

ARBACKB. 

No,  sir,  proudly — being  hone*u 
I  shall  be  nearer  thrones  than  you  to  heave» ; 
And  if  not  quite  so  haughty,  yet  more  lofty. 


304 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


You  may  do  your  own  deeming — you  have  codes, 
And  mysteries,  and  corollaries  of 
Right  and  wrong,  which  I  lack  for  m^  direction, 
And  must  pursue  but  what  a  plain  heart  teaches. 
And  now  you  know  me. 

SELESES. 

Have  you  finish'd  ? 

ARBACES. 

Yes— 

With  you. 

BELESES. 

And  would,  perhaps,  betray  at  well 
As  quit  me  ? 

ARBACES. 

That 's  a  sacerdotal  thought, 
And  not  a  soldier's. 

BELESES. 

Be  it  what  you  will- 
Truce  with  these  wranglings,  and  but  hear  me. 

ARBACES. 

No- 
There  is  more  peril  in  your  subtle  spirit 
Than  in  a  phalanx. 

BF.LESES. 
If  it  must  be  BO — 
I  '11  on  alone. 

ARBACES. 

Alone! 

BELESES. 

Thrones  hold  but  one. 

ARBACES. 

But  this  is  fill'd. 

BELESES. 

With  worse  than  vacancy— 
A  despised  monarch.     Look  to  it,  Arbaces: 
I  have  still  aided,  cherish'd,  loved,  and  urged  you  ; 
Was  willing  even  to  serve  you,  in  the  hope 
To  serve  ami  save  Assyria.     Heaven  itself 
Seern'd  to  consent,  and  all  events  were  friendly, 
Even  to  the  last,  till  that  your  spirit  shrunk 
Into  a  shallow  softness ;  but  now,  rather 
Than  see  my  country  languish,  I  will  be 
Her  saviour  or  the  victim  of  her  tyrant, 
Uf  one  or  both,  for  sometimes  both  are  one : 
And  if  I  win,  Arbaces  is  my  servant. 

ARBACES. 

Four  senrant ! 

BELESES. 

.  Why  not  ?  better  than  be  slave, 
The  parilarfd  slave  of  she  Sardanapalus. 

Enter  PAWIA. 

PANIA. 

My  lords,  I  bear  an  order  from  the  king. 

ARBACES. 

It  is  ooey'd  e-e  spoken. 

BELESES. 

Notwithstanding, 
I.iet  's  hear  it. 

PANIA. 

Forthwith,  on  this  very  night, 
Repair  to  your  respective  satrapies 
Uf  Kabv'or.  and  Media. 

SELESES. 

With  our  Irooos  ? 


PANIA. 

My  order  is  unto  the  satraps  and 
Their  household  train. 

ARBACES. 
But 

BELESES. 

It  must  be  obey 'v , 
Say,  we  depart. 

PANIA. 

My  order  is  to  see  you 
Depart,  and  not  to  bear  your  answer. 
BELESES   (aside). 

Ay! 
Well,  sir,  we  will  accompany  you  hence. 

PANIA. 

I  will  retire  to  marshal  forth  the  guard 
Of  honour  which  befits  your  rank,  and  wait 
Your  leisure,  so  that  it  the  hour  exceeds  not. 

[Exit  PANIJ 

BELESES. 

Now  then  obey ! 

ARBACES. 

Doubtless. 

BELESES. 

Yes,  to  the  gates 

That  grate  the  palace,  which  is  now  our  prison, 
No  further. 

ARBACES. 

Thou  hast  harp'd  the  truth  indeed ! 
The  realm  itself,  in  all  its  wide  extension, 
Yawns  dungeons  at  each  step  for  thee  and  me. 

BELESES. 
Graves ! 

ARBACES. 

If  I  thought  so,  this  good  sword  should  dig 
One  more  than  mine. 

BELESES. 

It  shall  have  work  enough : 
Let  me  hope  better  than  thou  augurest : 
At  present  let  us  hence  as  best  we  may. 
Thou  dost  agree  with  me  in  understanding 
This  order  as  a  sentence  ? 

ARBACES. 

Why,  what  other 
Interpretation  should  it  bear  ?  it  is 
The  very  policy  of  orient  monarchs — 
Pardon  and  poison — favours  and  a  sword- 
A  distant  voyage,  and  an  eternal  sleep. 
How  many  satraps  in  his  father's  time — 
For  he  I  own  is,  or  at  least  was,  bloodless — 

BELESES. 

But  will  not,  can  nut  be  so  now. 
ARBACES. 

I  doubt  it. 

How  many  satraps  have  I  seen  set  out 
In  his  sire's  day  for  mighty  vice-royaltfes, 
Whose  tombs  are  on  their  path !  I  know  not  hen 
But  they  all  sicken'd  by  the  way,  it  was 
So  long  and  heavy. 

BELESES. 
Let  us  but  regain 

The  free  air  of  the  city,  and  we  '11  shorten 
The  journey.         _ 


ARBACES. 


It  raav  be. 


'T  will  be  shorten'd  a*,  the  gaiM 


SARDANAPALUS 


305 


BELESES.  . 

No :  they  hardly  will  risk  that. 
They  mean  us  to  die  privately,  but  not 
Within  the  palace  or  the  city  walls, 
Where  we  are  known  and  may  have  partisans : 
If  they  had  meant  to  slay  us  here,  we  wore 
No  longer  with  the  living.     Let  us  hence. 

ARBACES. 
If  I  but  thought  he  did  not  mean  my  life 

BELESES. 

Fool !  hence — what  else  should  despotism  alartn'd 
Mean  ?     Let  us  but  rejoin  our  troops,  and  march. 

ARBACES. 
Towards  our  provinces  7 

BELESES. 

No ;  towards  your  kingdom. 
There 's  time,  there 's  heart  and  hope,  and  power,  and 

means 

Which  their  half  measures  leave  us  in  full  scope. — 
Away! 

ARBACES. 

And  I,  even  yet  repenting,  must 
Relapse  to  guilt ! 

BELESES 

Self-defence  is  a  virtue, 
•Sole  bulwark  of  all  right.     Away !  I  say ! 
Let 's  leave  this  place,  the  air  grows  thick  and  choking, 
And  the  walls  have  a  scent  of  night-shade — hence ! 
Let  us  not  leave  them  time  for  further  council. 
Our  quick  departure  proves  our  civic  zeal ; 
Our  quick  departure  hinders  our  good  escort, 
The  worthy  Pania,  from  anticipating 
The  orders  of  some  parasangs  from  hence  ; 

Nay,  there 's  no  other  choice  but hence,  I  say. 

[Exit  with  ARBACES,  who  follows  reluctantly. 
Enter  SARDANAPALUS  and  SALEMENES. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well,  all  is  remedied,  and  without  bloodshed, 
That  worst  of  mockeries  of  a  remedy ; 
We  are  now  secure  by  ihese  men's  exile. 

8  iLEMENES. 

Yes, 

As  he  who  treads  on  flowers  is  from  the  adder 
Twined  round  their  roots. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why,  what  wouldst  hare  me  do  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Undo  what  you  have  done. 

SARDANAPAI.US. 

Revoke  my  pardon  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Replace  ths  crown,  now  tottering  on  your  temples. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That  were  tyrannical. 

SALEMENES. 

But  sure. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

We  are  so. 
fVhat  danger  can  they  work  iroon  the  frontier  7 

SALEMENES. 

Fhey  are  not  there  yet — never  should  they  be  so, 
Were  I  well  listen'd  to. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

Nay ,  I  have  listen'd 
Imps.tiallv  to  thee — why  not  to  them? 
44 


SALEMENES. 

You  may  know  that  hereafter ;  as  it  is, 
I  take  my  leave,  to  order  forth  the  guard 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  you  will  join  us  at  the  banquet  7 

SALEMENES. 

Sire, 

Dispense  with  me— I  am  no  wassailer : 
Command  me  in  all  service  save  the  Bacchant's. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Nay,  but 't  .s  fit  to  revel  now  and  then. 

SALEMENES. 

And  fit  that  some  should  watch  for  those  who  revel 
Too  oil.     Am  I  permitted  to  depart  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes stay  a  moment,  my  good  Salemenes, 

My  brother,  my  best  subject,  better  prince 

Than  I  am  king.     You  should  have  been  the  monai  so 

And  I — I  know  not  what,  and  care  not ;  but 

Think  not  I  am  insensible  to  all 

Thine  honest  wisdom,  and  thy  rough,  yet  kind, 

Though  oft-reproving,  sufferance  of  my  follies. 

If  I  have  spared  these  men  against  thy  counsel, 

That  is,  their  lives — it  is  not  that  I  doubt 

The  advice  was  sound  ;  but,  let  them  live :  we  will  t\j 

Cavil  about  their  lives — so  let  them  mend  them. 

Their  banishment  will  leave  me  still  sound  sleep, 

Which  their  death  had  not  left  me. 

•ALCMENES. 

Thus  you  ran 

The  risk  to  sleep  for  ever,  to  save  traitors — 
A  moment's  pang  now  changed  for  years  of  crime. 
Still  let  them  be  made  quiet. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tempt  me  not : 
My  word  it  past. 

SALEMENES. 

But  it  may  be  recall'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  royal. 

•  ALEMENE8. 

And  should  therefore  be  decisive. 
This  half  indulgence  of  an  exile  serves 
But  to  provoke — a  pardon  should  be  full, 
Or  it  is  none. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  who  persuaded  me 
After  I  had  repeal'd  them,  or  at  least 
Only  dismiss'd  them  from  our  presence,  who 
Urged  me  to  send  them  to  their  satrapies  7       . 

SALEMENES. 

True ;  that  I  had  forgotten  ;  that  is,  sire, 
If  they  e'er  reach  their  satrapies — why,  then, 
Reprove  me  more  for  my  advice. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  if 

They  do  not  reach  them — look  to  it ! — in  safety. 
In  safety,  mark  me — and  security — 
Look  to  thine  own. 

SALEMENES, 

Permit  me  to  depart , 
Their  safety  shall  be  cared  for. 

SAKDANAPALUS. 

Get  thee  hence,  then  . 
And,  prithee  think  more  gently  of  thy  brother. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


SALEMEXES. 

Sire.,  I  s  ;a.  tver  dc!y  sene  mv  sovereign. 

I  SALEMKSES. 
•  ARDAXAPALrs.  (SORT*). 
"nut.  av  is  of  a  temper  too  severe : 
Hud  but  AS  lofty  as  the  rock,  and  free 
iYoih  *n  the  tuote  of  common  earth— wtife  I 
AJB  softer  dftjfy  MH|M  cffi  s»tco  wiui  Bowers. 
But  as  oar  mould  is,  must  the  produce  be. 
If  I  have  errM  this  time,  'tis  on  the  side 
Whete  error  sits  most  fight)?  on  that  sense, 
I  Htow  not  what  to  call  it ;  bulk  reckons 
With  on  eft-times  fcr  pain,  and  sometimes  pleasure ; 
A  spirit  which  seems  placed  about  my  heart 
To  court  its  throbs,  not  quieten  them,  and  ask 
Questions  which  mortal  never  dared  to  ask  me, 
Nor  Bui,  thoojh  an  oracular  deity— 
A  tmt  his  marble  face  majestica] 
Frowns  as  the  shadows  of  the  evening  dim 
Hit  brows  to  changed  expression,  tiB  at  tones 
I  tiunt  the  statue  looks  in  act  to  speak. 
Away  with  these  vam  thoughts,  I  wfll  be  joyous— 
AM!  here  comes  Joy's  true  heraVL 
JEWfcr  MTKRKA. 


King!   the  sky 
Is  overcast,  and  musters  muttering  tnunder, 
In  clouds  Uut  seem  approaching  fast,  and  show 
In  forked  I 


vTi3  you  then  quk  the  palace? 

t  A  R  D  A  S  A  P  A  L  C  S. 

Tempest,  say'st  tbou? 

MTRRHA. 

Ay,  mj  good  lord. 


For  my  own  part,  I  should  be 
Not  ffl  content  to  vary  the  smooth  scene, 
And  watch  the  warring  elements;  but  tins 
Would  Jttk  suit  the  silken  garments  and 

Sruooth  face*  of  our  les'.ive  tnerxis.     Say,  "yrua, 
Art  thou  of  those  who  dread  the  roar  of  douds  7 
MYRJLHA. 
I 
•  of  Jove. 

S  A  F.  D  A  5  A  P  A  L  V  J  . 

Jove— ay,  your  Baal — 
Oars  abo  has  a  property  in  thunder, 
And  ever  and  anon  some  fating  hot 

nm_  -  i^;_    w*  .-_.  i »       --• 

rro^es  .,1*  i~;»..i..\.  lulu  \t"  SGrhriimes 
Strikes  his  own  altars. 

MTRRHA. 

That  were  a  dread  COM*. 

SARDAXAPALCS. 

Yes— for  the  priests.    Wei,  we  wiB  not  go  forth 
Beyond  the  palace  wafts  to-night,  hot  make 
Our  fust  within. 

MTRRHA. 

Now,  Jove  be  praised!  that  be 
Hath  heard  the  prayer  thou  wonldst  not  hear.  The  god* 
Are  kinder  to  tbee  than  thou  to  thyself; 
And  flash  this  storm  between  tbee  and  thy  foes, 
Tu  thiB.i  tbee  irom  them. 

SARDAXAPALC5. 

Chi.d,  if  there  be  peril, 
&1etmnu  n  » the  same  within  these  walk 

on  the  m  er's  brmn. 


Not  so ;  these  walls 

Are  high  and  strong,  and  guarded.     Ti  eason  hai 
To  penetrate  through  many  a  winding  way, 
And  massy  portal !  but  in  the  pavilion 
There  is  no  bulwark. 

SARDAXAPALVS. 

No,  nor  in  the  palace, 
Nor  in  the  fortress,  nor  upon  the  top 
Of  cloud-fenced  Caucasus*  where  the  eagle  sits 
Nested  in  pathless  clefts,  if  treachery  be : 
Even  as  the  arrow  finds  the  airy  king, 
The  steel  will  reach  the  earthly.     But  be  calm: 
The  men,  or  innocent  or  guilty,  are 
Banish'd,  and  far  upon  their  way. 
MVRRHA. 

They  five,  then? 

SARDAJCAPALCS. 

So  sanguinary?  TAOX  .' 

MVRRHA. 

I  would  not  shrink 

From  just  infliction  of  due  punishment 
O*  thosa  who  seek  your  life  :  wer  't  otherwise 
I  should  not  merit  mine.     Besides,  you  beard 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

This  is  strange ; 

UK  gentle  and  the  austere  are  both  against  roe, 
And  urge  me  to  revenge. 

MTRRHA. 

T  is  a  Greek  virtue. 

SARDA.tAPALUS. 

But  not  a  kingly  one — I  '11  none  on 't ;  or, 
If  ever  I  indulge  in*t,  it  shall  be 
With  lings — my  equals. 

MTRRHA. 

These  men  sought  to  be  M 

SARDAXAPALl'S. 

Myrrha,  this  b  too  feminine,  and  springs 
From  fear 

MTRRHA. 

For  yon. 

SARDAXAPALO8. 

No  matter — still  *t  is  fear. 
I  have  observed  your  sex,  once  roused  to  wrath, 
Are  timidly  vindictive  to  a  pitch 
Of  perseverance,  which  I  would  not  copy. 
I  thought  you  were  exempt  from  this,  as  from 
The  childish  helplessness  of  Asian  women. 

MTRRHA. 
My  lord,  I  am  no  boaster  of  my  love, 
Nor  of  my  attributes ;  I  have  shared  your  splendour, 
And  will  partake  your  fortunes.     You  may  live 
To  find  one  clave  more  true  than  subject  myriads ; 
But  this  the  gods  avert !     I  am  content 
To  be  beloved  on  trust  for  what  I  feel, 
Bather  than  prove  it  to  you  in  your  griefs, 
Which  might  not  field  to  any  cares  of  mine. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

Griefs  cannot  come  where  perfect  love  exists, 
Except  to  heighten  it,  and  vanish  from 
That  which  it  could  not  scare  away.     Let  *s  in—- 
The hour  approaches,  and  we  must  prepare 
To  meet  the  invited  guests,  who  grace  our  feast, 


SARDANA 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  L 

TV  Hall  of  lite  Palace  UUeamated. — SARDAVAPALUS 
and  hu    Guats  at    Table.— A  Harm, 


SARDAXAPALCS. 

Why  this  is  as  ft  should  be:  here 
b  my  true  realm,  amidst  bright  eyes  and  faces 
Happy  as  Cur!   Here  sorrow  . 


tier  elsewhere—  where  the  long  is,  pleasure  Tur^ft. 

SARDAVAPA  LWS. 

b  not  this  better  now  than  Xknrod's  huntings, 

Or  my  wild  grandara's  chase  in  search  of  kiugduum 

She  could  not  keep  when  eooanerM? 

ALTADA. 

Migb-.v  though 

They  were,  as  afl  thy  royal  fine  have  been, 
Yet  none  of  those  who  went  before  have  reach'd 
The  acme  of  Sardanapjuus,  who 
Has  placed  bis  joy  in  peace— the  sole  true  glory. 

(ARDAVAPALtrt. 

And  pleasure,  good  Ahada,  to  which  glory 
b  but  the  path.  What  is  it  that  we  seek  7 
Enjoyment!  We  have  cut  the  way  short  to  k, 
And  not  gone  tracking  it  through 
Makmg  a  grave  with  every  footstep. 


No; 

AD  hearts  are  happy,  and  aB  voices  hies* 
The  king  of  peace,  who  holds  a  world  • 

SARJDAXAFAL0S. 

Art  sore  of  that?  1  hare  beard  otherwise ; 
Some  say  that  there  be  trakors. 


Traitors  they 


Who  dare  to  say  so !— T  is  t 

What  cause? 

S  ARDAJt  AFA  LCS. 

What  cause?  true,— fl 
We  win  not  dunk  of  them:  there  are  none  such, 
Or  if  there  be,  they  are  gone. 
ALTADA. 

Guests,  to  my  pledge! 

Down  on  jour  knees,  and  drmk  a  measure  to 
The  safety  of  the  king— die  monarch,  say  I! 
The  god  Sardanapaius ! 

[ZA*EJa«Ufc  G*e*t*  Joed,  ami  eseUm- 

Mightier  than 
His  nner  Baal,  the  god  Sardanapalns ! 

[It  Ifandcn  a*  tJtey  land;  Sf«e  turf  *»  at 


Why  do  re  rise,  my  friends?  In  that  strong  peal 

H-S  alb^r  zrjtls  ccr-s^ni^i. 


Menaced,  rather. 
Smg,  wBt  tbon  bear  this  mad  impiety? 

SAKDAXAPALC*. 


!  —  nay,  if  the  sire*  who  reien'd 
Kefore  me  can  be  gods,  II  not  disgrace 
"i  Vir  Imea*e.     But  amc,  my  pkiM  fceods, 
Hoard  yoor  devotkm  far  the  thundcter  there  : 
I  seek  bat  to  be  l*ved,  Mt  wmhmpU 


ALTADA. 

BotV- 
Bodi  ywi  mnst  evtr  be  by  U  tn»e  sdbjeet*. 

SAKOAXAPALC&. 

Methmiattethimderscblkicrease:  «  m 
Anawfalnjght 

MTKKBA. 

Oh  ye«,  far  those  who  have 


SAKDAJTAPALrS. 

Thrt'«true,myMyrrha;  and  couU  I  convert 
My  realm  to 
I'd  do  k. 


Tboa'nnogod,  then,  nottobe 
Able  to  work  a  wd  so  good  and  general, 
As  thy  wish  wodd  npiy. 

SAX  D  AH  A  P  A  L  C  ». 


Who  can,  and  do  not] 


Were  there  no 


Do  not  speak  of  that, 


SAKPA»APA1.C«. 

True,  they  love  oat  censor 
Friends,  a  tboogte  has  struck  i 
ld  ihere,  think  ye,  be 


pray. 


SAmOAVAPALCf. 

Yes,  when  the  •*• 


AmA  I  womd  adk  if  th«  yow  pabce  were 
UnrooTd  and  desolate,  how  many  faneren 
WooUBek  the  dost  in  which  the  king  tay  low? 

ALTAOA. 

The  ^**  Ionian  is  ton  sarcastic 

Upon  a  nation  whom  she  knows  not  wd  ; 


And  homage  is  Ibev  pride. 

•AJLDAXAFALCS. 

Nay,  | 
The  &k Greek's! 

ALTADA. 


We  honoor  her  of  aB  dsBBgt  Mat  to  thce. 

Hark!  what  was  that? 


Of 

It 
The  l^ 


That? 
portab  shaken  by  the  wmd. 

ALTABA. 

Be  the  dash  of-hark  agam! 


pattering  on  the  rooC 

SARDAXAPALUk. 


Myrrha,  my  lore,  hast  thou  thy  sheB  m  oroer! 
Sng  me  a  song  of  Sappho,  her,  tbou  know**^ 
Whoinihy< 


E'J*r  PASTA, 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


PANIA  (to  the  guards). 

Look  to  the  portals ; 

And  with  your  best  speed  to  the  wall  without. 
Your  arms !  To  arms !  The  king's  in  danger.  Monarch ! 
Excuse  this  haste, — 't  is  faith. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Speak  on. 

PANIA. 

It  18 

As  Salemenes  fear'd :  the  faithless  satraps— 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You  are  wounded — give  some  wine.  Take  breath,  good 
Pania. 

PANIA. 

T  is  nothing — a  mere  flesh  wound.     I  am  worn 
More  with  my  speed  to  warn  my  sovereign, 
Than  hurt  in  his  defence. 

MYRRHA. 

Well,  sir,  the  rebels  7     ' 

PANIA. 

Soon  as  Arbaces  and  Beleses  reach'd 

Their  stations  in  the  city,  they  refused 

To  march :  and  on  my  attempt  to  use  the  power 

Which  I  was  delegated  with,  they  call'd 

Upon  their  troops,  who  rose  in  fierce  defiance. 

MYRRHA. 

AH 

PANIA. 

Too  many. 

SARLiANAPALUS. 

Spare  not  of  thy  free  speech 
To  spare  mine  ears  the  truth. 

PANIA. 

My  own  slight  guard 
Were  faithful— and  what's  left  of  it  is  still  so. 

MYRRHA. 

And  are  these  all  the  force  still  faithful  ? 

PANIA. 

No— 

The  Bactnans,  now  led  on  by  Salemenes, 
Who  even  then  was  on  his  way,  still  urged 
By  strong  suspicion  of  the  Median  chiefs, 
Are  numerous,  and  make  strong  head  against 
The  rebels,  fighting  inch  by  inch,  and  forming 
An  orb  around  the  palace,  where  they  mean 
To  centre  all  their  force,  and  save  the  king. 
(He  hesitates) .     I  am  charged  to 

MYRRHA. 

'T  is  no  time  for  hesitation. 

PANIA. 

Pnnce  Salamenes  doth  implore  the  king 
1  o  arm  himself,  although  but  for  a  moment, 
And  show  himself  unto  the  soldiers:  his 
Sole  presence  in  this  instant  might  do  more 
Than  hosts  can  do  in  his  behalf 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What,  ho! 
My  armour  there. 

MYRRHA. 

And  wilt  thou? 

KARDANAPALUS. 

Will  I  IKH7 

Mo,  thbie' — But  seek  not  for  the  buckler;  'tii 
Too  n«/tivy : — a  light  cuirass  and  mv  sword. 
WHete  are  the  rebels? 


PANIA. 

Scarce  a  furlong's  length 
From  the  outward  wall,  the  fiercest  conflict  rages. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  I  may  charge  on  horseback.     Sfero,  ho ! 
Order  my  horse  out — There  is  space  enough 
Even  in  our  courts,  and  by  the  outer  gate, 
To  marshal  half  the  horserrien  of  Arabia. 

[Exit  SFERO/OT  t)>    armut*. 

MVRRHA. 

How  I  do  love  thee ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  ne'er  doubled  it. 

MYRRHA. 

But  now  I  know  thce. 

SARDANAPALUS  (to  his  attendant). 

Bring  down  my  spear,  too.— 
Where's  Salemenes? 

PANIA. 

Where  a  soldier  should  be, 
In  the  thick  of  the  fight. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  hasten  to  him Is 

The  path  still  open,  and  communication 
Left  'twixt  the  palace  and  the  phalanx  ? 

PANIA. 

'Twas 

When  I  late  left  him,  and  I  have  no  fear  : 
Our  troops  were  steady,  and  the  phalanx  form'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Tell  him  to  spare  his  person  for  the  present, 
And  that  I  will  not  spare  my  own — and  say, 
I  come. 

PANIA. 
There's  victory  in  the  very  word. 

\Exit  PAKIA 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Altada — Zames — forth  and  arm  ye !  There 
Is  all  in  readiness  in  the  armory. 
See  that  the  women  are  bestow'd  in  safety 
In  the  remote  apartments  :  let  a  guard 
Be  set  before  them,  with  strict  charge  to  quit 
The  post  but  with  their  lives — command  it,  Zunes. 
Altada,  arm  yourself,  and  return  here ; 
Your  post  is  near  our  person. 
[Exeunt  ZAMES,  ALTADA,  and  all  save  MYRRHA. 

Enter  SFERO  and  ethers,  with  the  King's  arms,  ete. 
SFERO. 

King !  your  armour. 
BARDANAPALCS  (arming-  himself). 
Give  me  the  cuirass — so  :  my  baldric  ;  now 
My  sword :  I  had  forgot  the  helm,  where  is  it  ? 
That's  well — no,  'tis  too  heavy:  you  mistake,  too— 
It  was  not  this  I  meant,  but  that  which  bears 
A  diadem  around  it. 

SFERO. 
Sire,  I  deem'd 

That  too  conspicuous  from  the  precious  stones 
To  risk  your  sacred  brow  beneath — and,  trust  me, 
This  is  of  better  metal,  though  less  rich. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You  deem'd !  Are  you  too  turn'd  a  rebf  1  ?  F«ll-m  ' 
Your  part  is  to  obey :  return,  and — no-  - 
It  is  too  late — I  will  go  forth  without  it. 


SARDAXAPALUb. 


309 


SFERO. 

At  least  wear  this. 

SARl>ASAPALt7S. 

Wear  Caucasus !  why,  't  is 
A  mountain  on  my  temples. 

BFERO. 

Sire,  the  meanest 

Soldier  goes  not  forth  thus  exposed  to  uattle. 
All  men  will  recognise  you — for  the  storm 
Has  ceased,  and  the  moon  breaks  forth  in  her  brightness. 

8ARDASAPALOS. 

I  go  forth  to  be  recognised,  and  thus 

Shall  be  so  sooner.     Now — my  spear  !  I'm  arm'd. 

[In  going  stops  short,  and  turns  to  SFERO. 
gfero — I  had  forgotten — bring  the  mirror.1 

SFERO. 
The  mirror,  sire  ? 

8ABDAlTAPAI.es. 

Yes,  sir,  of  polish'd  brass, 
Brought  from  the  spoils  of  India — but  be  speedy. 

[Exit  SFERO. 

Myrrha,  retire  unto  a  place  of  safety. 
Why  went  you  not  forth  with  the  other  damsels? 

MYRRHA. 
Because  my  place  is  here. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  when  I  am  gone 

MYRRHA. 
I  follow. 

SARDAlfAPALUS. 

You  !  to  battle  ? 

MYRRRA. 

If  it  were  so, 

T  were  not  the  first  Greek  girl  had  trod  the  path. 
[  will  await  here  your  return. 

SARDAKAPALUS. 

The  place 

U  spacious,  and  the  first  to  be  sought  out, 
If  they  prevail ;  and,  if  it  should  be  so, 
And  I  return  not 

MYRRHA. 

Still,  we  meet  again. 

SARDAJfAPALUS. 

How? 

MYRRHA. 

In  the  spot  where  all  must  meet  at  last — 
In  Hades  !  if  there  be,  as  I  believe, 
A  shore  beyond  the  Styx ;  and  if  there  be  not, 
In  ashes. 

SARDASAPALCS. 

Dar'st  thou  so  much  ? 

KYRRHA 

I  dare  all  things, 

Except  survive  what  I  have  loved,  to  be 
A  rebel's  booty :  forth,  and  do  your  bravest. 

Re-enter  SFERO  with  the  mirror. 

SARDANAPALUS  (looking  at  himself]. 
This  cuirass  fits  me  well,  the  baldric  better, 
And  the  helm  not  at  all.     Methinks,  I  seem 

[Flings  away  the  helmet,  after  trying  it  again. 
Passing  well  in  these  toys  ;  and  now  to  prove  them. 
\ltada!  Where 's  Altada  ? 


1  "  S  ich  the  mirror  Otho  held 
In  ibe  Illjrriuj  field  "—See  Juvenai. 


Waiting,  sire, 
Vlthout :  he  has  your  shield  in  readiness. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

True  •  I  forgot  he  is  my  shield-bearer 

Jy  right  of  blood,  derived  from  age  to  age. 

Myrrha,  embrace  me  ;  yet  once  more— once  more- 
-iove  me,  whate'er  betide.     My  chiefest  glory 

Shall  be  to  make  me  worthier  of  your  love. 

MYRRHA. 

Jo  forth,  and  conquer  ! 

[Exit  SARDAWAPALUB  tma  SFERC 

Now,  I  am  alone. 
All  are  gone  forth,  and  of  that  all  how  few 

'erhaps  return.     Let  him  but  vanquish,  and 

Vie  perish !  If  he  vanquish  not,  I  perish  ; 

Tor.  I  win  not  outlive  him.  He  has  wound 
About  my  heart,  I  know  not  how  nor  why. 
for  that  he  is  king ;  for  now  his  kingdom 

tacks  underneath  his  throne,  and  the  earth  yawns 
To  yield  him  no  more  of  it  than  a  grave  ; 
And  yet  I  love  htm  more.     Oh,  mighty  Jove  ! 

forgive  this  monstrous  love  for  a  barbarian, 
Who  knows  not  of  Olympus  :  yes,  I  love  him 

Now,  now,  far  more  than Hark — to  the  war  shout ' 

Methinks  it  nears  me.     If  it  should  be  so, 

[She  draws  forth  a  smalt  itaL 
This  cunning  Colchian  poison,  which  my  father 

Learn'd  to  compound  on  Euxine  shores,  and  taught  DM 

How  to  preserve,  shall  free  me !  It  had  freed  me 

Long  ere  this  hour,  but  that  I  loved,  until 

[  half  forgot  I  was  a  slave  : — where  all 
Are  slaves  save  one,  and  proud  of  servitude, 
So  they  are  served  in  turn  by  something  lower 

[n  the  degree  of  bondage,  we  forget 

That  shackles  worn  like  ornaments  no  less 

Are  chains.    Again  that  shout !  and  now  the  clash 

Of  arms — and  now — and  now— 

Enter  ALTADA. 
ALTADA. 

Ho,  Sfero,  ho! 

MYRRHA. 

He  is  not  here ;  what  wouldst  thou  with  him  ?  Haw 
Goes  on  the  conflict  ? 

ALTADA. 

Dubiously  and  fiercely. 

MYRRHA. 

And  the  king  ? 

ALTADA. 

Like  a  king.    I  must  find  Sfero, 
And  bring  him  a  new  spear  and  his  own  helmet, 
He  fights  till  now  bareheaded,  and  by  far 
Too  much  exposed.     The  soldiers  knew  his  face, 
And  the  foe  too ;  and  in  the  moon's  broad  light, 
His  silk  tiara  and  his  flowing  hair 
Make  him  a  mark  too  royaL     Every  arrow 
Is  pointed  at  the  fair  hair  and  fair  featinta, 
And  the  broad  fillet  which  crowns  botli. 

MYRRHA. 

7e  gods, 

Who  fulmine  o'er  my  fathers'  land,  protect  him! 
Were  you  sent  by  the  ki»g  ? 

ALTADA. 

By  Salemenes, 
Who  sent  me  privily  upon  this  charge 


310 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Without  the  knowledge  of  the  careless  sovereign. 
The  king!  the  king  fight*  as  he  revels  !  ho ! 
What,  Sfero !  I  will  seek  the  armory — 
He  must  be  there.  [Exit  ALTADA. 

MYRRHA. 

'T  is  no  dishonour — no— 
T  is  no  dishonour  to  have  loved  this  man. 
I  almost  wish  now,  what  I  never  wish'd 
Before,  that  he  were  Grecian.     If  Alcides 
Were  shamed  in  wearing  Lydian  Omphale'a 
She-garb,  and  wielding  her  vile  distaff;  surely 
He,  who  springs  up  a  Hercules  at  once, 
Nursed  in  effeminate  arts  from  youth  to  manhood, 
And  rushes  from  the  banquet  to  the  battle, 
As  though  it  were  a  bed  of  love,  deserves 
That  a  Greek  girl  should  be  his  paramour, 
And  a  Greek  bard  his  minstrel,  a  Greek  tomb 
His  monument.     How  goes  the  strife,  sir  ? 

Enter  an  OFFICER. 

OFFICER. 

Lost, 

Lost  almost  past  recovery.     Zames !  Where 
l»  Zames? 

MYRRRA. 

Posted  with  the  guard,  appointed 
To  watch  before  the  apartment  of  the  women. 

[Exit  OFFICER. 
MTRRHA  (solus). 

He 'a  gone ;  and  told  no  more  than  that  all's  lost! 
What  need  have  I  to  know  more  ?  In  those  words, 
Those  little  words,  a  kingdom  and  a  king, 
A  line  of  thirteen  ages,  and  the  lives 
Of  thousands,  and  the  fortune  of  all  left 
With  life,  all  merged :  and  I,  too,  with  the  great 
Like  a  small  bubble  breaking  with  the  wave 
Which  bore  it,  shall  be  nothing.     At  the  least 
My  fate  is  in  my  keeping :  no  proud  victor 
Shall  count  me  with  his  spoils. 

Enter  PANIA. 

PAKIA. 

Away  with  me, 

Myrrha,  without  delay  ;  we  must  not  lose 
A  moment — all  that 's  left  us  now. 

MYRRHA. 

The  king  ? 

PANIA. 

Sent  me  here  to  conduct  you  hence,  beyond 
The  river,  by  a  secret  passage. 

MYRRHA. 

Then 
He  fives r 

PANIA. 

And  charged  me  to  secure  your  life, 
And  beg  you  to  live  on  for  his  sake,  till 
He  can  rejoin  yru. 

MVRRHA. 

Will  he  then  give  way? 

PANtA. 

Not  till  the  iasr.     Still,  still  he  does  whate'er 
Despair  can  do  •  and  step  by  step  disputes 
The  ypry  palact 

MYRRHA. 

They  are  here,  then : — ay, 
Then  shon'*  oonie  ringing  through  the  ancient  hall*, 


Never  profaned  by  rebel  echoes  till 
This  fatal  night.     Farewell,  Assyria's  line ! 
Farewell  to  all  of  Nimrod !  Even  the  name 
Is  now  no  more. 

PANIA. 
Away  with  me — away . 

MYRRHA. 

No ;  I  '11  die  here  ! — Away,  and  tell  your  king 
I  loved  him  to  the  last. 

'  [Enter  SARDANAPALUS onrf  SALEMENES,  wit* 

Soldiers.  PANIA  quits  MYRRHA,  and  ranget 
himself  with  them. 

IARDANAPAL17S. 

Since  it  is  thus, 

We  '11  die  where  we  were  born — in  our  own  halls. 
Sorry  your  ranks — stand  firm.     I  have  despatch'd 
A  trustry  satrap  for  the  guard  of  Zames, 
All  fresh  and  faithful ;  they  '11  be  here  anon. 
All  is  not  over. — Pania,  look  to  Myrrha. 

[PANIA  returns  towards  MYRRHA. 

8ALEMENES. 

We  have  breathing  time:  yet  one  more  charge,  my 

friends — 
One  for  Assyria ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Rather  say,  for  Bactria ! 
My  faithful  Bactrians,  I  will  henceforth  be 
King  of  your  nation,  and  we  'II  hold  together 
This  realm  as  province. 

SALEMENES. 

Hark  '  they  come — they  coma 
Enter  BELESES  and  ARB ACES  with  the  Rebtls. 

ARBACES. 

Set  on,  we  have  them  in  the  toil.     Charge !  Charge  ! 

BELESES. 

On !  on ! — Heaven  fights  for  us  and  with  us — On ! 

[They  charge  the  If  ing  and  SALEMENFS  ui'tA 
their  Troops,  who  defend  themselves  till  the 
Arrival  of  ZAMES  with  the  Guard  brfnrt 
mentioned.  The  Rebels  are  then  driven  qff", 
and  pursued  by  SALEMENES,  etc.  As  the 
King  is  going  to  join  the  pursuit,  BLLE/E* 
crosses  him. 

BELESES. 

Ho !  tyrant — /  will  end  this  war. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Even  so, 

My  warlike  priest,  and  precious  prophet,  and 
Grateful  and  trusty  subject: — yield,  I  pray  thee. 
I  would  reserve  thee  for  a  fitter  doom, 
Rather  than  dip  my  hands  in  holy  blood. 

BELESES. 
Thine  hour  is  come. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  thine. — I  've  lately  read 
Though  but  a  young  astrologer,  the  stars ; 
And  ranging  round  the  zodiac,  found  thy  fate 
In  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion,  which  proclaims 
That  thou  wilt  now  be  crush'u. 

BELESES. 

But  not  by  thee. 
[They  Jight :  BELESES  it  wmtndtd  ivul  dt» 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SARDANAPALUS  (raising  hit  sword  to  despatch  him, 

exclaims)— 

Now  call  upon  thy  planets ;  will  they  shoot 
From  the  sky,  to  preserve  their  seer  and  credit? 

[A.  party  of  Rebels  enter  and  rescue  BELESES. 
They  assail    the    King,   who,    in    turn,    is 
rescued  by   a  party    of  his    Soldiers,   who 
drive  the  Rebels  off. 
The  villain  was  a  prophet  after  all. 
Dpon  them — ho  !  there — victory  is  ours. 

[Exit  in  pursuit. 
MYRRHA  (to  PAKIA). 

Pursue !  Why  stand's!  thou  here,  and  leav'st  the  ranKs 
Of  fellow-soldiers  conquering  without  thee  ? 

PANIA. 

The  king's  command  was  not  to  quit  thee. 
MYRRHA. 

Me! 

Think  not  of  me — a  single  soldier's  arm 
Must  not  be  wanting  now.     I  ask  no  guard, 
I  need  no  guard :  what,  with  a  world  at  stake, 
Keep  watch  upon  a  woman  ?  Hence,  I  say, 
Or  thou  art  shamed  !  Nay,  then,  /  will  go  forth, 
A  feeble  female,  'midst  their  desperate  strife, 
And  bid  thee  guard  me  there — where  thou  shouldst  shield 
Thy  sovereign.  [Exit  MYRRHA. 

PANIA, 

Yet  stay,  damsel !  She  is  gone. 
If  aught  of  ill  betide  her,  better  I 
Had  lost  my  life.     Sardanapalus  holds  her 
Far  dearer  than  his  kingdom,  yet  he  fights 
For  that  too ;  and  can  I  do  less  than  him, 
Who  never  flash'd  a  scimetar  till  now  ? 
Myrrha,  return,  and  I  obey  you,  though 
In  disobedience  to  the  monarch.  [Exit  FANIA. 

Enter  ALTADA  and  SFERO,  by  an  opposite  door. 

ALTADA 

Myrrha ! 

What,  gone !  yet  she  was  here  when  the  fight  raged, 
And  Pania  also.     Can  aught  have  befallen  them? 

SFEKO. 

I  saw  both  safe,  when  late  the  rebels  fled : 
They  probably  are  but  retired  to  make 
Their  way  back  to  the  harem. 

ALTADA. 

If  the  king 

Prove  victor,  as  it  seems  even  now  he  must, 
And  miss  his  own  Ionian,  we  are  doom'd 
To  worse  than  captive  rebels. 
SFERO. 

Let  us  trace  them ; 

She  cannot  be  fled  far ;  and,  found,  she  makes 
A  richer  prize  to  our  soft  sovereign 
Than  his  recover'd  kingdom. 

ALTADA. 

Baal  himself 

Ne'er  fought  more  fiercely  to  win  empire,  than 
His  silken  son  to  save  it :  he  defies 
All  augury  of  foes  or  friends  ;  and  like 
The  close  and  sultry  summer's  day,  which  bodes 
A  twilight  tempest,  bursts  forth  in  such  thunder 
As  sweeps  the  air  and  deluges  the  earth. 
n.«  man 's  inscrutable. 

SFERO. 

Not  more  than  others. 


All  are  the  sons  of  circumstance:  away 

Let 's  seek  the  slave  out,  or  prepare  10  be 
Tortured  for  his  infatuation,  and 
Condemn'd  without  a  crime.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  SALEMENES  and  Soldiers,  etc. 

SALEMF  JES. 

The  triumph  is 

Flattering :  they  are  beaten  backward  from  the  pa.aee 
And  wt,  have  open'd  regular  access 
To  the  troops  station'd  on  the  other  side 
Euphrates,  who  may  still  be  true ;  nay,  must  be, 
When  they  hear  of  our  victory.     But  where 
Is  the  chief  victor  ?  where 's  the  king  ? 
Enter  SARDANAPALUS,  cum  suis,  etc.  and  MYRRHA 

SAHDANAPALUS. 

Here,  brother. 

SALEMENES. 

Unhurt,  I  hope. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Not  quite  ;  but  let  it  pass. 
We  Ve  clear'd  the  palace 

SALEMENES. 

And,  I  trust,  the  city. 

Our  numbers  gather  ;  and  I  have  order'd  onward 
A  cloud  of  Parthians,  hitherto  reserved, 
All  fresh  and  fiery,  to  be  pour'd  upon  them 
In  their  retreat,  which  soon  will  be  a  flight. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

It  is  already,  or  at  'east  they  march'd 

Faster  than  I  could  follow  with  my  Bactrians, 

Who  spared  no  speed.     I  am  spent ;  give  me  a  seat. 

SALEMENES. 

There  stands  the  throne,  sire. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  no  place  to  res:  OB, 
For  mind  nor  body :  let  me  have  a  couch, 

[They  place  a  teal. 

A  peasant's  stool,  I  care  not  what: — so — now 
I  breathe  more  freely. 

SALEMENES. 

This  great  hour  has  proved 
The  brightest  and  most  glorious  of  your  life. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  the  most  tiresome.  Where 's  my  cup-bearer  7 
Bring  me  some  water. 

SALEMENES   (smiling). 

'T  is  the  first  time  he 
Ever  had  such  an  order :  even  I, 
Your  most  austere  of  counsellors,  would  now 
Suggest  a  purpler  beverage. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Blood — doubtless. 
But  there 's  enough  of  that  shed  ;  as  for  wine, 
I  have  learn'd  to-night  the  price  of  the  pure  clemeni 
Thrice  have  I  drank  of  it,  and  thrice  renew'd, 
With  greater  strength  than  the  grape  ever  gavp  m*. 
My  charge  upon  the  rebels.   Where 's  the  soldior 
Who  gave  me  water  in  his  hemlet  ? 

ONE    OF    THE    GUARDS. 

Slain,  sire* 

An  arrow  pierced  his  brain,  while,  scattering 
The  last  drops  from  his  helm,  he  stood  in  ac» 
To  place  it  on  his  brows. 


312 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Slain!  unrewarded! 

And  slain  to  serve  my  thirst :  that 's  hard,  poor  slave ! 
Had  he  but  lived,  I  would  have  gorged  him  with 
Gold :  all  the  gold  of  earth  could  ne'er  repay 
'("he  pleasure  of  that  draught ;  for  I  was  parch'd 
As  1  am  now.  [They  bring  water — he  drinki. 

I  live  again — from  henceforth 
The  goblet  I  reserve  for  hours  of  love, 
But  war  on  water. 

SALEMENES. 

And  that  bandage,  sire, 
Which  girds  your  arm  7 

SARDANAPALUS. 

A  scratch  from  brave  Seleses. 

MVRRHA. 

Oh !  he  is  wounded ! 

SARDANAPALUS 

Not  too  much  of  that ; 
And  yet  it  feels  a  little  stiff  and  painful. 
Now  I  am  cooler. 

MYRRHA. 

You  have  bound  it  with— 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  fillet  of  my  diadem :  the  first  time 
That  ornament  was  ever  aught  to  m« 
Save  an  encumbrance. 

MYRRHA  (to  the  attendant!). 
Summon  speedily 

A  leech  of  the  most  skilful :  pray,  retire  ; 
[  will  unbind  your  wound  and  tend  it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Do  so, 

For  now  it  throbs  sufficiently :  but  what 
Know'st  thou  of  wounds !  yet  wherefore  do  I  ask  ? 
Know'st  thou,  my  brother,  where  I  lighted  on 
Th.s  minion  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Herding  with  the  other  females, 

Like  Irighten'd  antelopes. 

8AKDANAPALU8. 

No :  like  the  dam 

Of  the  young  lion,  femininely  raging 
(And  femininely  meaneth  furiously, 
Because  all  passions  in  excess  are  female) 
Against  the  hunter  flying  with  her  cub, 
She  urged  on  with  her  voice  and  gesture,  and 
Her  floating  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  the  soldiers 
In  the  pursuit. 

SALEMENES. 

Indeed! 

•ARDANAPALU8. 

You  see,  this  night 

M.'de  warriors  of  more  than  me.     I  paused 
To  look  upon  her,  and  her  kindled  cheek ; 
Her  large  black  eyes,  that  flash' d  through  her  long  hair 
As  it  stream'd  o'er  her ;  her  blue  veins  that  rose 
Along  her  most  transparent  brow ;  her  nostril 
Dilated  from  its  symmetry  ;  her  lips 
Apart ;  her  voice  that  clove  through  all  the  din, 
As  a  lute's  pierceth  through  the  cymbal's  clash, 
Jarra  but  not  drown'd  by  the  loud  brattling ;  her 
Waved  arms,  more  dazzling  with  their  own  born  white- 
ness 

Than  the  steel  ht  nand  held,  which  she  caught  up 
t'-oni  a  dead  soldier's  grasp  ;  all  these  things  made 


Her  seem  unto  the  troops  a  prophetess 
Of  victory,  or  Victory  herself, 
Come  down  to  hail  us  hers. 

SALEMENES    (aside). 

This  is  too  much  ; 
Again  the  love-fit 's  on  him,  and  all 's  lost, 
Unless  we  turn  his  thoughts. 

•(Aloud)  But,  pray  thee,  sip» 
Think  of  your  wound — you  said  even  now  't  was  painnti. 

SARDANAPAIUS. 

That 's  true,  too ;  but  I  must  not  think  of  it. 

SALEMENES. 

I  have  look'd  to  all  things  needful,  and  will  now 
Receive  reports  of  progress  made  in  such 
Orders  as  I  had  given,  and  then  return 
To  hear  your  further  pleasure. 

SARDANAPALUS 

Be  it  so. 

SALEMENES   (in  retiring-). 
Myrrha! 

MYRRHA, 
Prince. 

SALEMENES. 

You  have  shown  a  soul  to-m»ns 

Which,  were  he  not  my  sister's  lord But  now 

I  have  no  time :  thou  lov'st  the  king  ? 
M'YRRHA. 

I  love 
Sardanapalua, 

SALEMENES. 

But  wouldst  have  him  king  still  7 

MYRRHA. 

I  would  not  have  him  less  than  what  he  should  b». 

SALEMENES. 

Well,  then,  to  have  him  king,  and  yours,  ard  all 
He  should,  or  should  not  be  ;  to  have  him  /I'D*. 
Let  him  not  sink  back  into  luxury. 
You  have  more  power  upon  his  spirit  than 
Wisdom  within  these  walls,  or  fierce  rebellion 
Raging  without :  look  well  that  he  relapse  not. 

MYRRHA. 

There  needed  not  the  voice  of  Salemenes 
To  urge  me  on  to  this  ;  I  will  not  fail. 
All  that  a  woman's  weakness  can 

SALEMENES. 

Is  power 

Omnipotent  o'er  such  a  heart  as  his  ; 
Exert  it  wisely.  [Exit  SALEMEHEI 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Myrrha !  what,  at  whispers 
With  my  stem  brother  7  I  shall  soon  be  jealous. 

MYRRHA   (smiling). 

You  have  cause,  sire ;  for  on  the  earth  there  breathes  i* 
A  man  more  worthy  of  a  woman's  love— 
A  soldier's  trust — a  subject's  reverence — 
A  king's  esteem — the  whole  world's  admiration ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

?Praise  him,  but  not  so  warmly.     1  must  not 
Hear  those  sweet  lips  grow  eloquent  in  aught 
That  throws  me  into  shade ;  yet  you  speak  truth. 

MYRRHA. 

And  now  retire,  to  have  your  wound  look'd  to. 
Pray  lean  on  me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,  love !  but  not  from  pain. 

(Exeunt  twin. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


SI. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

ft  RDAHAPALUS  discovered  sleeping  upon  a  couch,  and 
occasionally  disttirbtd'in  his  slumbert,  with  MYRRH  A 
watching. 

HYRRHA  (sola,  gazing). 
I  have  stolen  upon  his  rest,  if  rest  it  be, 
Which  thus  convulses  slumber:  shall  I  wake  him? 
No,  he  seems  calmer.     Oh,  thou  God  of  Quiet ! 
Whose  reign  is  o'er  seal'd  eyelids  'and  soft  dreams, 
Or  deep,  deep  sleep,  so  as  to  be  unfathom'd, 
Look  like  thy  brother,  Death — so  still — so  stirless — 
For  then  we  are  happiest,  as  it  may  be,  we 
Are  happiest  of  all  within  the  realm 
Of  thy  stern,  silent,  and  unawakening  twin. 
Again  he  moves — again  the  play  of  pain 
Shoots  o'er  his  features,  as  the  sudden  gust 
Crisps  the  reluctant  lake  that  lay  so  calm 
Beneath  the  mountain  shadow  ;  or  the  blast 
Ruffles  the  autumn  leaves,  that  drooping  cling 
Fa;ntly  and  motionless  to  their  loved  boughs. 
I  must  awake  him — yet  not  yet :  who  knows 
From  what  I  rouse  him  ?     It  seems  pain ;  but  if 
I  quicken  him  to  heavier  pain  ?     The  fever 
Of  this  tumultuous  night,  the  grief  too  of 
His  wound,  though  slight,  may  cause  all  this,  and  shake 
Me  more  to  see  than  him  to  suffer.     No : 
Let  Nature  use  her  own  maternal  means,— 
And  I  await  to  second  not  disturb  her. 

SARDANAPALUS  (awakening). 
Not  so — although  ye  multiplied  the  stars, 
And  gave  them  to  me  as  a  realm  to  share 
From  you  and  with  you !     I  would  not  so  purchase 
The  empire  of  eternity. — Hence — hence — 
Old  hunter  of  the  earliest  brutes !  and  ye, 
Who  hunted  fellow-creatures  as  if  brutes, 
Once  bloody  mortals — and  now  bloodier  idols, 
If  your  priests  lie  not !     And  thou,  ghastly  beldame  ! 
Dripping  with  dusky  gore,  and  trampling  on 
The  carcasses  of  Inde — away  !  away  ! 
Where  am  I  ?  Where  the  spectres  ?  Where— No— that 
Is  no  false  phantom :  I  should  know  it  'midst 
All  that  the  dead  dare  gloomily  raise  up 
From  their  black  gulf  to  daunt  the  living.     Myrrha ! 

MYRRHA. 

Alas !  thou  art  pale,  and  on  thy  brow  the  drops 
Gather  like  night-dew.     My  beloved,  hush — 
Calm  thee.     Thy  speech  seems  of  another  world, 
And  thou  art  loved  of  this.     Be  of  good  cheer ; 
All  will  go  well. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Thy  hand — so— 't  is  thy  hand  ; 
T  is  flesh  ;  grasp— clasp — vet  closer,  till  I  feel 
Myself  that  which  I  was. 

MYRRHA. 

At  least  know  me 
For  what  I  am,  and  ever  must  be — thine. 

SARDAXAPALCS. 

I  know  it  now.     I  know  this  life  again. 

ih,  Myrrha  !  I  have  been  where  we  shall  be. 

MYRRHA. 

My  lord ! 

SARDAJTAPALUS. 

I've  been  i'  the  grave — where  worm*  are  lords, 
45 


And  kings  are But  I  did  not  deem  it  so ; 

I  thought 't  was  nothing. 

MYRRHA. 

So  it  is ;  except 
Unto  the  timid,  who  anticipate 
That  which  may  never  be. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh,  Myrrha !  if 
Sleep  shows  such  things,  what  may  not  death  disclose  .' 

MYRRHA. 

I  know  no  evil  death  can  show,  which  life 

Has  not  already  shown  to  those  who  live 

Embodied  longest.     If  there  be  indeed 

A  shore,  where  mind  survives,  'twill  be  as  mind, 

AH  unincoi  porate :  or  if  there  flits 

A  shadow  of  this  cumbrous  clog  of  clay, 

Which  stalks,  methinks,  between  our  souls  and  heaven. 

And  fetters  us  to  earth — at  least  the  phantom, 

Whate'er  it  have,  to  fear,  will  not  fear  death. 

SARDARAPALCS. 

I  fear  it  not ;  but  I  have  felt — have  seen — 
A  legion  of  the  dead. 

MYRRH/ 

And  so  have  I. 

The  dust  we  tread  upon  was  once  alive, 
And  wretched.     But  proceed :  what  hast  thou  seen  ? 
Speak  it,  't  will  lighten  thy  dimm'd  mind. 

EARDAHAPAMJS. 

Methought 

MYRRHA. 

Yet  pause,  thou  art  tired — in  pain— exhausted  ;  all 
Which  can  impair  both  strength  and  spirit:  seek 
Rather  to  sleep  again. 

SARDANAPALt'S. 

Not  now — I  would  not 

Dream  ;  though  I  know  it  now  to  be  a  dream 
What  1  have  dreamt : — und  canst  thou  bear  to  hear  it 

MYRRHA. 

I  can  bear  all  things,  dreams  of  life  or  death, 
Which  I  participate  with  you,  in  semblance 
Or  full  reality. 

SARDAXAPALUS. 

And  this  look'd  real, 

I  tell  you :  after  that  these  eyes  were  open, 
I  saw  them  in  their  flight — for  then  they  fled. 

MYRRHA. 
Say  on. 

SARDARAPALUS. 

I  saw,  that  is,  I  drcam'd  myself 
Here — here — even  where  we  are,  guests  as  we  were, 
Myself  a  host  that  deem'd  himself  but  guest, 
Willing  to  equal  all  in  social  freedom  ; 
But,  on  my  right  hand  and  my  left,  instead 
Of  thce  and  Zames,  and  our  accustom'd  meeting, 
Was  ranged  on  my  left  hand  a  haughty,  dark, 
And  deadly  face — I  could  not  recognise  it, 
Yet  I  had  seen  it,  though  I  knew  not  where ; 
The  features  were  a  giant's,  and  the  eye 
Was  still,  yet  'lighted  ;  his  long  locks  curl' 
On  his  vast  bust,  whence  a  huge  quiver  rose 
With  shaft-heads  feather'd  from  the  eagle's  wing, 
That  peep'd  up  bristling  through  his  s»n>ent  hair. 
I  invited  him  to  fill  the  cup  which  stood 
Between  us,  but  he  answer'd  not — I  fill'd  iv— 
He  took  it  not — but  stared  upon  me,  till 
I  trembled  at  the  fix'd  glare  or  HJJ  ey«  ; 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


[  frown'd  .ipon  him  as  a  king  should  Frown — 
Ho  frown'd  not  ir  his  turn,  but  look'd  upon  me 
With  the  same  aspect,  which  appall'd  me  more, 
Be<>.ause  it  changed  not,  and  1  turn'd  for  refuge 
To  milder  guests,  and  sought  them  on  the  right, 
Where  tnou  wert  wont  to  be.     But 

[He  pauses. 

MVRRHA. 

What  instead .' 

SARDANAPALCS. 

In  thy  own  chair — thy  own  place  in  the  banquet— 
(  sought  thy  sweet  face  in  the  circle — but 
Instead — a  gray-hair'd,  wither'd,  bloody-eyed, 
And  bloody-handed,  ghastly,  ghostly  thing, 
Female  in  garb,  and  crown'd  upon  the  brow, 
Furrow'd  with  years,  yet  sneering  with  the  passion 
Of  vengeance,  leering  too  with  that  of  lust, 
hate  ; — my  veins  curdled. 

MVRRHA. 

Is  this  all  7 

SARD  A  MA  HAL  US. 

Upon 

Her  n^'ht  hand — her  lank,  bird-like  right  hand — stood 

A  goblet,  bubbling  o'er  with  blood  ;  and  on 

Her  left  another,  fill'd  with — what  I  saw  not, 

But  turn'd  from  it  and  her.     But  all  along 

The  table  sate  a  range  of  crowned  wretches, 

Of  various  aspects,  but  of  one  expression. 

MYRRHA. 

And  felt  you  not  this  a  mere  vision  7 

8ARDANAPALUS. 

No; 

It  was  so  palpable,  I  could  have  touch' d  them. 
I  turn'd  from  one  face  to  another,  in 
The  hope  to  find  at  last  one  which  I  knew 
Ere  1  saw  theirs ;  but  no— all  turn'd  upon  me, 
And  stared,  but  neither  ate  nor  drank,  but  stared, 
rill  I  grew  stone,  as  they  seem'd  half  to  be, 
Vet  breathing  stone,  for  I  felt  life  in  them, 
And  life  in  me :  there  was  a  horrid  kind 
Of  sympathy  between  us,  as  if  they 
Had  lost  a  part  of  death  U,  come  to  me, 
And  I  the  half  of  life  to  sit  by  them. 
We  were  in  an  existence  all  apart 

From  heaven  or  earth And  rather  let  me  see 

Death  all  than  such  j.  being ! 

MVRRHA. 

And  the  end? 

SARDANAPAHJ8. 

At  last  I  sate  marble  as  they,  when  rose 
The  hunter  and  the  crew  ;  and  smiling  on  me— 
Yes,  the  enlarged  but  noble  aspect  of 
The  hunter  smiled  upon  me — I  should  say, 
His  lips,  for  his  eyes  moved  not — and  the  woman's 
Thin  lips  relax'd  to  something  like  a  smile. 
Both  rose,  and  the  crown'd  figures  on  each  hand 
Rose  also,  as  if  aping  their  chief  shades — 
Merc  mimics  even  in  death — but  I  sate  still: 
A  desperate  courage  crept  through  every  limb, 
And  at  the  last  I  fear'd  them  not,  but  laugh'd 
Full  in  their  phantom  faces.     But  then — then 
The  hunter  laid  his  hand  on  mine :  I  took  it, 
Ann  grasp'd  it — but  it  melted  from  my  own, 
While  he  too  vanish'd,  and  left  nothing  but 
Thn  memory  of  a  hero,  for  he  look'd  BO. 


MYRRHA 

And  was ;  the  ancestors  of  heroes,  too, 
And  thine  no  less. 

SARTJASAPAI.US. 

Ay,  Myrrha,  but  the  woman, 
The  female  who  remain'd,  she  Hew  upon  me, 
And  burnt  my  lips  up  with  her  noisome  kisses, 
And,  flinging  down  the  goblets  on  each  hand, 
Methought  their  poisons  flow'd  around  us,  till 
Each  form'd  a  hideous  river.     Still  she  clung: 
The  other  phantoms,  like  a  row  of  statues, 
Stood  dull  as  in  our  temples,  but  she  still 
Embraced  me,  while  I  shrunk  from  her,  as  if, 
In  lieu  of  her  remote  descendant,  I 
Had  been  the  son  who  slew  her  for  her  incest. 
Thep— then — a  chaos  of  all  loathsome  things 
•Throng'd  thick  and  shapeless :  I  was  dead,  yet  feelings- 
Buried,  and  raised  again — consumed  by  worms, 
Purged  by  the  flan?es,  and  wither'd  in  the  a..': 
I  can  fix  nothing  further  of  my  thoughts, 
Save  that  I  long'd  for  thee,  and  sought  for  thea, 
In  all  these  agonies,  and  woke  and  found  thec. 

MVRRHA. 

So  shall  thou  find  me  ever  at  thy  side, 

Here  and  hereafter,  if  the  last  may  bo. 

But  think  not  of  these  things — the  m?ro  ereatio» 

Of  late  events  acting  upon  a  fram<5 

Unused  to  toil,  yet  overwrought  by  toi', 

Such  as  might  try  the  sternest. 

SARDANAPAI.US. 

Now  that  I  see  thee  once  more,  what  wv  s«u» 
Seems  nothing. 

Enter  SALEMENES. 

SALEMENES. 

Is  the  king  so  soon  awake  7 

8ARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,  brother,  and  I  would  I  had  not  slept ; 
For  all  the  predecessors  of  our  line 
Rose  up,  methought,  to  drag  me  down  to  them 
My  father  was  amongst  them,  loo  ;  but  he, 
I  know  not  why,  kepi  from  me,  leaving  me 
Belween  the  hunter  founder  of  our  race 
And  her,  Ihc  homicide  and  husband-killer, 
Whom  you  call  glorious. 

SALEMENES. 

So  I  term  you  also, 

Now  yon  have  shown  a  spirit  like  to  hers. 
By  day-break  I  propose  that  we  set  forth, 
And  charge  once  more  the  rebel  crew,  who  still 
Keep  gathering  head,  repulsed,  but  not  quite  quell'd. 

SARD  A  NAP  ALL'S. 

How  wears  the  night  7 

SALEMENES. 

There  yet  remain  some  hours 
Of  darkness :  use  them  for  your  further  rest. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  not  to-night,  if  't  is  not  gone :  mothought 
I  pass'd  hours  in  that  vision. 

MYRRHA. 

Scarcely  one ; 

I  watch' d  by  you :  it  was  a  heavy  hour, 
But  an  hour  only. 

SARDAWAPAI.US. 

Let  us  then  hold  eoui>tiJ  • 
To-morrow  we  set  forth. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


315 


SALEMENES. 

But  ere  that  time, 
?  had  a  grace  to  seek. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Tis  granted. 

SALEMENES. 

Hear  it, 

Ere  you  reply  too  readily ;  and  't  is 
For  your  ear  only. 

MYRRHA. 

Prince,  I  take  my  leave. 

[Exit  MYRRHA. 

SALEMENES. 

That  slave  deserves  her  freedom. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Freedom  only ! 
That  slave  deserves  to  share  a  throne. 

SALEMENES. 

Your  patience— 

'T  is  not  yet  vacant,  and  't  is  of  its  partner 
I  come  to  speak  with  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

How!  of  the  queen? 

SALEMENES. 

Even  so.     I  judged  it  fitting  for  their  safety, 
That,  ere  the  dawn,  she  sets  forth  with  her  children 
For  Paphlagonia,  where  our  kinsman  Cotta 
Governs  ;  and  there  at  all  events  secure 
My  nephews  and  your  sons  their  lives,  and  with  them 
Their  just  pretensions  to  the  crown,  in  case 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  perish — as  is  probable  :  well  thought — 
Let  them  set  forth  with  a  sure  escort. 

SALEMENES. 

That 

Is  all  provided,  and  the  galley  ready 
To  drop  down  the  Euphrates ;  but  ere  they 
Depart,  will  you  not  see 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  sons  ?  It  may 

Unman  my  heart,  and  the  poor  boys  will  weep  ; 
And  what  can  I  reply  to  comfort  them, 
Save  with  some  hollow  hopes,  and  ill-worn  smiles  7 
You  know  I  cannot  feign. 

SALEMENES. 

But  you  can  feel ; 

At  least,  I  hust  so:  in  a  word,  the  queen 
Requests  to  see  you  ere  you  part — for  ever. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Unto  what  end  ?  what  purpose  ?    I  will  grant 
Aught — all  that  she  can  ask — but  such  a  meeting. 

SALEMENES. 

You  know,  or  ought  to  know,  enough  of  women, 
Since  you  have  studied  them  so  steadily, 
That  what  they  ask  in  aught  that  touches  on 
The  heart,  is  dearer  to  their  feelings  or 
Their  fancy  than  the  whole  external  world. 
[  think  as  you  do  of  my  sister's  wish ; 
But 't  was  her  wish — she  is  my  sister — you 
Her  husband — will  you  grant  it  1 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Twill  be  useless: 
But  let  her  come. 

SALfcMENES. 

.  go.  [Exit  SALEMFKCS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

We  have  lived  asunder 
Too  long  to  meet  again — and  now  to  meet ! 
Have  I  not  cares  enow,  and  pangs  enow, 
To  bear  alone,  that  we  must  mingle  sorrows, 
Who  have  ceased  to  mingle  love  ? 

Re-enter  SALEMENES  and  ZARINA. 

SALEMENES. 

My  sister!  courage' 

Shame  not  our  blood  with  trembling,  but  remember 
From  whence  we  sprung.    The  queen  is  present,  sire. 

ZARINA. 

I  pray  thee,  brother,  leave  me. 

SALEMENES. 

Since  you  ask  it. 
[Exit  SALEMENES. 

ZARINA. 

Alone  with  him !    How  many  a  year  has  past, 
Though  we  are  still  so  young,  since  we  have  met, 
Which  I  have  worn  in  widowhood  of  heart. 
He  loved  me  not :  yet  he  seems  little  changed — 
Changed  to  me  only — would  the  change  were  mutual . 
He  speaks  not — scarce  regards  me — not  a  word — 
Nor  look — yet  he  wa»  soft  of  voice  and  aspect, 
Indifferent,  not  austere.     My  lord  ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Zarina ' 

ZARINA. 

No,  not  Zarina— do  not  say  Zarina, 

That  lone — that  word — annihilate  long  years, 

And  things  which  make  them  longer. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'Tis  too  late 
To  think  of  these  past  dreams.     Let 's  not  reproach-  • 

That  is,  reproach  me  not — for  the  last  time 

ZARINA. 
And  Jirst.     I  ne'er  reproach'd  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  most  true ; 

And  that  reproof  comes  heavier  on  my  heart 
Than But  our  hearts  are  not  in  our  own  power. 

ZARINA. 

Nor  hands ;  but  I  gave  both. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Your  brother  said; 
It  was  your  will  to  see  me,  ere  you  went 

From  Nineveh  with (He  hesitates), 

ZARINA. 

Our  children :  it  n  tru», 
I  wish'd  to  thank  you  that  you  have  not  divided 
My  heart  from  all  that 's  left  it  now  to  love — 
Those  who  are  yours  and  mine,  who  look  like  you, 
And  look  upon  me  as  you  look'd  upon  me 
ce^— But  they  have  not  changed. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Nor  ever  witt. 
I  fain  would  have  them  dutiful. 

ZARINA. 

I  cherish 

Those  infants,  not  alone  from  the  blind  love 
Of  a  fond  mother,  but  as  a  fond  woman. 
They  are  now  the  only  tie  between  us. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Deem  o<*> 
I  have  not  done  you  justice :  rather  maxe  thnro 


316 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Resemble  /o-ir  owi.  line,  than  their  own  sire. 
1  trust  them  with  yen— to  you :  fit  them  for 

A  throne,  or,  if  thut  be  denied You  have  heard 

Of  this  night's  tumults? 

ZARINA. 

I  had  half  forgotten, 

And  could  have  welcomed  any  grief,  save  yours, 
Which  gave  me  to  behold  your  face  again. 

SJRDANAPALUS. 

The  throne — I  say  it  not  in  fear — but 't  is 
In  peril ;  they  perhaps  may  never  mount  it  r 
But  let  them  not  for  this  lose  sight  of  it. 
I  will  dare  all  things  to  bequeath  it  them ; 
But  if  I  fail,  then  they  must  win  it  back 
Bravely — and,  won,  wear  it  wisely,  not  as  I 
Have  wasted  down  my  royalty. 
ZARINA. 

They  ne'er 

Shall  know  from  me  of  aught  but  what  may  honour 
Their  father's  memory. 

S.VRDAt!APALUS. 

Rather  let  them  hear 

The  truth  from  you  than  from  a  trampling  world. 
If  they  be  in  adversity,  they  '11  learn 
Too  soon  the  scorn  of  crowds  for  crownless  princes, 
And  find  that  all  their  father's  sins  are  theirs. 
My  boys ! — I  could  have  borne  it  were  I  childless. 

ZARINA. 

Oh ;  do  not  say  so— do  not  poison  all 
My  peace  left,  by  unwishing  that  thou  wert 
A  father.     If  thou  conquerest,  they  shall  reign, 
And  honour  him  who  saved  the  realm  for  them, 
So  little  cared  for  as  his  own  ;  and  if 

8ARDANAPALUS. 

'T  -s  lost,  al)  earth  will  cry  out,  thank  your  father ! 
A; id  they  will  swell  the  echo  with  a  curse.  • 

ZARINA. 

That  they  shall  never  do ;  but  rather  honour 
The  name  of  him,  who,  dying  like  a  king, 
In  his  last  hours  did  more  for  his  own  memory, 
Than  many  monarchs  in  a  length  of  days, 
Which  date  the  flight  of  time,  but  make  no  annals. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Our  annals  draw  perchance  unto  their  close ; 
But  at  the  least,  whate'er  the  past,  their  end 
Shall  be  like  their  beginning — memorable. 

ZARINA. 

tfei,  be  not  rash — be  careful  of  your  Ufe, 
I-ive  but  for  those  who  love. 

RARDANAPALUS. 

And  who  are  they? 

A  sla\e,  who  loves  from  passion — I  '11  not  say 
Ambition — she  has  seen  thrones  shake,  and  loves ; 
A  few  friends,  who  have  revell'd  till  we  are 
An  one,  for  they  are  nothing  if  I  fall , 
A  brother  1  have  injured— children  whom 
I  'lave  neglected,  and  a  spouse 

ZARINA. 

Who  loves. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  pardons . 

ZARINA. 

I  have  never  thought  of  this, 
Ana  cannot  pardon  ti'.l  I  have  condemnM. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Mv  wite 


ZARINA. 

Now  blessings  on  thee  for  that  word  ' 
[  never  thought  to  hear  it  more — from  thee. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Oh !  thou  wilt  hear  it  from  my  subjects.     Yes — 
The  slaves,  whom  I  have  nurtured,  pamper'd,  fed, 
And  swoln  with  peace,  and  gorged  with  plenty,  till 
They  reign  themselves — all  monarchs  in  their  mju» 

sions — 

Now  swarm  forth  in  rebellion,  and  demand 
His  death,  who  made  their  lives  a  jubilee  : 
While  the  few  upon  whom  I  have  no  claim 
Are  faithful.  This  is  true,  yet  monstrous. 

ZARINA. 

'TIS 

Perhaps  too  natural ;  for  benefits 

Turn  poison  in  bad  minds.  . 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  good  ones  make 
Good  out  of  evil.     Happier  than  the  bee, 
Which  hives  not  but  from  wholesome  flowers. 

ZARINA. 

Then  reap 

The  honey,  nor  inquire  whence  't  is  derived. 
Be  satisfied — you  are  not  all  abandon'd. 

RDANAPALUS. 

My  life  insures  me  tnat.     How  long,  bethink  you, 

Were  not  I  yet  a  king,  should  I  be  mortal  ? 

That  is,  where  mortals  are,  not  where  they  must  be  7 

ZARINA. 

I  know  not.  But  yet  live  for  my — that  is, 
Your  children's  sake ! 


My  gentle,  wrong'd  Zarina ! 
I  am  the  very  slave  of  circumstance 
And  impulse — borne  away  with  every  breath ! 
Misplaced  upon  the  throne — misplaced  in  life. 
I  know  not  what  I  could  have  been,  but  feel 
I  am  not  what  I  should  be — let  it  end. 
But  take  this  with  thee :  if  I  was  not  form'd 
To  prize  a  love  like  thine,  a  mind  like  thine, 
Nor  dote  even  on  thy  beauty — as  I  've  doted 
On  lesser  charms,  for  no  cause  save  that  such 
Devotion  was  a  duty,  and  I  hated 
All  that  look'd  like  a  chain  for  me  or  others 
(This  even  rebellion  must  avouch);  yet  hear 
These  words,  perhaps  among  my  last — that  none 
Ere  valued  more  thy  virtues,  though  he  knew  rot 
To  profit  by  them — as  the  miner  lights 
Upon  a  vein  of  virgin  ore,  discovering 
That  which  avails  him  nothing ;  he  hath  found  it, 
But  'tis  not  his — but  some  superior's,  who 
Placed  him  to  dig,  but  not  divide  the  wealth 
Which  sparkles  at  his  feet ;  nor  dare  he  lift 
Nor  poise  it,  but  must  grovel  on  upturning 
The  sullen  earth. 

ZARINA. 

Oh !  if  thou  hast  at  lengLi 
Discover'd  that  my  love  is  worth  esteem, 
I  ask  no  more — but  let  us  hence  together, 
And  / — let  me  say  we — shall  yet  be  happy. 
Assyria  is  not  all  the  earth — we  '11  find 
A  world  out  of  our  own — and  be  more  ble~t 
Than  I  have  ever  been,  or  thou,  with  all 
An  empire  to  indulge  thee. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


311 


Enter  S.\  UKMENES. 

(ALEMENES. 

I  must  part  ye— 
The  moments,  wmch  must  not  be  lost,  are  passing. 

ZARINA. 

Inhuman  brother !  wilt  thou  thus  weigh  out 
Instants  so  high  and  blest  ? 

IALEMENE8. 

Blest! 

ZARINA. 

He  ha'b  V«en 

So  gentle  with  me,  that  I  cannot  think 
Of  quitting. 

SALEMENES. 

So — this  feminine  farewell 
Ends  as  such  partings  end,  in  no  departure. 
I  thought  as  much,  and  yielded  against  all 
My  better  bodings.    But  it  must  not  be. 

ZARINA. 

Not  be? 

SALEMEMf. 

Remain,  and  perish  •  •   • 

ZAMINA. 

With  my  husband — 

IALEMENES. 

Vnd  children. 

ZARINA. 

Alas! 

2ALEMENES. 

Hear  me,  sister,  like 

Wy  sister :—  all 's  prepared  to  make  your  safety 
Certain,  ard  of  the  boys  too,  our  last  hopes. 
T  is  not  a  single  question  of  mere  feeling, 
.Though  that  were  much — but 't  is  a  point  of  state : 
The  rebels  would  do  more  to  seize  upon 
The  offspring  of  their  sovereign,  and  so  crush 

ZARINA. 

Ah  !  do  not  name  it. 

SALEMENES. 

Well,  then,  mark  me :  when 

They  are  safe  beyond  the  Median's  grasp,  the  rebels 
Have  miss'd  their  chief  aim — the  extinction  of 
The  line  of  Nimrod.     Though  the  present  king 
Fall,  his  sons  live  for  victory  and  vengeance. 

ZARINA. 

But  could  not  I  remain,  alone  ? 

SALEMENES. 

What!  leave 

Four  children,  with  two  parents  and  yet  orphans — 
In  a  strange  land — so  young,  so  distant  7 

ZARINA. 

No— 
My  heart  will  break. 

SALEMENES. 

Now  you  know  all — decide. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

7arma,  he  hath  spoken  well,  and  we 
Must  yield  awhile  to  this  necessity. 
Remaining  here,  you  may  lose  all ;  departing, 
You  save  the  better  part  of  what  is  left 
ro  both  of  us,  and  to  such  loyal  hearts 
A.S  yet  beat  in  these  kingdoms. 

SALEMENES. 

The  time  presses. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

(Uo,  then.    If  e'er  we  meet  again,  perhaps  ' 


I  may  be  worthier  of  you — and,  if  not, 
Remember  that  my  faults,  though  not  atoned  for, 
Are  ended.     Yet,  I  dread  thy  nature  will 
Grieve  more  above  the  blighted  name  and  ashes 

Which  once  were  mightiest  in  Assyria — than 

But  I  grow  womanish  again,  and  must  not ; 
I  must  learn  sternness  now.     My  sins  have  all 
Been  of  the  softer  order — hide  thy  tears — 
I  do  not  bid  thee  not  to  shed  them — 't  were 
Easier  to  stop  Euphrates  at  hs  source 
Than  one  tear  of  a  true  and  tender  heart — 
But  let  me  not  behold  them ;  they  unman  me 
Here  when  I  had  remann'd  myself.     My  brolhe-. 
Lead  her  away. 

ZARINA. 

Oh,  God !  I  never  shall 
Behold  him  more ! 

SALEMENES  (striving  to  conduct  her). 
Nay,  sister,  I  must  be  obey'd. 

ZARINA. 

I  must  remain — away !  you  shall  not  hold  me. 
What,  shall  he  die  alone? — /  live  alone? 

SALEMENES. 

He  shall  not  die  alone  ;  but  lonely  you 
Have  lived  for  years. 

ZARINA. 

That 's  false !  I  knew  he  iived. 
And  lived  upon  his  image — let  me  go ! 

SALEMENES  (conducting  her  off"  the  stage). 
Nay,  then,  I  must  use  some  fraternal  force, 
Which  you  will  pardon. 

ZARINA. 

Never.     Help  me !     Oh  ' 
Sardanapalus,  wilt  thou  thus  behold  me 
Torn  from  thee  ? 

SALEMENES. 

Nay — then  all  is  lost  again, 
If  that  this  moment  is  not  gain'd. 

ZARINA. 

My  brain  turns — 

My  eyes  fail — where  is  he?  [She faints 

SARDANAPALUS  (advancing). 

No — set  her  down — 
She 's  dead — and  you  have  slain  her. 

SALEMENES. 

'T  is  the  mere 
Faintness  of  o'er-wrought  passion :  in  the  air 
She  will  recover.    Pray,  keep  back. — [Aside.]  I  mu* 
Avail  myself  of  this  sole  moment  to 
Bear  her  to  where  her  children  are  embark'd, 
I'  the  royal  galley  on  the  nver. 

[SALEMENES  bears  her  of. 

BARDANAPALUS    (solus). 

This  too— 
And  this  too  must  I  suffer — I,  who  never 
Inflicted  purposely  on  human  hearts 
A  voluntary  pang !  But  that  is  false — 
She  loved  me,  and  I  loved  her.     Fatal  passion  ' 
Why  dost  thou  not  expire  at  once  in  hearts 
Which  thou  hast  lighted  up  at  once  ?  Zarina ! 
t  must  pay  dearly  for  the  desolation 
Sow  brought  upon  thee.     Had  I  never  loved 
But  thee,  I  should  have  been  an  unopposed 
Monarch  of  honouring  nations.     To  what  gulf* 
A  single  deviation  from  the  track 
Of  human  duties,  leaas  even  those  who  claim 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


The  han.ige  of  nunkind  ,-.s  their  bom  due, 
And  fiftJ  it,  till  they  forfeit  it  themselves  ! 
Enter  MYRRH  A. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Fbuhere!  Who  call'd  you? 

MYRRHA. 

No  one — but  I  heard 
Far  off*  a  voice  of  wail  and  lamentation, 
And  thought 

SAR1)ANAPALUS. 

It  forms  no  portion  of  your  duties 
To  enter  here  till  sought  for. 

MYRRHA. 

Though  I  might, 

Perhaps,  recall  some  softer  words  of  yours 
(Although  they  too  were  chiding),  which  reproved  me, 
Because  I  ever  dreaded  to  intrude  ; 
Resisting  my  own  wish  and  your  injunction 
To  heed  no  time  nor  presence,  but  approach  you 
Uncall'd  for :  I  retire. 

SARDANAPALU8. 

Yet,  stay — being  here. 

I  pray  you  pardon  me :  events  have  sour'd  me 
TiB  I  wax  peevish — heed  it  not :  I  shall 
Soon  be  myself  again. 

MYRRHA. 

I  wait  with  patience, 
What  I  shall  see  with  pleasure. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Scarce  a  moment 

Befoie  your  entrance  in  this  ha!,,  Zarina, 
Queen  cf  Assyria,  departed  hence. 

MVRRHA. 

Ah' 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Wherefore  do  you  start  ? 

MYRRHA. 

Did  I  do  so  7 

fcARDANAPALUS. 

T  was  well  you  entsr'd  by  another  portal, 

Else  you  had  met.     That  pang  at  least  is  spared  her! 

MVRRHA. 

I  know  to  feel  for  her. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

That  is  too  much, 

And  beyond  uature — 't  is  nor  mutual, 
Nor  possible.     You  canno:  pity  her, 

Nor  sl-e  aught  but 

MYRRHA. 

Despise  the  favourite  slave  7 
N'  *  more  than  I  have  ever  scorn'd  myself. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Scom'd !  what,  to  be  the  envy  of  your  sex, 
And  lord  it  o'er  the  heart  of  the  world's  lord  ? 

MYRRHA. 

Were  you  the  lord  of  twice  ten  thousand  worlds — 
As  you  are  like  to  lose  the  one  you  sway'd— 
I  did  abase  myfslf  as  much  in  being 
Your  paramour,  as  though  you  were  a  peasant- 
Nay,  more,  if  that  the  peasant  were  a  Greek. 

•  A3DAHAPALUS, 

You  talk.  U  well 

MYRRHA. 

And  truly. 


SARDAMAPAI-nS. 

Ir.  the  hour 
Of  man's  adversity,  all  things  grow  daring 
Against  the  falling ;  but  as  I  am  nut 
Quite  fallen,  nor  now  disposed  to  bear  reproechcn 
Perhaps  because  I  merit  them  too  often, 
Let  us  then  part  while  peace  is  still  between  u» 

MVRRHA. 
Part! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Have  not  all  past  human  beings  parted, 
And  must  not  all  the  present  one  day  part  ? 

MVRRHA. 

Why? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

For  your  safety,  which  I  will  have  look'a  M, 
With  a  strong  escort  to  your  native  land  ; 
And  such  gifts  as,  if  you  have  not  been  all 
A  queen,  shall  make  your  dowry  worth  a  kingdom. 

MVHRHA. 

[  pray  you  talk  not  thus. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  queen  is  gone 
You  need  not  shame  to  follow.     I  would  faL 
Alone— I  seek  no  partners  but  in  pleasure. 

MYRRHA. 

And  I  no  pleasure  but  in  parting  not 
You  shall  not  force  me  trom  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Think  well  of  it— 
[t  toon  may  be  too  late. 

MVRRHA. 

So  let  it  be  ; 
For  then  you  cannot  separate  me  from  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  will  not ;  but  I  thought  you  wish'd  iu 

MYRRHA. 

I? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You  spoke  of  your  abasement. 

MVRRHA. 

And  I  feel  it 
Deeply — more  deeply  than  all  things  but  love. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  fly  from  it. 

MVRRHA. 

'T  will  not  recall  the  past — 
'T  will  not  restore  my  honour,  nor  my  heart. 
No— here  I  stand  or  fall.     If  that  you  conquer, 
I  live  to  joy  in  your  great  triumph  ;  should 
Your  lot  be  different,  I  '11  not  weep,  but  share  it. 
You  did  not  doubt  me  a  few  hours  ago. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Your  courage  never — nor  your  love  till  now  ; 
And  none  could  make  me  doubt  it,  save  yourself. 
Those  words 

MVRRRA. 

Were  words.    I  pray  you,  let  th«  proofi 
Be  in  the  past  acts  you  were  pleased  to  pra:sf 
This  very  night,  and  in  my  further  bearing, 
Beside,  wherever  you  are  borne  by  fate. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  am  content ;  and,  trusting  in  my  cause, 
Think  we  may  yet  be  victors,  and  return 
To  peace — the  only  victory  I  covet. 
To  me  war  is  no  glory— conquest  no 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Renown.     To  be  forced  thus  to  uphold  my  right, 

Sits  heavier  on  my  heart  than  all  the  wrongs 

These  men  would  bow  me  down  with.     Never,  never 

Can  I  forget  this  night,  even  should  I  live 

To  add  it  to  the  memory  of  others. 

1  thought  to  have  made  mine  inoffensive  rule 

An  era  of  sweet  peace  'midst  bloody  annals, 

A  green  spot  amidst  desert  centuries, 

On  which  the  future  would  turn  back  and  smile, 

And  cultivate,  or  sigh  when  it  could  not 

Recall  Sardanapalus'  golden  reign. 

I  thought  to  have  made  my  realm  a  paradise, 

And  every  moon  an  epoch  of  new  pleasures. 

I  took  the  rabble's  shouts  for  love— the  breath 

9f  friends  for  truth — the  lips  of  woman  for 

My  only  guerdon — so  they  are,  my  Myrrha : 

[He  kisses  her. 

Kiss  me.     Now  let  them  take  my  realm  and  life ! 
They  shall  have  both,  but  never  thee  ! 

MYRRHA. 

No,  never! 

Man  may  despoil  his  brother  man  of  all 
That  :s  great  or  glittering :  kingdoms  fall — hosts  yield — 
Friends  fail — slaves  fly — and  all  betray — and,  more 
Than  all,  the  most  indebted — but  a  heart 
That  loves  without  self-love  !  'T  is  here — now  prove  it. 

Enter  SALEMENES. 

SALEMENES. 

J  sought  you. — How !  the  here  again  7 

SARDAMAPALUS. 

Return  not 

Now  to  reproof:  methinks  your  aspect  speaks 
Of  higher  matter  than  a  woman's  presence. 

SALEMENES. 

The  only  woman  whom  it  much  imports  me 
At  such  a  moment  now  is  safe  in  absence — 
The  queen 's  embark'd. 

SARUANAPALUS. 

And  well  ?  say  that  much. 

SALEMENES. 

Yes. 

Her  transient  weakness  has  past  o'er ;  at  least, 

It  settled  into  tearless  silence :  her 

Pale  face  and  glittering  eye,  after  a  glance 

Upon  her  sleeping  children,  were  still  fix'd 

Upon  the  palace  towers,  as  the  swift  galley 

Stole  down  the  hurrying  stream  beneath  the  starlight ; 

But  she  said  nothing. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Would  I  felt  no  more 
Than  she  has  said. 

SALEMENES. 

'Tis  now  too  late  to  feel! 
Your  feelings  cannot  cancel  a  sole  pang : 
To  change  them,  my  advices  bring  sure  tidings 
That  the  rebellious  Medes  and  Chaldees,  marshall'd 
By  their  two  leaders,  are  already  up 
In  arms  again  ;   and,  serrying  their  ranks, 
Prepare  to  attack :  they  have  apparently 
Been  join'd  by  other  satraps. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

What!  more  rebels 7 
Let  us  be  first,  then. 


SALEMENES. 

That  were  hardlv  oruden 
Now,  though  it  was  our  first  intention,     i 
By  noon  to-morrow  we  are  join'd  By  those 
I  've  sent  for  by  sure  messengers,  we  shall  be 
In  strength  enough  to  venture  an  attack, 
Ay,  and  pursuit  too :  but,  till  then,  my  voice 
Is  to  await  the  onset. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  detest 

That  waiting ;  though  it  seems  so  safe  to  fight 
Behind  high  walls,  and  hurl  down  foes  into 
Deep  fosses,  or  behold  them  sprawl  on  spikes 
Strew'd  to  receive  them,  slill  I  like  it  not — 
My  soul  seems  lukewarm  ;  but  when  I  set  on  then. 
Though  they  were  piled  on  mountains,  I  would  have 
A  pluck  at  them,  or  perish  in  hot  blood  ! — 
Let  me  then  charge  ! 

SALEMENES. 

You  talk  like  a  young  soldier 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  am  no  soldier,  but  a  man :  speak  not 
Of  soldiership — I  loathe  the  word,  and  those 
Who  pride  themselves  upon  it ;  but  direct  me 
Where  I  may  pour  upon  them. 

SALEMENES. 

You  must  spare 

To  expose  your  life  too  hastily  ;  't  is  not 
Like  mine  or  any  other  subject's  breath : 
The  whole  war  turns  upon  it — with  it ;  this 
Alone  creates  it,  kindles,  and  may  quench  it- 
Prolong  it — end  it. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Then  let  us  end  both! 

'T  were  better  thus,  perhaps,  than  prolong  eithei , 
I  'm  sick  of  one,  perchance  of  both. 

[A.  trumpet  founds  without. 

SALEMENEI. 

Hark! 

SARDANAPALUb 

Let  us 
Reply,  not  listen. 

SALEMENES. 

And  your  wound  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

'T  is  bound— 

'T  is  heal'd — I  had  forgotten  it.     Away  ! 
A  leech's  lancet  would  have  scratch'd  me  deeper 
The  slave  that  gave  it  might  be  well  ashamed 
To  have  struck  so  weakly. 

SALEMENES. 

Now  may  none  this  hour 
Strike  with  a  better  aim ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ay,  if  we  conquer; 
But  if  not,  they  will  only  leave  to  me 
A  task  they  might  have  spared  their  king.  Upf  n  '.hen; 
[Trumpet  sounds  ogam 

SALEMF.NFR. 

I  am  with  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Ho,  my  arms !  again,  mv  arms 


320 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

Fhe  tame  Hall  of  the  Palace. 
MYRRHA  and  BALEA. 
MFRRHA  (at  a  window). 
The  da  y  at  last  has  broken.     What  a  night 
Hath  usher'd  it !     How  beautiful  in  heaven ! 
Though  varied  with  a  transitory  storm, 
More  beautiful  in  that  variety ! 
How  hideous  upon  earth !  where  peace  and  hope, 
And  love  and  revel,  in  an  hour  were  trampled 
By  human  passions  to  a  human  chaos, 
Not  yet  resolved  to  separate  elements. — 
'T  is  warring  still !     And  can  the  sun  so  rise, 
So  bright,  so  rolling  back  the  clouds  into 
Vapours  more  lovely  than  the  unclouded  sky, 
With  golden  pinnacles,  and  snowy  mountains, 
And  billows  purpler  than  the  ocean's,  making 
In  heaven  a  glorious  mockery  of  the  earth, 
So  like,  we  almost  deem  it  permanent ; 
So  fleeting,  we  can  scarcely  call  it  aught 
Beyond  a  vision,  'tis  so  transiently 
Scatter'd  along  the  eternal  vault :  and  yet 
It  dwells  upon  the  soul,  and  soothes  the  soul, 
And  blends  itself  info  the  soul,  until 
Sunrise  and  sunset  form  the  haunted  epoch 
Of  sorrow  and  of  love  ;  which  they  who  mark  not 
Know  not  the  realms  where  those  twin  genii 
(Who  chasten  and  who  purify  our  hearts, 
So  that  we  would  not  change  their  sweet  rebukes 
For  all  the  boisterous  joys  that  ever  shook 
The  air  with  clamour)  build  the  palaces 
Where  their  fond  votaries  repose  and  breathe 
){<  icfly  ; — but  in  that  brief  cool  calm  inhale 
Enough  of  heaven  to  enable  them  to  bear 
The  rest  of  common,  heavy,  human  hours, 
And  dream  them  through  in  placid  sufferance ; 
Though  seemingly  employ'd  like  all  the  rest 
Of  toiling  breathers  in  allotted  tasks 
Of  paih  or  pleasure,  two  names  for  one  feeling. 
Which  our  internal,  restless  agony 
Would  vary  in  the  sound,  although  the  sense 
Escapes  our  highest  efforts  to  be  happy. 
BALEA. 

i'ou  muse  right  calmly :  and  can  you  so  watch 
The  sunrise  which  may  be  our  last  ? 

MYRRHA. 

It  IS 

Therefore  that  I  so  watch  it,  and  reproach 
Those  eyes,  which  never  may  behold  it  more, 
For  having  look'd  upon  it  oft,  too  oft, 
Without  the  reverence  and  the  rapture  due 
To  that  which  keeps  all  earth  from  being  as  fragile 
As  I  am  in  this  form.     Come,  look  upon  it, 
The  Chaldee's  god,  which,  when  I  gaze  upon, 
1  trrow  almost  a  convert  to  your  Baal. 

BALEA. 

48  now  ne  reigns  .11  heaven,  so  once  on  earth 
Ho  sway'd. 

MVRRHA. 

He  sways  it  now  far  more,  then ;  never 
•lad  c»rth!y  monarch  half  the  peace  and  glory 
'Vhicn  centres  in  a  single  ray  of  his. 


BAI.EA. 

Surely  he  is  a  god ! 

MYRRHA. 

So  we  Greeks  deem  too  ; 
And  yet  I  sometimes  think  that  gorgeous  orb 
Must  rather  be  the  abode  of  gods  than  one 
Of  the  immortal  sovereigns.     Now  he  breaks 
Through  all  the  clouds,  and  fills  my  eyes  with  light 
That  shuts  the  world  out.     I  can  look  no  more. 

BALEA. 

Hark !  heard  you  not  a  sound  ? 

MYRRHA. 

No,  't  was  mere  fan«y  j 
They  battle  it  beyond  the  wall,  and  not 
As  in  late  midnight  conflict  in  the  very 
Chambers ;  the  palace  has  become  a  fortress 
Since  that  insidious  hour ;  and  here  within 
The  very  centre,  girded  by  vast  courts 
And  regal  halls  of  pyramid  proportions, 
Which  must  be  carried  one  by  one  before 
They  penetrate  to  where  they  then  arrived, 
We  are  as  much  shut  in  even  from  the  sound 
Of  peril  as  from  glory. 

BALEA. 

But  they  reach'd 
Thus  far  before. 

MYRRHA. 

Yes,  by  surprise,  and  were 
Beat  back  by  valour ;  now  at  once  we  have 
Courage  and  vigilance  to  guard  us. 

BALEA. 

May  the* 
Prosper ! 

MYRRHA. 

That  is  the  prayer  of  many,  and 
The  dread  of  more :  it  is  an  anxious  hour ; 
I  strive  to  keep  it  from  my  thoughts.     Alas ! 
How  vainly ! 

BALEA. 

It  is  said  the  king's  demeanour 
In  the  late  action  scarcely  more  appall'd 
The  rebels  than  astonish'd  his  true  subjects. 

MYRRHA. 
'T  is  easy  to  astonish  or  appal 
The  vulgar  mass  which  moulds  a  horde  of  slavoi 
But  tie  did  bravely. 

BALEA. 

Slew  he  not  Beleses  ? 
I  heard  the  soldiers  say  he  struck  him  down. 

MYRRHA. 

The  wretch  was  overthrown,  but  rescued  to 
Triumph,  perhaps,  o'er  one  who  vanquish'd  him 
In  fight,  as  he  had  spared  him  in  his  peril, 
And  by  that  heedless  pity  risk'd  a  crown. 

BALEA. 

Hark! 

MYRRHA. 

You  are  right ;  some  steps  approach,  Lit  sU   ly 
Enter  soldiers,  bearing  in  SALEME.VES  wounded,  -*» 
a  broken  Javelin  in  his  Side :  tf.ty  feat  him  winm* 
of  the  Couches  which  furnish  the  Apwtment. 

MYRRHA. 

Oh,  Jove ! 

BALEA. 

Ther  all  is  over. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


321 


SALEMENES. 

That  is  false. 
Hew  down  the  slave  who  says  so,  if  a  soldier. 

MYRRHA. 

Spare  him — he 's  none  :  a  mere  court  butterfly, 
That  flutters  in  the  pageant  of  a  monarch. 

SALEMENES. 

Let  him  live  on,  then. 

MYRRHA. 

So  wilt  thou,  I  trust. 

SALEMENES. 

I  fain  would  live  this  hour  out,  and  the  event, 
But  doubt  it.    Wherefore  did  ye  bear  me  here  ? 

SOLDIER. 

By  the  king's  order.    When  the  javelin  struck  you, 
You  fell  and  fainted ;  't  was  his  strict  command 
To  bear  you  to  this  hall. 

SALEMENES. 

'T  was  not  ill  done : 

For,  seeming  slain  in  that  cold  dizzy  trance, 
The  sight  might  shake  our  soldiers — but— 'tis  vain. 
I  fed  it  ebbing ! 

MYRRHA. 

Let  me  see  the  wound ; 
I  am  not  quite  skilless  :  in  my  native  land 
'Tis  part  of  our  instruction.    War  being  constant, 
We  ore  nerved  to  look  on  such  things. 
SOLDIER. 

Best  extract 
The  javelin. 

MYRRHA. 
Hold  !  in,  no,  it  cannot  be. 

SALEMENEI. 

I  am  sped,  then ! 

MYRRHA. 

With  the  blood  that  fast  must  follow 
The  extracted  weapon,  I  do  fear  thy  life. 

SALEMENES. 

And  I  not  death.    Where  was  the  king  when  you 
Convey'd  me  from  the  spot  where  I  was  stricken? 

SOLDIER. 

Upon  the  same  ground,  and  encouraging 
With  voice  and  gesture  the  dispirited  troops 
Who  had  seen  you  fall,  and  faltcr'd  back. 

SALEMENES. 

Whom  heard  ye 
Named  next  to  the  command? 
SOLDIER. 

I  did  not  hear. 

SALEMENES. 

Fly,  then,  and  tell  him,  't  was  my  last  request 
That  Zames  take  my  post  until  the  junction, 
So  hoped  for,  yet  delay'd,  of  Ofratanes, 
Satrap  of  Susa.     Leave  me  here :  our  troops 
Are  not  so  numerous  as  to  spare  your  absence. 

SOLDIER. 
But,  prince 

SALEMENES. 

Hence,  I  say !  Here  's  a  courtier  and 
\  woman,  the  best  chamber  company. 
As  you  would  not  permit  me  to  expire 
Upon  the  field,  I  '11  have  no  idle  soldiers 
About  my  sick  couch.     Hence !  and  do  my  bidding ! 
[Exeunt  the  Solttieri. 

MYRRHA. 

."Jallont  and  gloi  ious  epiril !  must  the  eartu 
2  F  46 


So  soon  resign  thee  ? 

8ALEMKNES. 

Gentle  Myrrha,  't  is 

The  end  I  would  have  chosen,  had  I  saved 
The  monarch  or  the  monarchy  by  this ; 
As  't  is,  I  have  not  outlived  them. 

MYRRHA. 

You  wax  paler. 

SALEMENES. 

Your  hand ;  this  broken  weapon  but  prolongs 
My  pangs,  without  sustaining  life  enough 
To  make  me  useful :  I  would  draw  it  forth, 
And  my  life  with  it,  could  I  but  hear  how 
The  fight  goes. 

Enter  SARDANAPALUS  and  Soldier*. 

IARDANAPALUS. 

My  best  brother ! 

SALEMENES. 

And  the  battle 
Is  lost? 

8ARDANAPALUS    (despondingly). 
You  *ee  me  here. 

IALEMENES. 

I  'd  rather  see  you  thus  ! 
[He  draws  out  the  weapon  from  the  wound,  and  diet 

SARDANAPATUS. 

And  thus  I  will  be  soon,  unless  the"  succour, 
The  last  frail  reed  of  our  bcleagucr'd  hopes, 
Arrive  with  Ofratanes. 

MYRRHA. 

Did  you  not 

Receive  a  token  from  your  dying  brother, 
Appointing  Zames  chief? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  did. 
MYRRHA. 

Where  's  Zames  1 

IARDANAPALUS. 

Dead. 

MYRRHA. 

And  Altada? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Dying. 

MYRRHA. 

Pania?  Sfero? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Pania  yet  lives ;  but  Sfero 's  fled,  or  captive. 
I  am  alone. 

MYRRHA. 

And  is  all  lost? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Our  walls, 

Though  thinly  mann'd,  may  still  hold  out  agam»{ 
Their  present  force,  or  aught  save  treachery  • 
But  i'  the  field 

MYRRRA. 

I  thought 't  was  the  intent 
Of  Salemenes  not  to  risk  a  sally 
Till  ye  were  strengthen'd  by  the  expected  succotn  • 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  overruled  him. 

MYRRHA. 

Well,  the  fault 's  a  bra  co  nnn. 

BAR  DANA  ['ALL'S. 

But  fatal.     On,  my  brother !  I  wouid  give 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


These  realms,  of  wliich  thou  wort  the  ornament, 
1  he  sword  and  shield,  the  sole  redeeming  honour, 

To  call  back But  I  will  not  weep  for  thee ; 

Thou  shall  be  mourn'd  for  as  thou  vvouldst  be  mourn'd. 

It  grieves  me  most  that  thou  couldst  quit  this  life 

Believing  that  I  could  survive  what  thou 

Hast  died  for — our  long  royalty  of  race. 

If  I  redeem  it,  I  will  give  thee  blood 

Of  thousands,  tears  of  millions,  for  atonement 

(The  tears  of  all  the  good  are  thine  already). 

If  not,  we  meet  again  soon,  if  the  spirit 

Within  us  lives  beyond : — thou  readest  mine, 

And  dost  me  justice  now.     Let  me  once  clasp 

That  yet  warm  hand,  and  fold  that  throbless  heart 

[Embraces  the  body. 

To  this  which  beats  so  bitterly.     Now,  bear 
The  body  hence. 

SOLDIER. 
Where? 

SARDAWAPALUS. 

To  my  proper  chamber. 
Place  it  beneath  my  canopy,  as  though 
The  king  lay  there :  when  this  is  done,  we  will 
Speak  further  of  the  rites  due  to  such  ashes. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers  with  the  body  of  SALEMENES. 
EMer  PANIA. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Well,  Pania !  you  have  placed  the  guards,  and  issued 
The  orders  fix'd  on  ? 

PANIA.. 
Sire,  I  have  obey'd. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  do  the  soldiers  keep  their  hearts  up  ? 

PANIA. 

Sire'/ 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  'm  answer'd !  When  a  king  asks  twice,  and  has 

A  question  as  an  answer  to  hit  question, 

It  is  a  portent.  What,  they  are  dishearten'd? 

PANIA. 

The  death  of  Saiemenes,  and  the  shouts 
Of  the  exulting  rebels  on  his  fall, 
Have  made  them 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Rage — not  droop — it  should  have  been. 
We  'U  find  the  means  to  rouse  them. 

PANIA. 

Such  a  loss 
Might  sadden  even  a  victory. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Alas! 

Who  can  so  feel  it  as  I  feel  ?  but  yet, 
Though  coop'd  within  these  walls,  they  are  strong,  and  we 
Have  those  without  will  break  their  way  through  hosts, 
To  make  their  sovereign's  dwelling  what  it  was — 
A  palace — not  a  prison  nor  a  fortress. 
Enter  an.  officer  hastily, 

SAHDANAPALUS. 

Thv  face  seems  ominous.     Speak ! 

OFFICER. 

I  dare  not. 

HARDANAPALU!. 

Dare  not  7 

Wn-!«  millions  darn  revolt  with  sword  in  hand! 


That 's  strange.     I  pray  thee  break  that  loyal  silence 
Which  loathes  to  shock  its  sovereign  ;  we  can  heat 
Worse  than  thou  hast  to  tell. 

PANIA. 

Proceed,  thou  heartsl. 
OFFICER. 

The  wall  which  skirted  near  the  river's  brink 
Is  thrown  down  by  the  sudden  inundation 
Of  the  Euphrates,  which  now  rolling,  swoln 
From  the  enormous  mountains  where  it  rises, 
By  the  late  rains  of  that  tempestuous  region, 
O'erfloods  its  banks,  and  hath  destroy'd  the  bulwark 

PANIA. 

That 's  a  black  augury  !   It  has  been  said 
For  ages,  "  That  the  city  ne'er  should  yield 
To  man,  until  the  river  grew  its  foe." 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  can  forgive  the  omen,  not  the  ravage. 
How  much  is  swept  down  of  the  wall  ? 
OFFICER. 

About 
Some  twenty  stadii. 

SAllDANAPALUS. 

And  all  this  is  left 
Pervious  to  the  assailants  ? 

OFFICER. 

Fqr  the  present 

The  river's  fury  must  impede  the  assault ; 
But  when  he  shrinks  into  his  wonted  channel, 
And  may  be  cross'd  by  the  accustom'd  barks, 
The  palace  is  their  own. 

SARDANAPALUB. 

That  shall  be  never. 

Though  men,  and  gods,  and  elements,  and  omens, 
Have  risen  up  'gainst  one  who  ne'er  provoked  them, 
My  fathers'  house  shall  never  be  a  cave 
For  wolves  to  hoard  and  howl  in. 

PANIA. 

With  your  sanction 

I  will  proceed  to  the  spot,  and  take  such  measures 
For  the  assurance  of  the  vacant  space 
As  time  and  means  permit. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

About  it  straight, 

And  bring  me  back,  as  speedily  as  full 
And  fair  investigation  may  permit, 
Report  of  the  true  state  of  this  irruption 
Of  waters.  [Exeunt  PANIA  and  the  Qffict 

MVRRHA. 

Thus  the  very  waves  rise  up 
Against  you. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

They  are  not  my  subjects,  girl, 
And  may  be  pardon'd,  since  they  can't  be  punisl'd. 

MVRRHA. 

I  joy  to  see  this  portent  shakes  you  not. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  am  past  the  fear  of  portents  :  they  can  tell  m« 
Nothing  I  have  not  told  myself  since  midnight . 
Despair  anticipates  such  things. 
MVRRHA. 

Despair . 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  not  despair  precisely.  When  we  know 
All  that  can  come,  and  how  to  meet  it,  our 
Resolves,  if  firm,  may  merit  a  more  noble 


SARDANAPALUS. 


323 


Word  than  this  is  to  g.ve  it  utterance. 

But  what  are  words  to  us  ?  we  have  well  nigh  done 

With  them  and  all  things. 

MVRRHA. 

Save  one  deed  —  the  last 
And  gieatest  to  all  mortals  ;  crowning  act 
Of  all  that  was  —  or  is—  or  is  to  be  — 
The  only  thing  common  to  all  mankind, 
So  different  in  their  births,  tongues,  sexes,  natures, 
Hues,  features,  climes,  times,  feelings,  intellects, 
Without  one  point  of  union,  save  in  this, 
To  which  we  tend,  for  which  we  're  born,  and  thread 
The  labyrinth  of  mystery  call'd  life. 

SAHDANAPALUS. 

Our  clew  being  well  nigh  wound  out,  let  's  be  cheerful. 
They  who  have  nothing  more  to  fear  may  well 
Indulge  a  smile  at  that  which  once  appall'  d  ; 
As  children  at  discover'd  bugbears. 

Re-enter  PAMA. 


As  was  reported  :  I  have  ordtr'd  there 
A  double  guard,  withdrawing  from  the  wall 
Where  it  was  strongest  the  required  addition 
To  watch  the  breach  occasion'd  by  the  waters. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

i'ou  have  done  your  duty  faithfully,  and  as 
My  worthy  Pania  !  further  ties  between  us 
Draw  near  a  close.  I  pray  you  take  this  key  : 

[  Give*  a  key. 

It  opens  to  a  secret  chamber,  placed 
Behind  the  couch  in  my  own  chamber.     (Now 
**ress'd  by  a  nobler  weight  than  e'er  it  bore- 
Though  a  long  line  of  sovereigns  have  lain  down 
Uong  its  golden  frame  —  as  bearing  for 
\.  time  what  late  was  Salemenes).     Search 
The  secret  covert  to  which  this  will  lead  you  ; 
T  is  full  of  treasure  ;  take  it  for  yourself 
And  your  companions  :  there's  enough  to  load  ye, 
Though  ye  be  many.     Let  the  slaves  be  freed,  too  ; 
And  all  the  inmates  of  the  palace,  of 
Whatever  sex,  now  quit  it  in  an  hour. 
Thence  launch  the  regal  barks,  once  fortn'd  for  pleasure, 
And  now  to  serve  for  safety,  and  embark. 
The  river  's  broad  and  swoln,  and  uncommanded 
(More  potent  than  a  king)  by  these  besiegers. 
Fly  !  and  be  happy  ! 

PANIA. 

Under  your  protection  ! 
So  you  accompany  your  faithful  guard. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

No,  Pania  !  that  must  not  be  ;  get  tbee  hence, 
And  leave  me  to  my  fate. 

PANIA. 

T  is  the  first  time 
I  ever  disobey'd  :  but  now  - 

SARPANAPALUS. 

So  all  men 

Dare  beard  me  now,  and  Insolence  within 
Apes  Treason  from  without.     Question  no  further  ; 
'T  is  my  command,  my  last  command.     Wilt  thou 
Oppose  it  1  thou  ! 

PANIA. 

But  vet  —  not  yel. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Well,  then. 
Swear  that  you  will  obey  when  I  shall  give 
The  signal. 

PANIA. 

With  a  heavy  but  true  heart, 
[  promise. 

SARDAN A  PALUS. 

'T  is  enough.     Now  order  here 
Fagots,  pine-nuts,  and  wither'd  leaves,  and  such 
Things  as  catch  fire  and  blaze  with  one  scle  spark ; 
Bring  cedar,  too,  and  precious  drugs,  and  spices, 
And  mighty  planks,  to  nourish  a  tall  pile ; 
Bring  frankincense  and  myrrh,  too,  for  it  is 
For  a  great  sacrifice  I  build  the  pyre ; 
And  heap  them  round  yon  throne. 

PANIA. 

My  lord ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

I  have  said  K< 
And  you  have  room. 

PANIA. 

And  could  keep  my  faith 
Without  a  vow.  [Exit  PANI  t 

MYRRHA. 

What  mean  you  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

You  shall  know 
Anon — what  the  whole  earth  shall  ne'er  forget. 

PANIA,  returning  with  a  Herald. 

PANIA. 

My  king,  in  going  forth  upon  my  duty, 

This  herald  has  been  brought  before  me,  craving 

An  audience. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Let  him  speak. 

HERALD. 

The  King  Arbaces— 

•  ARDANAPALUS. 

What,  crown'd  already? — But,  proceed. 

HERALD. 

Beleses, 
The  anointed  high  priest 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Of  what  god,  or  demon* 
With  new  kings  rise  new  altars.     But,  proceed ; 
You  are  sent  to  prate  your  master's  will,  and  not 
Reply  to  mine. 

HERALD. 

And  Satrap  Ofratanes 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Why,  he  is  our*. 

HERALD  (shou-ing  a  ring). 
Be  sure  that  he  is  now 
In  the  camp  of  the  conquerors  ;  behold 
His  signet  ring. 

EARDANAPALUS 

T  is  his.     A  worthy  triad  ! 
Poor  Salemenes !  thou  hast  died  in  time 
To  see  one  treachery  the  less :  this  man 
Was  thy  true  friend  and  my  most  trusted  subject. 
Proceed, 

HERALP. 

They  offer  thee  thy  life,  and  freedom 
Of  choice  to  single  out  a  residence 


324 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


In  any  of  the  further  provinces, 
Guarded  and  watch'd,  but  not  confined  in  person, 
Where  thou  shall  pass  thy  days  in  peace ;  but  on 
Condition  that  the  three  young  princes  are 
Given  up  as  hostages. 

SARDANAPALUS  (ifonically). 

Tiie  generous  victors ! 

HERALD. 

I  wait  the  answer. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Answer,  slave !     How  long 
Have  slaves  decided  on  the  doom  of  kings  ? 

HERALD. 

Since  they  we-e  free. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Mouth-piece  of  mutiny ! 
Thou  at  the  least  shalt  learn  the  penalty 
Of  treason,  though  its  proxy  only.    Pania ! 
Let  his  head  be  thrown  from  our  walls  within 
The  rebels'  lines,  his  carcass  down  the  river. 
Away  with  him ! 

[PAM A  and  the  Guard*  seizing  him. 

PANIA. 

I  never  yet  obey'd 

Your  orders  with  more  pleasure  than  the  present. 
Hence  with  him,  soldiers !  do  not  soil  this  hall 
Of  royalty  with  treasonable  gore ; 
Put  him  to  rest  without. 

HERALD. 

A  single  word : 
My  office,  king,  is  sacred. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  what 's  mine  ? 

That  thou  shouldst  come  and  dare  to  ask  of  me 
To  lay  it  down  7 

HERALD. 

I  but  obey'd  my  orders, 
At  the  same  peril,  if  refused,  as  now 
Incurr'd  by  my  obedience. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

So,  there  are 

New  motiarchs  of  an  hour's  growth  as  despotic 
As  sovereigns  swathed  in  purple,  and  enthroned 
From  birth  to  manhood ! 

HERALD. 

My  life  waits  your  breath. 
Yours  (I  speak  humbly) — but  it  may  be — yours 
May  also  be  in  danger  scarce  less  imminent: 
Would  it  then  suit  the  last  hours  of  a  line 
Sucli  as  is  that  of  Nimrod,  to  destroy 
A  peaceful  herald,  unarm'd,  in  his  office ; 
And  violate  not  only  all  that  man 
Holds  sacred  between  man  and  man — but  that 
More  holy  tie  which  links  us  with  the  gods  7 

SARDANAPALUS. 

He 's  nght. — Let  him  go  free. — My  life's  last  act 
Shall  not  be  one  of  wrath.     Here,  fellow,  take 

[Gives  him  a  golilen  cup  from  a  table  near. 
his  golden  goblet ;  let  it  hold  your  wine, 
And  think  of  me  ;  or  melt  it  into  ingots, 
And  think  of  nothing  but  their  weight  and  value. 

HERALD. 

I  thank  you  doubly  for  my  life,  and  this 
Most  gorgeous  gift,  which  renders  it  more  precious. 
But  must  I  bear  no  answer  ? 


SARDANAPALUS. 

Yes,— I  ask 
An  hour's  truce  to  consider. 

HERALD. 

But  an  hour's  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

An  hour's :  if  at  the  expiration  of 
That  time  your  masters  hear  no  further  from  me, 
They  are  to  deem  that  I  reject  their  terms, 
And  act  befittingly. 

HERALD. 

I  shall  not  fail 
To  be  a  faithful  legate  of  your  pleasure. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And,  hark !  a  word  more. 

HERALD. 

I  shall  not  forget  it, 
Whate'er  it  be. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Commend  me  to  Beleses ; 
And  tell  him,  ere  a  year  expire,  I  summon 
Him  hence  to  meet  me. 

HERALD. 
Where? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

At  Babylon. 
At  least  from  thence  he  will  depart  to  meet  me. 

HERALD. 

I  shall  obey  you  to  the  letter.  [Exit  Herali 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Pania ! — 
Now,  my  good  Pania ! — quick  !  with  what  I  order'd. 

PANIA. 

My  lord, — the  soldiers  are  already  charged. 
And,  see !  they  enter. 

[Soldiers  enter,  and  form  a  Pile  about  At 
Throne,  etc. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Higher,  my  good  soldiers, 
And  thicker  yet ;  and  see  that  the  foundation 
Be  such  as  will  not  speedily  exhaust 
Its  own  too  subtle  flame ;  nor  yet  be  quench'd 
With  aught  officious  aid  would  bring  to  quell  it. 
Let  the  throne  form  the  core  of  it ;  I  would  not 
Leave  that,  save  fraught  with  fire  unquenchable, 
To  the  new  comers.     Frame  the  whole  as  if 
'T  were  to  enkindle  the  strong  tower  of  our 
Inveterate  enemies.     Now  it  bears  an  aspect ! 
How  say  you,  Pania,  will  this  pile  suffice 
For  a  king's  obsequies  ? 

PANIA. 

Ay,  for  a  kingdom's. 
I  understand  you  now. 

•AHDANAPALUS. 

And  blame  me  7 

PANIA. 

No— 
Let  me  but  fire  the  pile  and  share  it  with  you. 

HYRRHt. 

That  duty 's  mine. 

PANIA. 
A  woman's ! 

MYRRHA. 

'T  is  the  soHie '» 
Part  to  die  for  his  sovereign,  and  why  n« 
The  woman's  with  her  Icner? 


SARDANAPALUS. 


325 


PANIA. 

'T  is  most  strange  ! 

MYRRHA. 

But  not  so  rare,  my  Pania,  as  them  think'st  it. 
In  the  meantime,  live  thou — Farewell !  the  pile 
Is  ready. 

PANIA. 

I  should  shame  to  leave  my  sovereign 
With  but  a  single  female  to  partake 
His  death. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Too  many  far  have  heralded 
Me  to  the  dust  already.     Get  thee  hence 
Enrich  thee. 

PANIA. 

And  live  wretched ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Think  upon 
Thy  vow ; — 't  is  sacred  and  irrevocable. 

PANIA. 

Since  it  is  so,  farewell. 

CARDANAPALUS. 

Search  well  my  chamber, 
Feel  no  remorse  at  bearing  off  the  gold ; 
Remember,  what  you  leave  you  leave  the  slaves 
Who  slew  me  :  and  when  you  have  borne  away 
All  safe  off  to  your  boats,  blow  one  long  blast 
Upon  the  trumpet  as  you  quit  the  palace. 
The  river's  brink  is  too  remote,  its  stream 
Too  loud  at  present  to  permit  the  echo 
To  reach  distinctly  from  its  banks.     Then  fly, — 
And  as  you  sail,  turn  back ;  but  still  keep  on 
Your  way  along  the  Euphrates :  if  you  reach 
The  land  of  Paphlagonia,  where  the  queen 
Is  safe  with  my  three  sons  in  Cotta's  court, 
Say  what  you  saw  at  parting,  and  request 
That  she  remember  what  I  said  at  one 
Parting  more  mournful  still. 

PANIA. 

That  royal  hano. ! 

Let  me  then  once  more  press  it  to  my  lips ; 
And  these  poor  soldiers  who  throng  round  you,  and 
Would  fain  die  with  you  ? 

[The  Soldiers  and  PANIA  throng  round  him, 
kissing  his  hand  and  the  hem  of  Ms  robe, 

SARDANAPALUS. 

My  best !  my  last  friends  ! 
Let 's  not  unman  each  other — part  at  once : 
All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  for  ever, 
Else  they  make  an  eternity  of  moments, 
And  clog  the  last  sad  sands  of  life  with  tears. 
Hence,  and  be  happy :  trust  me,  I  am  not 
JVbuj  to  be  pitied,  or  far  more  for  what 
Is  past  than  present ; — for  the  future,  't  is 
In  the  hands  of  the  deities,  if  such 
There  be  :  I  shall  know  soon.     Farewell — farewell. 
[Exeunt  PANIA  and  the  Soldiers 

MYRRHA. 

These  men  were  honest :  it  is  comfort  still 
That  our  last  looks  shall  be  on  loving  faces. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

\nd  lovely  ones,  my  beautiful! — but  hear  me! 
(f  at  this  moment,  for  we  now  are  on 
The  brink,  thou  feel'st  an  inward  shrinking  from 
This  leap  through  flame  into  the  future,  say  it: 
1  shall  not  love  thee  less :  nay,  perhaps  more, 
2  p  2 


'or  yielding  to  thy  nature :  and  there 's  time 
f  et  for  thee  to  escape  hence. 

MYRRHA. 

Shall  I  light 

)ne  of  the  torches  which  lie  heap'd  beneath 
The  ever-burning  lamp  that  bums  without, 
Before  Baal's  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall  ? 

SARDANAPALUS. 

)o  so.     Is  that  thy  answer  ? 

MYRRHA. 

Thou  shall  see. 

[Exit  M VRP  Hi 
SARDANAPALUS  (solu.t). 

She 's  firm.     My  fathers !  whom  I  will  rejoin, 
"t  may  be,  purified  by  death  from  some 
Jf  the  gross  stains  of  too  material  being, 
'.  would  not  leave  your  ancient  first  abode 
To  the  defilement  of  usurping  bondmen ; 
f  I  have  not  kept  your  inheritance 
As  ye  bequeath'd  it,  this  bright  part  of  it, 
Your  treasure,  your  abode,  your  sacred  relics 
Jf  arms,  and  records,  monuments,  and  spoils, 
[n  which  they  would  have  revell'd,  I  bear  with  me 
To  you  in  that  absorbing  element, 
Which  most  personifies  the  soul,  as  leaving 
The  least  of  matter  unconsumed  before 
its  fiery  working : — and  the  light  of  this 
VIost  royal  of  funereal  pyres  shall  be 
tfot  a  mere  pillar  form'd  of  cloud  and  flame, 
A  beacon  in  the  horizon  for  a  day, 
And  then  a  mount  of  ashes,  but  a  light 
To  lesson  ages,  rebel  nations,  and 
Voluptuous  princes.    Time  shall  quench  full  many 
A  people's  records,  and  a  hero's  acts  ; 
Sweep  empire  after  empire,  like  this  first 
Of  empires,  into  nothing  ;  but  even  then 
Shall  spare  this  deed  of  mine,  and  hold  it  up 
A  problem  few  dare  imitate,  and  none 
Despise — but,  it  may  be,  avoid  the  life 
Which  led  to  such  a  consummation. 
MYRRHA  returns  with  a  lighted  Torch  in  one 
and  a  Cup  in  the  other. 
MYRRHA. 

Lo! 
I  've  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  the  cup  ? 

MYRRHA. 

'T  is  my  country's  custom  to 
Make  a  libation  to  the  gods. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  mine 

To  make  libations  amongst  men.     I  've  not 
Forgot  the  custom ;  and,  although  alone, 
Will  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A  joyous  banquet  past. 

[SARDANAPALUS  taket  the  cup,  and  after  drinn 
ing  and  tinkling  the  reversed  cup,  as  a  drtf 
falls,  exclaims — 

And  this  libation 
Is  for  the  excellent  Beleses. 

MYRRHA. 

Why 

Dwells  thy  mind  rather  upon  'hat  man's  nam« 
Than  on  his  mate's  in  villany? 


326 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


SARDANAPALUS. 

The  one 

Is  a  mere  soldier,  a  mere  tool,  a  kind 
Of  numan  sword  in  a  fiend's  hand ;  the  other 
Is  master-mover  of  his  warlike  puppet ; 
But  I  dismiss  them  from  my  mind.— Yet  pause, 
My  Myrrha  !  dost  thou  truly  follow  me, 
Freely  and  fearlessly  7 

MVRRHA. 

And  dost  thou  think 

A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love  that  which 
An  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom? 

SARDASAPALUS. 

Th«B 

We  but  await  the  signal. 

IITRRHA. 

It  is  long 
In  sounding. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Now,  farewell ;  one  last  embrace  ! 

MVRRHA. 
Embrace,  but  not  the  last ;  there  is  one  more. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

1  rue,  the  commingling  fire  will  mix  our  ashes. 

MYRR7IA. 

And  pure  as  is  my  love  to  thee,  shall  they, 

Purged  from  the  dross  of  earth,  and  earthly  passion, 

Mix  pale  with  thine.     A  single  thought  yet  irks  me. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

Say  it. 

MTRRHA. 

It  is  that  no  kind  hand  will  gather 
The  dust  of  both  into  one  urn. 

SARDANAPALUS. 

The  better! 

Rather  let  them  be  borne  abroad  upon 
The  winds  of  heaven,  and  scatter'd  into  air,     . 
Than  be  polluted  more  by  human  hands 
Of  slaves  and  traitors  ;  in  this  blazing  palace, 
And  its  enormous  walls  of  reeking  ruin, 
We  leave  a  nobler  monument  than  Egypt 
Hath  piled  in  her  brick  mountains  o'er  dead  king*, 
Or  kme,  for  none  know  whether  those  proud  piles 
Be  for  their  monarch,  or  their  ox-god  Apis : 
So  much  for  monuments  that  have  forgotten 
Their  very  record ! 

MTRRHA. 

Then  farewell,  thou  earth ! 
And  loveliest  spot  of  earth  !  farewell,  Ionia ! 
Be  thoii  still  free  and  beautiful,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation !  My  last  prayer 
Was  for  thee,  my  la?t  thoughts,  save  one,  were  of  thee ! 

SARDANAPALUS. 

And  that? 

MVRRHA. 

Is  yours. 

[The  trumpet  of  PANIA  sounds  without. 

8ARDAN  APALDS. 

Hark! 

MYRRIIA. 

Now! 

tARDANAPALUS. 

Adieu,  Assyria  1 

I  lovea  tnec  well,  my  own,  my  father's  land, 
And  Ixjttrr  as  my  country  than  my  kingdom. 


I  satiated  thee  with  peace  and  joys  ;  and  this 
Is  my  reward !  and  now  I  owe  thee  nothing, 
Not  even  a  grave.  [He  mounts  the  ptlt 

Now,  Myrrha! 

MTRRHA. 

Art  thou  ready  1 

SARDASAPALUS. 

Ac  the  torch  m  thy  grasp. 

[MTRRHA  Jires  the  pil» 

MYRRHA. 

'T  is  fired !  I  come. 

[A*  MTRRRA  spring-*  forward  to  throw  herself 
into  the  flames,  the  Curtain  falls. 


NOTES. 

Note  1.  Page  291,  line  19. 
And  thou,  my  own  Ionian  Myrrha. 
"  The  Ionian  name  had  been  still  more  comprehen 
sive,  having  included  the  Achaians  and  the  Boeotians, 
who,  together  with  those  to  whom  it  was  afterward* 
confined,  would  make  nearly  the  whole  of  the  Greek 
nation,  and  among  the  orientals  it  was  always  the  gen- 
eral name  for  the  Greeks." — Mitford's  Gretae,  vol.  L 
p.  199. 

Note  2.  Page  294,  line  1. 


-"  Sardanapatus, 


The  king,  and  ion  of  Anacyndaraxes, 

In  one  day  built  Anchialus  and  Tarsus. 

Eat,  drink  and  lore  ;  the  rest's  not  worth  a  611ip.' 

"  For  this  expedition,  he  took  not  only  a  small  ctiosen 
body  of  the  phalanx,  but  all  his  light  troops.  In  the 
first  day's  march  he  reached  Anchialus,  a  town  said  to 
have  been  founded  by  the  king  of  Assyria,  Sardanapalus. 
The  fortifications,  in  their  magnitude  and  extent,  still 
in  Arrian's  time,  bore  the  character  of  greatness,  which 
the  Assyrians  appear  singularly  to  have  affected  in  work* 
of  the  kind.  A  monument,  representing  Sardanapalus, 
was  found  there,  warranted  by  an  inscription  in  Assyrian 
characters,  of  course  in  the  old  Assyrian  language,  which 
the  Greeks,  whether  well  or  ill,  interpreted  thus :  "  Sar- 
danapalus, son  of  Anacyndaraxes,  in  one  day  founded 
Anchialus  and  Tarsus.  Eat,  drink,  play:  all  other 
human  joys  are  not  worth  a  fillip."  Supposing  this 
version  nearly  exact  (for  Arrian  says  it  was  not  quite  so) 
whether  the  purpose  has  not  been  to  invite  to  civil  order 
a  people  disposed  to  turbulence,  rather  than  to  recom 
mend  immoderate  luxury,  may  perhaps  reasonably  be 
questioned.  What,  indeed,  could  be  the  object  of  & 
king  of  Assyria  in  founding  such  towns  in  a  country  so 
distant  from  his  capital,  and  so  divided  from  it  by  an 
immense  extent  of  sandy  deserts  and  loi'ty  mountains 
and,  still  more,  how  the  inhabitants  could  be  at  once  ic 
circumstances  to  abandon  themselves  to  the  intemperate 
joys  which  their  prince  has  been  supposed  to  have  recom- 
mended, is  not  obvious ;  but  it  may  deserve  observation 
that,  in  that  line  of  coast,  the  southern  of  Lesser  Asia, 
ruins  of  cities,  evidently  of  an  age  after  Alexander,  yel 
barely  named  in  history,  at  this  day  astonish  the  adven- 
turous traveller  by  their  magnificence  and  elegance. 
Amid  the  desolation  which,  under  a  singularly  barbarian 
government,  has,  for  so  many  centuries,  been  daily 
spreading  in  the  finest  countries  of  thr  globe,  who' MI 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


327 


more  from  soil  and  climate,  or  from  opportunities  for 
commerce,  extraordinary  means  must  have  been  found 
for  communities  to  flourish  there,  whence  it  may  seem 
that  the  measures  of  Sardanapalus  were  directed  by  just  er 
news  than  have  been  commonly  ascribed  to  him ;  but 
lhat  monarch  having  been  the  last  of  a  dynasty,  ended 


by  a  revolution,  obloquy  on  his  memory  would  follow 
of  course  from  the  policy  of  his  successors  and  their 
partisans. 

"The  inconsistency  of  traditions  concerning  Sarda 
napalus  is  striking  in  Diodorus's  account  of  him."— 
Mitforfs  Greece,  vol.  iz.  pp.  311,  312,  and  313. 


A   HISTORICAL   TRAGEDY. 


The  father  softens,  but  the  governor '»  resolved. 

CRITIC. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN. 

FRANCIS  FOSCARI,  Doge  of  Venice. 
JACOPO  FOSCARI,  Son  of  the  Dogt. 
JAMES  LOREDANO,  a  Patrician. 
MARCO  MEMMO,  a  Chief  of  the  Forty. 
BARBARIGO,  a  Senator. 

Other  Senators,  the  Council  of  Ten,  Gverdt,  Attend- 
ant, etc.,  etc, 

WOMAN. 

MARINA,  Wife  of  young  FOSCARI. 

Scene — The  Ducal  Palace,  Venice. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Enter  LOREDANO  and  BARBARIGO,  meeting. 

LOREDAKO. 

WHERE  is  the  prisoner? 

BARBARIGO. 

Reposing  from 
The  Question. 

LOREDANO. 

The  hour's  past — fix'd  yesterday 
For  the  resumption  of  his  trial. — Let  us 
Rejoin  our  colleagues  in  the  council,  and 
Urge  his  recall. 

EARBARIGO. 

Nay,  let  him  profit  by 
A  few  brief  minutes  for  his  tortured  limbs  ; 
He  was  o'erwrought  by  the  Question  yesterday, 
And  may  die  under  it  if  now  repeated. 

LOREDANO. 

Well! 

BARBARIGO. 

I  yield  net  to  you  in  love  of    jstice, 
Or  hale  of  the  ambitious  Foscari, 
Father  and  son,  and  all  their  noxious  race ; 


But  the  poor  wretch  has  suffered  beyond  nature's 
Most  stoical  endurance. 

LOREDANO. 

Without  owning 
His  crime. 

BARBARIGO. 

Perhaps  without  committing  any. 
But  he  avow'd  the  letter  to  the  Duke 
Of  Milan,  and  his  sufferings  half  atone  for 
Such  weakness. 

LOREDANO. 

We  shall  see. 

BARBARIGO. 

You,  Loredano 
Pursue  hereditary  hate  too  far. 

LOREDANO. 
How  far? 

BARBARIGO. 

To  extermination. 

LOREDANO. 

When  they  are 
Extinct,  you  may  say  this. — Let's  into  council. 

BARBARIGO. 

Yet  pause — tne  number  of  our  colleagues  is  not 
Complete  yet;  two  are  wanting  ere  we  can 
Proceed. 

LOREDANO. 

And  the  chief  judge,  the  Doge  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

No— ne. 
With  more  than  Roman  fortitude,  is  ever 

First  at  the  board  in  this  unhappy  process 
Against  his  last  and  only  son. 

LOREDANO. 

True — true— 
His  last. 

BARBARIGO. 
Will  nothing  move  you  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Feel*  he.  think  vo 

BARBARIGO. 

He  shows  it  not. 

LOREDANO. 

I  have  mark'd  that — the  wretch  • 

BARBARIGO. 

But  yesterday,  I  hear,  on  his  return 


328 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


To  the  ducal  chambers,  as  he  pass'd  the  threshold, 
The  old  man  fainted. 

LOREDANO. 

It  begins  to  work,  then. 

BARBARIGO. 

The  work  is  half  your  own. 

LOREDANO. 

And  should  be  all  mine—- 
My father  and  my  uncle  are  no  more. 

BARBARIGO. 

I  have  read  their  epitaph,  which  says  they  died 
By  poison. 

LOREDANO. 

When  the  Doge  declared  that  he 
Should  never  deem  himself  a  sovereign  till 
The  death  of  Peter  Loredano,  both 
The  brothers  sicken'd  shortly : — he  is  sovereign. 

BARBARIGO. 

4.  wretched  one. 

LOREDANO. 

What  should  they  be  who  make 
Orphans  ? 

BARBARIOO. 

But  did  the  Doge  make  you  so  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Yes. 

BARBARIGO. 

What  solid  proofs? 

LOREDANO 

When  princes  set  themselves 
To  work  in  secret,  proofs  and  process  are 
Alike  made  difficult ;  but  I  have  such 
Of  the  first,  as  shall  make  the  second  needless. 

BARBARIGO. 

But  you  will  move  by  law? 

LOREDANO. 

By  all  the  laws 
Which  he  would  leave  us. 

BARBARIGO. 

They  are  such  in  thii 
Our  state  as  render  retribution  easier 
Than  'mongst  remoter  nations.     Is  it  true 
Thut  you  have  written  in  your  books  of  commerce 
(The  wealthy  practice  of  our  highest  nobles), 
"  Doge  Foscari,  my  debtor  for  the  death* 
Of  Marco  and  Pietro  Loredano, 
My  sue  and  uncle?" 

LOREDANO. 

It  is  written  thus. 

BARBARIGO. 

Ano  will  you  leave  it  unerased  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Till  balanced. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  how  ? 

(  Two  Senators  pass  over  the  Stage,  as  in  their  way  to 
the  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Ten). 

LOXEDAN* 

You  sec  the  number  i»  complete, 
roliov  me.  [Exit  LOREDANO. 

BARBARIOO  (solus). 

Follow  diet !  I  have  follow'd  long 
Thy  path  of  desolation,  as  the  wave 
Sweeps  after  that  before  it,  alike  whelming 
The  wreck  that  creaks  to  the  wild  winds,  and  wretch 
<Vho  shrieks  wxhin  its  riven  ribs,  as  gush 


The  waters  through  them ;  but  this  son  and  siro 
Might  move  the  elements  to  pause,  and  yet 
Must  I  on  hardily  like  them — Oh !  would 
I  could  as  blindly  and  remorselessly ! — 
Lo,  where  he  comes ! — Be  still,  my  heart !  they  are 
Thy  foes,  must  be  thy  victims :  wilt  thou  beat 
For  those  who  almost  broke  thee  ? 
Enter  Guards,  with  young  FOSCARI  as  prisoner,  r.te, 

GUARD. 

Let  him  rest. 
Signor,  take  time. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

I  thank  thee,  friend,  I  'm  feeble ; 
But  thou  may'st  stand  reproved. 

GUARD. 

I  '11  stand  the  haztuu 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

That's  kind : — I  meet  some  pity,  but  no  mercy ; 
This  is  the  first. 

GUARD. 

And  might  be  the  last,  did  they 
Who  rule  behold  us. 

BARBARIGO  (advancing  to  the  guard). 

There  is  one  who  does  : 
Yet  fear  not ;  I  will  neither  be  thy  judge 
Nor  thy  accuser ;  though  the  hour  is  past, 
Wait  their  last  summons — I  am  of  "  the  Ten," 
And  waiting  for  that  summons,  sanction  you 
Even  by  my  presence :  when  the  last  call  sounds 
We  '11  in  together. — Look  well  to  the  prisoner  ! 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

What  voice  is  that? — 'tis  Barbarigo's  !  Ah! 
Our  house's  foe,  and  one  of  my  few  judges. 

BARBARIGO. 

To  balance  such  a  foe,  if  such  there  be, 
Thy  father  sits  amongst  thy  judges. 
JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

True, 
He  judges. 

BARBARIGO. 

Then  deem  not  the  laws  too  harsh 
Which  yield  so  much  indulgence  to  a  sire 
As  to  allow  his  voice  in  such  high  matter 

As  the  state's  safety 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

And  his  son's.     I  'm  faint* 
Let  me  approach,  I  pray  you,  for  a  breath 
Of  air,  yon  window  which  o'erlooks  the  waters. 
Enter  an  Officer,  who  whispers  BARBARIGO. 

BARBARIGO  (to  the  guard). 
Let  him  approach.     I  must  not  speak  with  him 
Further  than  thus ;  I  have  transgress'd  my  duty 
In  this  brief  parley,  and  must  now  redeem  it 
Within  the  Council  Chamber. 

[Exit  BARBARIC: 
[Guard  conducting  JACOPO  FOSCARI  to  thewindov, 

GUARD. 

There,  sir,  't  is 
Open — How  feel  you  ? 

4ACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Like  a  boy — Oh  Venice ! 
GUARD. 
And  your  limbs  ? 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Limbs !  how  often  have  they  borne  me 
Bounding  o  er  yon  blue  tide,  as  1  have  skimm'd 
The  gondola  along  in  childish  race, 
And,  niasqued  as  a  young  gondolier,  amidst 
My  gay  competitors,  noble  as  I, 
Raced  for  our  pleasure  in  the  pride  of  strength, 
While  tne  fair  populace  of  crowding  beauties, 
Plebeian  as  patrician,  cheer'd  us  on 
With  dazzling  smiles,  and  wishes  audible, 
And  waving  kerchiefs,  and  applauding  hands, 
Even  to  the  goal ! — How  many  a  time  have  1 
Cloven,  with  arm  still  lustier,  breast  more  daring, 
The  wave  all  roughen'd  ;  with  a  swimmer's  stroke 
Flinging  the  billows  back  from  my  drench'd  hair, 
And  laughing  from  my  lip  the  audacious  brine, 
Which  kiss'd  it  like  a  wine-cups  rising  o'er 
The  waves  as  they  arose,  and  prouder  still 
The  loftier  they  uplifted  me ;  and  oft, 
In  wantonness  of  spirit,  plunging  down 
Into  their  green  and  glassy  gulfs,  and  making 
My  way  to  shells  and  sea-weed,  all  unseen 
By  those  above,  till  they  wax'd  fearful ;  then 
Returning  with  my  grasp  full  of  such  tokens 
As  show'd  that  I  had  search'd  the  deep  ;  exulting, 
With  a  far-dashing  stroke,  and  drawing  deep 
The  long-suspended  breath,  again  I  spurn'd 
The  foam  which  broke  around  me,  and  pursued 
My  track  like  a  sea-bird. — I  was  a  boy  then. 

GUARD. 

Be  a  man  now ;  there  never  was  more  need 
Of  manhood's  strength. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI  (looking  from  the  lattice). 
My  beautiful,  my  own, 

My  only  Venice — this  is  breath  !    Thy  breeze, 
Thine  Adrian  sea-breeze,  how  it  fans  iny  face  ! 
The  very  winds  feel  native  to  my  veins, 
And  cool  them  into  calmness  !  How  unlike 
The  hot  gales  of  the  horrid  Cyclades, 
Which  howl'd  about  my  Candiote  dungeon,  and 
Made  my  heart  sick. 

GUARD. 

I  see  the  colour  comes 

Back  to  your  cheek:  Heaven  send  you  strength  to  bear 
What  more  may  be  imposed ! — I  dread  to  think  on 't. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

They  will  not  banish  me  again  ? — No— no, 
Let  them  wring  on ;  I  am  strong  yet. 

GUARD. 

Confess, 
And  the  rack  will  be  spared  you. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI 

I  confess'd 
Once — twice  before :  both  times  they  exiled  me. 

GUARD. 

And  the  third  time  will  slay  you. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Let  them  do  so, 

So  I  be  buried  in  my  birth-place  :  better 
Be  ashes  here  than  aught  that  lives  elsewhere. 

GUARD. 

And  can  you  so  much  love  the  soil  which  hates  you  7 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

The  soil ! — Oh  no,  it  is  the  seed  of  the  soil 
Which  persecutes  me  ;  but  my  native  earth 
Will  take  me  as  a  mother  to  her  arms. 
47 


I  ask  no  more  than  a  Venetian  grave — 
A  dungeon,  what  they  will,  so  it  be  here. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

OFFICER. 
Bring  in  the  prisoner  ! 

GUARD. 
Signor,  you  hear  the  order. 

.  4COPO  FOSCARI. 

Ay,  I  am  used  to  such  a  summons ;  't  is 

The  third  time  they  have  tortured  me : — then  lend  me 

Thine  arm.  [To  the  Guiad 

OtFICER. 

Take  mine,  sir  ;  't  is  my  duty  to 
Be  nearest  to  your  person. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

You! — you  are  he 

Who  yesterday  presided  o'er  my  pangs — 
Away ! — I  '11  walk  alone. 

OFFICER. 

As  you  please,  signor ; 
The  sentence  was  not  of  my  signing,  but 
I  dared  not  disobey  the  Council,  when 
They 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Bade  thee  stretch  me  on  their  horrid  engine. 
I  pray  thee  touch  me  not — that  is,  just  now  ; 
The  time  will  come  they  will  renew  fhat  order, 
But  keep  off  from  me  till 't  is  issued.     As 
I  look  upon  thy  hands,  my  curdling  limbs 
Quiver  with  the  anticipated  wrenching, 
And  the  cold  drops  strain  th'ough  my  brow  as  if 
But  onward — I  have  borne  it — I  can  bear  it. — 
How  looks  my  father  ? 

OFFICER. 

With  his  wonted  aspect. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

So  doth  the  earth,  and  sky,  the  blue  of  ocean, 

The  brightness  of  our  city,  and  her  domes, 

The  mirth  of  her  Piazza,  even  now 

Its  merry  hum  of  nations  pierces  here, 

Even  here,  into  these  chambers  of  the  unknown 

Who  govern,  and  the  unknown  and  the  unnumber'i! 

Judged  and  destroy'd  in  silence — all  things  wear 

The  self-same  aspect,  to  my  very  sire 

Nothing  can  sympathize  with  Foscan, 

Not  even  a  Foscari. — Sir,  I  attend  you. 

[Exeunt  JACOPO  FOSCARI,  Qfflcer,  9* 

Enter  MEMMO  and  another  Senator. 

MEMMO. 

He's  gone — we  are  too  late : — think  you  "the  Ten ' 
Will  sit  for  any  length  of  time  to-day  ? 

SENATOR. 

They  say  the  prisoner  is  most  obdurate, 
Persisting  in  his  first  avowal ;  but 
More  I  know  not. 

MEMMO. 

And  that  is  much  ;  the  secrets 
Of  yon  terrific  chamber  are  as  hidden 
From  us,  the  premier  nobles  of  the  state, 
As  from  the  people. 

SENATOR. 

Save  the  wonted  rumours, 
Which  (like  the  tales  of  spectres  that  are  me 
Near  ruin'd  buildings)  never  hare  been  proved. 


330 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Nor  wholly  disbelieved :  men  know  as  little 
Of  the  stave's  real  acts  as  of  the  grave's 
Unfathom'd  mysteries. 

MEMMO. 

But  with  length  of  time 
We  gain  a  step  in  knowledge,  and  I  look 
Forward  to  be  one  day  of  the  decemvirs. 

SENATOR. 
Or  Doge  ? 

MEMMO. 

Why,  no,  not  if  I  can  avoid  it. 

SENATOR. 

'Tis  the  first  station  of  the  state,  and  may 
Be  lawfully  desired,  and  lawfully 
Attam'd  by  noble  aspirants. 

MEMMO. 

To  such 

I  leave  it ;  though  born  noble,  my  ambition 
Is  limited  :  I  'd  rather  be  an  unit 
Of  an  united  and  imperial  "  Ten," 
Than  shine  a  lonely,  though  a  gilded  cipher. — 
Whom  have  we  here  ?  the  wife  of  Foscari  ? 

Enter  MARINA,  with  a  female  attendant. 

MARINA. 

What,  no  one  ? — I  am  wrong,  there  still  are  two ; 
But  they  are  senators. 

MEMMO. 

Most  noble  lady, 
Command  us. 

MARINA. 

I  command!  AUs!  my  life 
Has  been  one  long  entreaty,  and  a  vain  one. 

MEMMO. 

I  understand  thee,  but  I  must  not  answer. 

MARINA  (fiercely). 

True — none  dare  answer  here  save  on  the  rack, 
Or  question  save  those 

MEMMO  (interrupting  her). 

High-born  dame !  bethink  thee 
Where  thou  now  art. 

MARINA. 

Where  I  now  am ! — It  was 
My  husband's  father's  palace. 

MEMMO. 

The  Duke's  palace. 

MARINA. 

A.nd  his  son's  prison  ; — true,  I  have  not  forgot  it ; 
And  if  there  were  no  other  nearer,  bitterer 
Remembrances,  would  thank  the  illustrious  Memmo 
For  pointing  out  the  pleasures  of  the  place. 

MEMMO. 

Be  calm. 

MARINA  (looking  up  towards  heaven). 
I  am ;  but  oh,  thou  eternal  God ! 
Canst  thou  continue  so,  with  such  a  world  7 

MEMMO. 
Thy  husband  yet  may  be  absolved. 

MARINA. 

He  is, 

In  h»aren.     I  pray  you,  signor  senator, 
Speak  not  of  that ;  you  are  a  man  of  office, 
So  is  the  Doge  ,  he  has  a  son  at  stake, 
Now,  at  this  moment,  and  I  have  a  husband, 
Or  had :  they  are  there  within,  or  were  at  least 
An  hour  since,  face  to  face,  as  judge  and  culprit : 
Will  h*  condemr.  him  1 


MEMMO. 
1  trust  not. 

MARINA. 

But  if 
He  does  not,  there  are  those  will  sentence  botn 

MEMMO. 
They  can. 

MARINA. 

Ana  with  them  power  and  will  are  one 
In  wickedness : — my  husband 's  lost ! 

MEMMO. 

Not  so ; 
Justice  is  judge  in  Venice. 

MARINA. 

If  it  were  so 
There  now  would  be  no  Venice.     But  let  it 
Live  on,  so  the  good  die  not,  till  the  hour 
Of  nature's  summons  ;  but  "the  Ten's  "  is  quicker, 
And  we  must  wait  on 't.     Ah  !  a  voice  of  wail ! 

[A  faint  cry  uiithm, 

SENATOR. 

Hark! 

MEMMO. 

'T  was  a  cry  of 

MARINA. 

No,  no  ;  not  my  husband's—* 
Not  Foscari's. 

MEMMO. 

The  voice  was 

MARINA. 

Not  his;  no. 

He  shriek  !  No ;  that  should  be  his  father's  part. 
Not  his — not  his — he  '11  die  in  silence. 

[A  faint  groan  again  wibtin, 
MEMMO. 

What! 
Again  ? 

MARINA. 

His  voice  !  it  seem'd  so  :  I  will  not 
Believe  it.     Should  he  shrink,  I  cannot  cease 
To  love ;  but — no— no — no— it  must  have  been 
A  fearful  pang  which  wrung  a  groan  from  him. 

SENATOR. 

And  feeling  for  thy  husband's  wrongs,  wouldst  thou 
Have  him  bear  more  than  mortal  pain  in  silence  ? 

MARINA. 

We  all  must  bear  our  tortures.     I  have  not 
Left  barren  the  great  house  of  Foscari, 
Though  they  sweep  both  the  Doge  and  son  from  hfej 
I  have  endured  as  much  in  giving  life 
To  those  who  will  succeed  them,  as  they  can 
In  leaving  it :  but  mine  were  joyful  pangs ; 
And  yet  they  wrung  me  till  I  could  have  shriek'd, 
But  did  not,  for  my  hope  was  to  brirg  forth 
Heroes,  and  would  not  welcome  them  with  tears 

MEMMO. 
All 's  silent  now. 

MARINA. 

Perhaps  all 's  over ;  but 
I  will  not  deem  it :  he  hath  nerved  himself, 
And  now  defies  them. 

Enter  an  Officer  hastily. 

MEMMO. 

How  now,  friend,  r  feat  seek  vot ' 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


33 


OFFICER. 

A  leech.    The  prisoner  has  fainted. 


[Exit  Officer. 
Lady, 


Twere  better  to  retire. 

SENATOR  (offering  to  assist  her). 
I  pray  thee  do  so. 
MARINA. 
Off!  /  will  tend  him. 

MEMMO. 

You !  Remember,  lady ! 
Ingress  is  given  to  none  within  those  chambers, 
Except  "  the  Ten,"  and  their  familiars. 

MARINA. 

Well, 

I  know  that  none  who  enter  there  return 
As  they  have  enter'd — many  never ;  but 
They  shall  not  balk  my  entrance. 

MEMMO. 

Alas!  this 

Is  but  to  expose  yourself  to  harsh  repulse, 
And  worse  suspense. 

MARINA. 

Who  shall  oppose  me  7 

MEMMO. 


Whose  duty  't  is  to  do  so. 


They 


'Tisrtetrduty 

To  trample  on  all  human  feelings,  all 
Ties  which  bind  man  to  man,  to  emulate 
The  fiends,  who  will  one  day  requite  them  in 
Variety  of  torturing !    Yet  I  '11  pass. 

MEMMO. 
(t  is  impossible. 

MARINA. 

That  shall  be  tried. 

Despair  defies  even  despotism :  there  is 
That  in  my  heart  would  make  its  way  through  hosts 
With  levell'd  spears ;  and  think  you  a  few  jailors 
Shall  put  me  from  my  path  ?    Give  me,  then,  way ; 
This  is  the  Doge's  palace ;  I  am  wife 
Of  the  Duke's  son,  the  innocent  Duke's  son, 
And  they  shall  hear  this ! 

MEMMO. 

It  will  only  serve 
More  to  exasperate  his  judges. 

MARINA. 

What 

Are  judges  who  give  way  to  anger  ?  they 
Who  do  so  are  assassins.     Give  me  way. 

[Exit  MARINA, 

SENATOR. 

Poor  lady ! 

MEMMO. 

'T  is  mere  desperation  ;  she 
Will  not  be  admitted  o'er  the  threshold. 

SENATOR. 

And 

Even  if  she  be  so,  cannot  save  her  husband. 
But,  see,  the  officer  returns. 

\The  ttfficv  passes  ovei  the  stage  with  another  per  ton. 
MEMMO. 

I  hardly 


Thought  that  "  the  Ten"  had  ov^n  this  touch  of  pity, 
Or  would  permit  assistance  to  the  sufferer. 

SENATOR. 
Pity !  Is  't  pity  to  recall  to  feeling 
The  wretch  too  happy  to  escape  to  death 
By  the  compassionate  trance,  poor  nature's  last 
Resource  against  the  tyranny  of  pain  7 

MEMMO. 
I  marvel  they  condemn  him  not  at  once. 

SENATOR. 

That's  not  their  policy :  they  'd  have  him  live, 
Because  he  fears  not  death ;  and  banish  him, 
Because  all  earth,  except  his  native  land, 
To  him  is  one  wide  prison,  and  each  breath 
Of  foreign  air  he  draws  seems  a  slow  poison, 
Consuming  but  not  killing. 

MEMMO. 

Circumstance 
Confirms  his  crimes,  but  he  avows  them  not. 

SENATOR. 

None,  save  the  letter,  which  he  says  was  written, 
Address'd  to  Milan's  duke,  in  the  full  knowledge 
That  it  would  fall  into  the  senate's  hands, 
And  thus  he  should  be  re-convey'd  to  Venice. 

MEMMO. 

But  as  a  culprit. 

.  SENATOR. 

Yes,  but  to  his  country : 
And  that  was  all  he  sought,  so  he  avouches. 

MEMMO. 

The  accusation  of  the  bribes  was  proved. 

SENATOR. 

Not  clearly,  and  the  charge  of  homicide 
Has  been  annull'd  by  the  death-bed  confession 
Of  Nicholas  Erizzo,  who  slew  the  late 
Chief  of  "  the  Ten." 

MEMMO. 

Then  why  not  clear  him  ? 
SENATOR. 

Thai 

They  ought  to  answer ;  for  it  is  well  known 
That  Almoro  Donato,  as  I  said, 
Was  slain  by  Erizzo  for  private  vengeance. 

MEMMO. 

There  must  be  more  in  this  strange  process  than 
The  apparent  crimes  of  the  accused  disclose — 
But  here  come  two  of  "  the  Ten ;"  let  us  retire. 

[Exeunt  MEMMO  and  Senatm, 

Enter  LOREDANO  and  BARBARIGO. 
BARBARIGO  (addressing  LOREDANO). 
That  were  too  much :  believe  me,  't  was  not  meet 
The  trial  should  go  further  at  this  moment. 

LOREDANO. 

And  so  the  Council  must  break  up,  and  Justice 
Pause  in  her  full  career,  because  a  woman 
Breaks  in  on  our  deliberations  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

No, 
That 's  not  the  cause  ;  you  saw  the  prisoner's  nat*. 

LOREDANO. 
And  had  he  not  recover'd  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

To  relapt* 
Upon  the  least  renewal. 


352 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LOREDANO. 

'T  was  not  tried. 

BARBARIGO. 

T  is  vain  to  murmur ;  the  majority 
In  council  were  against  you. 

LOREDANO. 

Thanks  to  you,  sir, 

And  the  old  ducal  dotard,  who  combined 
The  worthy  voices  which  o'erruled  my  own. 

BARBARIGO. 

I  am  a.  judge ;  but  must  confess  that  part 

Of  our  stern  duty,  which  prescribes  the  Question, 
And  bids  us  sit  and  see  its  sharp  infliction, 
Makes  me  wish 

LOREDANO. 

What? 

BARBARIOO. 

That  you  would  sometimes  feel, 
As  I  do  always. 

LOREDANO. 

Go  to,  you  're  a  child, 
Infirm  of  feeling  as  of  purpose,  blown 
About  by  every  breath,  shook  by  a  sigh, 
And  melted  by  a  tear — a  precious  judge 
For  Venice !  and  a  worthy  statesman  to 
Be  partner  in  my  policy ! 

BARBARIGO. 

He  shed 
No  tears. 

LOREDANO. 

He  cried  out  twice. 

BARBARIOO. 

A  saint  had  done  so, 
Kven  with  the  crown  of  glory  in  his  eye, 
At  such  inhuman  artifice  of  pain 
As  was  forced  on  him :  but  he  did  not  cry 
For  pity  ;  not  a  word  nor  groan  escaped  him, 
And  those  two  shrieks  were  not  in  supplication, 
But  wrung  from  pangs,  and  followed  by  no  prayers. 

LOREDANO. 

He  mutter'd  many  times  between  his  teeth, 
But  inarticula'  '•!". 

BARBARIOO. 

That  I  heard  not ; 
You  stood  more  near  him. 

LOREDANO. 

I  did  so. 

BARE'IIGO. 

Methought, 

To  my  surprise  too,  you  were  touch'd  with  mercy, 
And  were  the  first  to  call  out  for  assistant" 
When  he  was  failing. 

LOREDANO. 

I  believed  that  swoon 
His  last. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  have  I  not  oft  heard  thee  name 

His  and  his  father's  death  your  nearest  wish? 

LOREDANO. 

II  ne  dies  innocent,  that  is  to  say, 

With  his  guilt  unavow'd,  he'll  be  lamented. 

BARBARIOO. 

T  wouldst  thou  slay  his  memory? 

LOREDANO. 

Wouldst  thou  have 


His  state  descend  to  his  children,  as  it  must, 
If  he  die  unattainted  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

War  with  them  too? 

LOREDANO. 

With  all  their  house,  till  theirs  or  mine  are  nothing 

BARBARIOO. 

And  the  deep  agony  of  his  pale  wife, 
And  the  repress'd  convulsion  of  the  high 
And  princely  brow  of  his  old  fatiier,  which 
Broke  forth  in  a  slight  shuddering,  though  rarely, 
Or  in  some  clammy  drops,  soon  wiped  away 
In  stern  serenity  ;  these  moved  you  not  ? 

[Exit  LOREDANO 
He 's  silent  in  his  hate,  as  Foscari 
Was  in  his  suffering ;  and  the  poor  wretch  moved  me 
More  by  his  silence  than  a  thousand  outcries 
Could  have  effected.    'T  was  a  dreadful  sight 
When  his  distracted  wife  broke  through  into 
The  hall  of  our  tribunal,  and  beheld 
What  we  could  scarcely  look  upon,  long  used 
To  such  sights.    I  must  think  no  more  of  this, 
Lest  I  forget  in  this  compassion  for 
Our  foes  their  former  injuries,  and  lose 
The  hold  of  vengeance  Loredano  plans 
For  him  and  me  ;  but  mine  would  be  content 
With  lesser  retribution  than  he  thirsts  for, 
And  I  would  mitigate  his  deeper  hatred 
To  milder  thoughts  ;  but,  for  the  present,  Foscan 
Has  a  short  hourly  respite,  granted  at 
The  instance  of  the  elders  of  the  Council, 
Moved  doubtless  by  his  wife's  appearance  in 
The  hall,  and  his  own  sufferings. — Lo !  they  come : 
How  feeble  and  forlorn !  I  cannot  bear 
To  look  on  them  again  in  this  extremity : 
I  '11  hence,  and  try  to  soften  Loredano. 

\Exit  BARBARIGO. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  in  the  DOGE'S  Palace. 
The  DOGE  and  a  SENATOR. 

SENATOR. 

Is  it  your  pleasure  to  sign  the  report 
Now,  or  postpone  it  till  to-morrow  ? 
DOGE. 

Now; 

I  overlook'd  it  yesterday :  it  wants 
Merely  the  signature.     Give  me  the  pen — 

[The  DOGE  fits  denim,  and  signs  the  paper. 
There,  signer. 

SENATOR  (looking  at  the  paper). 
You  have  forgot ;  it  is  not  sign'd. 

DOGE. 

Not  sign'd?  Ah,  I  perceive  my  eyes  begin 
To  wax  more  weak  with  age.     I  did  not  see 
That  I  had  dipp'd  the  pen  without  effect. 
SENATOR  (dipping  the  pen  into  the  tnfc,  and  placing  tfc 
paper  before  the  DOGE. 

Your  hand,  too,  shakes,  my  lord :  allow  me,  thus 

DOGE. 
'T  is  done,  I  thank  you. 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


333 


SEN  A  1  OK. 

Thus  the  act  confirm'd 
By  you  and  by  "  the  Ten,"  gives  peace  to  Venice. 

DOGE. 

'T  is  long  since  she  enjoy'd  it :  may  it  be 
As  long  ere  she  resume  her  arms  ! 

SENATOR. 

'T  is  almost 

Thirty-four  years  of  nearly  ceaseless  warfare 
With  the  Turk,  or  the  powers  of  Italy ; 
The  state  had  need  of  some  repose.  • 

DOGE. 

No  doubt : 

I  found  her  queen  of  ocean,  and  1  leave  her 
Lady  of  Lombardy :  it  is  a  comfort 
That  I  have  added  to  her  diadem 
The  gems  of  Brescia  and  Ravenna ;  Crema 
And  Bergamo  no  less  are  hers  ;  her  realm 
By  land  has  grown  by  thus  much  in  my  reign, 
While  her  sea-sway  has  not  shrunk. 

SENATOR. 

'T  is  most  true, 
And  merits  all  our  country's  gratitude. 

DOGE. 

Perhaps  so. 

SENATOR. 

Which  should  be  made  manifest. 

DOGE. 
I  hare  not  complain'd,  sir. 

SENATOR. 

My  good  lord,  forgive  me. 
DOGE. 
For  what? 

SENATOR. 

My  heart  bleeds  for  you. 
DOGE. 

For  me,  signor  ? 

SENATOR. 

And  for  your 

DOGE. 
Stop! 

SENATOR. 

It  must  have  way,  my  lord : 
I  have  too  many  duties  towards  you 
And  all  your  house,  for  present  kindness, 
Not  to  feel  deeply  for  your  son. 
DOGE. 

Wasthii 
In  your  commission  ? 

SENATOR. 

What,  my  lord? 

DOGE. 

This  prattle 

Of  things  you  know  not :  but  the  treaty 's  sign'd  ; 
Return  with  it  to  them  who  sent  you. 
SENATOR. 

I 

Obey.    I  had  in  charge,  too,  from  the  Council 
That  you  would  fix  an  hour  for  their  reunion. 

DOGE. 

Say,  when  they  will — now,  even  at  this  moment, 
(f  it  so  please  them :  I  am  the  state's  servant. 

SENATOR. 
They  would  accord  some  time  for  your  repose. 

DOGE. 

'-are  no  repose,  '.hat  is,  none  which  shall  cause 
2G 


The  loss  of  an  hour's  lime  unto  the  state. 
Let  them  meet  when  they  will,  I  shall  be  found 
Where  I  should  be,  and  what  I  have  been  ever. 

[Exit  SENATOR. 
[The  DOGE  remains  in  silence. 
Enter  an  attendant. 

ATTENDANT. 

Prince! 

DOGE. 

Say  on. 

ATTENDANT. 

The  illustrious  lady  Foscari 
Requests  an  audience. 

DOGE. 

Bid  her  enter.     Poor 

Marina !  [Exu  Attendant 

[The  DOGE  remains  in  silence  as  before. 
Enter  MARINA. 

MARINA. 

I  have  ventured,  father,  ou 
Your  privacy. 

DOGE. 

I  have  none  from  you,  my  child. 
Command  my  time,  when  not  commanded  by 
The  state 

MARINA. 

I  wish'd  to  speak  to  you  of  him. 

DOGE. 
Your  husband  ? 

MARINA. 

And  your  son. 
DOGE. 

Proceed,  my  .aughter ' 
MARINA. 

I  had  obtain'd  permission  from  "the  Ten" 
To  attend  my  husband  for  a  limited  number 
Of  hours. 

DOGE. 
You  had  so. 

MARINA. 

'T  is  revoked. 

DOGE. 

By  whom  7 

MARINA. 

"The  Ten."— When  we  had  reach'd  "  the  Bridge  et 

Sighs," 

Which  I  prepared  to  pass  with  Foscari, 
The  gloomy  guardian  of  that  passage  first 
Demurr'd ;  a  messenger  was  sent  back  to 
"  The  Ten ;"  but  as  the  court  no  longer  sate, 
And  no  permission  had  been  given  in  writing, 
I  was  thrust  back,  with  the  assurance  that 
Until  that  high  tribunal  re-assembled, 
The  dungeon  walls  must  still  divide  us. 
DOGE. 

True, 

The  form  has  been  omitted  in  the  haste 
With  which  the  court  adjourn'd.  and  till  it  meets 
T  is  dubious. 

MARINA. 

Till  it  meets  !  and  when  it  nieeis 
They  '11  torture  him  again ;  and  he  and  I 
Must  purchase  by  renewal  of  the  rack 
The  interview  of  husband  and  of  wife. 


334 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  holieM  tit  beneath  the  heavens? — Oh  God! 
Host  thou  see  this? 

DOOE. 

Child— child 

MARINA  (abruptly), 

Call  r/ie  not  "child!" 

You  soon  will  have  no  children — you  deserve  none — 
You,  who  can  talk  thus  calmly  of  a  son 
in  circumstances  which  would  call  forth  tears 
Of  blood  from  Spartans !  Though  these  did  not  weep 
Their  boys  who  died  in  battle,  is  it  written 
That  they  beheld  them  perish  piecemeal,  nor 
Strech'd  forth  a  hand  to  save  them  ? 

DOGE. 

You  behold  me : 

I  cannot  weep — I  would  I  could ;  but  if 
Each  white  hair  on  this  head  were  a  young  life, 
This  ducal  cap  the  diadem  of  earth, 
This  ducal  ring  with  which  I  wed  the  waves 
A  taiisman  to  still  them — I  'd  give  all 
For  him. 

MARINA. 
With  less  he  surely  might  be  saved. 

DOGE. 

That  answer  only  shows  you  know  not  Venice. 
Alas !  how  should  you  ?  she  knows  not  herself, 
In  all  her  mystery.     Hear  me — they  who  aim 
At  Foscari,  aim  no  less  at  his  father ; 
The  si-e's  destruction  would  not  save  the  son ; 
They  work  by  different  means  to  the  same  end, 
And  that  is but  they  have  not  conquer'd  yet. 

MARINA. 

But  they  have  crush'd. 

DOOE. 
Nor  crush'd  as  yet — I  live. 

MARINA. 

And  your  son, — how  long  will  he  live  ? 
DOGE. 

I  trust, 

For  all  that  yet  is  past,  as  many  years 
And  happier  than  his  father.     The  rash  boy, 
With  womanish  impatience  to  return, 
Hath  ruin'd  all  by  that  detected  letter; 
A  high  crime,  which  I  neither  can  deny 
Nor  palliate,  as  parent  or  as  duke : 
Had  he  but  borne  a  little,  little  longer 

His  Candiotc  exile,  I  had  hopes he  has  quench'd 

them — 
He  must  return. 

MARINA. 
To  exile  ? 

DOGE. 

I  have  said  it. 
MARINA. 
And  can  I  not  go  with  him  7 

DOGE. 

You  well  know 

This  prayer  of  yours  was  twice  denied  before 
By  the  assembled  "  Ten,"  and  hardly  now 
Will  be  accorded  to  a  third  request, 
Since  aggravated  errors  on  the  part 
Of  your  lord  renders  them  still  more  austere. 

MARINA. 

Austere  ?  Atrocious  !     The  old  haman  fiends, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave,  with  dim  eyes,  strange 
To  tears,  save  drops  of  dotage,  with  long  white 


And  scanty  hairs,  and  shaking  hands,  aod  heads 
As  palsied  as  their  hearts  are  hard,  they  council, 

abal,  and  put  men's  lives  out,  as  if  life 
iVere  no  more  than  the  feelings  long  extinguish'd 
in  their  accursed  bosoms. 

DOGE. 
You  know  not 

MARINA. 

[  do— I  do — afli.  so  should  you,  mcthinks — 
That  these  are  demons ;  could  it  be  else  that 
Men,  who  have  been  of  women  born  and  suckled — 
Who  have  loved,  or  talk'd  at  least  of  love — have  given 
Their  hands  in  sacred  vows — have  danced  their  babes 
Upon  their  knees,  perhaps  have  mourn' d  above  them 
In  pain,  in  peril,  or  in  death — who  are, 
Or  were  at  least  in  seeming  human,  could 
Do  as  they  have  done  by  yours,  and  you  yourself, 
Yuu,  who  abet  them  ? 

DOGE. 

I  forgive  this,  for 
You  know  not  what  you  say. 

MARINA. 

You  know  it  well, 
And  feel  it  nothing. 

DOGE. 

I  have  borne  so  much, 
That  words  have  ceased  to  shake  me. 

MARINA. 

Oh,  no  doubt ! 
You  have  seen  your  son's  blood  flow,  and  your  flesh 

shook  not; 

And,  after  that,  what  are  a  woman's  words? 
No  more  than  woman's  tears,  that  they  should  shake 

you. 

DOGE. 

Woman,  this  clamorous  grief  of  thine,  I  tell  thee. 
Is  no  more  in  the  balance  vveigh'd  with  that 
Which but  I  pity  thee,  my  poor  Marina ! 

MARINA. 

Pity  my  husband,  or  I  cast  it  from  me  ; 
Pity  thy  son !  Tliou  pity ! — 't  is  a  word 
Strange  to  thy  heart — how  came  it  on  thy  lips  ? 

DOGE. 

I  must  bear  these  reproaches,  though  they  wrong  me. 
Couldst  thou  but  read 

MARINA. 

'T  is  not  upon  thy  brow 
Nor  in  thine  eyes,  nor  in  thine  acts, — where  then 
Should  I  behold  this  sympathy  ?  or  shall  ? 

DOGE   (pointing  downwards). 
There ! 

MARINA. 

In  the  earth? 

DOGE. 

To  which  I  am  tending:  whet, 
It  lies  upon  this  heart,  far  lightlier,  though 
Loaded  with  marble,  than  the  thoughts  which  press  it 
Now,  you  will  know  me  better. 

MARINA. 

Are  you,  then, 
Indeed,  thus  to  be  pitied  ? 

DOGE. 

Pitied !    None 

Shall  ever  use  that  base  word,  with  which  men 
Cloke  their  soul's  hoarded  triumph,  as  a  fit  oi.e 
To  mingle  with  my  name ;  that  nami  shall  be, 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


As  far  as  /  have  borne  it,  what  it  was 
When  I  received  it. 

MARINA. 

But  for  the  poor  children 
Of  him  thou  canst  not,  or  thou  wilt  not  save  : 
You  were  the  last  to  bear  it. 
DOGE. 

Would  it  were  so  ! 

Better  for  him  he  never  had  been  bom, 
Better  for  me.  —  I  have  seen  our  house  dishonour'd. 

MARINA. 

That  's  false  !  A  truer,  nobler,  trustier  heart, 
More  loving,  or  more  loyal,  never  beat 
Within  a  human  breast.     I  would  not  change 
My  exiled,  persecuted,  mangled  husband, 
Oppress'd,  but  not  disgraced,  crush'd,  o'erwhelm'd, 
Alive,  or  dead,  for  prince  or  paladin 
In  story  or  in  fable,  with  a  world 
To  back  his  suit.     Dishonour'd  !  —  he  dishonour'd  ! 
I  tell  thee,  Doge,  't  is  Venice  is  dishonour'd  ; 
His  name  shall  be  her  foulest,  worst  reproach, 
For  what  he  suffers,  not  for  what  he  did. 
'T  is  ye  who  are  all  traitors,  tyrant  !  —  ye  ! 
Did  you  but  love  your  country  like  this  victim, 
Who  totters  back  in  chains  to  tortures,  and 
Submits  to  all  things  rather  than  to  exile, 
You  'd  fling  yourselves  before  him,  and  implore 
His  grace  for  your  enormous  guilt. 

DOGE. 

He  was 

Indeed  all  you  have  said.     I  better  bore 
The  deaths  of  the  two  sons  Heaven  took  from  me 
Than  Jacopo's  disgrace. 

MARINA. 

That  word  again  ? 
DOGE. 
Hu  he  not  been  condemn'd  ? 

MARINA. 

Is  none  but  guilt  so  ? 

DOGE. 

Time  may  restore  his  memory  —  I  would  hope  so. 
He  was  my  pride,  my  -  but  't  is  useless  now  — 
I  am  not  given  to  tears,  but  wept  for  joy 
When  he  was  born  :  those  drops  were  ominous. 

MARINA. 

I  say  he  's  innocent  :  and,  were  he  not  so, 
Is  our  own  blood  and  kin  to  shrink  from  us 
In  fatal  moments  ? 

DOGE. 

I  shrank  not  from  him  : 
But  I  have  other  duties  than  a  father's  ; 
The  state  would  not  dispense  me  from  those  duties  ; 
Twice  I  demanded  it,  but  was  refused  ; 
Thej  must  then  be  fulfill'd. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 


"  The  Ten." 


ATTENDANT. 

A  message  from 


DOGE. 
Who  bears  it? 


ATTENDANT. 

Noble  Loredano. 
DOGE. 


He  '  —  but  admit  him. 


[Exit  Attendant. 


MARINA. 

Must  I  then  retire  7 
DOGE. 
Perhaps  it  is  not  requisite,  if  this 

Concerns  your  husband,  and  if  not Well,  signot,  . 

Your  pleasure!  [To  LOREDANO,  entering 

LOREDANO. 

I  bear  that  of  "the  Ten." 

DOGE. 

They 
Have  chosen  well  their  envoy. 

LOREDANO. 

'T  is  their  choice 
Which  leads  me  here. 

DOGE. 

It  does  their  wiauom  honour, 
And  no  less  to  their  courtesy. — Proceed. 

LOREDANO. 

We  have  decided. 

DOGE. 
We? 

LOREDANO. 

"The  Ten"  in  council. 

DOGE. 

What !  have  they  met  again,  and  met  without 
Apprizing  me  ? 

LOREDANO. 

They  wish'd  to  spare  your  feelings, 
No  less  than  age. 

DOGE. 

That's  new — when  spared  they  cillid  ' 
I  thank  them,  notwithstanding. 

LOREDANO. 

You  know  well 

That  they  have  power  to  act  at  their  discretion, 
With  or  without  the  presence  of  the  Doge. 

DOGE. 

'T  is  some  years  since  I  learn'd  this,  long  before 
I  became  Doge,  or  dream'J  of  such  advancement. 
You  need  not  school  me,  signor :  I  sate  in 
That  council  when  you  were  a  young  patrician. 

LOREDANO. 

True,  in  my  father's  time ;  I  have  heard  him  and 
The  admiral,  his  brother,  say  as  much. 
Your  highness  may  remember  them :  they  both 
Died  suddenly. 

DOGE, 

And  if  they  did  so,  better 
So  die,  than  live  on  lingering!y  in  pain. 

LOREDANO. 

No  doubt !  yet  most  men  like  to  live  their  days  out. 

DOGE. 
And  did  not  they  ? 

LOREDANO. 

The  grave  knows  best :  they  diou 
As  I  said,  suddenly. 

DOGE. 

Is  that  so  strange, 
That  you  repeat  the  word  emphatically  ' 

LOREDANO. 

So  far  from  strange,  that  never  was  tnere  deain 
In  my  mind  half  so  natural  as  theirs. 
Think  you  not  so  ? 

DOGE. 

What  should  1  think  of  mort<u» 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LOREDANO. 

That  they  have  mortal  foes. 

DOGE. 

1  understand  you ; 
Y  our  sires  were  mine,  and  you  are  heir  in  all  thing*. 

LOREDANO. 

You  best  know  if  I  should  be  so. 

DOOE. 

I  do 

Your  fathers  were  my  foes,  and  I  have  heard 
Foul  rumours  were  abroad ;  I  have  also  read 
Their  epitaph,  attributing  their  deaths 
To  poison.     'T  is  perhaps  as  true  as  most 
Inscriptions  upon  tombs,  and  yet  no  less 
A  fable. 

LOREDANO. 

Who  dares  say  so  ? 

DOGE. 

I !— 'T  is  true 

Your  fathers  were  mine  enemies,  as  bitter 
As  their  son  e'er  can  be,  and  I  no  less 
Was  theirs  ;  but  I  was  openly  their  foe : 
I  never  work'd  by  plot  in  council,  nor 
Cabal  in  commonwealth,  nor  secret  means 
Of  practise  against  life,  by  steel  or  drug. 
The  proof  is,  your  existence. 

LOREDANO. 

I  fear  not. 
DOOE. 

\  ou  have  no  cause,  being  what  I  am  ;  but  were  I 
That  you  would  have  me  thought,  you  long  ere  now 
Were  past  the  sense  of  fear.     Hate  on  ;  I  care  not. 

LOREDANO. 

I  never  yet  knew  that  a  noble's  life 

In  Venice  had  to  dread  a  Doge's  frown, 

That  is,  by  open  means. 

DOGE. 

But  I,  good  signer, 

Am,  or  at  least  was,  more  than  a  mere  duke, 
In  blood,  in  mind,  in  means  ;  and  that  they  know 
Who  dreaded  to  elect  me,  and  have  since 
Striven  all  they  dare  to  weigh  me  down :  be  sure, 
Before  or  since  that  period,  had  I  held  you 
At  so  much  price  as  to  require  your  absence, 
A  word  of  mine  had  set  such  spirits  to  work 
As  would  have  made  you  nothing.     But  in  all  things 
I  have  observed  the  strictest  reverence ; 
Nor  for  the  laws  alone,  for  those  you  have  strain'd 
(I  do  not  speak  of  you  but  as  a  single 
Voice  of  the  many)  somewhat  beyond  what 
I  could  enforce  for  my  authority, 
Were  I  disposed  to  brawl ;  but,  as  I  said, 
I  have  observed  with  veneration,  like 
A  priest's  for  the  high  altar,  even  unto 
The  sacrifice  of  my  own  blood  and  quiet, 
Safety,  and  all  save  honour,  the  decrees, 
The  health,  the  pride,  and  welfare  of  the  state. 
And  now,  sir,  to  your  business. 

LOREDANO. 

'T  is  decreed, 

That,  wiinout  farther  repetition  of 
The  Question,  or  continuance  of  the  trial, 
Wrm-K  only  tends  to  show  how  stuoborn  guilt  is, 
("  Yht>  Ten,"  dispensing  with  the  stricter  law 
Wiioli  still  prescribes  the  Question,  till  a  full 
Oon'ewoii  d»»d  the  prisoner  partly  having 


Avow'd  his  crime,  in  not  denying  tha* 

The  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan 's  his), 

James  Foscari  return  to  banishment, 

And  sail  in  the  same  galley  which  convey'd  him. 

MARINA. 

Thank  God !  At  least  they  will  not  drag  him  more 
Before  that  horrible  tribunal.    Would  he 
But  think  so,  to  my  mind  the  happiest  doom, 
Not  he  alone,  but  all  who  dwell  here,  could 
Desire,  were  to  escape  from  such  a  land. 

DOGE. 
That  is  not  a  Venetian  thought,  my  daughter. 

MARINA. 

No,  't  was  too  human.    May  I  share  his  exile  ' 

LOREDANO. 

Of  this  "  the  Ten"  said  nothing. 

MARINA. 

So  I  thought  i 

That  were  too  human,  also.     But  it  was  not 
Inhibited? 

LOREDANO. 

It  was  not  named. 

MARINA  (to  the  DOGE). 

Then,  father, 
Surely  you  can  obtain  or  grant  me  thus  much  : 

[To  LORE  DA  NO. 

And  you,  sir,  not  oppose  my  prayer  to  be 
Permitted  to  accompany  my  husband. 

DOGE. 
I  will  endeavour. 

MARINA. 
And  you,  signor  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Lady! 

'T  is  not  for  me  to  anticipate  the  pleasure 
Of  the  tribunal. 

MARINA. 

Pleasure !  what  a  word 

To  use  for  the  decrees  of 

DOGE. 

Daughter,  k_now  you 
In  what  a  presence  you  pronounce  thes'>  things  ? 

MARINA. 

A  prince's  and  his  subject's. 

LOREDANO. 

Subject  7 

MARINA. 

Oh! 

It  galls  you : — well,  you  are  his  equal,  as 
You  think,  but  that  you  are  not,  nor  would  be, 
Were  he  a  peasant : — well,  then,  you  're  a  prince. 
A  princely  noble ;  and  what  then  am  I  ? 

LOREDANO. 

The  offspring  of  a  noble  house. 

MARINA. 

And  wedded 

To  one  as  noble.     What  or  whose,  then,  is 
The  presence  that  should  silence  my  free  thought*  7 

LOREDANO. 

The  presence  of  your  husband's  judges. 
DOGE. 

And 

The  deference  due  even  to  the  lightest  wore 
That  falls  from  those  who  rule  in  Venirp. 

MARINA. 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


337 


Fhosc  maxims  for  your  mass  of  scared  mechanics, 

Your  merchants,  your  Dalmatian  and  Greek  slaves, 

Your  tributaries,  your  dumb  citizens, 

And  mask'd  nobility,  your  sbirri,  and 

Four  spies,  your  galley  and  your  other  slaves, 

To  whom  your  midnight  carryings-off  and  drownings, 

Your  dungeons  next  the  palace  roofs,  or  under 

The  water's  level ;  your  mysterious  meetings, 

And  unknown  dooms,  and  sudden  executions, 

Your  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  your  strangling  chamber,  and 

Your  torturing  instruments,  have  made  ye  seem 

The  beings  of  another  and  worse  world  ! 

Keep  such  for  them :  I  fear  ye  not.     I  know  ye  ; 

Have  known  and  proved  your  worst,  in  the  infernal 

Process  of  my  poor  husband  !     Treat  me  as 

Ye  treated  him: — you  did  so,  in  so  dealing 

With  him.     Then  what  have  I  to  fear/rom  you, 

Even  if  I  were  of  fearful  nature,  which 

I  trust  I  am  not  ? 

DOGE. 
You  hear,  she  speaks  wildly. 

MARINA. 

Wot  wisely,  yet  not  wildly. 

LOREDANO. 

Lady !  words 

TJtter'd  within  these  walls,  I  bear  no  further 
Than  to  the  threshold,  saving  such  as  pass 
Between  the  Duke  and  me  on  the  state's  service. 
Doge  '  have  you  aught  in  answer.? 
DOGE. 

Something  from 
The  Doge  ;  it  may  be  also  from  a  parent. 

LOREDANO. 

My  mission  here  is  to  the  Doge. 
DOGE. 

Then  say 

The  Doge  will  choose  his  own  ambassador, 
Or  state  in  person  what  is  meet ;  and  for 
The  father 

LOREDANO. 

I  remember  mine. — Farewell ! 
I  Ion  the  hands  of  the  illustrious  lady, 
And  bow  me  to  the  Duke. 

[Exit  LOREDAJCO. 
MARINA. 

Are  you  content  ? 
DOGE. 
I  am  what  you  behold. 

MARINA. 

And  that 's  a  mystery. 
DOGE. 

All  things  are  so  to  mortals :  who  can  read  them 
Save  he  who  made  ?  or,  if  they  can,  the  few 
And  gifted  spirits,  who  have  studied  long 
That  loathsome  volume — man,  and  pored  upon 
Those  black  and  bloody  leaves  his  heart  and  brain, 
But  learn  a  magic  which  recoils  upon 
The  adept  who  pursues  it :   all  the  sins 
We  find  in  others,  nature  made  our  own ; 
All  our  advantages  are  those  of  fortune ; 
Birth,  wealth,  health,  beauty,  are  her  accidents, 
And  when  we  cry  out  against  fate,  't  were  well 
We  should  remember  fortune  can  take  nought 
Save  what  she  gave — the  rest  was  nakedness, 
And  lusts,  and  appetites,  and  vanities, 
The  universal  heritage,  to  battle 
2o  *  4P 


With  as  we  may,  and  least  in  humblest  stations, 

Where  hunger  swallows  all  in  one  low  want, 

And  the  original  ordinance,  that  man 

Must  sweat  for  his  poor  pittance,  keeps  all  passion* 

Aloof,  save  fear  of  famine  !  All  is  low, 

And  false,  and  hollow — clay  from  first  to  last, 

The  prince's  nm  no  less  than  potter's  vessel. 

Our  fame  is  in  men's  breath,  our  lives  upon 

Less  than  their  breath  ;  our  durance  upon  days, 

Our  days  on  seasons  ;  our  whole  being  on 

Something  which  is  not  its  ! — So,  we  are  slaves, 

The  greatest  as  the  meanest — nothing  rests 

Upon  our  will ;  the  will  itself  no  less 

Depends  upon  a  straw  than  on  a  storm  ; 

And  when  we  think  we  lead,  we  are  most  led, 

And  still  towards  death,  a  thing  which  comes  as  much 

Without  our  act  or  choice,  as  birth  ;  so  that 

Methinks  we  must  have  sinn'd  in  some  old  world, 

And  tlds  is  hell :  the  best  is,  that  it  is  not 

Eternal. 

MARINA. 

These  are  things  we  cannot  judge 
On  earth. 

DOGE. 

And  how  then  shall  we  judge  each  other, 
Who  are  all  earth,  and  I,  who  am  call'd  upon 
To  judge  my  son  ?  I  have  administer'd 
My  country  faithfully — victoriously — 
I  dare  them  to  the  proof — the  chart  of  what 
She  was  and  is :   my  reign  has  doubled  realms ; 
And,  in  reward,  the  gratitude  of  Venice 
Has  left,  or  is  about  to  leave,  me  single. 

MARINA. 

And  Foscari  ?     I  do  not  think  of  such  things, 
So  I  be  left  with  him. 

DOGE. 

You  shall  be  so ; 
Thus  much  they  cannot  well  deny. 

MARINA. 

And  if 
They  should,  I  will  fly  with  him. 

DOGE. 

That  can  ne'er  b* 
And  whither  would  you  fly  ? 

MARINA. 

I  know  not,  reck  not- 
To  Syria,  Egypt,  to  the  Ottoman — 
Any  where,  where  we  might  respire  unfetter'd, 
And  live,  nor  girt  by  spies,  nor  liable 
To  edicts  of  inquisitors  of  state. 

DOGE. 

What,  wouldst  thou  have  a  renegade  for  husband, 
And  turn  him  into  traitor  ? 

MARINA. 

He  is  none : 

The  country  is  the  traitress,  which  thrusts  forUi 
Her  best  and  bravest  from  her.     Tyranny 
Is  far  the  worst  of  treasons.     Dost  thou  ueem 
None  rebels  except  subjects  ?  The  prince  who 
Neglects  or  violates  his  trust  is  more 
A  brigand  than  the  robber-chief. 
DOGE. 

i  cannot 
Charge  me  with  such  a  breac-i  of  faith. 

HARINA. 

No;  thou 


333 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ObservV,  a*sy'st,  such  laws  as  make  old  Draco' 
A  code  of  lurcy  by  comparison. 

DOGE. 

I  found  the  law;  I  did  not  make  iu     Were  I 
A  subject,  still  I  might  find  parts  and  portions 
Fit  tor  amendment ;  but,  as  prince,  I  never 
Would  change,  for  the  sake  of  my  house,  the  charter 
Left  by  our  fathers. 

KAMUU 

Did  they  make  it  for 
fhe  ruin  of  their  children  ? 

DOGE. 

Under  such  laws,  Venice 
Has  risen  to  what  she  is — a  state  to  rival 
Li  deeds,  and  days,  and  sway,  and,  let  me  add, 
In  {lory  (for  we  hare  had  Roman  spirits 
Amongst  us),  ail  that  history  has  bequeath'd 
Of  Rome  arid  Carthage  in  their  best  times,  when 
The  people  sway'd  by  senates. 

MARINA. 

Rather  say, 

Groan'u  under  the  stem  oligarchs. 
DOGE. 

Perhaps  so ; 

But  yet  subdued  the  world :  b  such  a  stale 
An  individual,  be  he  richest  of 
Such  rank  as  is  permitted,  or  the  meanest, 
Without  a  name,  is  alike  nothing,  when 
Tbe  policy,  irrevocably  tending 
To  one  great  end,  must  be  maintain' d  in  vigour. 

MARINA. 
This  means  that  you  are  more  a  Doge  than  father. 

DOGE. 

It  means  I  am  more  citizen  than  either. 
If  we  had  not  for  many  centuries 
Had  thousands  of  such  citizens,  and  shall, 
I  irust,  have  still  such,  Venice  were  DO  city. 

MARINA. 

Accused  be  the  city  where  the  laws 

Would  stifle  nature's  ! 

DOGE. 

Had  I  as  many  sons 

A*  I  hare  years,  I  would  have  given  them  all, 
Not  without  feeling,  but  I  would  have  given  them 
Tc  .he  slate's  service,  to  fulfil  her  wishes 
On  the  flood,  in  the  field,  or,  if  it  must  be, 
As  it,  alas  !  has  been,  to  ostracism, 
Exile,  or  chains,  or  whatsoever  worse 
She.  might  decree. 

MA.RI.VA. 

And  this  is  patriotism ! 
To  me  it  seems  the  worst  barbarity. 
Let  me  seek  out  my  husband :  the  sage  "  Ten," 
With  all  iu  jealousy,  will  hardly  war 
So  far  with  a  weak  woman  as  deny  me 
A  moment's  access  to  his  dungeon. 
DOGE. 

Ill 

So  far  take  on  myself,  as  order  that 
Yon  may  be  admitted. 

MARIXA. 

And  what  shall  I  say 
To  r  oscari  from  his  father  ? 

DOGE. 

That  he  obey 
Th«  ww* 


MARINA. 

And  nothins  more  ?  Will  you  not  see  bins 
Ere  he  depart?  It  may  be  the  last  time. 

DOGE. 

The  last !— my  boy !— The  last  time  I  shall  see 
My  last  of  children  !  Tell  him  1  will  come. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 
The  Prison  of  JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI    (follli). 

No  light,  save  yon  faint  gleam,  which  shows  me  walls 

Which  never  echo'd  but  to  sorrow's  sounds, 

The  sigh  of  long  imprisonment,  the  step 

Of  feet  on  which  the  iron  clank'd,  the  groan 

Of  death,  the  imprecation  of  despair ! 

And  yet  for  this  I  have  return'd  to  Venice, 

With  some  faint  hope,  't  is  true,  that  time,  which  wean 

The  marble  down,  had  worn  away  the  hate 

Of  men's  hearts :  but  I  knew  them  not,  and  here 

Must  I  consume  my  own,  which  never  beat 

For  Venice  but  with  such  a  yearning  as 

The  dove  has  for  her  distant  nest,  when  wheeling 

High  in  the  air  on  her  return  to  greet 

Her  callow  brood.     What  letters  are  these  which 

[Approaching  the  tcali, 
Are  scrawl'd  along  the  inexorable  wall? 
Will  the  gleam  let  me  trace  them?  Ah  !  the  names 
Of  my  sad  predecessors  in  this  place, 
The  dates  of  theii  despair,  the  brief  words  of 
A  grief  too  great  for  many.     This  stone  page 
Holds  like  an  epitaph  their  history, 
And  the  poor  captive's  tale  is  graven  on 
His  dungeon  barrier,  like  the  lover's  record 
Upon  the  bark  of  some  tall  tree,  which  bears 
His  own  and  his  beloved's  name.     Alas ! 
I  recognise  some  names  familiar  to  me, 
And  blighted  like  to  mine,  which  I  will  add, 
Fittest  for  such  a  chronicle  as  tnis, 
Which  only  can  be  read,  as  writ,  by  wTetches. 

[He  engravet  hit  i 

Enter  a  FAMILIAR  of  "  the  Ten." 

FAMILIAR. 

I  bring  you  food. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

I  pray  you  set  it  down ; 
I  am  past  hunger:  but  my  lips  are  parch'd — 
The  water ! 

FAMILIAR. 

There. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI  (after  drinking). 
I  thank  you :  I  am  better. 

FAMILIAR. 

I  am  commanded  to  inform  you  that 
Your  further  trial  is  postponed. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Till  when  ? 

FAMILIAR 

I  know  not, — H  is  also  in  my  orders 
That  your  illustrious  lady  be  admitted 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


33'' 


JACOPO    FOICARI. 

Ah  !  they  relent  then  —  I  had  ceased  to  hope  it: 
TWHS  time. 

Enter  MABIXA. 

MABI5A. 

My  best  beloved! 

JACOPO  rose  A  El  (CTiiroon^  to-). 
My  true  wife, 

And  only  friend  !  What  happiness  ! 
•UBOtt. 

Wei  part 
No  more. 

JACOPO  FOSCABI. 
H«-w  !  wouldst  thou  share  a  dungeon? 

MABI5A. 

Ay, 

The  rack,  the  grave,  all  —  any  thing  with  thee, 

But  the  tomb  last  of  all,  for  there  we  shall 

Be  ignorant  of  each  other  :  yet  I  win 

Share  that  —  all  things  except  new  separation  ; 

It  is  too  much  to  hare  survived  the  first. 

How  dost  thou?  How  are  those  worn  limbs?  Alas! 

Wbj  do  I  ask?  Thy  paleness  - 

JACOPO    rOSCARI. 

Tistbejoy 

Of  seeing  thee  again  so  soon,  and  so 
Without  expectancy,  has  sent  the  blood 
Back  to  my  heart,  and  left  my  cheeks  like  thine, 
For  thou  art  pale  too,  my  Manna  '. 


The  gloom  of  this  eternal  cefl,  which  never 

Knew  sunbeam,  and  the  saBow  sullen  glare 

Of  the  familiar's  torch,  which  seems  akin 

To  darkness  more  than  light,  by  lending  to 

The  dungeon  vapours  its  liilinninom  smoke, 

Which  cloud  whatever  we  gaze  on,  eren  thine  eyes- 

No,  not  thine  eyes    they  sparkle—  bow  they  sparkle  ! 

JACOPO  FOSCAEI. 
And  thine  !  —  bat  I  am  blinded  by  the  torch. 

MABIBA. 

As  I  had  been  without  h.    Couldst  thou  see  hen? 

JACOPO    FOSCABI. 

Nothing  at  first  ;  but  use  and  time  had  taught  me 
Familiarity  with  what  was  darkness  ; 
And  the  gray  twilight  of  such  gfissmiain-s  as 
Glide  through  the  crevices,  made  by  the  winds, 
Was  kinder  to  mine  eyes  than  the  fnf  son, 
When  gorgeously  oVgiding  any  towers, 
Save  those  of  Venice  :  but  a  moment  ere 
Thou  earnest  hither,  I  was  busy  writing. 


What? 


MABIXA. 
JACOPO    FOSCABI. 

My  name :  look,  *t  is  there— recorded  next 
•  of  him  who  here  preceded  me, 
dates  say  true. 

•MjmUu 

And  what  of  Urn? 

JACOPO    FASCABI. 

These  watts  are  snent  of  men's  ends;  they  only 
Seem  to  hint  shrewdly  of  them.     Such  stern  walk 
Were  never  piled  on  high  save  o'er  the  dead, 
th  those  who  soon  most  be  so.— IFfcs*  ef  torn  1 
Thou  askest — What  of  me?  may  soon  be  askM, 


With  the  like  answer— doubt  and  dreadful  sorauM 
Unless  thou  telTst  my  tale. 

MAB134. 

j  tptak  of  thee ! 

JACOPO  FOfCABI. 

And  wherefore  not?  AH  then  shall  speak  of  me: 
The  tyranny  of  silence  is  not  lasting, 
And,  though  events  be  hidden,  just  men's  groans 
WiH  bant  afl  ceiement,  even  a  living  grave's ! 
[  do  not  doubt  my  memory,  but  my  life ; 
And  neither  do  l' fear. 

XABI9A. 

Thy  fife  is  safe. 

JACOPO    FOfCARl. 

And  liberty? 

MABI.TA. 

The  mmd  should  make  its  own. 

JACOPO  FOSCABI. 
That  has  a  noble  sound;  bat 'tis  a  sound, 
A  music  most  impressive,  but  too  transient: 
The  mind  is  much,  but  is  not  aft.     The  mmd 
Hath  nerved  me  to  endure  the  risk  of  death, 
And  torture  positive,  far  worse  than  detlh 
(If  death  be  a  deep  sleep),  without  a  groan, 
Or  with  a  cry  which  rather  shamed  my  judges 
Than  me;  bat  His  not  aH,  for  there  are  things 
More  wofuJ — such  as  this  small  dungeon,  where 
I  may  breathe  many  years. 


Alas!  and  this 
Smal  dungeon  is  aH  that  belongs  to  thee 
Of  this  wide  realm,  of  which  thy  sire  is  prince. 

JACOPO  roscAJtu 
That  thought  would  scarcer/  aid  me  to  endore  a. 
My  doom  is  •  **~*n*t  many  are  in  dungeons, 
Bat  none  Eke  mine,  so  near  their  father's  pake*. 
Bat  men  my  heart  is  somrhmrs  Ugh,  and  hope 
WiD  stream  along  those  rooted  rays  of  fight 
Peopled  with  dusty  atoms,  which  afford 
Oar  only  day;  for,  save  the  jailor's  torch. 
And  a  strange  fire-fly,  which  was  quickly  caught 
Last  night  in  yon  enormous  spider's  net, 
I  ne'er  saw  aught  here  like  a  ray.     Alas ! 
I  know  if  mind  may  bear  us  up,  or  no, 
For  I  have  such,  and  shown  k  before  men; 
It  sinks  in  solitude :  my  soul  is  social. 

MABtVA. 

I  win  be  with  thee. 

JACOPO  FOSCABX. 

Ah!  if  it  were  so! 

But  Aof  they  never  giant ed— nor  win  grant, 
Andlehalbealone:  no  men    no  books— 
Those  lying  ukeiKMf.i  of  lying  men. 
I  ask'd  for  even  those  outlines  of  their  land, 
Which  they  term  annals,  history,  what  yon  wn% 
Which  men  bequeath  as  portraits,  and  they  were 
Refused  me;  so  these  wafts  have  been  my  study, 
More  faithful  pictures  of  Venetian  story, 
With  aO  their  blank,  or  dismal  stains,  man  is 
The  hnl  not  far  from  hence,  which  bears  en  Ugh 
Hundreds  of  doges,  and  ibeir  deeds  and  dates. 

MA  BIX  A. 

I  come  to  tel  thee  the  result  of  thdr 
OB  thy  doom. 

JACOPO   FOSCABI. 

I  known    leek- 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


[He  points  to  his  limbi,  as  referring  to  the 
tortures  which  he  had  undergone. 

MARINA. 

*To— no— no  more  of  that :  even  they  relent 
Prom  that  atrocity. 

JACOFO  FOSCARI. 

What  then  7 

MARINA. 

That  you 
Return  to  Candia. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Then  my  Lost  hope 's  gone. 
I  could  endure  my  dungeon,  for  't  was  Venice ; 
I  could  support  the  torture,  there  was  something 
In  my  native  air  that  buoy'd  my  spirits  up, 
Like  a  ship  on  the  ocean  toss'd  by  storms, 
But  proudly  still  bestriding  the  high  waves, 
And  holding  on  its  course  ;  but  there,  afar, 
In  that  accursed  isle  of  slaves,  and  captives, 
And  unbelievers,  like  a  stranded  wreck, 
My  very  soul  seem'd  mouldering  in  my  bosom, 
And  piecemeal  I  shall  perish,  if  remanded. 

MARINA. 

And  here? 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

At  once — by  better  means,  as  briefer. 
What !  would  they  even  deny  me  my  sires'  sepulchre, 
As  well  as  home  and  heritage  ? 

MARINA. 

My  husband ! 

I  have  sued  to  accompany  thee  hence, 
And  not  so  hopelessly.     This  love  of  thine 
For  an  ungrateful  and  tyrannic  soil, 
Is  passion,  and  not  patriotism  ;  for  me, 
So  I  could  see  thee  with  a  quiet  aspect, 
And  the  sweet  freedom  of  the  earth  and  air, 
I  would  not  cavil  about  climes  or  regions. 
This  crowd  of  palaces  and  prisons  is  not 
A  paradise ;  its  first  inhabitants 
Were  wretched  exiles. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Well  1  know  how  wretched ! 

MARINA. 

And  yet  you  see  how  from  their  banishment 
Before  the  Tartar  into  these  salt  isles, 
Their  antique  energy  of  mind,  all  that 
Remain'd  of  Rome  for  their  inheritance, 
Created  by  degrees  an  ocean-Rome  ; 
And  shall  an  evil,  which  so  often  leads 
To  good,  depress  thee  thus  ? 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Had  I  gone  forth 

From  my  own  land,  like  the  old  patriarchs,  seeking 
Another  region,  with  their  flocks  and  herds  ; 
Had  I  been  cast  out  like  the  Jews  from  Zion, 
Or  like  our  fathers,  driven  by  Attila 
From  fertile  Italy  to  barren  islets, 
I  would  have  given  some  tears  to  my  late  country, 
And  many  thoughts  ;  but  afterwards  address'd 
Myself,  with  those  about  me,  to  create 
A  new  home  and  fresh  state :  perhap..  I  could 
Have  borne  this — though  I  know  not. 

MARINA. 

Wherefore  not  ? 

It  was  the  lot  ot  millions,  and  must  be 
The  fate  of  tnyiiids  more. 


JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Ay — we  but  hear 

Of  the  survivors'  toil  in  their  new  lands, 
Their  numbers  and  success ;  but  who  can  number 
The  hearts  which  broke  in  silence  of  that  parting, 
Or  after  their  departure  ;  of  that  malady  ' 
Which  calls  up  green  and  native  fields  to  view 
From  the  rough  deep,  with  such  identity 
To  the  poor  exile's  fever' d  eye,  that  he 
Can  scarcely  be  restrain'd  from  treading  them? 
That  melody,1  which  out  of  tones  and  tunes, 
Collects  such  pasture  for  the  longing  sorrow 
Of  the  sad  mountaineer,  when  far  away 
From  his  snow  canopy  of  cliffs  and  clouds, 
That  he  feeds  on  the  sweet,  but  poisonous  thought, 
And  dies.     You  call  this  weakness  !  It  is  strength, 
I  say, — the  parent  of  all  honest  feeling. 
He  who  loves  not  his  country,  can  love  nothing. 

MARINA. 

Obey  her,  then ;  't  is  she  that  puts  thee  forth. 

JACOFO  FOSCARI. 

Ay,  there  it  is :  't  is  like  a  mother's  curse 
Upon  my  soul — the  mark  is  set  upon  me. 
The  exiles  you  speak  of  went  forth  by  nations, 
Their  hands  upheld  each  other  by  the  way, 
Their  tents  were  pitched  together — I  'm  alone. 

MARINA. 
You  shall  be  so  no  more — I  will  go  with  thee. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

My  best  Marina ! — and  our  children  ? 

MARINA. 

They 

I  fear,  by  the  prevention  of  the  state's 
Abhorrent  policy  (which  holds  all  ties 
As  threads,  which  may  be  broken  at  her  pleasure), 
Will  not  be  suffer'd  to  proceed  with  us. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

And  canst  thou  leave  them  ? 

MARINA. 

Yes.     With  many  a  pang 
But — I  can  leave  them,  children  as  they  are, 
To  teach  you  to  be  less  a  child.     From  this 
Learn  you  to  sway  your  feelings,  when  exacted 
By  duties  paramount ;  and  't  is  our  first 
On  earth  to  bear. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Have  I  not  borne  ? 

MARINA. 

Too  much 

From  tyrannous  injustice,  and  enough 
To  teach  you  not  to  shrink  now  from  a  lot 
Which,  as  compared  with  what  you  have  undergone 
Of  late,  is  mercy. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Ah  !  you  never  yet 

Were  far  away  from  Venice,  never  saw 
Her  beautiful  towers  in  the  receding  distance, 
While  every  furrow  of  the  vessel's  track 
Seem'd  ploughing  deep  into  your  heart ;  you  never 
Saw  day  go  down  upon  your  native  spires 
So  calmly  with  its  gold  and  crimson  glory, 
And  after  dreaming  a  disturbed  vision 
Of  them  and  theirs,  awoke  and  found  them  not. 


1  The  calenture. 

2  Alluding  to  the  Swiss  air,  and  its 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


341 


MARTHA. 

1  wi  i  divide  this  with  you.     Let  us  think 
Of  c  ur  departure  from  this  much-loved  city 
(Since  you  must  love  it,  as  it  seems),  and  this 
Chamber  of  state  her  gratitude  allots  you. 
Our  children  will  be  cared  for  by  the  Doge, 
And  by  my  uncles :  we  must  sail  ere  night. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

That 's  sudden.     Shall  I  not  behold  my  father  I 

MARINA. 

You  will. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Where? 

MARINA. 

Here  or  in  the  ducal  chamber — 
He  said  not  which.     I  would  that  you  could  bear 
Your  exile  as  he  bears  it. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Blame  him  not. 

I  sometimes  murmur  for  a  moment ;  but 
He  could  not  now  act  otherwise.     A  show 
Of  feeling  or  compassion  on  his  part 
Would  have  but  drawn  upon  his  aged  head 
Suspicion  from  "  the  Ten,"  and  upon  mine 
Accumulated  ills. 

MARINA. 

Accumulated ! 
What  pangs  are  those  they  have  spared  you  ? 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

That  of  leaving 

Venice  without  beholding  him  or  you, 
Which  might  have  been  forbidden  now,  as  't  waa 
Upon  my  former  exile. 

MARINA. 

That  is  true, 

And  thus  far  I  am  also  the  state's  debtor, 
And  shall  be  more  so  when  I  see  us  both 
floating  on  the  free  waves — away — away — 
3e  it  to  the  earth's  end,  from  this  abhorr'd, 
Unjust,  and 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Curse  it  not.    If  I  am  silent, 
Who  dares  accuse  my  country  ? 

MARINA. 

Men  and  angels ! 

The  blood  of  myriads  reeking  up  to  heaven, 
The  groans  of  slaves  in  chains,  and  men  in  dungeons, 
Mothers,  and  wives,  and  sons,  and  sires,  and  subjects, 
Held  in  the  bondage  of  ten  bald-heads ;  and 
Though  last,  not  least,  thy  silence.     Couldst  than  say 
Aught  in  its  favour,  who  would  praise  like  thee  1 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Let  us  address  us  then,  since  so  it  must  be, 
To  our  departure.  Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  LOREDANO,  attended  by  Familiar*. 
LOREDANO  (to  the  Familiars), 

Retire, 
But  leave  the  torch.  [Exeunt  the  two  Familiart, 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Most  welcome,  noble  signor. 

I  did  not  deem  this  poor  place  could  have  drawn 

Such  presence  hither. 

LOREDANO. 

>T  is  not  the  first  time 
I  nave  visited  these  places. 


MARINA. 

Nor  would  be 
[Tie  last,  were  all  men's  ments  well  rewarded, 
ame  you  here  to  insult  us,  or  remain 
As  spy  upon  us,  or  as  hostage  for  us  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Neither  are  of  my  office,  nobie  lady! 
am  sent  hither  to  your  husband,  to 
Announce  "  the  Ten's  "  decree. 

MARINA. 

That  tenderness 
las  been  anticipated :  it  is  known. 

LOREDANO. 

As  how? 

MARINA. 

I  have  inform'd  him,  not  so  gently, 
Doubtless,  as  your  nice  feelings  would  prescribe, 
The  indulgence  of  your  colleagues  ;  but  he  knew  it 
if  you  come  for  our  thanks,  take  ihem,  and  hence ' 
The  dungeon  gloom  is  deep  enough  without  you, 
And  full  of  reptiles,  not  less  loathsome,  though 
Their  sting  is  honester. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

I  pray  you,  calm  you : 
What  can  avail  such  words  7     • 

MARINA. 

To  let  him  know 
That  he  is  known. 

LOREDANO. 

Let  the  fair  dame  preserve 
Her  sex's  privilege. 

MARINA. 

I  have  some  sons,  sir, 
Will  one  day  thank  you  better. 

LOREDANO. 

You  do  well 
To  nurse  them  wisely.  Foscari — you  know 
Your  sentence,  then  ? 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 
Return  to  Candia! 

LOREDANO. 

True— 
For  life. 

JACOFO    FOSCARI. 

Not  long. 

LOREDANO. 

I  said — for  life. 

JACOPO    FOSCAPI. 

And  I 
Repeat — not  long. 

LOREDANO. 

A  year's  imprisonment 
In  Canea — afterwards  the  freedom  of 
The  whole  isle. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Both  the  same  to  me :  the  aft«r 
Freedom  as  is  the  first  imprisonment. 
Ii  't  true  my  wife  accompanies  me  ? 
LOREDVNO. 

Yes, 
If  she  BO  wills  it. 

MARINA. 

Who  obtain'd  that  justice  * 

LOREDANO. 

One  who  wars  not  with  women. 


342 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


MARINA. 

But  oppresses 

Men  :  howsoever,  let  him  have  my  thanks 
For  the  only  boon  I  would  have  ask'd  or  taken 
From  him  or  such  as  he  is. 

LOREDANO. 

He  receives  them 
As  they  are  offer'd. 

MARINA. 

May  they  thrive  with  him 
So  ranch  !  —  no  more. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Is  this,  sir,  your  whole  mission  ? 
Because  we  have  brief  time  for  preparation, 
An«l  you  perceive  your  presence  doth  disquiet 
Thin  lady,  of  a  house  noble  as  yours. 

MARINA. 

Nobler! 

LOREDANO. 

How  nob'.er  ? 

MARINA. 

As  more  generous! 

We  say  the  "  generous  steed  "  to  express  the  purity 
Of  his  high  blood.   Thus  much  I  've  learnt,  although 
Venetian  (who  see  few  steeds  save  of  bronze), 
From  those  Venetians  who  have  skimm'd  the  coasts 
Of  Egypt,  and  her  neighbour  Araby: 
And  why  not  say  as  soon  "  the  generous  man  T" 
ff  race  be  aught,  it  is  in  qualities 
Jlore  than  in  years  ;  and  mine,  which  is  as  old 
As  yours,  is  better  in  its  product  ;  nay- 
Look  not  so  stern  —  but  get  you  back,  and  pore 
Upon  your  genealogic  trees  most  green 
Of  leaves  and  most  mature  of  fruits,  and  there 
Blush  to  find  ancestors,  who  would  have  blush'd 
For  such  a  son  —  thou  cold  inveterate  hater  ! 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 
Again,  Marina! 

MARINA. 

Again  !  still,  Marina. 

See  you  not,  he  conies  here  to  glut  his  hate 
With  a  last  look  upon  our  misery  ? 
Let  him  partake  it  ! 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 
That  were  difficult. 

MARINA. 

Nothing  more  easy.     He  partakes  it  now  — 

Ay,  he  may  veil  beneath  a  marble  brow 

And  sneering  lip  the  pang,  but  he  partakes  it. 

A  few  brief  words  of  truth  shame  the  devil's  servants 

No  less  than  master  :  I  have  probed  his  soul 

A  moment,  as  the  eternal  fire,  ere  long, 

Will  reach  it  always.     See  how  he  shrinks  from  me  ! 

With  death,  and  chains,  and  exile  in  his  hand, 

To  scatter  o'er  his  kind  as  he  thinks  fit  : 

They  are  his  weapons,  not  his  armour,  for 

1  h^ve  pierced  him  to  the  core  of  his  cold  heart. 

t  care  not  for  his  frowns  !   We  can  but  die, 

<V;id  he  out  live,  for  him  the  very  worst 

•  *f  destinies  :  each  day  secures  him  more 


JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

This  is  mere  insanity. 

MARINA. 

t  may  oe  so  ,  ami  who  nath  made  us  mad  J 


LOREDANO. 

Let  her  go  on ;  it  irks  not  me. 

MARINA. 

That 's  false ! 

You  came  here  to  enjoy  a  heartless  triumph 
Of  cold  looks  upon  manifold  griefs  !  You  came 
To  be  sued  to  in  vain — to  mark  our  tears, 
And  hoard  our  groans — to  gaze  upon  the  wreck 
Which  you  have  made  a  prince's  son — my  nusband  ; 
In  short,  to  trample  on  the  fallen — an  office 
The  hangman  shrinks  from,  as  all  men  from  him ! 
How  have  you  sped  ?   We  are  wretched,  signer,  as 
Your  plots  could  make,  and  vengeance  could  desire  us— 
And  how  feel  you  ? 

LOREDANO. 

As  rocks. 

MARINA. 

By  thunder  blasted : 

They  feel  not,  out  no  less  are  shiver'd.     Come, 
Foscari ;  now  let  us  go,  and  leave  this  felon, 
The  sole  fit  habitant  of  such  a  cell, 
Which  he  has  peopled  often,  but  ne'er  fitly 
Till  he  himself  shall  brood  in  it  alone. 
Enter  the  DOGE. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

My  father! 

DOGE  (embracing  him). 
Jacopo !  my  son — my  son ! 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

My  father  still !  How  long  it  is  since  I 
Have  heard  thee  name  my  name — our  name  ! 
DOGE. 

My  boy ! 
Goulds  t  thou  but  know 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

I  rarely,  sir,  have  murmur'd, 
DOGE. 
I  feel  too  much  thou  hast  not. 

MARINA. 

Doge,  look  there ! 
[She points  to  LOREDA.NO 
DOGE. 

I  see  the  man — what  mean'st  thou  ? 

MARINA. 

Caution! 

LOREDANO. 

Being 

The  virtue  which  this  noble  lady  most 

May  practise,  she  doth  well  to  recommend  it. 

MARINA. 

Wretch  !  't  is  no  virtue,  but  the  policy 

Of  those  who  fain  must  deal  perforce  with  vice : 

As  such  I  recommend  it,  as  I  would 

To  one  whose  foot  was  on  an  adder's  path. 

DOGE. 

Daughter,  it  is  superfluous  ;  I  have  long 
Known  Loredano. 

LOREDANO. 

You  may  know  him  better. 

MARINA. 

Yes ;  worst  he  could  not. 

JACOPO    FOSCARI. 

Father,  let  not  these 
Our  parting  hours  be  lost  in  listening  to 
Reproaches,  which  boot  nothing.     Is  it — is  it, 
Indeed,  our  last  of  meetings  7 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


343 


DOGE. 

You  behold 
These  white  hairs ! 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

And  I  feel,  besides,  that  mine 
Will  never  be  so  white.     Embrace  me,  father ! 
I  loved  you  ever — never  more  than  now. 
Look  to  my  children — to  your  last  child's  children : 
Let  them  be  all  to  you  which  he  was  once, 
And  never  be  to  you  what  I  am  now. 
May  I  not  see  them  also  ? 

MARINA. 

No— not  here. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Fhey  might  behold  their  parent  any  where. 

MARINA. 

I  would  that  they  beheld  their  father  in 
A  place  which  would  not  mingle  fear  with  love, 
To  freeze  their  young  blood  in  its  natural  current. 
They  have  fed  well,  slept  soft,  and  knew  not  that 
Their  sire  was  a  mere  hunted  outlaw.    Well 
I  know  his  fate  may  one  day  be  their  heritage, 
But  let  it  only  be  their  heritage, 
And  not  their  present  fee.    Their  senses,  though 
Alive  to  love,  are  yet  awake  to  terror ; 
And  these  vile  damps,  too,  and  yon  thick  green  wave 
Which  floats  above  the  place  where  we  now  stand — 
A  cell  so  far  below  the  water's  level, 
Sending  its  pestilence  through  every  crevice, 
Might  strike  them :  this  it  not  their  atmc-sphere, 
However  you — and  you — and,  most  of  all, 
As  worthiest — you,  sir,  noble  Loredano ! 
May  breathe  it  without  prejudice. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

I  had  not 

Reflected  upon  this,  but  acquiesce. 
I  shall  depart,  then,  without  meeting  them  7 

DOGE. 
Not  so :  they  shall  await  you  in  my  chamber. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

And  must  I  leave  them  all  ? 

LOREDANO. 

You  must. 

JACOPO   FOSCARI. 

Not  one  7 

LOREDANO. 

They  are  the  state's. 

MARINA.      • 

I  thought  they  had  been  mine. 

LOREDANO. 

They  are,  in  all  maternal  things. 

MARINA. 

That  is, 

In  all  things  painful.    If  they  're  sick,  they  win 
Be  left  to  me  to  tend  them ;  should  they  die, 
To  me  to  bury  and  to  mourn :   but  if 
They  live,  they  '11  make  you  soldiers,  senators, 
Slaves,  exiles — what  you  will ;  or  if  they  are 
Females  with  portions,  brides  and  bribes  for  nobles ! 
Behold  the  state's  care  for  its  sons  and  mothers ! 

LOREDASO. 
The  hour  approaches,  and  the  wind  is  fair. 

JACOPf    FOSCARI. 

How  know  you  that  here,  where  the  genial  wind 
Ne'e*  Slows  in  all  its  hliuterin^  freedom? 


LCREDANO. 

'T  was  so 

When  I  came  here.    The  galley  floats  within 
A  bow-shot  of  the  "  Riva  di  Schiavoni." 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Father !  I  pray  you  to  precede  me,  and 
Prepare  my  children  to  behold  their  father. 

DOGE. 
Be  firm,  my  son ! 

JACOPO  FOSCAHI. 

I  will  do  my  endeavour. 

MARINA. 

Farewell !  at  least  to  this  detested  dungeon, 
And  him  to  whose  good  offices  you  owe 
In  part  your  past  imprisonment. 
LOREDANO. 

And  present 
Liberation. 

DOGE. 
He  speaks  truth. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

No  doubt:  but  'tis 

Exchange  of  chains  for  heavier  chains  I  owe  him. 
He  knows  this,  or  he  had  not  sought  to  change  them. 
But  I  reproach  not. 

LOREDANO. 

The  time  narrows,  signor 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Alas !  I  little  thought  so  lingeringly 
To  leave  abodes  like  this :  but  when  I  feel 
That  every  step  I  take,  even  from  this  cell, 
Is  one  away  from  Venice,  I  look  back 

Even  on  these  dull  damp  walls,  and 

DOGE. 

Boy !  no  lean 

MARINA. 

Let  them  flow  on :  he  wept  not  on  the  rack 
To  shame  him,  and  they  cannot  shame  him  now. 
They  will  relieve  his  heart — that  too  kind  heart—- 
And I  will  find  an  hour  to  wipe  away 
Those  tears,  or  add  my  own.     I  could  weep  now, 
But  would  not  gratify  yon  wretch  so  far. 
Let  us  proceed.     Doge,  lead  the  way. 

LOREDANO  (to  the  Familiar'). 

The  torch,  then 

MARINA. 

Yes,  light  us  on,  as  to  a  funeral  pyre, 
With  Loredano  mourning  like  an  heir. 

DOGE. 
My  son,  you  are  feeble :  take  this  hand. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Alas: 

Mus*.  youth  support  itself  on  age,  and  I, 
Who  ought  to  be  the  prop  of  yours  7 

LOREDANO. 

Take  mine. 

MARINA. 

Touch  it  not,  Foscari ;  't  will  sting  you.     Signor, 
Stand  off!  be  sure  that  if  a  grasp  of  yours 
Would  raise  us  from  the  gulf  wherein  we  are  plunged 
No  hand  of  ours  would  stretch  itself  to  meet  it. 
Come,  Foscari,  take  the  hand  the  altar  gave  you. 
It  could  not  save,  but  will  support  yo»  ever. 

\Ertvm* 


344 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Enter  LCREDASO  and  BARBARIOO. 

BARBARIOO. 

And  have  you  confidence  in  such  a  project? 

LOREDAJTO. 
i  have, 

BARBARIGO. 

'T  is  hard  upon  his  years. 

LOREDANO. 

Say  rather 
Kind,  to  relieve  him  from  the  cares  of  state. 

BARBARIGO. 

1  will  break  his  heart. 

LOREDANO. 

Age  has  no  heart  to  break. 
Hf  has  seen  his  son's  half  broken,  and,  except 
A  start  of  feeling  in  his  dungeon,  never 
Swerved. 

BARBARIGO. 

In  his  countenance,  I  grant  you,  never ; 
But  I  have  seen  him  sometimes  in  a  calm 
So  desolate,  that  the  most  clamorous  grief 
Had  nought  to  envy  him  within.    Where  is  he  ? 

LOREDANO. 

In  his  own  portion  of  the  palace,  with 
His  son,  and  the  whole  race  of  Foscaris. 

BARBARIGO. 

Bidding  farewell. 

LOREDANO. 

A  last.    As  soon  he  shall 
Bid  to  bis  dukedom. 

BARBARIGO. 

When  embarks  the  son  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Forthwith — when  this  long  leave  is  taken.    T  is 
Time  to  admonish  Uiem  again. 

BARBARIGO. 

Forbear ; 
Retrench  not  from  their  moments. 

LOREDANO. 

Not  I,  now 

We  have  higher  business  for  our  own.    This  day 
Shall  be  the  last  of  the  old  Doge's  reign, 
As  the  firs'  of  his  son's  last  banishment — 
And  that  is  vengeance. 

BARBARIGO. 

In  my  mind,  too  deep. 

LOREDANO. 

Tis  moderate — not  even  life  for  life,  the  rule 
Denounced  of  retribution  from  all  time : 
They  owe  me  still  ray  father's  and  my  uncle's. 

BARBARIGO. 

Uid  not  the  Doge  deny  this  strongly  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Doubtless. 

BARBARIOO. 

ATM  did  not  thii  shake  your  suspicion? 

LOREDANO. 

No. 

BARBARIGO. 

Kut  ii  rhis  dr.nos&on  should  take  place 


By  our  united  influence  in  the  council, 
It  must  be  done  with  all  the  deference 
Due  to  his  years,  his  station,  and  hjs  deed*. 

LOREDANO. 

As  much  of  ceremony  RS  you  will, 
So  that  the  thing  be  done.    You  may,  for  aught 
I  care,  depute  the  council  on  their  knees 
(Like  Barbarossa  to  the  Pope)  to  beg  him 
To  have  the  courtesy  to  abdicate. 

BARBARIGO. 

What,  if  he  will  not? 

LOREDANO. 

We  '11  elect  another, 
And  make  him  null. 

BARBARIGO. 

But  will  the  laws  uphold  us  ? 

LOREDANO. 

What  laws?— "Trie  Ten"  are  laws;  and  if  they  were  art, 
I  will  be  legislator  in  this  business. 

BARBARIGO. 

At  your  own  peril  ? 

LOREDANO. 

There  is  none,  I  tell  you, 
Our  powers  are  such. 

BARBARIGO. 

But  he  has  twice  already 
Solicited  permission  to  retire, 
And  twice  it  was  refused. 

LOREDAKO. 

The  better  reason 
To  grant  it  the  third  time. 

BARBARIGO. 

Unask'd? 

LOREDANO. 

It  shows 

The  impression  of  his  former  instances  : 
If  they  were  from  his  heart,  he  may  be  thankful : 
If  not,  't  will  punish  his  hypocrisy. 
Come,  they  are  met  by  this  time ;  let  us  join  them, 
And  be  thou  fi.x'd  in  purpose  for  this  once. 
I  have  prepared  such  arguments  as  will  not 
Fail  to  move  them,  and  remove  him  :  since 
Their  thoughts,  their  objects,  have  been  sounded,  don« 
You,  with  your  wonted  scruples,  teach  us  pause, 
And  all  will  prosper. 

BARBARIGO. 

Could  I  but  be  certain 
This  is  no  prelude  to  such  persecution 
Of  the  sire  as  has  fallen  upon  the  son, 
I  would  support  you. 

LOREDANO. 

He  is  safe,  I  tell  you ; 
His  fourscore  years  and  five  may  linger  on 
As  long  as  he  can  drag  them :  't  is  his  throne 
Alone  is  aim'd  at 

BARBARIGO. 

But  discarded  pnnces 
Are  seldom  long  of  life. 

LOREDANO. 

And  men  of  eighty 
More  seldom  still. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  why  not  wait  these  few 

LOREDANO. 

Because  we  have  waited  long  enough,  and  h« 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


I  find  longer  than  enough.     Hence !  In  to  council ! 

[Exeunt  LOREDASO  and  BARBAF.IGO. 
Enter  MEMMO  and  a  Senator. 

SESATOR. 

A  summons  to  "  the  Ten!"  Why  so? 

MEMMO. 

"The  Ten" 

Alone  can  answer ;  they  are  rarely  wont 
To  let  their  thoughts  anticipate  their  purpose 
By  previous  proclamation.    We  arc  summon'd — 
That  is  enough. 

SENATOR. 

For  them,  but  not  for  us ; 
I  would  know  why. 

MEMMO. 

You  will  know  why  anon. 
If  you  obey ;  and,  if  not,  you  no  less 
Will  know  why  you  should  have  obey'd. 

SENATOR. 

I  mean  not 
To  oppose  them,  but— 

MEMMO. 

In  Venice  "  But n  's  a  traitor. 
But  me  no  ubuts,n  unless  you  would  pass  o'er 
The  Bridge  which  few  repass. 
SEXATOR. 

I  am  silent. 

MEMMO. 

Why 

Thus  hesitate  ?— "  The  Ten  "  have  calPd  in  aid 
Of  their  deliberation  five-and-twenty 
Patricians  of  the  senate — you  are  one, 
And  I  another ;  and  it  seems  to  me 
Both  honour'd  by  the  choice  or  chance  which  leads  us 
To  mingle  with  a  body  so  august. 

SENATOR. 
Most  true.    I  say  no  more. 

MEMMO. 

As  we  hope,  signor, 
And  all  may  honestly  (that  is,  all  those 
Of  noble  blood  may),  one  day  hope  to  be 
Decemvir,  it  is  surely  for  the  senate's 
Chosen  delegates  a  school  of,  wisdom,  to 
Be  thus  admitted,  though  as  novices, 
To  view  the  mysteries. 

SEXATOR. 

Let  us  view  them ;  they, 
No  doubt,  are  worth  it. 

MEMMO. 

Being  worth  oar  fires 

If  we  divulge  them,  doubtless  they  are  worth 
Something,  at  least,  to  you  or  me. 
SENATOR. 

I  sought  not 

A  place  within  the  sanctuary ;  but  being 
Chosen,  however  reluctantly  so  chosen, 
I  shall  fulfil  my  office. 

MEMMO. 

Let  us  not 
Br.  latest  in  obeying  u  the  Ten's  "  summons. 

SENATOR. 

AD  are  not  met,  but  I  am  of  your  thought 
few  far — let 's  in. 

MEMMO. 

The  earliest  are  most  welcome 
2H  49 


In  earnest  councils — we  will  not  be  least  so. 

[Exeunt 
Enter  the  DOGE,  JACOPO  FOSCARI,  and  MARINA. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Ah,  father !  though  I  must  and  will  depart, 
Yet — yet — I  pray  you  to  obtain  for*me 
That  I  once  more  return  unto  my  home, 

Sowe'er  remote  the  period.    Let  there  be 

\  point  of  time  as  beacon  to  my  heart, 

iVith  any  penalty  annex'd  they  please, 

But  let  me  still  return. 

DOGE. 

Son  Jacopo, 
3o  and  obey  our  country's  will,  't  is  not 
Por  us  to  look  beyond. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

But  still  I  most 
Look  back.    I  pray  you  think  of  me. 

DOGE. 

Alas. 

You  ever  were  my  dearest  offspring,  when 
They  were  more  numerous,  nor  can  be  less  so 
Now  you  are  last ;  but  did  the  state  demand 
The  exile  of  the  disinterred  ashes 
Of  your  three  goodly  brothers,  now  in  earth. 
And  their  desponding  shades  came  flitting  round 
To  impede  the  act,  I  must  no  less  obey 
A  duty  paramount  to  every  duty. 

MARINA. 

My  husband  !  let  us  on :  this  but  prolongs 
Our  sorrow. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

But  we  are  not  summon'd  yet : 
The  galley's  sails  are  not  unfurl'd : — who  knows  ? 
The  wind  may  change. 

MARIXA. 

And  if  it  do,  it  will  not 
Change  Aeir  hearts,  or  your  lot ;  the  galley's  oar* 
Win  quickly  dear  the  harbour. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Oh,  ye  elements ! 

Where  are  your  storms  ? 

MARI5A. 

In  human  breasts.     Alas ' 
WO!  nothing  eakn  you. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Never  yet  did  mariner 
Put  up  to  patron  saint  such  prayers  for  prosperous 
And  pleasant  breezes,  as  1  call  upon  you, 
Ye  tutelar  saints  of  my  own  city !  wh«ch 
Ye  love  not  with  more  holy  love  than  I, 
To  lash  up  from  the  deep  the  Adrian  waves, 
And  waken  Aostcr,  sovereign  of  the  tempest ! 
Till  the  sea  dash  me  back  on  my  own  shore 
A  broken  cor&e  upon  the  barren  f  JQO, 
Where  I  may  mingle  with  the  sands  which  skit 
The  land  I  love,  and  never  shall  see  more! 

MARIXO. 
And  wish  yon  this  with  me  beside  you? 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

No- 
No— not  for  thee,  too  good,  too  kind !    May's!  a** 
Live  long  to  be  a  mother  to  those  children 
Thy  (bod  fidelity  for  a  lime  derives 
Of  such  support!     But  for  rayvdf  aione, 


316 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Jlay  nil  the  winds  of  heaven  howl  down  the  gulf, 

And  tear  the  vessel,  till  the  mariners, 

Appall'd,  turn  their  despairing  eyes  on  me, 

As  the  Phenicians  did  on  Jonah,  then 

C  jst  me  out  from  amongst  them,  as  an  offering 

Tc  appease  the  waves.  The  billow  which  destroys  me 

Will  be  more  merciful  than  man,  and  bear  me, 

Dead,  but  still  bear  me  to  a  native  grave, 

From  fisher's  hands  upon  the  desolate  strand, 

Which,  of  its  thousand  wrecks,  hath  ne'er  received 

One  lacerated  like  the  heart  which  then 

Will  be  -  But  wherefore  breaks  it  not  ?  why  live  I  ? 

MARINA. 

To  man  thyself,  I  trust,  with  time,  to  master 

Such  useless  passion.    Until  now  thou  wert 

A  sufferer,  but  not  a  loud  one  :  why, 

What  is  this  to  the  things  thou  hast  borne  in    jence  — 

Imprisonment  and  actual  torture  ? 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 


Triple,  and  tenfo.d  torture  !     B»  yot  are  right, 
It  must  be  borne.     Father,  yo  <r  nlessing. 
DOGV. 

Would 
It  could  avail  thet  !  but  no  lens  thou  hast  it. 

JACOFO  FOjCARI. 

J  jrgive  - 

DOGE. 

What! 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

My  poor  mother  for  my  bull* 
And  me  for  having  lived,  and  you  yourself 
(As  I  forgive  you),  for  the  gift  of  life, 
Which  you  bestow'd  upon  me  as  my  sire. 

MARINA. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Nothing.    I  cannot  charge 
My  memory  with  much  save  sorrow  :  but 
I  ha»e  been  so  beyond  the  common  lot 
Chasten'd  and  visited,  I  needs  must  think 
That  I  was  wicked.     If  it  be  so,  may 
What  I  have  undergone  here  keep  me  irons 
A  'ike  hereafter. 

MARINA. 

Fear  not  :  that  's  reserved 
For  your  oppressors. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 
Let  me  hope  not. 

MARINA. 

i  Hope  not  ? 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

I  cannot  wish  them  all  they  have  inflicted. 

MARINA. 

All  !  the  consummate  fiends  !    A  thousand  fold  ! 
May  the  worm  which  ne'er  dieth  feed  upon  them  ! 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 
TViy  may  renenf. 

MARINA. 

And  if  they  do,  Heaven  will  not 
Au-ept  the  tardy  penitence  of  demons. 

Enter  en  Officer  and  Gvards. 

OFFICER. 

Signor  !  the  boat  is  at  the  shore  —  the  wind 
Is  risins  —  we  ar«i  ready  *o  attend  you. 


JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

And  I  to  be  attended.     Once  more,  father, 
Your  hand ! 

DOGE. 
Take  it.     Alas  !  how  thine  own  trer.blt  • ' 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

No — you  mistake ;  't  is  yours  that  shalr,*,  mj  father. 
Farewell ' 

DCGE, 

Farr  reU !     Is  there  aught  else  ? 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

No — nothing. 
[To  the  Officer. 
y*  jie  your  arm,  good  signer. 

OIFICE*. 

You  turn  pale — 
Let  me  support  you — paler — ho !  some  aid  there  ! 
Some  water ! 

MARINA. 
Ah,  he  is  dying ! 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Now,  I  'm  ready — 
My  eyes  swim  strangely — where 's  the  door  ? 
MARINA. 

Away  . 

Let  me  support  him — my  best  love  !    Oh  God ! 
How  faintly  beats  this  heart — this  pulse  ! 
JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

The  light ! 
/» it  the  light  ?— I  am  faint. 

[Officer  presents  him  with  watt 

OFFICER. 

He  will  be  better, 
Perhaps,  in  the  air. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

I  doubt  not.     Fatner — wife — 
Your  hand? ! 

MARINA. 

There 's  death  in  that  damp  clammy  graso» 
Oh  God ! — My  Foscari,  how  fare  you  ? 
JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Well ! 

[Ht  diu. 

OFFICER. 

He 's  gone. 

DOGE. 
He 's  free. 

MARINA. 

No— no,  he  is  not  dead ; 

There  must  be  life  yet  in  that  heart — he  could  not 
Thus  leave  me. 

DOGE. 
Daughter  I 

MA1UNA. 

Hold  thy  peace,  old  man  ' 
I  am  no  daughter  now — thou  hast  no  son. 
Oh  Foscari ! 

OFFICER. 

We  must  remove  the  body. 

MARINA. 

Touch  it  not,  dungeon  miscreants  !  your  b«_s«  office 
Ends  with  his  life,  and  goes  not  beyond  murder, 
Even  by  your  murderous  laws      Leave  his  remain* 
To  those  who  know  to  honour  them. 

omen. 

I  P»u* 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


547 


Inform  the  signory.  and  learn  their  pleasure. 

DOGE. 

Inform  the  signory  from  me,  the  Doge, 
They  have  no  further  power  upon  those  ashes  : 
While  he  lived,  he  was  theirs,  as  fits  a  subject — 
Now  he  is  mine — my  broken-hearted  boy ! 

[Exit  Officer. 

MARIXA. 

And  I  must  live  ! 

DOGE. 

Your  children  live,  Marina. 

MARIXA. 

My  children !  true — they  live,  and  I  must  live 
To  bring  them  up  to  serve  the  state,  and  die 
As  died  their  father.     Oh !  what  best  of  blessings 
Were  oarrenness  in  Venice !  Would  my  mother 
Had  been  so ! 

DOGE. 
My  unhappy  children ! 

MARIXA. 

What! 

You  feel  it  then  at  last — you .' — Where  is  now 
The  stoic  of  the  state? 

DOGE  (throwing  himself  down  by  the  body). 
Here! 

MARIXA. 

Ay,  weep  on ! 

1  thought  you  had  no  tears — you  hoarded  them 
Until  they  are  useless ;  but  weep  on !  he  nerer 
Shall  weep  more — never,  never  more. 

Enter  LOREDARO  and  BARBARIGO. 
LOREDA.XO. 

What's  here? 

MARINA. 

Ah!  the  devil  come  to  insult  the  dead !    Avaunt! 
Incarnate  Lucifer !  't  is  holy  ground. 
A  martyr's  ashes  now  lie  there,  which  make  it 
A  shrine.     Get  thee  back  to  thy  place  of  torment ! 

BARBARIGO. 

Lady,  we  knew  not  of  this  sad  event, 

But  pass'd  here  merely  on  our  path  from  council. 

MARI.tA. 

Pass  on. 

LOREDA*O. 

We  sought  the  Doge. 

MARI5A  (pointing  to  tfieDocr,who  is  still  on  the  ground 
by  his  ton's  body). 

He 't  busy,  look. 

About  the  business  you  provided  for  him. 
Are  ye  content  ? 

BARBARICO. 

We  will  not  interrupt 
A  parent's  sorrow*. 

HARI5A. 

No,  ye  only  make  them, 
Then  'eave  them. 

DOSE   (rising). 
Sirs,  I  am  ready. 

BARBARIGO. 

No— not  DOW. 

LOREDAXO. 

i'el  't  was  important. 

POGE. 

If  't  was  so,  I  can 
On)\  icneat — .  am  read* 


BARBARIGO. 

It  shall  not  be 
Just  now,  though  Venice  totter"  d  o'er  the  deep 
Like  a  frail  vessel.     I  respect  your  griefs. 

DOGE. 

I  thank  you.     If  the  tidings  which  you  bring 
Are  evil,  you  may  say  them  ;  nothing  further 
Can  touch  me  more  than  him  thou  look's!  on  there  : 
If  they  be  good,  say  on  ;  you  need  not  fear 
That  they  can  comfort  me. 

BARBARIGO. 

I  would  they  could  ! 
DOGE. 
I  spoke  wi  to  you,  but  to  Loredano. 

He  understands  me. 

MARINA. 

Ah  !  I  thought  it  would  be  so. 

DOGE. 

What  mean  you  ? 

MARI.tA. 

Lo  !  there  is  the  blood  beginning 
To  flow  through  the  dead  lips  of  Foscari— 
The  body  bleeds  in  presence  of  the  assassin. 

[To  LOBEDAKO. 

Thou  cowardly  murderer  by  law,  behold 
How  death  itself  bears  witness  to  thy  deeds  ! 

DOGE. 

My  child  !  this  is  a  phantasy  of  grief. 
Bear  hence  the  body.  ]  To  his  attendants}.    Signers,  if 

It  please  you, 
Within  an  hour  I  '11  hear  you. 

[Exeunt  DOGE,  MARISA,  and  attendant*,  wak 
the  body.] 

Manent  LOREDAXO  and  BARBARIGO 

BARBARIGO. 

He  must  not 
Be  troubled  now. 

LOREDAHO. 

He  said  himself  that  nought 
Could  give  him  trouble  farther. 

BAABARIOO. 

These  are  words; 

But  grief  is  lonely,  and  the  breaking  in 
Upon  it  barbarous. 

LOREDAHO. 

Sorrow  preys  upon 
Its  solitude,  and  nothing  more  diverts  it 
From  its  sad  visions  of  the  other  world 
Than  calling  it  at  moments  back  to  this. 
The  busy  hare  no  time  for  tears. 
BARBARIGO. 

Ton  would  deprive  tins  old  man  of  all  business  ? 

LOREDASO. 

The  thing's  decreed.   The  Ghinta  and  "the  Ten  * 
Hare  made  k  law  :  who  shall  oppose  that  kw? 

BARBARIGO. 

Humanit  v  ! 

LOREDAJIO. 

Because  his  son  is  dead  7 

BARBARIGO. 

And  yet  unburied. 

LOREDASO. 


The  act  was  passing,  it  might  hare  nirpnum 
Its  passage,  but  impedes  it  not—  one*  oast. 


348 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


•  ARBARIGO. 

i  '11  not  consent. 

LOREDANO. 
You  have  consented  to 
All  that 's  essential — leave  the  rest  to  me. 

BARBARIGO. 

Why  press  his  abdication  now? 

LOREDANO. 

The  feelings 

Of  private  passion  may  not  interrupt 
The  public  benefit ;  and  what  the  state 
Decides  to-day  must  not  give  way  before 
To-morrow  for  a  natural  accident. 

BARBARIGO. 

You  have  a  son. 

LOREDANO. 

I  hare — and  had  a  father. 

BARBARIGO. 

Still  so  inexorable  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Still. 

BARBARIOO. 

But  let  him 

Inter  his  son  before  we  press  upon  him 
This  edict. 

LOREDANO. 

Let  him  call  up  into  life 
My  sire  and  uncle — I  consent.     Men  may, 
Even  aged  men,  be,  or  appear  to  be, 
Sires  of  "\  hundred  sons,  but  cannot  kindle 
An  atom  of  their  ancestors  from  earth. 
The  victims  are  not  equal :  he  has  seen 
His  sons  expire  by  natural  deaths,  and  I 
My  sires  by  violent  and  mysterious  maladies. 
I  used  no  poison,  bribed  no  subtle  master 
Of  the  destructive  art  of  healing,  to 
Shorten  the  path  to  the  eternal  cure. 
His  sons,  and  he  had  four,  are  dead,  without 
My  dabbling  in  vile  drugs. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  art  them  sure 
He  dealt  in  such  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Most  sure. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  yet  he  seems 
All  openness. 

LOREDANO. 

And  so  he  scem'd  not  long 
Ago  to  Carmagnuola. 

BARBARIGO. 

The  attainted 
And  foreign  traitor  ?  • 

LOREDANO. 

Even  so :  when  he, 

After  the  very  ni^ht  in  which  "  the  Ten" 
«vJom'd  with  the  Doge)  decided  his  destruction, 
Met  the  great  Duke  at  day-break  with  a  jest, 
Demanding  whether  he  should  augur  him 
u  The  good  day  or  good  night?"  his  Doge-ship  answer'd 
•*  That  he  in  truth  had  pass'd  a  night  of  vigil, 
In  which  (lie  added  with  a  gracious  smile) 
There  of'en  has  been  question  about  you."' 
•T  was  true  ;  the  question  was  the  death  resolved 
'Jf  Cannagnuola,  eight  months  ere  he  died ; 


1  A  historical  fact. 


And  the  old  Doge,  who  knew  him  doom'd,  smiled  on  him 
With  deadly  cozenage,  eight  long  months  beforehand- 
Eight  months  of  such  hypocrisy  as  is 
Learnt  but  in  eighty  years.     Brave  Carmagnuola 
Is  dead  ;  so  are  young  Foscari  and  his  brethren — 
I  never  smiled  on  them. 

BARBARIGO. 

Was  Cannagnuola 
Your  friend  ? 

LOREDAXO. 

He  was  the  safeguard  of  the  city. 
In  early  life  its  foe,  but,  in  his  manhood, 
Its  saviour  first,  then  victim. 

BARBARIGO. 

Ah !  that  seems 

The  penalty  of  saving  cities.     He 
Whom  we  now  act  against  not  only  saved 
Our  own,  but  added  others  to  her  sway. 

LOREDANO. 

The  Romans  (and  we  ape  them)  gave  a  crown 

To  him  who  took  a  city  ;  and  they  gave 

A  crown  to  him  who  saved  a  citizen 

In  battle :  the  rewards  are  equal.     Now, 

If  we  should  measure  forth  the  cities  taken 

By  the  Doge  Foscari,  with  citizens 

Destroy'd  by  him,  or  through  him,  the  account 

Were  fearfully  against  him,  although  narrow'd 

To  private  havoc,  such  as  between  him 

And  my  dead  father. 

BARBARIGO. 

Are  you  then  thus  (ut'd  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Why,  what  should  change  me? 

BARBARIGO. 

That  which  change!  me 
But  you,  I  know,  are  marble  to  retain 
A  feud.     But  when  all  is  accomplish'd,  when 
The  old  man  is  deposed,  his  name  degraded, 
His  sons  are  dead,  his  family  depress'd, 
And  you  and  yours  triumphant,  shall  you  sleep  ? 

LOREDANO. 
More  soundly. 

BARBARIGO. 

That 's  an  error,  and  you  '11  find  It 
Ere  you  sleep  with  your  fathers. 
LOREDANO. 

They  sleep  not 

In  their  accelerated  graves,  nor  will 
Till  Foscari  fills  his.     Each  night  I  see  them 
Stalk  frowning  round  my  couch,  and,  pointing  tovrarut 
The  ducal  palace,  marshal  me  to  vengeance 

BARBARIGO. 

Fancy's  distemperature !  There  is  no  passion 
More  spectral  or  fantastical  than  hate  ; 
Not  even  its  opposite,  love,  so  peoples  air 
With  phantoms,  as  this  madness  of  the  heart. 
Enter  an  Officer. 

LOREDANO. 

Where  go  you,  sirrah  ? 

OFFICER. 

By  the  ducal  order 
To  forward  the  preparatory  rites 
For  the  late  Foscari's  interment. 

BARBARIOO. 

Th«w 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


Vault  has  been  often  opunM  of  late  years. 

LOREDANO. 

T  will  be  full  soon,  and  may  be  closed  for  ever. 

OFFICER. 

May  I  pass  on? 

LOREDAKO. 

You  may. 

t  AKBARIGO. 

How  bears  the  Doge 
This  last  calamity? 

OFFICER. 

With  desperate  firmness. 
[n  presence  of  another  he  says  little, 
But  I  perceive  his  lips  move  now  and  then ; 
And  once  or  twice  I  heard  him,  from  the  adjoining 
Apartment,  mutter  forth  the  words — "  My  son !" 
Scarce  audibly.     I  must  proceed. 

[Exit  Officer. 

BARBARIGO.    . 

This  stroke 

Win  move  all  Venice  in  his  favour. 
LOREDANO. 

Right ! 

We  must  be  speedy :  let  us  call  together 
The  delegates  appointed  to  convey 
The  Council's  resolution. 

BARBARICO. 

I  protest 
Against  it  at  this  moment. 

LORBDANO. 

As  you  please — 

1 11  taxe  their  voices  on  it  ne'ertlieless, 
And  see  whose  most  may  sway  them,  yours  or  mine. 
.      [Exeunt  BARBARIGO  and  LOREDANO. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

TJte  DOGE'S  Apartment. 
THE  DOGE  and  ATTENDANT. 

ATTENDANT. 

My  lord,  the  deputation  is  in  waiting; 
But  add,  that  if  another  hour  would  better 
Accord  with  your  will,  they  will  make  it  theirs. 

DOGE. 
To  me  all  hours  are  like.     Let  them  approach. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

AN    OFFICER. 

Prince !  I  have  done  your  bidding. 

DOGE. 

What  command  7 
OFFICER. 
A  melancho'v  one — to  call  the  attendance 

or — 

DOGE. 

True — true — true ;  I  crave  your  pardon.     I 
Begin  to  fail  in  apprehension,  and 
JViJt  very  old— old  almost  as  my  years. 
fv.  now  I  fought  them  off,  but  they  begin     » 
To  overtake  me 

Enter  the  Deputation,  consisting  oftucoftke  Signary, 
and  the  CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN.] 

Noble  men,  your  pleasure ! 
2  H2 


CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Council  doth  condole 
With  the  Doge,  on  his  late  and  private  grief. 

DOGE. 

No  more — no  more  of  that. 

CHIEF    OF   THE    TEN. 

Will  not  the  Duke 
Accept  the  homage  of  respect  ? 

DOGE. 

I  do 
Accept  it  as  't  is  given — proceed. 

CHIEF    OF   THE    TEN. 

"  The  Ten," 
With  a  selected  giunta  from  the  senate 
Of  twenty-five  of  the  best  born  patricians, 
Having  deliberated  on  the  state 
Of  the  republic,  and  the  o'erwhelming  cares 
Which,  at  this  moment,  doubly  must  oppress 
Your  years,  so  long  devoted  to  your  country, 
Have  judged  it  fitting,  with  all  reverence. 
Now  to  solicit  from  your  wisdom  (which 
Upon  reflection  must  accord  in  this), 
The  resignation  of  the  ducal  ring, 
Which  you  have  worn  so  long  and  venerably ; 
And,  to  prove  that  they  are  not  ungrateful,  nor 
Cold  to  your  years  and  services,  they  add 
An  appanage  of  twenty  hundred  golden 
Ducats,  to  make  retirement  not  less  splendid 
Than  should  become  a  sovereign's  retreat. 

DOGE. 
Did  I  hear  rightly? 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

Need  I  say  again  ? 

.  DOGE. 

No. — Have  you  done  ? 

CHIEF    OF   THE    TEN. 

I  have  spoken.  Twenty 
Hours  are  accorded  you  to  give  an  answer. 

DOGE. 
I  shall  not  need  so  many  seconds. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

We 

WiD  now  retire. 

DOGE. 

Stay !  Four  and  twenty  hours 
Will  alter  nothing  which  I  have  to  say. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

Speak! 

DOGE. 

When  I  twice  before  reiterated 
Vly  wish  to  abdicate,  it  was  refused  me ; 

And  not  alone  refused,  but  ye  exacted 
\n  oath  from  me  that  I  would  never  more 
lenew  this  instance.     I  have  sworn  to  die 
n  full  exertion  of  the  functions  which 

My  country  call'd  me  here  to  exercise, 

According  to  my  honour  and  my  conscience— 

"  cannot  break  my  oath. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN 

Reduce  us  not 

To  the  alternative  of  a  decree, 
nstead  of  your  compliance, 
DOGE. 

Providence 

'rolongs  my  days,  to  prove  and  chasten  me ; 
But  ye  have  no  right  to  reproach  mv  length 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Of  days,  since  every  hour  has  been  the  country's. 

I  am  ready  to  lay  down  my  life  for  her, 

As  I  have  laid  down  dearer  things  than  life ; 

But  for  my  dignity — I  ho.d  it  of 

The  whole  republic  ;   when  the  general  will 

\i  manifest,  then  you  shall  be  answer'd. 

CHIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

We  grieve  for  such  an  answer ;  but  it  cannot 
Avail  you  aught. 

DOGE. 

I  can  submit  to  all  things, 
Bui  nothing  will  advance ;  no,  not  a  moment. 
What  you  decree — decree. 

GRIEF    OF    THE    TEN. 

With  this,  then,  must  we 
Return  to  tho«c  who  sent  us  ? 
DOGE. 

You  have  heard  me. 

CHIEF    OF   THE    TEN. 

With  all  due  reverence  we  retire. 

[Exeunt  the  Deputation,  etc. 

Enter  an  ATTENDANT. 

ATTENDANT. 

My  lord, 
The  noble  dame  Marina  craves  an  audience. 


My  time  is  hers. 


Enter  MARINA. 


My  lord,  if  I  intrude — 
Perhaps  you  fain  would  be  alone  7 
DOGE.        . 

Alone ! 

Alone,  come  all  the  world  around  me,  I 
Am  now  and  evermore.     But  we  will  bear  it. 

MARINA. 

We  will ;  and  for  the  sake  of  those  who  are, 
Endeavour Oh  my  husband  ! 

DOGE. 

Give  it  way ! 
I  cannot  comfort  thee. 

MARINA. 

He  might  have  lived, 
So  form'd  for  gentle  privacy  of  life, 
So  loving,  so  beloved,  the  native  of 
Another  land,  and  who  so  blest  and  blessing 
As  my  poor  Foscari  ?  Nothing  was  wanting 
Unto  his  happiness  and  mine,  save  not 
To  be  Venetian. 

DOGE. 
Or  a  prince's  son. 

MARINA. 

Ves  ;  all  things  which  conduce  to  other  men's 
mperfect  happiness  or  high  ambition, 

By  some  strange  destiny,  to  him  proved  deadly. 

The  country  and  the  people  whom  he  loved, 

The  prince  of  whom  he  was  the  elder  born, 
Krd 

DOGE. 

Soon  miy  be  a  prir?e  no  longer. 

MARINA. 

How. 

DOGE. 
*"hey  have  taken  my  son  from  me,  and  now  aim 


At  my  too  long  worn  diadem  and  ring. 
Let  them  resume  the  gewgaws ! 

MARINA. 

Oh  the  tyrants ! 
In  such  an  hour  too ! 

DOGE. 

T  is  the  fittest  time : 
An  hour  ago  I  should  have  felt  it. 

MARINA. 

And 

Will  you  not  now  resent  it  ? — Oh  for  vengeance  ! 
But  he,  who,  had  he  been  enough  protected, 
Might  have  repaid  protection  in  this  moment, 
Cannot  assist  his  father. 

DOGE. 

Nor  should  do  so 
Against  his  country,  had  he  a  thousand  lives 
Instead  of  that 

MARINA. 

They  tortured  from  him.     This 
May  be  pure  patriotism.     I  am  a  woman  : 
To  me  my  husband  and  my  children  were 
Country  and  home.     I  loved  him — how  I  loved  him  ! 
I  have  seen  him  pass  through  such  an  ordeal,  as 
The  old  martyrs  would  have  shrunk  from :  he  is  gone, 
And  I,  who  would  have  given  my  blood  for  him, 
Have  nought  to  give  but  tears !  But  could  I  compass 
The  retribution  of  his  wrongs ! — Well,  well ; 
I  have  sons  who  shall  be  men. 
DOGE. 

Your  grief  distracts  you. 

MARINA. 

I  thought  I  could  have  borne  it,  when  I  saw  him 
Bow'd  down  by  such  oppression  ;  yes,  I  thought 
That  I  would  rather  look  upon  his  corse 
Than  his  prolcng'd  captivity  : — I  am  punish'd 
For  that  thought  now.     Would  I  were  in  his  grave ! 

DOGE. 
I  must  look  on  him  once  more. 

MARINA. 

Come  with  me ! 
DOGE. 
Is  he 

MARINA. 

Our  bridal  bed  is  now  his  bier. 

DOGE. 
And  he  is  in  his  shroud  ? 

MARINA. 

Come,  come,  old  man  ' 
[Exeunt  the  DOGE  and  MAKII*  \ 

Enter  BARBAKIGO  and  LOREDANO. 
BARBARIGO  (to  an  ATTENDANT). 
Where  is  the  Doge  ? 

ATTENDANT. 

This  instant  retired  hence 
With  the  illustrious  lady,  his  son's  widow. 

LOREDANO. 
Where? 

ATTENDANT. 

To  the  chamber  where  the  body  lies. 

BARBARIGO. 

Let  us  return  then. 

LOREDANO. 

You  forget,  you  cannot. 
We  hare  the  implicit  order  of  the  giunta 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


351 


To  await  their  coming  here,  arid  join  them  in 
Their  office :  they  '11  be  here  soon  after  us. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  will  they  press  their  answer  on  the  Doge  ? 

LOREDANO. 

'T  was  his  own  wish  that  all  should  be  done  promptly. 
He  answer'd  quickly,  and  must  so  be  answer'd ; 
His  dignity  is  look'd  to,  his  estate 
Cared  for — what  would  he  more  ? 

BARBARIGO. 

Die  in  his  robes. 

He  could  not  have  lived  long ;  but  I  have  done 
My  best  to  save  his  honours,  and  opposed 
This  proposition  to  the  last,  though  vainly. 
Why  would  the  general  vote  compel  me  hither  ? 

LOREDAXO. 

T  was  fit  that  some  one  of  such  different  thoughts 
From  ours  should  be  a  witness,  lest  false  tongues 
Should  whisper  that  a  harsh  majority 
Dreaded  to  have  its  acts  beheld  by  others. 

BARBARIGO. 

And  not  less,  I  must  needs  think,  for  the  sake 

Of  humbling  me  for  my  vain  opposition. 

You  are  ingenious,  Loredano,  in 

Your  modes  of  vengeance,  nay,  poetical, 

A  very  Ovid  in  the  art  of  hating ; 

'T  is  thus  (although  a  secondary  object, 

Yet  hate  has  microscopic  eyes)  to  you 

I  owe,  by  way  of  foil  to  the  more  zealous, 

This  undesired  association  in 

Your  giunta's  duties. 

LOREDANO. 

How ! — my  giunta ! 

BARBARIGO.  ' 

Fours .' 

Fhey  speak  your  language,  watch  your  nod,  approve 
Your  plans,  and  do  your  work.    Are  they  not  yow»  ? 

LOREDAKO. 

You  talk  unwarily.    'T  were  best  they  hear  not 
This  from  you. 

BARBARIGO. 

Oh  !  they  '11  hear  as  much  one  day 
From  louder  tongues  than  mine :  they  have  gone  beyond 
Even  their  exorbitance  of  power ;  and  when 
This  happens  in  the  most  contemn'd  and  abject 
States,  stung  humanity  will  rise  to  check  it. 

LOREDANO. 

You  talk  but  idly. 

BARBARIGO. 

That  remains  for  proof. 
Here  come  our  colleagues. 

Enter  the  Deputation  as  before. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Is  the  Duke  aware 
We  seek  his  presence  ? 

ATTENDANT. 

He  shall  be  inform'd. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

BARBARIGO. 

The  Duke  is  with  his  son. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 
If  it  bo  SO, 

We  will  remit  him  till  the  rites  are  over. 
Let  us  return.     'T  is  time  enough  to-morrow. 


LOREDANO    (a.fidc  to  B  AKBi  JUGO). 

Now  the  rich  man's  hell-fire  upon  your  tongue, 
Unqucnch'd,  unquenchable !     I  '11  have  it  torn 
From  its  vile  babbling  roots,  till  you  shall  utler 
Nothing  but  sobs  through  blood,  lor  tnis !  Sage  sign:?* 
[  pray  ye  be  not  hasty.  \Aloud  io  the  <jtketi 

BARBARIGO. 

But  be  human ! 

LOREDANO. 

See,  the  Duke  comes  ! 

Enter  the  DOGE. 

DOGE. 

I  have  obey'd  your  summons, 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

We  come  once  more  to  urge  our  past  request. 

DOGE. 
And  I  to  answer. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

What? 

DOGE. 

My  only  answer. 
You  have  heard  it. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Hear  you  then  the  last  decree, 
Definitive  and  absolute ! 

DOGE. 

To  the  point — 
To  the  point !     I  know  of  old  the  forms  of  office, 
And  gentle  preludes  to  strong  acts — Go  on  ! 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

You  are  no  longer  Doge ;  you  are  released 
From  your  imperial  oath  as  sovereign ; 
Your  ducal  robes  must  be  put  off;  but  for 
Your  services,  the  state  allots  the  appanage 
Already  mention'd  in  our  former  congress. 
Three  days  are  left  you  to  remove  from  hence, 
Under  the  penalty  to  see  confiscated 
All  your  own  private  fortune. 
DOGE. 

That  last  clause, 
I  am  proud  to  say,  would  not  enrich  the  treasury. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Your  answer,  Duke  ? 

LOREDANO. 

Your  answer,  Francis  Foscari  1 

DOGE. 

If  I  could  have  foreseen  that  my  old  age 
Was  prejudicial  to  the  state,  the  chief 
Of  the  republic  never  would  have  shown 
Himself  so  far  ungrateful  as  to  place 
His  own  high  dignity  before  his  country ; 
But  this  life  having  been  so  many  years 
Not  useless  to  that  country,  I  would  fain 
Have  consecrated  my  last  moments  to  her. 
But  the  decree  being  render'd,  I  obe>. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

If  you  would  have  the  three  days  named  extended, 
We  willingly  will  lengthen  them  to  eight, 
As  sign  of  our  esteem. 

DOGE. 

Not  eight  hours,  signer, 
Nor  even  eight  minutes. — There 's  the  ducal  .-ins, 

f  Taking  nffhu  r.ng  o»u  Mf 
And  there  tbe  ducal  diadnm.     And  so 
The  Adriatic 's  tree  'o  wed  another. 


352 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Yet  go  not  forth  so  quickly. 

DOGE. 

I  am  old,  sir, 

And  even  to  move  but  slowly  must  begin 
To  move  betimes.     Methinks  I  see  amongst  you 
A  face  I  know  not — Senator !  your  name, 
i'ou,  by  your  garb,  Chief  of  the  Forty. 

MEMMO. 

Signor, 

I  am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo. 
DOGE. 

Ah! 

your  father  was  my  friend. — But  ton*  and  father*  ! 
What,  ho  !  my  servants  there ! 

ATTENDANT. 

My  prince ! 
DOGE. 

No  prince— 
.There  are  the  princes  of  the  prince ! 

[Pointing  to  the  Ten'*  Deputation. 

Prepare 
To  part  from  hence  upon  the  instant. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

Why 

So  rashly  ?  't  will  give  scandal. 
DOGE. 

Answer  that ; 

[To  the  Ten. 
It  is  your  province. — Sirs,  bestir  yourselves ; 

[To  the  Servants. 

There  is  one  burthen  which  I  beg  you  bear 
With  care,  although  't  is  past  all  further  harm — 
But  I  will  look  to  that  myself. 

BARBARIGO. 

He  means 
The  body  cf  his  son. 

DOGE. 

And  call  Marina, 
Mr  daughter ! 

Enter  MARINA. 


Elsewhere. 


DOGE. 
Get  thee  ready ;  we  must  mourn 


MARINA. 

And  every  where. 
DOGE. 

True ;  but  in  freedom, 
Without  these  jealous  spies  upon  the  great. 
Signers,  you  may  depart :  what  would  you  more  ? 
We  are  going  :  do  you  fear  that  we  shall  bear 
The  palace  with  us  ?    Its  old  walls,  ten  times 
As  old  as  I  am,  and  I  'm  very  old, 
Have  served  you,  so  have  I,  and  I  and  they 
Could  tell  a  tale ;  but  I  invoke  them  not 
1  o  fall  upon  you  !  else  they  would,  as  erst 
The  pillars  of  stone  Dagon's  temple  on 
The  Israelite  and  his  Philistine  foes. 
Sudt  power  I  do  believe  there  might  exist 
In  such  a  curse  as  mine,  provok«d  by  such 
As  you ;  but  I  curse  not.     Adieu,  good  signers ! 
May  'he  next  duke  be  better  than  the  present ' 

LOREDANO. 

T»i«  ;x««u  .luke  IF  Pascd  Maliitiero. 


DOC  K. 
Not  till  I  pass  the  threshold  of  these  doors. 

LOREDANO. 

Saint  Mark's  great  bell  is  soon  about  to  toll 
For  his  inauguration. 

DOGE. 

Earth  and  heaven ! 
Ye  will  reverberate  this  peal ;  and  I 
Live  to  hear  this  ! — the  first  doge  who  e'er  hcar> 
Such  sound  for  his  successor  !     Happier  he, 
My  attainted  predecessor,  stern  Fahero — 
This  insult  at  the  least  was  spared  him. 

LOREDANO. 

What! 
Do  you  regret  a  traitor  ? 

Donr. 

No— I  merely 
Envy  the  dead. 

CHIEF  OF  TH^  TEN. 

My  lord,  if  yon  indeed 
Are  bent  upon  this  rash  abandonment 
Of  the  state's  palace,  at  the  least  retire 
By  the  private  staircase,  which  conduct?  you  to-vO'  •« 
The  landing-place  of  the  canal. 
DOGE. 

No.    I 

Will  now  descend  the  stairs  by  which  I  mounted 
To  sovereignty — the  Giant's  Stairs,  on  whose 
Broad  eminence  I  was  invested  duke. 
My  services  have  call'd  me  up  those  steps, 
The  malice  of  my  foes  will  drive  me  down  them. 
There  five  and  thirty  years  ago  was  I 
Install'd,  and  traversed  these  same  halls  from  whicj 
I  never  thought  to  be  divorced  except 
A  corse — a  corse,  it  might  be,  fighting  for  them — 
But  not  push'd  hence  by  fellow-citizens. 
But,  come ;  my  son  and  I  will  go  together- 
He  to  his  grave,  and  I  to  pray  for  mine. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

What,  thus  in  public  ? 

DOGE. 

I  was  publicly 

Elected,  and  so  will  I  be  deposed. 
Marina !  art  thou  willing  ? 

MARINA. 

Here 's  my  arm  ! 
DOGE. 
And  here  my  staff":  thus  propp'd  will  I  go  forth. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

It  must  not  be—  the  people  will  perceive  it. 

DOGE. 

The  people  ! — There 's  no  people,  you  well  know  it. 
Else  you  dare  not  deal  thus  by  them  or  me. 
There  is  a  populace,  perhaps,  whose  looks 
May  shame  you  ;  but  they  dare  not  groan  nor  curse  you, 
Save  with  their  hearts  and  eyes. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEN. 

You  speak  in  passion. 
Else— 

DOGE. 

You  have  reason.     I  have  spoken  ir  \j<:h 
More  than  my  wont ;  it  is  a  foib!»  whirl* 
Was  not  of  mine,  but  more  excuses  you, 
Inasmuch  as  it  shows  that  I  approach 
A  dotage  which  may  justify  this  dceJ 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


355 


Of  yours,  although  the  law  Joes  oat,  nor  wilL 
Farewell,  sin. 

BAKBARIGO. 

Too  shall  not  depart  without      ' 
An  escort  fitting  past  and  present  rank. 
We  will  accompany,  with  due  respect, 
The  Doge  unto  his  private  palace.     Say, 
Mj  brethren,  will  we  not? 

DIFFERENT  TOICES. 

Ay!—  Ay!      » 

DOGE. 

You  shall  not 

Stir  —  m  my  train,  at  least.    I  entered  here 
As  sovereign  —  I  go  out  as  citizen 
By  the  same  portals  ;  but  as  citizen, 
All  these  vain  ceremonies  are  base  insults, 
Which  only  ulcerate  the  heart  the  more, 
Applying  poisons  there  as  antidotes. 
Ponip  is  for  princes  —  I  am  none  /  —  That  's  fake, 
I  am,  but  only  to  these  gates.  —  Ah  ! 
LOEEDAJIO. 

Hark! 
[The  great  bett  of  Saint  Mark'*  tofU. 

BAKBARICO. 

The  ben! 

CHIEF    OF  THE  TM. 

Saint  Mark's,  which  tout  for  the  election 
Of  Malipiero. 

JX)CE. 

Wei!  I  recognise 

fhe  sound  !    I  heard  it  once,  but  once  before, 
And  that  is  five  and  thirty  years  ago  ; 
Even  then  I  tea*  not  young. 

BAB.BAB.IGO. 

Sit  down,  my  lord  ! 
You  t/embie. 

DOGE. 

T  is  the  knell  of  my  poor  boy! 
Mj  heart  aches  bitterly. 

BARBAKIGO. 

I  pray  you  sk. 

DOGE. 

Ko;  my  seat  here  has  been  a  throne  tifl  now. 
Marina!  let  us  go, 

MABI2TA. 

Most  readily. 

DOGE  (waDa  a  foe  ttrpt,  &e*  stop*). 
I  fed  a  thirst—  wiD  no  one  bring  me  hen 
A  cup  of  water  ? 

BARBARICO. 

MARIVA. 

And  I  - 


LORE  DA  50. 


And 


[TV  DOGE  take*  a  goblet  from  the  hand  of  L*> 

DOGE. 

(  take  yoKrs,  Loredano,  from  the  hand 
Most  fit  for  such  an  boor  as  this. 

LOKBD4JTO. 

Why«oT 

DOGE. 

•Tis  said  that  our  Venetian  crystal  has 
Such  pure  annpaUiy  to  poisons,  as 
To  bum  if  aught  of  venom  touches  it. 
You  bore  this  goblet,  and  it  is  not  broken. 
50 


LOREDAHO. 

WeU,  sir! 

DOGE. 

Then  it  is  false,  or  you  are  true 
For  my  own  part,  I  credit  neither;  'tis 
An  idle  legend. 

MARIXA. 

You  talk  wildly,  and 
Had  better  now  be  seated,  nor  as  yet 
Depart.  Ah !  now  you  look  as  look'd  my  hun>anJ 

BAB.BARIGO. 

He  sinks! — support  him!— quick — a  chair — support  haw' 

DOGE. 

Thebefl  toOson!— let's  hence— my  brain  'son  fire' 

BABBABICO. 

I  do  beseech  yon,  lean  upon  us ! 
DOGE. 

No! 

A  sovereign  should  &  standing.    My  poor  boy ! 
Off  with  your  arms  '.—That  bell! 

[The  DOGE  drop*  down,  and  <B«k 
BUBOU. 

My  God!  my  God! 
BAXBABIGO  (to  LOREDABO). 
Behold !  your  work 's  completed ! 

CHIEF  OF  THE    TE». 

Is  there  then 
No  aid?    Call  in  assistance ! 

ATTESDAST. 

Tut  aU  over. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEH. 

If  it  be  so,  at  least  his  obsequies 

Shan  be  such  as  befits  his  name  and  nation, 

His  rank  and  his  devution  to  the  duties 

Of  the  nsahm,  whie  his  age  permitted  hint 

To  do  binseif  and  them  full  justice.    Brethren, 

Say,  shall  it  not  be  so? 

BAKBAXIGO. 

He  has  not  had 

The  saisery  to  die  a  subject  where 
He  retgnM :  then  let  his  funeral  rites  be  princely. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TE3C. 

We  are  agreed,  then? 

^fl,  except  LoBEDAiro,  anneer. 
Yes. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEX.       " 

Heaven's  peace  be  with  IBB* 

MARIVA. 

Signers,  your  pardon :  this  is  mockery. 
Juggle  BO  more  with  that  poor  remnant,  which, 
A  awmeat  since,  while  yet  it  had  a  soul 
(A  soul  by  whom  you  have  increased  jrotfa1  empire* 
And  made  your  power  as  proud  as  was  hb  glory) 
You  bamsh'd  from  his  palace,  and  tore  down 
From  his  high  place  with  such  relentless  coldness : 
And  now,  when  he  can  neither  know  these  honour*. 
Nor  would  accept  them  if  he  could,  you,  signon. 
Purpose,  with  idle  and  i 


To  make  a  pageant  over  what  yon  trampied. 
A  princely  funeral  wffl  be  your  reproach. 
And  not  his  honour. 

<-HItF  OF  THE  TEX. 

Lady,  we  revoke  not 
Oar  imposes  so  readily. 

mntA. 
I  know*. 


304 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


As  far  FT  touches  torturing  the  living. 

t  thought  the  dead  had  been  beyond  even  yott, 

Thong1!  ( some,nodoubt),consign'dto  powers  whicli  may 

RrsenTiie  that  you  exercise  on  earth. 

f -eave  him  to  me  ;  you  would  have  done  so  for 

His  dregs  of  life,  which  you  have  kindly  shorten' d : 

(t  is  my  last  of  duties,  and  may  prove 

A.  dreary  comfort  in  my  desolation. 

Grief  is  fantastical,  and  loves  the  dead, 

And  the  apparel  of  the  grave. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEJt. 

Do  you 
Pretend  still  to  this  office? 

HARI3A. 

I  do,  signor. 

Though  his  possessions  have  been  all  consumed 
In  the  state's  service,  I  have  still  my  dowry. 
Which  shaB  be  consecrated  to  his  rites. 
And  those  of [She  ttopt  with  agitation, 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEX. 

Best  retain  it  for  your  children. 
•ABOU. 

Ay,  they  are  fatherless,  I  thank  you. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TE*. 

We 

Cannot  comply  with  your  request.     His  relics 
Shall  be  exposed  with  wonted  pomp,  and  fouowM 
Unto  their  home  by  the  new  Doge,  not  clad 
As  Doge,  but  simply  as  a  senator. 

MARI5A. 

I  Lave  heard  of  murderers,  who  have  interrM 

Their  victims ;  but  ne'er  heard,  until  this  boor, 

Of  so  much  splendour  in  hypocrisy 

O'er  those  they  stew.    I  've  heard  of  widows'  tears — 

Alas !  I  have  shed  some — always  thanks  to  you ! 

I  've  heard  of  fair*  in  sables — you  have  left  none 

To  the  deceased,  so  you  would  act  the  part 

Of  such.    Wefl,  sirs,  your  will  be  done !  as  one  day, 

I  trust,  Heaven's  win  be  done  too ! 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TE*. 

Know  you,  lady, 
To  whom  ye  speak,  and  perils  of  such  speech? 

MARINA. 

I  know  the  former  better  than  yourselves ; 
The  latter — like  yourselves ;  and  can  face  both. 
Wish  you  more  funerals? 

BARBARIGO. 

Heed  not  her  rash  words ! 
Her  circumstances  must  excuse  her  bearing. 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEJT. 

V\  e  wiU  not  note  them  down. 

•A  KB  ARIGO  (turning  to  LOR  ED  ASO,  \cho  it  writing  upon 
hi*  tablet*). 

What  art  thou  writing, 
With  such  an  earnest  brow,  upon  thy  tablets  ? 

LOKEDAXO  (printing  to  the  DOGE'S  body). 
That  he  has  paid  me !' 

CHIEF  OF  THE  TEX. 

What  debt  did  he  owe  you? 

LOUD  ABO. 

A  tang  and  just  one ;  nature's  debt  and  mine. 

[Curtain  faU* . 

I  -  L'km.  ptgftf."    A  historic*;  fac*.    See  the  History  if 
VOUOP  by  P  'Mm  pace  411.  vol  ii. 


APPENDIX. 


Extrcdt  de  PHiitare  de  la  Rfpubliqtie  de  Veni.ie,  ptt 
P.  Daruj  de  P  Academic  francaite*    Tom.  2. 

DEPUIS  trente  ans,  la  republique  n'avait  pas  depose" 
les  annes.  Elle  avail  acquis  les  provinces  dc  Brescia, 
de  Bergame,  de  Creme,  el  la  principaute  de  Ravenne. 

Mais  ces  guerres  contumelies  faisaient  beaucoup  de 
malheureux  It  de  mecontents.  Le  doge  Francois  Fos- 
cari,  &  qui  on  ne  pouvait  pardonner  d'en  avoir  etc  le  pro- 
moteur,  nuanifesta  une  seconde  fois,  en  1442,  et  probable 
ment  avec  plus  de  sincerile  que  la  premiere,  1'inteniion 
d'abdiquer  sa  dignite.  Le  conseil  s'y  refusa  encore.  On 
avail  exige  de  lui  le  serraent  de  ne  plus  quitter  le  dogaU 
D  etail  deja  avance  dans  la  vieillesse,  conservani  cepen- 
dant  beaucoup  de  force  de  tete  et  de  caraciere,  el  jouis- 
sant  de  la  gloire  d' avoir  vu  la  republique  etendre  au  loin 
les  limites  de  ses  domaines  pendant  son  administration. 

Au  milieu  de  ces  prosperiies,  de  grands  chagrins  vin* 
rent  mettre  a  1'epreuve  la  fermele  de  son  ame. 

Son  fiis,  Jacques  Foscari,ful  accuse,  en  1445,  d'avob 
recii  des  presents  de  quelques  princes  ou  seigneurs  etran- 
sers,  notamment,  disait-on,  du  due  de  Milan,  Philippe 
Visconti.  C'etail  non  seulement  une bassesse,  mais  une 
infraction  des  lois  positives  de  la  republique. 

Le  conseil  des  dix  traita  celte  affaire  comme  s'il  se  Cut 
agi  d'un  dehl  commis  par  un  particulier  obscur.  L'ac- 
cuse  fut  amene  dcvant  ses  jugcs,  devant  le  doge,  qui  ne 
crut  pas  pouvoir  s'abstenir  de  presider  le  tribunal.  !•»> 
il  fut  interroge,  applique  k  la  question,1  declare  coupabic, 
et  il  entendit,  de  la  bouche  de  son  pere,  1'arret  qui  le 
condamnait  a  un  banissemenl  perpetuel,  et  le  releguait 
k  Naples  de  Romanic,  pour  y  finir  ses  joars. 

Embarque  sur  une  galere  pour  se  rendre  au  heu  de  son 
exil,  il  tomba  malade  a  Trieste.  Les  solicitations  du 
doge obtinrent, non  sans  difficulte,  qu'on  lui  assignal  unt 
autre  residence.  Enfin  le  conseil  des  dix  lui  permil  do 
se  retirer  a  Trevise,  en  lui  irnposant  1'obligation  d'y  res- 
ter  sous  peine  de  mort,  et  de  se  presenter  tous  les  jours 
devant  le  gouverneur. 

D  y  etait  depuis  cinq  ans,  lorsqu'un  des  chefs  du  conseil 
des  dix  fut  assassine.  Les  soupoons  se  porterent  sur  lui : 
un  de  ses  domestiques  qu'on  avail  vu  a  Venise  ful  arrtte 
et  subit  la  torture.  Les  bourreaux  ne  purentlui  arracher 
aucun  aveu.  Ce  terrible  iribunal  se  fil  amener  le  mailrvj, 
le  soumit  aux  memes  epreuves  ;  il  resista  &  tous  les  tour- 
menLs,  ne  cessant  d'atlester  son  innocence  ;5  mais  on  ne 


1  E  dataeli  la  corda  per  avere  da  lui  la  veriU ;  chiamato  il 
coosiglk)  de'  ciieci  eolU  giunta,  nel  quale  ti  messer  lo  doge,  fa 
centenzia'.o. — [Marin  Sanuto  Vite  de'  Duchi,  F.  Foscari.) 

3  E  fu  tormcnlato  ne  mai  confeasb  cosa  alcuna,  pure  parve 
al  consiglio  de'  dieri  di  confinarlo  in  vita  alia  Canea.  (Ibid.) 
Voici  le  lexte  do  jugemeat :  "  Cum  Jacobus  Fogcari  per  ut- 
casknem  percusiionis  et  mortis  Hermolai  Donaii  fuit  retentui 
et  examioaUu,  et  propter  signincaiiones,  teslificatiooe*  et 
•criptonu  quae  habentur  contra  eum,  clare  apparel  ipsam  e*96 
ream  ctiminis  pra-.iicti,  ted  propter  inranlationes,  et  verba  qua 
sibi  reperta  tunt,  de  quibus  existil  indicia  manifesta,  videtur 
propter  obit  inatam  menttm  §uarn,  non  ease  po$>ibile  extranere 
ab  ip*o  illam  veriiatem,  qua;  clara  est  per  scripturas  et  pel 
teKificatiooes.  qooniam  in  tune  aliquam  nee  vocern,  nee  geni 
turn,  led  Rolum  intra  denies  voces  ipse  videtur  et  auditor  infra 
•e  loqui.  etc.  .  .  .  Taroen  non  est  standum  in  is'is  terminis, 
propter  bonorem  status  nostri  et  pro  multis  reepectibus,  pne- 
certim  quod  regimen  nostrum  occupatur  in  hac  re  et  quia  i,, 
terdictum  est  xmplius  progredere  :  vadit  pan  qnod  dictus  ,'a- 
eobiH  Foscari,  propter  ea  quz  habentnr  de  illo,  mittatur  io 
jum  in  civitate  Caneae,"  etc.  Notice  sur  le  pructs  d* 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


r it  dans  cette  Constance  que  de  Pobstination ;  de  ce 
qu'il  taisait  le  fait,  on  conctut  que  ce  fait  eristait :  on 
•Itribua  sa  fcrmete  a  la  magie,  et  on  le  relegna  i  la 
Ccnee.  De  cette  tcrre  lointaine,  le  banni,  digne  alors 
de  quclque  phie,  ne  eessait  d'ecrire  a  snn  pere,  a 
amis,  pour  obtenir  quelque  aduucissement  a  sa  depor- 
tation. Vobtcnant  rien,  et  sacham  que  la  terreur  qu'in- 
spirait  le  cooseii  des  dix  ne  ha  permetlait  pas  d'esperer 
de  trourer  dans  Venise  une  seule  voix  qui  s'elevat 
sa  faveur,  3  fit  une  lettre  pour  le  nonveau  due  de  Milan, 
par  laqueDe,  au  nom  des  bons  offices  que  Sforce  avail 
rcetis  du  chef  de  la  repnbuque,  3  implorah  son  inter- 
vention en  favour  d'un  innocent,  da  fils  do  doge. 

Cette  lettre,  scion  qaelqaes  historicns,  fut  confiee  a 
on  marchand  qui  avail  promis  de  la  faire  parvenir  an 
due,  mais  qui,  trop  averti  de  ce  qu'il  y  avail  a  craindre 
en  se  rendant  Finiermediaire  d'one  pareille  coirespou- 
dance,  se  hila,  en  debarquant  a  Venise,  de  la  remeOre 
au  chef  du  tribunal.  Une  autre  version,  qui  paralt  plus 
sure,  rapporte  que  la  lettre  fut  surprise  par  on  espion, 
attache  aux  pas  de  Fexjle.1 

Ce  fut  un  nouveau  delit  dont  on  eat  a  ponir  Jacques 
Foscari.  Reclamer  la.  protection  d'un  prince  etranger 
etah  un  crime,  dans  un  sujet  de  la  repabuque.  Une  ga- 
lere  partit  sor-le-champ  poor  Pamener  dans  les  prisons 
de  Venise.  A  eon  arrivee,  3  fut  soumis  a  Fnstrapade. 
C'etah  one  singauere  destinee  poorle  dtoyen  d'une  re- 
pubHque  et  pour  le  fib  d*nn  prince,  d'etre  trots  fats  dans 
sa  vie  applique  a  U  question.  Cette  fbts  la  torture  etak 
d'autant  pros  odieuse,  qo'efle  n'avait  point  d'objet,  le 
rah  qu'on  avah  a  hri  reprocher  etant  incontestabl 

Quand  on  demanda  a  Paccose,  dans  les  intervaBes  qoe 
les  boorreaux  lui  accordaient,  poorqooi  3  avail  ecrit  la 
lettre  qu'on  hi  prodnisak,  3  repondh  qoe  c'etait  preeise- 
roent  parccqu'il  ne  doutah  pas  qu'e&e  ne  tombat  entre 
les  mains  du  tribunal,  qoe  tout  e  autre  voie  hri  avah  etc 
fennee  poor  faire  parvenir  ses  reclamations,  quTl  s*at- 
tendait  bien  qu'on  le  ferait  amener  a  Venise,  mais  qu'il 
avah  tout  risque  poor  avoir  la  consolation  de  voir  sa 
femme,  son  pere,  et  sa  mere,  encore  une  fots. 
•  Sur  cette  naive  declaration,  on  «»i&ma  sa 
0*6x3 ;  mais  on  Paggrava,  en  j  ajoutant  quH  serah  re- 
tenu  en  prison  pendant  on  an.  Cette  rigueor,  dont  on 
us  ait  covers  un  maibeureux  etail  sans  doute  odieose ; 
mais  cette  polhiqoe,  qoi  defendah  k  tons  les  choreas  de 
lake  inlervour  les  en-angers  dans  les  aflakes  inttiieuies 
de  la  i«pubBqae,  etak  sage.  EDe  etak  chez  eox 

Ltustorien  Paul  Morosini*  a  conte  qoe  Pempereor 
Frederic  VL  pendant  qoll  eta.  PMte  des  Venkiens,  de- 
manda. comme  one  faveor  particu!iere,Padmisskio  d'un 
choyen  dans  le  grand  conseO,  et  la  grace  d'un  anoien 
gouverneur  de  Candie,  gendre  do  doge,  et  "^pftt  poor 


Pune  ni  Fautre. 

Cepcndant  OB  ne  pot  iiiluser  an  condamne  la 
•ion  de  voir  sa  femme,  ses  enfants,  ses  parents,  qu"D 
aEah  quitter  poor  tonjoon.     Cette  dernrere  entrerue 


•rie  Horirhe  e  ammicKe.  per  fonur  U  8toria  drii  eccelui 


. 

Maria  Smmoto.  VHe  de*  Ducki.  F.  PoKari.) 
3  HJ«om  <U  Vaoeaa.  Eb.  S3. 


meme  fut  acconmagnee  de  cruautf,  par  *  s^ren:  c*. 
conspection,  qui  retenak  lee  epancbements  de  la  <Ji  deal 
paterneBeet  conjugate.  Ce  ne  fat  point  dans  Fmlrrieit 
de  lew  appartement,ce  fut  dans  one  des  grandes  caBes 
du  palais,  qu'une  femme,  accompagnee  de  ses  qoatn 
fib,  lint  faire  les  denrien  adieux  a  son  raari,  qu'nn  per* 
octogenaire  et  la  dogaresse  aocablee  d^mfirimtes,  /Kar- 
en! on  moment  de  la  triste  consohtion  de  meter  lean 
Urines  a  cefles  de  leor  exile.  Dse  jetak  lean  gennox, 
en  leur  tendant  des  mains  dkloquees  par  la  tortnre,  pon 
les  supplier  de  soCiciter  qudque  adoocissement  a  la 
sentence  qui  renait  d'etre  prononcee  centre  luL  Son 
pere  eut  le  courage  de  hrirepondre:  "Non.moBfb, 
5pectez  Totre  arrft,  et  obeissez  sans  murmorea  U 
A  ces  mots  3  se  separa  de  nnfortond, 


qui  fat  car-le-champ  embarque  poor  Candie, 

L'antiquite  »k  avee  aulant  dThorreor  qoe  d'adnnratiaB 
an  pere  condamnant  ses  fib 


cet  effort  qui  parait  au-dessus  de  la  nature -.  f- 

mab  iei,  ou  la  premiere  fante  n'ctak  qo'ane  fkibleBW,  oa 
la  seconde  n'etait  pas  proovee,  oft  la  UutMtme  n'avak 
rien  de  criminel,  comment  cooceroir  la  Constance  d*oB 
pere,  qoi  vok  torturer  took  fob  son  fits  oniqae,  qai  Pen- 
lend  condamner  sans  preoves,  et  qui  n'edate  pas  en 
piaintes;  qui  oe  Faborde  que  pour  loi  montrer  on  visage 
pms  austere  qu'ancndri,  et  qoi,  an  moment  de  s'en  se> 
parer  poor  jamais,  hri  interdk  les  murmuies  et  jmqa'a 
1'esperance?  Comment  expnqoer  one  si  croeDe  drcoo- 
spectkn,  si  ce  n'est  en  avooant,  a  notre  honte,  qoe  la 
tyrannie  peat  obtenir  de  Pespcce  tmnuw  les  •*«m 
efforts  one  h  verta?  La  serritnde  anrak-efle  son  h6- 
rolsme  comme  la  Gberte  ? 

Qndoae  temps  apres  ce  jogement,  on  decoovrit  le  ve- 
ritable anteor  de  Passassmat,  dont  Jacqoes  Foscari  por- 
tahkpeine;  njak  0  n'etah  pins  temps  de  rq>arer  ceoe 
atroce  injustice,  Ve  malheareax  etak  mart  dans  sa  prison. 

11  me  reste  a  raconter  la  sake  des  malwon  du  pere. 
LTustoire  les  attribue  a  Fimpatieoce  qu'avaieat  ses 
emis  et  ses  rivanx  de  voir  vaqoer  sa  place.  g*f 
accuse  fbrmeflcmeot  Jacqoes  Loredan,  Pan  des  chefs 
da  consei  des  dix,  de  s'etre  ivre  eontre  ce  viemard  ; 


divisai!  tears  i 

Franeois  Foscari  avah  essaye  de  la  faire  cesser,  en 
offrant  sa  flfe  a  PiDustre  amiral  Pierre  Lareaaa,  poor  •• 
de  ses  fils.  L'aEiance  avakcterej«tee,etrMuinkiedes 


*twe.  <fte  It  fUKoie  dec  jmgramt  foot  da 

Hwpo«rkn«nMia*e<at  ndre.  luwlei 

IrxBfj  d'hancw  et  de  frtrrar.  per  M 

sjinSAtiit 


356 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


deux  tajniilcs  s'en  etait  accrue.  Dans  tous  les  conseils, 
dans  loutes  les  affaires,  le  doge  irouvail  loujours  les 
Loredao  prets  i  combaitre  ses  propositions  ou  ses  in- 
tereis.  II  !ui  echappa  un  jour  de  dire  qu'il  ne  se  croi- 
rait  rseilement  prince  que  lorsquc  Pierre  Loredan  au- 
rait  cesse  de  vivre.  Cet  aniiral  tnourut  quelque  temps 
apres  d'une  incommodile  assei  prompte  qu'on  ne  put 
exphquer.  II  n'en  fallut  pas  Javanlagc  aux  malveillants 
pour  insmuer  que  Francois  Foscari,  ayant  desire  cette 
mart,  pouvait  bien  1' avoir  ha  tee. 

Ces  bruits  s'accrediierent  encore  lorsqu'on  vit  aussi 
perir  subitement  Marc  Loredan,  frere  de  Pierre,  et  cela 
dans  le  moment  ou,  en  sa  qualile  d'avogador,  il  instrui- 
cait  un  proces  centre  Andre  Donate,  gendre  du  doge, 
accuse  de  peculaL.  On  ecrivit  sur  la  tombe  de  1'aniiral 
qu'il  avail  cte  enleve  a  la  patrie  par  le  poison. 

D  n'y  avail  aucune  preuve,  aucun  indice  centre  Fran- 
CtMB  Foscari,  aucune  raison  meme  de  le  soupconner. 
Quand  sa  vie  entiere  n'aurail  pas  dementi  une  imputa- 
tion aussi  odieuse,  il  savait  que  son  rang  ne  lui  promet- 
Uit  ni  I'impunite  ni  meme  Indulgence.  La  mort  tra- 
gique  de  Tun  de  ses  predeccsseurs  Ten  avertissait,  et 
d  •'avail  que  irop  d'exemples  domestiques  du  soin  que 
le  ccnseil  des  dix  prenait  d'humilier  le  chef  de  la  re- 
pBbique. 

C  ependant,  Jacques  Loredan,  (Us  de  Pierre,  croyait  ou 
frlgn.it  de  croire  avoir  a  venger  les  pertes  de  sa  famille. ' 
Dans  ses  lirrcs  de  comptes  (car  il  faisait  Ic  commerce, 
eomroe  a  cette  epoque  presque  tous  les  patrie icns),  il 
avail  inscrit  de  sa  propre  main  le  doge  au  nombre  de  ses 
debileurs,  pour  la  mort,  y  etait- il  dit,  de  mon  pere  et  de 
•too  oncle.1  De  I'autre  cote1  du  registre,  il  avail  laisse 
^Hf  page  en  blanc,  pour  y  faire  mention  du  recouvre- 
ment  de  cette  deUe,  et  en  efiet,  apres  la  perte  du  doge,  il 
ecrivit  sur  son  registre :  il  me  1'a  payee,  Cha  pagata. 

Jacques  Loredan  ful  elu  membre  du  conseil  des  dix, 
en  devint  un  des  trois  chefs,  et  se  promit  bien  de  profi- 
ler de  cette  occasion  pour  accomplir  la  vengeance  qu'il 
meditait. 

Le  doge,  en  sortant  de  la  terrible  epreuve  qu'il  venait 
de  subir,  pendant  le  proces  de  too  fils,  s'etait  retire  au 
food  de  son  palais :  incapable  de  se  livrer  aux  affaires, 
coiwunie  de  chagrins,  accaWi  de  vkillesse,  il  ne  se  mon- 
trait  plus  en  public,  ni  meme  dans  les  conseils.  Cette 
•drake,  si  facile  a  expnquer  dans  un  vieillard  octoge- 
•aire  si  malheureux,  deplut  aux  decemvirs,  qui  voulu- 
rent  j  voir  un  murmare  centre  leurs  airets. 

Loredan  commenca  par  se  plaindre  devant  ses  col- 
4-gues  du  tort  que  les  infirmites  du  doge,  son  absence 
des  cofMetb,  apportaient  k  1'expedition  des  affaires ;  il 
but  par  hasarder  et  reussit  a  faire  agreer  la  proposition 
de  le  deposer.  Ce  n'etait  pas  la  premiere  fois  que  Ven- 
ice avail  pour  prince  un  homme  dans  la  caducite :  1'u- 
sage  et  les  lois  y  avaienl  pourvu :  dans  ces  circonstan- 
ees  le  doge  etait  supplee  par  le  plus  ancien  du  conseil. 
Ici,  eda  ne  suffisail  pas  aux  ennemis  de  Foscari.  Pour 
Jonner  pins  de  solennite  a  la  deliberation,  le  conseil  des 
Jir  demanda  une  adjonction  de  vinst-cinq  senalcurs ; 
mais  comme  on  n'en  enonfait  pas  Tobjel,  ct  que  IP  grand 
conseil  etait  loin  de  le  soupconner,  il  se  trouva  que  Marc 
f  oscari,  frere  du  doge,  leur  nit  donne  pour  1'un  des  ad- 
Au  lieu  de  I'admettre  a  la  deliberation,  ou  de 


reclamer  contre  ce  choix,  on  enferma  ce  senateur  dans 
une  chambre  separee,  et  on  lui  fit  jurer  de  ne  jamais 
parler  de  cette  exclusion  qu'il  eprouvait,  en  lui  decla- 
rant qu'il  y  allait  de  sa  vie  ;  ce  qui  n'empecha  pas  qu'on 
inscrivit  son  nom  au  bas  du  decret,  comme  s'll  y  cut 
pris  part.1 

Quajid  on  en  vint  ^  la  deliberation,  Loredan  la  provo- 
qua  en  c«s  termes. J  "  Si  1'utilite  publique  doit  imposer 
silence  a  tous  les  intereis  prives,  je  ne  doute  pas  que 
nous  ne  prenions  aujourd'hui  une  mesure  que  la  patrie 
reclame,  que  nous  lui  devons.  Les  etats  nc  peuvent 
se  maintenir  dans  un  ordre  de  choses  immuable :  vous 
n'avez  qu'a  voir  comme  le  notre  est  change,  et  combien 
il  le  scrait  davantage  s'il  n'y  avail  une  autorite  assez 
ferme  pour  y  porter  remede.  J'ai  honte  de  vous  faire 
remarquer  la  confusion  qui  regne  dans  les  conseils,  le 
desordre  des  deliberations,  1'encombrement  des  affaires, 
et  la  legerete  avec  laquelle  les  plus  importantes  sent 
decidees ;  la  licence  de  notre  jeunesse,  le  peu  d'assi- 
duite  des  magislrats,  1'introduclion  de  nouveautes  dan- 
gereuses.  Quel  est  1'effet  de  ces  desordres  ?  de  com- 
promeltre  noire  consideration.  Quellc  en  cst  la  cause  ? 
I'absence  d'un  chef  capable  de  moderer  les  uns,  de  di- 
riger  les  autres,  de  donner  1'exemple  k  lous,  el  de  main- 
tenir la  force  des  lois. 

"  Ou  est  le  temps  ou  nos  decrets  elaient  aussitot  ex- 
ecutes que  rendus?  oil  Francois  Carrare  se  trouvait 
investi  dans  Padoue,  avant  de  pouvoir  etre  seulcnient 
informe  que  nous  volitions  lui  faire  la  guerre  ?  Nous 
avons  vu  tout  le  contraire  dans  la  derniere  guerre  con- 
tre le  due  de  Milan.  Mallieureuse  la  republique  qu, 
est  sans  chef! 

"  Je  ne  vous  rappelle  pas  tous  ces  inconvenients  et 
leurs  suites  deplorables,  pour  vous  affliger,  pour  vous 
effrayer,  mais  pour  vous  faire  souvenir  que  vous  6te» 
les  maitres,  les  conservaleurs  de  cet  etat  fonde  par  vos 
peres,  el  de  la  liberte  que  nous  devons  a  leurs  travatur 
a  leurs  institutions.  Ici,  le  mal  indique  le  remede. 
Nous  n'avons  point  de  chef,  il  nous  en  faut  un.  Notre 
prince  est  noire  ouvrage,,  nous  avons  done  le  droll  de 
juger  son  merite  quand  il  s'agit  de  1'elire,  el  son  inca- 
pacite  quand  elle  se  manifeste.  J'ajouterai  que  le 
peuple,  encore  bien  qu'il  n'ait  pas  le  droil  de  pronon- 
cer  sur  ies  actions  de  ses  maitres,  apprcndra  ce  chan- 
gement  avec  transport.  C'est  la  Providence,  je  n'en 
doute  pas,  qui  lui  inspire  ellc-meme  ces  dispositions, 
pour  vous  avertir  que  la  republique  reclame  cette  reso- 
lution, et  que  le  sort  de  1'etat  est  en  vos  mains." 

Ce  discours  n'eprouva  que  de  timides  contradictions ; 
cependant,  ladeliberaiion  dura  huil jours.  L'assemblee, 
ne  se  jugeanl  pas  aussi  sure  de  1'approbation  univer- 
selle  que  1'oraieur  voulail  le  lui  faire  croire,  desirait  que 
le  doge  donnat  lui-meme  sa  demission.  II  1'avail  deja 
proposee  deux  fois,  el  on  n'avail  pas  voulu  1'accepltr. 

Aucunu  loi  ne  portail  que  le  prince  fut  revocable :  il 
etail  au  contraire  k  vie,  et  les  exemples  qu'on  pouvait 
citer  de  plusieurs  doges  deposes,  prouvaient  que  de 
lelles  revolulions  avaienl  loujours  etc  le  resullal  d'un 
mouvement  populaire. 

Mais  d'ailleurs,  si  le  dogs  pouvait  § tre  depose,  ce  n'etait 
pas  assurement  par  un  tribunal  compose  d'un  petit  norr>- 
bre  de  membres,  instituc  pour  punir  les  crimes,  et  nulie- 


1  Hue?  'amen  injurie*  quamris  iir.iiinarias  non  tarn  ad 
i  rfvocmverat  Jaeoous  l^medaou*  defunciorum  DC 


MUll   fevoCBvBm   ^mcvuiiB    uauicu*»iu»  uciuit\,iui  uin   mmr 

qiun  in  *beoeduium  rindicum  opporuua.    (Palazxi 

FaMrjlM^k*.) 

T lW  *  rtUMMn  VsnitiMM  d*  VianoJo. 


1  II  faut  copcrvianl  rpmxrnuer  que  dans  la  nolir»-  o  I  I'oc 
~-on'<"  re  fait,  la  deliberation)  est  rapportee.  que  let  rinf^ 
cinq  adjoinu  j  *oot  oomtnes.  et  que  le  nom  de  Marc  t 
ae  s'jr  irouve  pa*. 

9  Cede  baraocne  §e  Et  dan*  la  n.  'ice  e.t*e  ct-Jmnf 


THE  TWO  FOSCART. 


357 


ment  invest!  du  droit  de  revoquw  ce  que  le  corps  souve- 
rain  de  I'etat  avail  fait. 

Cependant  le  tribunal  arr£ta  que  les  six  conseillers  de 
la  seigneurie,  et  les  chefs  du  conseil  des  dix,  se  Irans- 
jiorteraient  aupres  du  doge,  pour  lui  signifier  que  Pex- 
ccllentissime  conseil  avail  juge  convenable  qu'il  abdiqual 
one  dignile  donl  son  age  nc  lui  permettait  plus  de  rem- 
pbr  les  fonctions.  On  lui  donna  1500  .locals  d'or  pour 
son  enlretien,  et  ringt-quatre  heures  pour  se  decider. ' 

Foscari  repondit  sur-le-champ  avec  beaucoup  dc  gra- 
vite,  que  deux  foe  il  aval*  voulu  se  demettre  de  sa  charge; 
qu'au  lieu  de  le  lui  permettre,  on  avail  exige  dc  lui  le 
serment  de  ne  plus  reiterer  cetle  demande  ;  que  la  Pro- 
vidence avah  prolonge  ses  jours  pour  I'eprouver  et  pour 
Paffliger ;  que  cependant  on  n'etait  pas  en  droit  de  re- 
procher  sa  longue  vie  k  un  homme  qui  avail  employe 
quatre-vingt-quatre  ans  au  sen-ice  de  la  republique; 
qu'il  etait  prSt  encore  a  lui  sacrifier  sa  vie  ;  mais  que, 
pour  sa  dignite,  il  la  lenaii  de  la  republique  entire,  et 
qu'il  se  reservait  de  repondre  sur  ce  sujet,  quand  la 
volonte  generate  se  serail  legalemenl  manifestee. 

Le  lendemain,  k  1'heure  indiquee,  les  conseillers  et  les 
chefs  des  dix  se  presenierenU  II  ne  voulut  pas  leur  don- 
ner  d'autre  reponse.  Le  conseil  s'assembla  sur-le- 
champ,  lui  envoya  demander  encore  tme  ibis  sa  resolu- 
tion, seance  tenante,  et,  la  reponse  ayant  etc  la  meme, 
on  prononca  que  le  doge  etait  releve  de  son  serment  et 
depose  de  sa  dignite :  on  lui  assigna  une  pension  de 
1500  ducats  d'or,  en  lui  enjoignant  de  sortir  du  palais 
dans  huit  jours,  sous  peine  de  voir  tous  ses  bieas  con- 
fisques.* 

Le  lendemain,  cc  decret  fut  porte  au  doge,  et  ce  fut 
Jacques  Loredan  qui  cut  la  cruelle  joie  de  le  lui  presen- 
ter. D  repondit :  "  Si  j'avais  pu  prevoir  que  ma  vieil- 
"  i  prejudiciable  k  I'etat,  le  chef  de  la  republique 
ne  se  serait  pas  montre  assez  ingrat,  pour  preferer  sa 
di^nite  a  la  patrie  ;  mais  cette  vie  lui  ayant  etc  utile 
pendant  tant  d'annees,  je  voulais  lui  en  consacrer  jus- 
qu'au  dernier  moment.  Le  decret  est  rendu,  je  m'y 
conformerai."  Apres  avoir  parle  ainsi,  il  se  depouilla 
des  marques  de  sa  dignite,  remit  1'anneau  ducal  qui  fut 
brise  en  sa  presence,  et  des  le  jour  suivant  il  quitta  ce  pa- 
lais, qu'il  avail  habile  pendant  trente-cinq  ans,  acconv- 
paffne  de  son  frere,  de  ses  parents,  et  de  ses  amis.  Un 
secretaire,  qui  se  trouva  sur  le  perron,  1'invita  k  des- 
cendre  par  un  escalier  derobe,  afin  d'eviter  la  fbule  du 
peuple,  qui  s'eiait  rassemb'.e  dans  les  co'irs,  mais  il  s'y 
refusa,  disant  qu'il  voulait  descendre  par  oil  il  etait 
monte  ;  et  quand  il  fat  an  bas  de  Tescalicr  des  geants,  il 
se  retouma,  appuye  sur  sa  bequille,  vers  le  palais,  en 
proferant  ces  paroles:  "  Mes  services  m'y  avaient  ap- 
pe!e,  la  malice  de  mes  ennemis  m'en  fail  sortir." 

La  foule  qui  s'ouvrait  sur  son  passage,  et  qui  avail 
peut-etre  desire  sa  mort,  e"tait,  eraue  de  respect  et  d'at- 
tendrissement.'  Rentre  dans  sa  maison,  il  recommanda 
h  sa  famille  d'oublier  les  injures  de  ses  ennemis.  Per- 
sonne  dans  les  divers  corps  de  I'etat  ne  se  crut  en  droit 


clamation  du  conseil  des  dix  prescrm  .e  silence  le  ph* 
absolu  sur  cette  affaire,  sous  peine  de  •oort. 

Avant  de  donner  un  succcsseur  k  Fs-v>eois  Foscar» 
une  nouvel'.e  loi  fut  rendue,  qui  defendai*  -iu  dopi 
d'ouvrir  et  de  lire,  autremenl  qu'en  presence  lie  its  con- 
seillers, les  depeches  des  ambassadeurs  de  i?  repub- 
lique, et  les  lettres  des  princes  etrangcrs. ' 

Les  electeurs  entrerent  au  conclave,  et  nomm«-ent  an 
dogat  Paschal  Malipier,  le  30  octobre  1457.  Lacloch* 
de  Sainl-Marc,  qui  annoncait  k  Venise  son  nouvcan 
prince, vint  frapper  1'oreillede  Francois  Foscari;  celt* 
fbis  sa  fermete  1'abandonna,  il  eprouva  un  tel  s^isisse- 
ment,  qu'il  mourut  le  lendemain.5 

La  republique  arreta  qu'on  lui  rendrait  les  monies  hon- 
neurs  funebres  que  s'il  fut  mort  dans  1'exercice  de  sa 
dignite ;  mais  lorsqu'on  se  presenta  pour  enlever  se» 
restes,  sa  veuve,  qui  de  son  nom  etait  Marine  Nani,  de- 
clara  qu'elle  ne  le  souffrirait  point ;  qu'on  ne  devail  paj 
trailer  en  prince  apres  sa  mort  celui  que  vivant  on  avail 
de*pouiile  de  la  couronne,  et  que,  puisqu'il  avail  consume 
ses  biens  au  service  de  Petal,  elle  saurait  consacrer  sa 
dot  a  lui  faire  rendre  les  demiers  honneurs.1  On  lie  tint 
aucun  compte  de  cette  resistance,  el  malgre  les  protes. 
tations  de  Pancienne  dogaresse,  le  corps  fut  enleve,  re- 
vetu  des  ornemens  ducaux,  expose  en  public,  et  les  ob- 
seques  furent  celebrees  avec  la  pompe  accouiumee.  Le 
nouveau  doge  assista  au  convoi  en  robe  de  senateur. 

La  pitie  qu'avait  inspiree  le  malheur  de  ce  vieillard, 
ne  fut  pas  tout-k-fait  sterile.  Un  an  apres,  on  osa  db» 
que  le  conseil  des  dix  avail  outrepasse  ses  poutoirs,  et 
il  lui  fut  defendu  par  une  loi  du  grand  conseil  de  s'in- 
gerer  k  Pavenir  de  jug er  le  prince,  k  moins  que  ce  ne 
fut  pour  cause  de  felonie.* 

Un  acle  d'aulorite  tel  que  !a  deposition  d'un  doge  h> 
amovible  de  sa  nature,  auroit  pu  exciter  un  souleve- 
ment  general,  ou  au  moins  occasioner  une  division 
dans  une  republique  autrement  constituee  q«e  Venise. 
Mais  de  puis  Irois  ans,  il  existait  dans  ceDe-ci  one 
magistrature,  ou  plutoi  une  autorite,  devant  laqoeOe 
tout  derail  se  laire. 

Extraitde  FHistcire  des  R£pubEques  ItaKemesthtwtayen 
Age,  pear  J.  C.  L.  Simonde  de  Sixmondi,  torn.  z. 
LE  doge  de  Venise,  qui  avail  prevenu  par  ce  traite  UIM 
gnerre  non  moins  dangereuse  que  celle  quril  avail  ter- 
minee  presque  en  m->me  temps  par  le  traite  de  Ix>di, 
etait  alors  parvenu  \  une  extreme  vieillesse.  Francois 
Foscari  occupait  cette  premiere  dignite  de  Petal  des  le 
15  avril  1423.  Quoiqu'il  fQt  deja  age  de  plus  de  cin- 
quanie-un  ans  k  Pepoque  de  son  election,  il  etait  cepen- 
dant le  plus  jeune  des  quarante-un  electeurs.  H  avail 
eu  beaucoup  de  peine  k  parvenir  an  rang  qull  convoi- 
tait,  et  son  election  avail  etc  conduite  avec  beaucoup 
d'adresse.  Pendanl  plusieurs  tours  de  scrutin  ses  amis 
les  plus  reles  s'etaient  abstenus  de  hu  donner  leur  suf- 
frage, pour  que  les  autres  ne  le  considerassent  pas  comiue 
un  concurrent  redoutable.*  Le  conseil  des  dix  craignart 


des'etonner,qu'un  prince  inamovibleeutete  depose  sans  son  credit  parmi  la  noblesse  pauvrc,  parcequrt  avail 
qu'on  lui  reprochat  rien  ;  que  I'etat  cut  perdu  son  chef, ;  cherche  a  se  la  rendre  favorable,  tandis  qu'il  eta.it  pro 
H  Pinsji  du  senat,  et  du  corps  souverain  lui-meme.  Le  ;  curateur  de  Sainl-Marc,  en  faisant  em;>loyer  p<us  do 
peuple  seul  laissa  ^chapper  quelques  regrels :  une  pro-  !  trente  mifle  ducats  k  doter  des  jeunes  hlles  de  bonne 


1  Ce  decret  est  rapport*  tertuenement  dans  la  notice. 

2  I-a  notice  rapporte  auni  ce  decree 

3  On  lit  dam  la  notice  CM  propre  mots  ;  "  Sa  fosw  sUlo  in 
wro  potere  roleorieri  k)  arrebbero  restituito  " 

21 


1  Hist,  di  Venitia.  di  Paolo  Morosini.  lib.  S3 
9  Hist,  di  Pietro  Justiniuii.  lib.  8. 

3  Hist.  d'Eenalio.  lib.  &  cap.  7. 

4  Ce  deeiet  estdu25  Oetobre.  145P.  L«  notice  b  rapMm. 

5  Marin  Sannto,  Vile  de'  Duchi  di  Veoeni,  p.  867 


3o8 


BYRON  S  WORKS. 


maison,  ou  k  etab'.ir  des  jeunes  gentilshomines.  On  affreux  tourmens,  sans  reussir  a  en  tirer  aucur.e  ccm 
eraignait  encore  sa  nombreuse  famille,  car  alors  il  etait  >.  fession.  Malgre  sa  denegation,  le  conseil  des  dix  !e 
pere  de  quatre  enfans,  et  marie  de  nouveau  ;  enfin  on  .condamna  a  etre  iransporte  a  la  Canee,  et  accorda  ur.e 
redoutait  son  ambition  et  son  gout  pour  la  guerre.  L'opi-  '  recompense  a  son  Helateur.  Mais  les  horribles  douleur* 
•ion  que  ses  adversaires  s'etaienl  fbrmee  de  lui  fut  veri-  \  que  Jacob  Foscari  avail  eprouvees,  avaient  trouble  sa 
fiee  par  les  eveneroens ;  pendant  trente-quaJre  ans  que  raison ;  ses  persecuieurs,  touches  de  ce  dernier  malheur, 
Foscari  fut  a  la  tete  de  la  republique,  elie  ne  cessa  point !  permirent  qu'on  le  ramenat  h  Venise  le  26  mai  1451. 
de  combattre.  Si  les  hostilites  etaient  suspendues  du-  j  D  erabrassa  son  pere,  il  puisa  dans  ses  exhortation* 
rant  quelques  mois,  c'etail  pour  rccommencer  bientoi  quekjue  courage  et  quelque  calme,  et  il  fut  reconauit 


avec  plus  de  vigueur.  Ce  ful  I'epoque  oil  Venise  etendii 
•on  empire  sur  Brescia,  Bergame,  Ravenne,  el  Creme, 
oil  eOe  fonda  sa  domination  de  Lombardie,  el  parut 
sans  cesse  sur  le  point  d'asservir  toute  cette  province. 
Profbnd,  courageux,  inebranlable,  Foscari  communiqua 
aux  conseils  son  propre  caractere,  et  ses  talens  lui  firent 
obtenir  plus  dlnfluence  sur  la  republique,  que  n'avaient 
exerce  la  plupart  de  ses  predecesseurs.  Mais  si  son  am- 
bition avail  eu  pour  but  I'agrandissement  de  sa  famille, 
efle  fut  erueUement  trompee :  irois  de  ses  fils  moururcnt 
dans  les  hint  annees  qui  survirent  son  election :  le  qua- 
Irieme,  Jacob,  par  lequeJ  la  maison  Foscari  s'est  per- 
petuee,  fut  victime  de  la  jalousie  du  conseil  des  dix,  et 
empotsonna  par  ses  malheurs  les  jours  de  son  pere. ' 

Eu  effet,  le  conseil  des  dix,  redoublant  de  defiance 
envers  le  chef  de  1'etat,  lorsqu'il  le  voyait  plus  fort  par 
ses  talens  et  sa  popularite,  reillait  sans  cesse  sur  Fos- 
cari, pour  le  punir  de  son  credit  et  de  sa  gktire.  Au 
mois  de  fevrier  1445,  Michel  Bevilacqua,  Florentin, 
exile  k  Venise,  accusa  en  secret  Jacques  Foscari  aupres 
des  inquisiteurs  d'etat,  d'avoir  recu  du  due  Philippe 
"Viscomi,  des  presens  d'argent  et  de  joyaux,  par  les 
mains  des  gens  de  sa  maison.  Telle  etait  I'odieuse 
procedure  «doptee  k  Venise,  que  sur  cette  accusation 
secrete,  le  fiis  du  doge,  du  representant  de  la  majeste 
de  la  repubuqoe,  fut  raise  k  la  torture.  On  lui  arracha 
par  1'estrapaiSe  Paveu  des  charges  portees  contre  lui ; 
il  fut  relegue  p>.-w  le  reste  de  ses  jours  k  Napoli  de  Ro- 
manie,  avec  obligation  de  se  presenter  chaque  matin  au 
commandant  de  la  place.*  Cependant,  le  vaisseau  qui 
le  portait  ayant  louche  k  Trieste,  Jacob,  grievemenl 
malade  des  suites  de  la  torture,  et  plus  encore  de  1'hu- 
miliatinn  qu'il  avail  eprouvee,  demanda  en  grace  au 
conseil  des  dix  de  n'etre  pas  envoye  plus  loin.  II  obtint 
cette  faveur,  par  une  deliberation  du  28  decembre  1446 ; 
3  fut  rappele  k  Trevise,  et  il  eut  la  liberte  d'habiter  tout 
le  Trevisan  indifieremment.* 

Dvivait  en  paixk  Trevise;  et  la  fiP  ~Je  Leonard  Con- 
Urini,  qu'il  avail  epousee  le  10  fevrier  1441,  elail  venue 
e  joindre  dans  son  exil,  lorsque,  le  5  novembre  1450, 
Ahnoro  Donate,  chef  du  conseil  des  dix,  fut  assassine. 
Les  deux  autres  inquisiteurs  d'etat,  Triadano  Gritti  et 
Antonio  Venieri,  porterent  leur  soupcons  sur  Jacob 
Foscari,  parcequ'un  domestique  a  lui,  nomine  Olivier, 
avail  etc  vu  cc  soir-lk  meme  k  Venise,  et  avail  des  pre- 
miers donne  la  nouvede  dc  eel  assassinat.  Olivier  fut 
mis  k  la  torture,  mais  il  nia  jusqu'a  la  fin,  avec  on  cour- 
age mebranlable,  le  crime  dont  on  I'accusait,  quoique 

•es  juges  eussent  la  barbaric  de  lui  faire  donner  jusqu'k  etait  panse  de  ses  blessures.  Ce  fils  demandait  em-ore 
q'tatre-vingt  tours  d'estrapade.  Cependant,  comme  la  grace  de  mourir  dans  sa  maison. — "  Retourne  h  ton 
Jacob  Foscan  avail  de  puissans  motifs  d'inunitie  conlre  "  exil,  mon  fils,  puisque  la  patrie  1'ordonne,"  lui  Ail  If 
ecnnseildesdixquiravaitcondamne,  etquilemoignait  doge,  "et  soumets-toia  sa  volonte."  Mais  en  ret  Irani 

1 1%  haine  au  doge  son  pere,  on  sssaya  de  mettre  k  son  j 

-nm  Jac-A  k  la  torture,  et  Pon  proJongea  contre  lui  ces  j     1  Marin  Sanuto,  p.  1139  —M.  AnL  SaNel)  ,o     O'.ti  Ul 


immediatement  k  la  Canee. '  Sur  ces  entrefaites,  Xico- 
las  Erizzo,  homme  deja  note  pour  un  precedent  crime, 
confessa,  en  mourant,  que  c'etait  lui  qui  avoit  tue  Al- 
moro  Donato.* 

Lc  malheurcux  doge,  Francois  Foscari,  avail  deja 
cherche,  a  plusieurs  reprises,  a  abdiquer  une  dignite  si 
funeste  a  lui-meme  et  a  sa  famille.  H  lui  semblait 
que,  redescendu  au  rang  de  simple  citoyen,  comme  il 
n'inspirerait  plus  de  crainte  ou  de  jalousie,  on  n'acca- 
blere.it  plus  son  fils  par  ces  effroyables  persecutions. 
Abattu  par  la  mort  de  ses  premiers  enfans,  il  avoit  vou- 
lu,  des  le  26  juin,  1433,  deposer  une  dignite,  durant 
1'eiercice  de  laquelle  sa  patrie  avail  etc  lourmentee  par 
la  guerre,  par  la  peste,  et  par  des  malheurs  de  lout 
genre.1  II  renouvela  cetle  proposition  apres  lesjuge- 
mens  rendus  contre  son  fils  ;  mais  le  conseil  des  dix  le 
retenait  forcement  sur  le  Irone,  comme  U  retenait  son 
fils  dans  les  fers. 

En  rain  Jacob  Foscari,  oblige  de  se  presenter  chaque 
jour  au  gouverneur  de  la  Canee,  reclamail  contre  1'in- 
justice  de  sa  demiere  sentence,  sur  laquelle  la  confession 
d'Erizzo  ne  laissait  plus  de  doutes.  En  vain  il  deman- 
dait  grace  au  farouche  conseil  des  dix ;  il  ne  pouvait 
obtenir  aucune  reponse.  Le  desir  de  revoir  son  pere  et 
sa  mere,  arrives  tous  deux  au  dernier  termc  de  la  %-ieil- 
lesse,  le  desir  de  revoir  une  patrie  dont  la  cruaute  ne 
meritait  pas  un  si  lendre  amour,  se  changerenl  en  luj 
en  une  vraie  fureur.  Ne  pouvanl  relourner  a  Venisc 
pour  j  vivre  libre,  il  voulul  du  moins  y  aller  cherchei 
un  supplice.  U  ecrivil  au  due  de  Milan  a  la  fin  de  mai 
1456,  pour  implorer  sa  protection  aupres  du  senat :  et 
sachanl  qu'une  lelle  leltre  serait  consideree  comme  un 
crime,  il  1'exposa  lui-meme  dans  un  lieu  ou  U  etait  stir 
qu'elle  serail  saisie  par  ies  espions  qu:  Tentouraienu 
En  efTet,  la  lettre  etant  deferee  au  conseil  des  dix,  oa 
1'envoya  chercher  aussitot,  et  il  ful  reconduil  a  Venise 
le  19  juillet  1456.* 

Jacob  Fosrari  ne  nia  point  sa  lettre,  il  raconta  en 
meme  temps  dans  quel  bui  il  1'avait  ecrite,  et  comment 
il  1'avait  fait  tomber  entre  les  mains  de  son  delateur. 
Malgre  ces  aveux,  Foscari  fut  remis  k  la  torture,  et  on 
lui  donna  trenle  tours  d'estrapade,  pour  voir  s'il  confir- 
merail  ensuite  ses  depositions.  Quand  on  le  detacha 
de  la  corde,  on  le  trouva  dechire  par  ces  horribles  se- 
cousses.  Les  juges  permirent  alors  a  son  pere,  a  sa 
mere,  a  sa  femme,  el  a  ses  fils,  d'aller  le  voir  dans  sa 
prison.  Le  vieux  Foscari,  appuye  sur  son  baton,  ne  se 
traina  qu'avec  peine  dans  la  chambre  ou  son  fils  unique 


1  Marin  Sin»:o,  p  9GB. 

5  IbH  „.  -JW. 

i  Ibid.  Vite.  p.  1121 


T.  IV.  f.  187. 

2  Ibid.  1139. 

3  Ibid.  p.  1032. 

4  Ibid.  p.  116i 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


35J 


4ans  con  palais,  ce  malheureux  vieillard  s'eraoouit, 
epuise  par  la  violence  qu'il  s'etait  faite.  Jacob  derail 
encore  passer  une  annee  en  prison  a  la  Canee,  avant 
qu'on  lui  rendit  la  meme  liberte  limitee  a  laqueUe  il 
etait  reduit  avact  cet  e  venement ;  mats  a  peine  fut-i! 
deharque  sur  cette  terre  d'eiil,  quil  y  mourut  de  dou- 
,eur.' 

Des-lors,  et  pendant  quinze  mots,  le  vieux  doge  acca- 
ble  d'annees  et  de  chagrins,  ne  recourra  plus  la  force 
de  son  corps  ou  celle  de  son  ame ;  il  n'assistait  plus  a 
aucun  des  eonseils,  et  3  ne  pouvait  plus  remplir  aucune 
des  fonctions  de  sa  dignite.  II  etait  entre  dans  sa 
quatrt- vingt-sixieme  annee,  et  si  le  conseil  des  dix  avail 
etc  susceptible  de  quelque  pitie,  il  aurait  anendn  en 
silence  la  fin,  sans  doule  nrochaine,  d'une  carriere  mar- 
quee part  tant  de  g".oire  et  tant  de  malheurs.  Mais  le 
chef  du  conseil  des  dix  eiart  alors  Jacques  Loredano, 
fils  de  Marc,  et  neveu  de  Pierre,  le  grand  amiral,  qui 
toute  leur  Tie  avaient  etc  les  ennemis  acharaes  da  vieux 
doge.  Ils  avaient  transmis  leur  haine  a  lean  enfants, 
et  cette  vieilie  rancune  n'etait  pas  encore  Mtirfaitf..1  A 
1'instigaiion  de  Loredano,  JerOme  Barbarigo,  inquisi- 
teur  d'etat,  proposa  au  conseil  des  dix,  an  mois  d'oc- 
lobre  1437,  de  soumettre  Foscari  a  une  nouvelle  humi- 
liation. Des  que  ce  magistral  ne  pourait  plus  remplir 
ses  fooctioos,  Barbarigo  demanda  qu'on  nommat 
autre  doge.  Le  conseil,  qui  avail  refuse  par  deux  fob 
I'abdication  de  Foscari,  parceque  la  constitution  ne 
pourait  la  permeUre,  hesita  arant  de  se  meltre  en  a 
tradictioa  arec  ses  propfes  decrets.  Les  discussions 
dans  le  conseil  et  la  junte  se  prolongerent  pendant  halt 
jours,  jusque  fort  arant  dans  la  nuh.  Ce  pendant,  on 
fit  entrer  dans  I'assemblee  Marco  Foscari,  procurateur 
db  Saint-Marc,  et  frere  du  doge,  pour  qu'il  fut  lie  par 
le  redoutable  serment  du  secret,  et  qu'il  ne  put  arreter 
les  mesures  de  ses  ennemis.  Enfin,  le  conseil  se  rendit 
aupres  du  doge,  et  lui  demanda  d'abdkjuer  voloniaire- 
ment  un  etnploi  qu'il  ne  pourah  plus  exercer.  "  J*ai 
jure"  repondit  le  vieillard,  ude  remplir  jusqu*ii  ma 
mort,  selon  mon  honneur  et  ma  conscience,  les  fonc- 
tions auiqueiles  ma  patrie  m'a  appele.  Je  ne  puis  me 
delier  moi-me  me  de  mon  serment ;  qu'un  prdre  des  con- 
seus  dispose  de  moi,  je  m'y  soumettrai,  mais  je  ne  le 
devancerai  pas."  Alors  une  noureDe  deliberation  du 
conseil  de  Ua  Francois  Foscari  de  son  serment  ducal,  lui 
as  sura  une  pension  de  deux  mule  ducats  pour  le  reste 
de  sa  vie,  et  lui  ordonna  d'evacuer  en  trois  jours  le 
palais,  et  de  deposer  les  omemeus  de  sa  dignite.  Le 
doge  ayant  remarque  parmi  les  conseifiers  qui  lui  por- 
tereat  cet  ordre,  un  chef  de  la  quarantie  qu'il  ne  o 
naissait  pas,  demanda  son  nom:  "Jesuisle  Bis  de  Marco 
Memmo,"  lui  dit  le  conseifler — "Ah!  ton  pere  etait 
mon  ami,"  lui  dit  le  vieux  doge,  en  soupiranU  D  donna 
aussitot  des  crdres  pour  qu'on  transportat  ses  efiets 
dans  une  maison  a  lui ;  et  le  lendemain,  23  octobre,  on 
le  vit,  se  soutenant  a  peine,  et  appuye  sur  son  vieux 
frere,  redescendre  ces  me'mes  cscab'ers  sur  lesquefe, 
trente-quatre  ans  aupararant,  on  Parait  ru  instaOe  aree 
tant  de  pompe,  et  traverscr  ces  nrfmes  salles  ou  la  repo- 
blique  avail  recu  ses  sermens.  Le  people  entier  parut 
iiioigne  de  tant  de  durete  exercee  conire  un  vieillard 
qtf  J  respectait  et  qu'il  aimait ;  mais  le  conseil  des  dix 


I  Marin  Sanoto.  p.  1163. — Navaiion  Star.  Vw.er.  p.  1118. 
i  >*a.id:  Storia  dvile  dC  Venexiaoa.  P.  11.  L.  VUL  p. 

•.tt.  p.  ?;. 


fit  pubuer  one  defense  de  parier  de  cette  revoiution, 
sous  peine  d'etre  traduit  derant  les  inqutsiieurs  d'etaU 
Le  80  octobre,  Pasqual  Malipieri,  p""iaiti^ir  de  Saint- 
Marc,  fut  elu  pour  successeur  de  Foscari ;  ceiui-ci  n'eut 
pas  neanmoins  PhumiuaUon  de  rivre  sujet,  la  ;ii  1 
avail  regne.  En  pntffndam  le  son  des  cloches,  qi  too- 
natent  en  actions  de  grace  pour  cette  election,  il  OMMTOI 
subhement  d'une  hemorragie  causee  par  one  veine  qv 
s'edata  dans  sa  poitrioe. ' 


'LE  doge,b!essedetrouTer< 
dicteur  et  un  «*iuM'in  si  amer  dans  son  frere,  hn  dit.  OB 
jour  en  plein  conseil:  'Messire  Augustin,  vous  fakes 
tout  rotre  possible  pour  hater  ma  mort ;  vous  vous  flat- 
tez  de  me  succeder ;  mais  si  les  autres  vous  n'mniJMtiil 
anssi  bien  one  je  vous  connais,  3s  n'auront  garde  d» 
vous  elire.'  La  dessus  il  se  leva,  emu  de  colere,  rentra 
dans  son  appartement,  et  mourut  qudqnes  jours  apres. 
Ce  frere  contre  leqnd  fl  s'etait  emporte  fut  preciscmeai 
le  successeur  qu'on  hn  donna.  C'etait  un  mfrite  dont 
on  aimait  a  tenir  compte,  surtout  k  un  parent,  de  s'e'tre 
mis  en  opposition  avecle  chef  de  la  repnbhqoe."1  Dam, 
Hitlcirc  de  Fenaae,  voL  iL  sec.  xL  p.  533. 


IK  Lady  Morgan's  fearless  and  excellent  work  upon 
"Italy,"  I  perceive  the  expression  of  "Rome  of  the 
Ocean"  applied  to  Venice.  The  same  phrase  occurs  in 
the  "Two  Foscari."  My  publisher  can  vouch  for  me 
that  the  tragedy  was  written  and  sent  to  England  some 
one  before  I  had  seen  Lady  Morgan's  work,  which  I* 
only  received  on  the  16th  of  August.  I  hasten,  however, 
to  notice  the  coincidence,  and  to  yield  the  originality  of 
the  phrase  to  her  who  first  placed  il  before  the  public. 
I  am  the  more  anxious  to  do  this,  as  I  am  informed  (for 
I  have  seen  but  few  of  the  specimens,  and  those  accident- 
ally) that  there  have  been  lately  brought  against  me 
charges  of  plagiarism.  I  have  also  had  an  anonymous 
sort  of  threatening  intimation  of  the  same  kind,  appa- 
rently with  the  intent  of  extorting  money.  To  such 
charges  I  have  no  answer  to  make.  One  of  them  is  lu- 
dicrous enough.  I  am  reproached  for  having  formed 
the  description  of  a  shipwreck  in  verse  from  the  narra- 
tives of  many  actual  shipwrecks  in  nrose,  selecting  soch 
materials  as  were  most  striking.  Gibbon  makes  it  a 
merit  in  Tasso"  to  have  copied  the  minutest  details  of  the 
siege  of  Jerusalem  from  the  Chronicles."  In  me  it  may 
be  a  demerit,  I  presume ;  let  it  remain  so.  Whilstlhav* 
been  occupied  in  defending  Poprt  character,  the  lower 
orders  of  Grub-street  appear  to  have  been  assailing  MIC  • 
this  is  as  it  should  be,  both  in  them  and  in  me.  One  of 
the  accusations  in  the  nameless  epistle  aDuded  to  is  stil 
more  laughable :  it  states  seriously  that  I  "  received  five 
hundred  pounds  for  writing  advertisements  for  Day 
and  Martin's  patent  blacking!"  This  is  the  highest 
compliment  to  my  literary  powers  which  1  ever  received. 
It  states  also  "  that  a  person  has.  been  trying  to  mak* 

1  Marin  Stouto,  Vile  de'  Duett  di  Veoena.  p.  11CI  — 
ChroBiem  E^ofaiaam.  T.  XXL  p.  99i— Cfaktafat*  m 
Soldo  btam  Branua,  T.  XXL  p.  S91.— Naiwt  •  Stone 
Venenu*.  T.  XXIIL  p.  1130.— JL  A-  Stbel&ca.  Doc*  3L 

u  via.  r.  3Di 

3  The  Venetian*  appear  to  have  had  a  punouar  tare  Mr 
bnaUwthe  beut»  of  their  Pop»;  the  ahove  »  ••nlfcjit  •- 
nance  of  the  kind  •  the  Doge  Mweo  Borbmrico;  be  w*s 
eeeded  far  Us  brather  ACMUM  BuWnc^ 


360 


BYRON  S  WORKS. 


acquaintance  with  Mr.  Townsend,  2  genueman  of  the 
law,  who  was  with  me  on  business  in  Venice  three 
years  ago,  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  any  defama- 
Mty  particulars  of  my  life  from  this  occasional  visitor." 
Mr.  Townsend  is  welcome  to  say  what  he  knows.  I  men- 
tion these  particulars  merely  to  show  the  world  in  gen- 
ial what  the  literary  lower  world  contains,  and  their 
way  of  setting  to  work.  Another  charge  made,  I  am 
told, in  the  "Literary  Gazette"  is,  that  I  wrote  the  notes 
to  "  Queen  Mab  ;"  a  work  which  I  never  saw  till  some 
time  after  its  publication,  and  which  I  recollect  showing 
to  Mr.  Sotheby  as  a  poem  of  great  power  and  imagi- 
nation. I  never  wrote  a  line  of  the  notes,  nor  ever  saw 
them  except  in  their  published  form.  No  one  knows 
better  than  their  real  author,  that  his  opinions  and 
mine  differ  materially  upon  the  metaphysical  portion 
of  that  work ;  though,  in  common  with  all  who  are  not 
blinded  by  baseness  and  bigotry,  I  highly  admire  the 
poetry  of  that  and  his  other  publications. 

Mr.  Southey,  too,  in  his  pious  preface  to  a  poem  whose 
blasphemy  is  as  harmless  as  the  sedition  of  Wat  Tyler, 
because  it  is  equally  absurd  with  that  sincere  production, 
calls  upon  the  "  legislature  to  look  to  it,"  as  the  tolera- 
tion of  such  writings  led  to  the  French  Revolution :  not 
such  writings  as  Wat  Tyler,  but  as  those  of  the  "  Satanic 
School."  This  is  not  true,  and  Mr.  Southey  knows  it  to  be 
not  true.  Every  French  writer  of  any  freedom  was  perse- 
cuted ;  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  were  exiles,  Marmontel 
and  Diderot  were  sent  to  the  Bastile,  and  a  perpetual  war 
was  waged  with  the  whole  class  by  the  existing  despotism. 
In  the  next  place,  the  French  Revolution  was  not  occa- 
sioned by  any  writings  whatsoever,  but  must  have  occur- 
red had  no  such  writers  ever  existed.  It  is  the  fashion  to 
attribute  every  thing  to  the  French  Revolution,  and  the 
French  Revolution  to  every  thing  but  its  real  cause. 
That  cause  is  obvious — the  government  exacted  too 
much,  and  the  people  could  neither  give  nor  bear  more. 
Without  this,  the  Encyclopedists  might  have  written 
their  fingers  off  without  the  occurrence  of  a  single  alter- 
ation. And  the  English  Revolution — (the  first,  1  mean) 
what  was  it  occasioned  by  ?  The  Puritans  were  surely 
as  pious  and  moral  as  Wesley  or  his  biographer  ?  Acts — 
acts  on  the  part  of  government,  and  not  writings  against 
them,  have  caused  the  past  convulsions,  and  are  tending 
to  the  future. 

I  look  upon  such  as  inevitable,  though  no  revolu- 
tionist :  I  wish  to  see  the  English  constitution  restored, 
and  not  destroyed.  Born  an  aristocrat,  and  naturally 
one  by  temper,  with  the  greater  part  of  my  present  prop- 
erty in  the  funds,  what  have  /  to  gain  by  a  revolution  ? 
Perhaps  I  have  more  to  lose  in  every  way  than  Mr.  Sou- 
they, with  all  his  places  and  presents  for  panegyrics  and 
abuse  into  the  bargain.  But  that  a  revolution  is  inevi- 
table, I  repeat.  The  government  may  exult  over  the 
repression  of  petty  tumults  ;  these  are  but  the  receding 
waves  repulsed  and  broken  for  a  moment  on  the  shore 
while  the  great  tide  is  still  rolling  on  and  gaining  ground 
with  every  breaker.  Mr.  Southey  accuses  us  of  attacking 
the  religion  of  the  country  ;  and  is  he  abetting  it  by  writ- 
ing ..ves  of  Wesley  1  One  mode  of  worship  is  merely  de- 
stroyed by  another.  There  never  was,  nor  ever  will  be,  a 
country  without  a  religion.  We  shall  be  told  of  France 
again  :  bul  it  was  only  Paris  and  a  frantic  party,  which 


lor  a  moment  upheld  their  dogmatic  nonsense  of  theo  phi- 
lanthropy. The  church  of  England,  if  overthrown,  will 
be  swept  away  by  the  sectarians,  and  not  by  the  sceptics. 
People  are  too  wise,  too  well-informed,  too  certain  of 
their  own  immense  importance  in  the  realms  of  space, 
ever  to  submit  to  the  impiety  of  doubt.  There  may  be  a 
few  such  diffident  speculators,  like  water  in  the  ;jt..e  sun» 
beam  of  human  reason,  hut  they  are  very  few  j  and  their 
opinions,  without  enthusiasm  or  appeal  to  th  ;  passions, 
can  never  gain  proselytes — unless,  indeed,  they  are 
persecuted :  that,  to  be  sure,  will  increase  any  thing. 

Mr.  S.,  with  a  cowardly  ferocity,  exults  over  the  an- 
ticipated "death-bed  repentance"  of  the  objects  of  his 
dislike ;  and  indulges  himself  in  a  pleasant  "  Vision  of 
Judgment,"  in  prose  as  well  as  verse,  full  of  impious 
impudence.  What  Mr.  S.'s  sensations  or  ours  may  be 
in  the  awful  moment  of  leaving  this  state  of  existence, 
neither  he  nor  we  can  pretend  to  decide.  In  common, 
I  presume,  with  most  men  of  any  reflection,  /  have  not 
waited  for  a  "death-bed"  to  repent  of  many  of  my 
actions,  notwithstanding  the  "  diabolical  pride"  which 
this  pitiful  renegado  in  his  rancour  would  impute  to 
those  who  scorn  him.  Whether,  upon  the  whole,  th» 
good  or  evil  of  my  deeds  may  preponderate,  is  not  foi 
me  to  ascertain ;  but,  as  my  means  and  opportunities 
have  been  greater,  I  shall  limit  my  present  defence  to  an 
assertion  (easily  proved,  if  necessary )  that  I,  "  in  my  de 
gree,"  have  done  more  real  good  in  any  one  given  year, 
since  I  was  twenty,  than  Mr.  Southey  in  the  whole 
course  of  his  shifting  and  turncoat  existence.  There  are 
several  actions  to  which  I  car.  look  back  with  an  hones! 
pride,  not  to  be  damped  by  the  calumnies  of  a  hireling. 
There  are  others  to  which  I  recur  with  sorrow  and  re- 
pentance ;  but  the  only  act  of  my  life  of  which  Mr. 
Southey  can  have  any  real  knowledge,  as  it  was  one 
which  brought  me  in  contact  with  a  near  connexion  ot 
his  own,  did  no  dishonour  to  that  connexion  nor  to  me. 

I  am  not  ignorant  of  Mr.  Southey's  calumnies  on  a  dif- 
ferent occasion,  knowing  them  to  be  such,  which  he 
scattered  abroad,  on  his  return  from  Switzerland,  against 
me  and  others :  they  have  done  him  no  good  in  this 
world  ;  and,  if  his  creed  be  the  right  one,  they  will  do 
him  less  in  the  next.  What  his  "  death-bed  "  may  be, 
it  is  not  my  province  to  predicate :  let  him  settle  it  with 
his  Maker,  as  I  must  do  with  mine.  There  is  something 
at  once  ludicrous  and  blasphemous  in  this  arrogant  scrib- 
bler of  all  works  sitting  down  to  deal  damnation  and  de- 
struction upon  his  fellow-creatures,  with  Wat  Tyler,  th« 
Apotheosis  of  George  the  Third,  and  the  Elegy  on  Mar- 
tin the  regicide,  all  shuffled  together  in  his  writing-desk. 
One  of  his  consolations  appears  to  be  a  Latin  note  from 
a  work  of  a  Mr.  Landor,  the  author  of  "  Gcbir,"  whose 
friendship  for  Robert  Southey  will,  it  seems,  "  be  an 
honour  to  him  when  the  ephemeral  disputes  and  ephe- 
meral reputations  of  the  day  are  forgotten."  I  for  one 
neither  enw  him  "the  friendship,"  nor  the  glory  in 
reversion  which  is  to  accrue  from  it,  like  Mr.  Thelus- 
son's  fortune  in  the  third  and  fourth  generation. — 
This  friendship  will  probably  be  as  memorable  as  his 
own  epics,  which  (as  I  quoted  to  him  ten  or  twelve  years 
ago  in  English  Bards)  Person  said  "would  be  remem- 
bered when  Homer  and  Virgil  are  forgotten,  and  not  ti. 
then."  For  the  present,  I  leave  him. 


(     361     ) 

Cain; 

A  MYSTERY. 

Vow  the  serpent  was  more  subtil  than  any  beast  of  the  field  which  the  Lord  God  bad  m&de.—Ge*.  ui.  1 


TO  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART. 
THIS  "MYSTERY  or  CAIN"  is  INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS  OBLIGED  FRIEND,  AND  FAITHFUL  SERVANT, 

THE  AUTHOf.. 


PREFACE. 

THE  following  scenes  are  intitled  "a Mystery,"  in  con- 
formity with  the  ancient  title  annexed  to  dramas  upon 
similar  subjects,  which  were  styled  "Mysteries,"  or 
"Moralities."  The  author  has  by  no  means  taken  the 
same  liberties  with  his  subject  which  were  common  for- 
merly, as. may  be  seen  by  any  reader  curious  enough  to 
refer  to  those  very  profane  productions,  whether  in 
English,  French,  Italian,  or  Spanish.  The  author  has 
endeavoured  to  preserve  the  language  adapted  to  his 
characters ;  and  where  it  is  (and  this  is  but  rarely)  taken 
from  actual  Scripture,  he  has  made  as  little  alteration, 
even  of  words,  as  the  rhythm  would  permit.  The 
reader  will  recollect  that  the  book  of  Genesis  does  not 
itate  that  Eve  was  tempted  by  a  demon,  but  by  "  the 
Serpent;"  and  that  only  because  he  was  "the  most 
lubtil  of  all  the  beasts  of  the  field."  Whatever  interpre- 
lation  the  Rabbins  and  the  Fathers  may  have  put  upon 
ihis,  I  must  take  the  words  as  I  find  them,  and  reply 
with  Bishop  Watson  upon  similar  occasions,  when  the 
Fathers  were  quoted  to  him,  as  Moderator  in  the  Schools 
of  Cambridge,  "Behold  the  Book!" — holding  up  the 
Scripture.  It  is  to  be  recollected  that  my  present  sub- 
ject has  nothing  to  do  with  the  New  Testament,  to 
which  no  reference  can  be  here  made  without  ana- 
chronism. With  the  poems  upon  similar  .topics  I  have 
not  been  recently  familiar.  Since  I  was  twenty,  I  have 
never  read  Milton ;  but  I  had  read  him  so  frequently 
before,  that  this  may  make  little  difference.  Gesner's 
"Death  of  Abel"  I  have  never  read  since  I  was  eight 
years  of  age,  at  Aberdeen.  The  general  impression  of 
my  recollection  is  delight;  but  of  the  contents,  I  remem- 
ber only  that  Cain's  wife  was  called  Mahala,  and  Abel's 
Thirza. — In  the  following  pages  I  have  called  them 
"  Adah"  and  "  Zillah,"  the  earliest  female  names  which 
occur  in  Genesis ;  they  were  those  of  Lamech's  wives : 
those  of  Cain  and  Abel  are  not  called  by  their  names. 
Whether,  then,  a  coincidence  of  subject  may  have 
caused  the  same  in  expression,  I  know  nothing,  and 
ca;c  as  little. 

The  reader  will  please  to  bear  in  mind  (what  few 
choose  to  recollect)  that  there  is  no  allusion  to  a  future 
state  in  any  of  the  books  of  Moses,  nor  indeed  in  the 
2  I  2  51 


Old  Testament.  For  a  reason  for  this  ex  raordinarr 
omission,  he  may  consult  "Warburton's  Divine  Lega- 
tion ;"  whether  satisfactory  or  not,  no  better  has  yel 
been  assigned.  I  have  therefore  supposed  it  new  to 
Cain,  without,  I  hope,  any  perversion  of  Holy  Writ. 

With  regard  to  the  language  of  Lucifer,  it  was  diffi- 
cult for  me  to  make  him  talk  like  a  clergyman  upon  the 
same  subjects ;  but  I  have  done  what  I  could  to  restrain 
him  within  the  bounds  of  spiritual  politeness. 

If  he  disclaims  having  tempted  Eve  in  the  shape  of 
the  Serpent,  it  is  only  because  the  book  of  Genesis  has 
not  the  most  distant  allusion  to  any  thing  of  the  kind, 
but  merely  to  the  Serpent  in  his  serpentine  capacity. 

Note. — The  reader  will  perceive  that  the  author  has 
partly  adopted  in  this  poem  the  notion  of  Cuvier,  that 
the  world  had  been  destroyed  several  times  before  the 
creation  of  man.  This  speculation,  derivod  from  the 
different  strata  and  the  bones  of  enormous  and  un- 
known animals  found  in  them,  is  not  contrary  to  the 
Mosaic  account,  but  rather  confirms  it ;  as  no  human 
bones  have  yet  been  discovered  in  those  strata,  al- 
though those  of  many  known  animals  are  found  near 
the  remains  of  the  unknown.  The  assertion  of  Lucifer, 
that  the  Pre- Adamite  world  was  also  peopled  by  rational 
beings  much  more  intelligent  than  man,  and  propor- 
tionably  powerful  to  the  mammoth,  etc.,  etc.,  is,  of 
course,  a  poetical  fiction,  to  help  him  to  make  out  Kii 
case. 

I  ought  to  add,  that  there  is  a  "  Tramelogcdix''  «J 
Alfieri,  called  "  Abel." — I  have  never  read  that  nor  any 
other  of  the  posthumous  works  of  the  writer,  cxcqH 
his  life. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN. 
ADAH. 
CAIN. 

•ABEL. 


WOMKIN. 
ETE. 
ADAH. 
ZILLAH. 


SPIRITS. 

AKGEL  or  THE  LORD. 
LccirEK. 


3G2 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CAIN. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Land  without  Paradise. — Time,  Sunrise. 

ADAM,  EVE,  CAIN,  ABEJ  ,  ADAH,  ZILLAH,  offering 

a  Sacrifice. 

ADAM. 

GOD,  the  Eternal!  Infinite!  All-Wise!— 
Who  out  of  darkness  on  the  deep  didst  make 
Light  on  the  waters  with  a  word — all  hail ! 
Jehovah,  with  returning  light,  all  hail ! 

EVE. 

God !  who  didst  name  the  day,  and  separate 
Morning  from  night,  till  then  divided  never — 
Who  didst  divide  the  wave  from  wave,  and  call 
Part  of  thy  work  the  firmament — all  hail ! 

ABEL. 

God !  who  didst  call  the  elements  into 
Earth— ocean — air — and  fire,  and  with  the  day 
And  night,  and  worlds  which  these  illuminate 
Or  shadow,  madest  beings  to  enjoy  them, 
And  love  both  them  and  thee — all  hail !  all  hail ! 

ADAH. 

God,  the  Eternal !  Parent  of  all  things ! 

Who  didst  create  these  best  and  beauteous  beings, 

To  be  beloved,  more  than  all,  save  thee — 

Let  me  love  thee  and  them : — All  hail !  all  hail ! 

ZILLAH. 

Oh,  God !  who  loving,  making,  blessing  all, 
Yet  didst  permit  the  serpent  to  creep  in, 
And  drive  my  father  forth  from  Paradise, 
Keep  us  from  further  evil : — Hail !  all  hail ! 

ADAM. 

Son  Cain,  my  first-born,  wherefore  art  thou  silent? 

CAIN. 
Why  should  I  speak  7 

ADAM. 

To  pray. 

CAIN. 

Have  ye  not  pray'd  ? 
ADAM. 
We  have,  most  fervently. 

CAIN. 

And  loudly :  I 
Have  heard  you. 

ADAM. 

So  will  God,  I  trust. 

ABEL. 

Amen! 

ADAM. 

Hut  thou,  my  eldest-born,  art  silent  still. 

CAIN. 

T  is  belt*-  I  *hould  be  so. 

ADAM. 

Wherefo.iesoT 

CAIN. 

1  na<r  nought  to  ask. 

ADAM. 

Nor  aught  to  thank  for? 

CAIR. 

No. 


Dost  thou  not  live  ? 

CAIN. 

Must  I  not  die? 

EVE. 

Alas! 

The  fruit  of  our  forbidden  tree  begins 
To  faU. 

ADAM. 

And  we  must  gather  it  again. 
Oh,  God !  why  didst  thou  plant  the  tree  of  knowledge 

CAIN. 

And  wherefore  pluck'd  ye  not  the  tree  of  life  ? 
Ye  might  have  then  defied  him. 
ADAM. 

Oh !  my  son, 
Blaspheme  not :  these  are  serpents'  words. 

CAIN. 

Why  notT 

The  snake  spoke  truth  :  it  was  the  tree  of  knowledge  : 
It  was  the  tree  of  life : — knowledge  is  good, 
And  life  is  good ;  and  how  can  both  be  evil  ? 

EVE. 

My  boy !  thou  speakest  as  I  spoke  in  sin, 
Before  thy  birth :  let  me  not  see  renew'd 
My  misery  in  thine.     I  have  repented. 
Let  me  not  see  my  offspring  fall  into 
The  snares  beyond  the  walls  of  Paradise, 
Which  e'en  in  Paradise  destroy'd  his  parents. 
Content  thee  with  what  i».     Had  we  been  so, 
Thou  now  hadst  been  contented. — Oh,  my  son ! 

ADAM. 

Our  orisons  completed,  let  us  hence, 
Each  to  his  task  of  toil — not  heavy,  though 
Needful :  the  earth  is  young,  and  yields  us  kindly 
Her  fruits  with  little  labour. 

EVE. 

Cam,  my  son, 

Behold  thy  father  cheerful  and  resign'd, 
And  do  as  he  doth. 

[Exit  ADAM  and  E*  ft. 

ZILLAH. 

Wilt  thou  not,  my  brother  ? 

ABEL. 

Why  wilt  thou  wear  this  gloom  upon  thy  brow, 
Which  can  avail  thee  nothing,  save  to  rouso 
The  Eternal  anger? 

.  ADAH. 

My  beloved  Cain, 
Wilt  thou  frown  even  on  me  ? 
CAIN. 

No,  Adah !  no ; 

I  fain  would  be  alone  a  little  while. 
Abel,  I  'm  sick  at  heart ;  but  it  will  pass  •. 
Precede  me,  brother — I  will  follow  shortly. 
And  you,  too,  sisters,  tarry  not  behind  ; 
Your  gentleness  must  not  be  harshly  met : 
I  '11  follow  you  anon. 

ADAH. 

If  not,  I  win 
Return  to  seek  you  here. 

ABEL. 

The  peace  of  God 
Be  on  your  spirit,  brother ! 

[Exit  ABEL,  ZILLAH  and  ADAH 


CAIN. 


363 


CAIN   (solus). 

And  this  is 

Life  ! — Toil !  and  wherefore  should  I  toil  ? — because 
My  father  could  not  keep  his  place  in  Eden. 
What  had  /  done  in  this  ? — I  was  unborn, 
I  sought  not  to  be  born  ;  nor  love  the  state 
To  which  that  birth  has  brought  me.  Why  did  he 
Yield  to  the  serpent  and  the  woman  ?  or, 
Yielding,  why  suffer  ?  What  was  there  in  this  ? 
The  tree  was  planted,  and  why  not  for  him  ? 
If  not,  why  place  him  near  it,  where  it  grew, 
The  fairest  in  the  centre  ?  They  have  but 
One  answer  to  all  questions,  "  't  was  Mi  will, 
And  he  is  good."    How  know  I  that  ?  Because 
He  is  all-powerful,  must  all-good,  too,  follow  ? 
I  judge  but  by  the  fruits — and  they  are  bitter — 
Which  I  must  feed  on  for  a  fault  not  mine. 
Whom  have  we  here? — A  shape  like  to  the  angels, 
Yet  of  a  sterner  and  a  sadder  aspect, 
Of  spiritual  essence :  why  do  I  quake  ? 
Why  should  I  fear  him  more  than  other  spirits, 
Whom  I  see  daily  wave  their  fiery  swords 
Before  the  gates  round  which  I  linger  oft, 
In  twilight's  hour,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  those 
Gardens  which  are  my  just  inheritance, 
Ere  the  night  closes  o'er  the  inhibited  walls, 
And  the  immortal  trees  which  overtop 
The  cherubim-defended  battlements  ? 
If  I  shrink  not  from  these,  the  fire-arm'd  angels, 
Why  should  I  quail  from  him  who  now  approaches  7 
Yet  he  seems  mightier  far  than  them,  nor  less 
Beauteous,  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiful 
As  he  hath  been,  and  might  be  :  sorrow  seems 
Half  of  his  immortality.     And  is  it 
So  7  and  can  aught  grieve  save  humanity? 
He  cometh. 

Enter  LUCIFER. 

LUCIFER. 
Mortal! 

CAIN. 

Spirit,  who  art  thou  7 

LUCIFER. 

Master  of  spirits. 

CAIN. 

And  being  so,  canst  thou 
Leave  them,  and  walk  with  dust  7 
LUCIFER. 

I  know  the  thoughts 
Of  dust,  and  feel  for  it,  and  with  you. 

CAIN. 

How! 

You  know  my  thoughts  ? 

LUCIFER. 

They  are  the  thoughts  of  all 
Worthy  of  thought ; — 't  is  your  immortal  part- 
Which  speaks  within  you. 

CAIN. 

What  immortal  part  7 

This  has  not  been  reveal'd :  the  tree  of  life 
Was  withheld  from  us  by  my  father's  folly, 
While  that  of  knowledge,  by  my  mother's  haste, 
Vas  pluck'd  too  soon  ;  and  all  the  fruit  is  death ! 

LUCIFER. 
T"hev  nave  deceived  thee ;  thou  shall  live. 

CAIN. 

I  lire, 

But  ave  to  die  :  and,  living,  see  no  thing 


To  make  dsath  hateful,  save  an  innate  clinging, 
A  loathsome  and  yet  all  invincible 
Instinct  of  life,  which  I  abhor,  as  I 
Despise  myself,  yet  cannot  overcome — 
And  so  I  live.    Would  I  had  never  lived ! 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  livest,  and  must  live  for  ever :  think  noi 
The  earth,  which  is  thine  outward  covering,  is 
Existence — it  will  cease,  and  thou  wilt  be 
No  less  than  thou  art  now. 

CAIN. 

No  less  !  and  why 
No  more? 

LUCIFER. 
It  may  be  thou  shall  be  as  we. 

CAIN. 
And  ye  7 

LUCIFER. 
Are  everlasting. 

CAIN. 

Are  ye  happy  7 
LUCIFER. 
We  are  mighty. 

CAIN. 

Are  ye  happy  7 
LUCIFER. 

No :  art  thou  7 

CAIN. 

How  should  I  be  so  ?  Look  on  me ! 
LUCIFER. 

Poor  clay ! 
And  thou  pretendest  to  be  wretched !  Thou ! 

CAIN. 

I  am : — and  thou,  with  all  thy  might,  what  art  thoti  f 

LUCIFER. 

One  who  aspired  to  be  what  made  thee,  and 
Would  not  have  made  thee  what  thou  art. 

CAIN. 

Ab» 
Thou  look'st  almost  a  god  ;  and — 

LUCIFER. 

I  am  none : 
And  having  fail'd  to  be  one,  would  be  nought 
Save  what  I  am.     He  conquer'd ;  let  him  reign  I 

CAIN. 
Who? 

LUCIFER. 

Thy  sire's  Maker,  and  the  earth's. 
CAIN. 

And  heaven  «. 
And  all  that  in  them  is.    So  I  have  heard 
His  seraphs  sing ;  and  so  my  father  saiih. 

LUCIFER. 

They  say — what  they  must  sing  and  say,  on  paui 
Of  being  that  which  I  am — and  thou  art — 
Of  spirits  and  of  men. 

CAIN. 

And  what  is  that  7 
LUCIFER. 

Souls  *.io  dare  use  their  immortality- 
Souls  who  dare  look  the  Omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  face,  and  tell  him,  that 
His  evil  is  not  good !  If  he  has  made, 
As  he  saith — which  I  know  not,  nor  believe- 
But,  if  he  made  us — he  cannot  unmake , 
We  are  immortal ! — nay,  he  'd  have  us  so. 


364 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


'Fhat  he  may  torture : — let  him !  He  is  great — 

But,  in  iiis  greatness,  is  no  happier  than 

We  in  our  conflict !  Goodness  would  not  make 

Evil ;  and  what  else  hath  he  made  ?  But  let  him 

Sit  on  his  vast  and  solitary  throne, 

Creating  worlds,  to  make  eternity 

Less  burthensome  to  his  immense  existence 

And  unparticipated  solitude ! 

Let  him  crowd  orb  on  orb :  he  is  alone, 

Indefinite,  indissoluble  tyrant ! 

Could  he  but  crush  himself,  't  were  the  best  boon 

He  ever  granted :  but  let  him  reign  on, 

And  multiply  himself  in  misery  ! 

Spirits  and  men,  at  least  we  sympathize  ; 

And,  suffering  in  concert,  make  our  pangs, 

.innumerable,  more  endurable, 

By  the  unbounded  sympathy  of  all — 

With  all !  But  He  !  so  wretched  in  his  height, 

So  restless  in  his  wretchedness,  must  still 

Create,  and  re-create 

CAIN. 

Thou  speak'st  to  me  of  things  which  long  have  swum 
In  visions  through  my  thought :  I  never  could 
Reconcile  what  I  saw  with  what  I  heard. 
My  father  and  my  mother  talk  to  me 
Of  serpents,  and  of  fruits  and  trees :  I  see 
The  gates  of  what  they  call  their  Paradise 
Guarded  by  fiery-sworded  cherubim, 
Which  shut  them  out,  and  me  :  I  feel  the  weight 
Of  daily  toil,  and  constant  thought:  I  look 
Around  a  world  where  I  seem  nothing,  with 
Thoughts  which  arise  within  me,  as  if  they 
Could  master  all  things: — but  I  thought  alone 
This  misery  was  mine. — My  father  is 
Tamed  down ;  my  mother  has  forgot  the  mind 
Which  made  her  thirst  for  knowledge  at  the  risk 
Of  an  eternal  curse  ;  my  brother  is 
A  watching  shepherd  boy,  who  offers  up 
The  firstlings  of  the  flock  to  him  who  bids 
The  earth  yield  nothing  to  us  without  sweat ; 
My  sister  Zillah  sings  an  earlier  hymn 
Than  the  bird's  matins  ;  and  my  Adah,  my 
Own  and  beloved,  she  too  understands  not 
Tho  mind  which  overwhelms  me  :  never  till 
Now  met  I  -aught  to  sympathize  with  me. 
T  is  well — I  rather  would  consort  with  spirits. 

LUCIFER. 

And  hadst  thou  not  been  fit  by  thine  own  soul 
For  such  companionship,  I  would  not  now 
Hare  stood  before  thee  as  I  am  :  a  serpent 
Had  been  enough  to  charm  ye,  as  before. 

CAIN. 
Ah !  didst  tkou  tempt  my  mother  ? 

LUCIFER. 

I  tempt  none, 

Save  with  the  truth :  was  not  the  tree,  the  tree 
Of  knowledge  ?  and  was  not  the  tree  of  life 
Still  fruitful  ?  Did  /  bid  her  pluck  them  not  ? 
I  )m  1  plant  things  prohibited  within 
The  reach  of  beings  innocent,  and  curious 
By  «heir  own  innocence?  I  would  have  mav'e  ye 
Gods  ;  and  even  He  who  thrust  ye  forth  so  thrust  ye 
Because  "  VP  should  not  eat  the  fruits  of  life, 
A.nd  become  gods  as  we."    Were  those  his  words  ? 

CAIN. 

Hic   were,  as  I  have  heard  from  those  who  heard  them 


In  thunder. 

LUCIFER. 

Then  who  was  the  demon  ?  He 
Who  would  not  let  ye  live,  or  he  who  would 
Have  made  ye  live  for  ever  in  the  joy 
And  power  of  knowledge  ? 

CAIN. 

Would  they  had  snatch'd  both 
The  fruits,  or  neither ! 

LUCIFER. 

One  is  yours  already, 
The  other  may  be  still. 

CAIN. 
How  so , 

LUCIFER. 

By  being 

Yourselves,  in  your  resistance.    Nothing  can 
Quench  the  mind,  if  the  mind  will  be  itself 
And  centre  of  surrounding  things — 't  is  made 
To  sway. 

CAIN. 

But  didst  thou  tempt  my  parents  ? 
LUCIFER. 

Poor  clay !  what  should  I  tempt  them  fo»,  or  howt 

CAIN. 

They  say  the  serpent  was  a  spirit. 
LUCIFER. 

Who 

Saith  that  ?  It  is  not  written  so  on  high : 
The  proud  One  will  not  so  far  falsify, 
Though  man's  vast  fears  and  little  vanity 
Would  make  him  cast  upon  the  spiritual  nature 
His  own  low  failing.     The  snake  was  the  snake — 
No  more  ;  and  yet  not  less  than  those  he  tempted, 
In  nature  being  earth  also— more  in  wisdom, 
Since  he  could  overcome  them,  and  foreknew 
The  knowledge  fatal  to  their  narrow  joys. 
Think'st  thou  I  'd  take  the  shape  of  things  that  die  i 

CAIN. 
But  the  thing  had  a  demon  ? 

LUCIFER. 

He  but  woke  one 

In  those  he  spake  to  with  his  forky  tongue. 
I  tell  thee  that  the  serpent  was  no  more 
Than  a  mere  serpent :  ask  the  cherubim 
Who  guard  the  tempting  tree.  When  thousand  agei 
Have  roll'd  o'er  your  dead  ashes  and  your  seed's, 
The  seed  of  the  then  world  may  thus  array 
Their  earliest  fault  in  fable,  and  attribute 
To  me  a  shape  I  scorn,  as  I  scorn  all 
That  bows  to  him  who  made  things  but  to  bend 
Before  Kis  sullen  sole  eternity  ; 
But  we,  who  see  the  truth,  must  speak  it.     Thy 
Fond  parents  listcn'd  to  a  creeping  thing, 
And  fell.    For  what  should  spirits  tempt  them  1  Whni 
Was  there  to  envy  in  the  narrow  bounds 
Of  Paradise,  that  spirits  who  pervade 

Space but  I  speak  to  thee  of  what  thou  know'st  not 

With  all  thy  tree  of  knowledge. 

CAIN. 

But  thou  can<  not 

Speak  aught  of  knowledge  which  1  would  not  know. 
And  do  not  thirst  to  know,  and  bear  a  mind 
To  know. 


CAIN 


3G5 


And  heart  to  look  on  ? 

CAIN. 

Be  it  proved. 

LUCIFER. 

Dar'st  thou  to  look  on  Death? 


CAIN. 


Been  seen. 


He  has  not  yet 


LUCIFER. 

But  must  be  undergone. 
CAIN. 

My  father 

Says  he  is  something  dreadful,  and  my  mother 
Weeps  when  he 's  named ;  and  Abel  lifts  his  eyes 
To  heaven,  and  Zillah  casts  hers  to  the  earth, 
And  sighs  a  prayer ;  and  Adah  looks  on  me, 
And  speaks  not. 

LUCIFER. 
And  thou  ? 

CAIN. 

Thoughts  unspeakable 
Crowd  in  my  breast  to  burning,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  almighty  Death,  who  is,  it  seems, 
Inevitable.     Could  I  wrestle  with  him? 
I  wrestled  with  a  lion,  when  a  boy, 
In  play,  till  he  Van  roaring  from  my  gripe. 

LUCIFER. 

It  has  no  shape,  but  will  absorb  all  things 
That  bear  the  form  of  earth-born  being. 

CAIN. 

Ah! 

I  thought  it  was  a  being :  who  could  do 
Such  evil  things  to  beings  save  a  being  ? 

LUCIFER. 
Ask  the  Destroyer. 

CAIN. 

Who? 

LUCIFER. 

The  Maker— call  him 
Which  name  tnou  wilt ;  he  makes  but  to  destroy. 

CAIN. 

I  knew  not  that,  yet  thought  it,  since  I  heard 
Of  death :  although  I  know  not  what  it  is, 
Yet  it  seems  horrible.    I  have  look'd  out 
In  the  vast  desolate  night  in  search  of  him  ; 
And,  when  I  saw  gigantic  shadows  in 
The  umbrage  of  the  walls  of  Eden,  chequer'd 
By  the  far-flashing  of  the  cherubs'  swords, 
I  watch'd  for  what  I  thought  his  coming ;  for 
With  fear  rose  longing  in  my  heart  to  know 
What 't  was  which  shook  us  all — but  nothing  came. 
And  then  I  tum'd  my  weary  eyes  from  oflT 
Our  native  and  forbidden  Paradise, 
Up  to  the  lights  above  us,  in  the  azure, 
Which  are  so  beautiful :  shall  they,  too,  die  ? 

LUCIFER. 
Perhaps — but  long  outlive  both  thine  and  thee. 

CAIN. 

I  'm  glad  of  that ;  I  would  not  have  them  die, 
They  are  so  lovely.    What  is  death?    I  fear, 

feel,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing ;  but  what, 
I  cannot  compass :  't  is  denounced  against  us, 
Both  them  who  sjnn'd  and  sinn'd  not,  as  an  ill— 
tVluuill? 


But  shall  I  know  it 


LUCIFEK. 

^  resolved  into  the  earth. 

CAIN. 


As  *  **ow  not  death, 
I  cannot  answer. 

CAIN. 

Were  I  quiet  ear&. 

That  were  no  evil  :  would  I  ne'er  had  u»cn 
Aught  else  but  dust  ! 

LUCIFER. 

That  is  a  grov'ling  wish, 
Less  than  thy  father's,  for  he  wish'd  to  know. 

CAIN. 

But  not  to  live,  or  wherefore  pluck'd  he  not 
The  life-tree  ? 

LUCIFER. 
He  was  hinder'd. 

CAIN. 

Deadly  error 

Not  to  snatch  first  that  fruit  :  but  ere  he  pluck'a 
The  knowledge,  he  was  ignorant  of  death. 
Alas  !  I  scarcely  now  know  what  it  is, 
And  yet  I  fear  it  —  fear  I  know  not  what  ! 

LUCIFER. 

And  I,  who  know  all  things,  fear  nothing  :  see 
What  is  true  knowledge. 

CAIN. 
Wilt  thou  teach  me  all? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay,  upon  one  condition. 

CAIN. 

Name  it. 

LUCIFER. 

That 
Thou  dost  fall  down  and  worship  me  —  thy  Lord, 

CAIN. 

Thou  art  not  the  Lord  my  father  worships. 
LUCIFER. 

No. 

CUN. 

His  equal  ? 

LUCIFER. 

No  ;  —  I  have  nought  in  common  with  hint 
Nor  would  :  I  would  be  aught  above  —  beneath—- 
Aught save  a  sharer  or  a  servant  of 
His  power.    I  dwell  apart  ;  but  I  am  great  :  — 
Many  there  are  who  worship  me,  and  more 
Who  shall  —  be  thou  amongst  the  first. 
CAIN. 

1  never 

As  yet  have  bow'd  unto  my  father's  God, 
Although  my  brother  Abel  oft  implores 
That  I  would  join  with  him  in  sacrifice  :- 
Why  should  I  bow  to  thee  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Hast  thou  ne'er  bow  a 
To  him? 

CAIN. 

Have  I  not  said  it?  —  need  I  say  .t? 
Could  not  thy  mighty  knowledge  teach  thee  thai  T 

LUCIFER. 

He  who  bows  not  to  him  has  bow'd  to  mo  ' 

CAIN. 

But  I  wiU  bend  to  D«ither 


3GG 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


UCIFER. 

Ne'erthele"»  . 

Thou  art  ray  worshipper:  not  wp-*mPPmS 
Him  n.'ikes  thee  mine  the  sair" 


And  what  is  that? 


Thou  'It  know  her-—  and  hereafter. 

CAIN. 

Ba  taugt'  the  mystery  of  my  being. 

LUCIFER. 


Let  me  but 


Where  I  will  lead  thee. 


Follow 


CAIN. 


But  I  must  retire 

To  till  the  earth  —  for  I  had  promised  - 
LUCIFER. 

What? 

CAIN. 

To  cull  some  first  fruits. 

LUCIFER. 

Why? 

CAIN. 

To  offer  up 
With  Abel  on  an  altar. 

LUCIFER. 

Saidst  tnou  not 

Thou  ne'er  hadst  bent  to  him  that  made  thee  ? 
CAIN. 

Ye 

But  Abel's  earnest  prayer  has  wrought  upon  me  ; 
The  ottering  is  more  his  than  mine  —  and  Adah^— 

LUCIFER. 
Why  dost  Ihou  hesitate? 

CAIN. 

She  is  my  sister, 

Bum  on  the  same  day,  of  the  same  womb  ;  and 
She  wrung  from  me,  with  tears,  this  promise,  and 
Ruther  than  see  her  weep,  I  would,  methinks, 
Hear  all  —  and  worship  aught. 

LUCIFER. 

Then  follow  me  ! 

CAIN. 

i  win. 

Enter  ADAH. 
ADAH. 

My  brother,  I  have  come  for  thee  ; 
It  is  our  hour  of  rest  and  joy  —  and  we 
Have  less  without  thee.    Thou  hast  labour'  d  not 
This  mom  ;  but  I  have  done  thy  task  :  the  fruits 
Are  ripe,  and  glowing  as  the  light  which  ripens  : 
Come  away. 

CAIIf. 

Sce'st  thou  not  ? 

ADAH. 

I  see  an  angel  ; 

Wo  have  seen  many:  WLI  he  share  our  hour 
Of  rest  ?—  ae  is  welcome. 

CAIN. 

But  he  is  not  like 
Tli»  angels  we  have  seen. 

ADAH. 

Are  there,  then,  others  ? 
Hoi  lie  is  welcome,  as  they  were  :  they  deign'd 


To  be  our  guests — will  he  ? 

CAIN  (to  Lucifer), 

Wilt  thou  ? 

LUCIFER. 


Thee  to  be  mine. 


I  ask 


CAIN. 

I  must  away  with  him. 

JDAH. 


And  leave  us  7 


CAIN. 


Ay. 


ADAH. 

And  m«? 

CAIN. 

Beloved  Adah! 

ADAH. 

Let  me  go  with  thee. 

LUCIFER. 

No,  she  must  not. 

ADAH. 

Who 
Art  thou  that  steppest  between  heart  and  heart ' 

CAIN. 

He  is  a  god. 

ADAH. 

How  know'st  thou  ? 

CAIN. 

He  speaks  kk« 
A  god. 

ADAH. 

So  did  the  serpent,  and  it  lied. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  errest,  Adah ! — was  not  the  tree  that 
Of  knowledge? 

ADAH. 

Ay — to  our  eternal  sorrow. 

LUCIFER. 

And  yet  that  grief  is  knowledge — so  he  lied  not : 
And  if  he  did  betray  you,  'twas  with  truth ; 
And  truth  in  its  own  essence  cannot  be 
But  good. 

ADAH. 

But  all  we  know  of  it  has  gather'd 
Evil  on  evil :  expulsion  from  our  home, 
And  dread,  and  toil,  and  sweat,  and  heaviness ; 
Remorse  of  that  which  was,  and  hope  of  that 
Which  cometh  not.  Cain !  walk  not  with  this  spirit 
Bear  with  what  we  have  borne,  and  love  me — I 
Love  thee. 

LUCIFER. 
More  than  thy  mother  and  thy  sire? 

ADAH. 

I  do.    Is  that  a  sin,  too  ? 

LUCIFER. 

No,  not  yet ; 
It  one  day  will  be  in  your  children. 

ADAH. 

What! 
Must  not  my  daughter  love  her  brother  Enoch  ? 

LUCIFER. 
Not  as  thou  lovest  Cain ! 

ADAH. 

Oh,  my  Goo. ! 

Shall  they  not  love,  and  bring  forth  things  that  lovfl 
Out  of  their  love?  have  they  not  drawn  their  milk 


CAIN. 


36' 


Out  of  this  bosom  ?  was  not  he,  their  father, 
Born  ot  the  same  sole  womb,  in  the  same  hour 
With  me  ?  did  we  not  love  each  other,  and, 
In  multiplying  our  being,  multiply 
Things  which  will  love  each  other  as  we  love 
Them? — And,  as  I  love  thee,  my  Cain  !  go  not 
Forth  with  this  spirit ;  he  is  not  of  ours. 

LUCIFER. 

The  sin  I  speak  of  is  not  of  my  making, 
And  cannot  be  a  sin  in  you — whate'er 
It  seem  in  those  who  will  replace  ye  in 
Mortality. 

ADAM. 

What  is  the  sin  which  is  not 
Sin  in  itself  7  Can  circumstance  make  sin 
Or  virtue  ? — if  it  doth,  we  are  the  slaves 
Of 

LUCIFER. 

Higher  things  than  ye  are  slaves :  and  higher 
Than  them  or  ye  would  be  so,  did  they  not 
Prefer  an  independency  of  torture 
To  the  smooth  agonies  of  adulation 
In  hymns  and  harpings,  and  self-seeking  prayers 
To  that  which  is  omnipotent,  because 
It  is  omnipotent,  and  not  from  love, 
But  terror  and  self-hope. 

ADAH. 

•     Omnipotence 
Must  be  all  goodness. 

LUCIFER. 
Was  it  sob  Eden? 

ADAH. 

Fiend !  tempt  me  not  with  beauty  ;  thou  art  fairer 
Than  was  the  serpent,  and  as  false. 
LUCIFER. 

As  true. 

Ask  Eve,  your  mother ;  bears  she  not  the  knowledge 
Of  good  and  evil  ? 

ADAH. 

Oh,  my  mother !  thou 

Hast  pluck'd  a  fruit  more  fatal  to  thine  offspring 
Than  to  thyself;  thou  at  the  least  hast  past 
Thy  youth  in  Paradise,  in  innocent 
And  happy  intercourse  with  happy  spirits ; 
But  we,  thy  children,  ignorant  of  Eden, 
Are  girt  about  by  demons,  who  assume 
The  words  of  God,  and  tempt  us  with  our  own 
Dissatisfied  and  curious  thoughts — as  thou 
Wert  work'd  on  by  the  snake,  in  thy  most  flush' J 
And  heedless,  harmless  wantonness  of  bliss. 
I  cannot  answer  this  immortal  thing 
Which  stands  before  me :  I  cannot  abhor  him ; 
I  look  upon  him  with  a  pleasing  fear, 
And  yet  I  fly  not  from  him  :  in  his  eye 
There  is  a  fastening  attraction,  which 
Fixes  my  fluttering  eyes  on  his ;  my  heart 
Beats  quick ;  he  awes  me,  and  yet  draws  me  near, 
Nearer  and  nearer :  Cain — Cain — save  me  from  him! 

CAIN. 
What  dreads  my  Adah  ?    This  is  no  ill  spirit. 

ADAH. 

He  is  not  God — nor  God's :  I  have  beheld 
The  cherubs  and  the  seraphs :  he  looks  not 
Like  them. 

CAIN. 

But  there  are  spirits  loftier  still — 
fhe  archangels. 


LUCIFER. 
And  still  loftier  than  the  archangel* 

ADAH 

Ay — but  not  blessed. 

LUCIFER. 

If  the  blessedness 
Consists  hi  slavery — no. 

ADAR. 

I  have  heard  it  said, 

The  seraphs  love  most— cherubim  know  most — 
And  this  should  be  a  cherub — since  he  loves  not. 

LUCIFER. 

And  if  the  higher  knowledge  quenches  love, 
What  must  he  be  you  cannot  love  when  known  ? 
Since  the  all-knowing  cherubim  love  least, 
The  seraphs'  love  can  be  but  ignorance : 
That  they  are  not  compatible,  the  doom 
Of  thy  fond  parents,  for  their  daring,  proves. 
Choose  betwixt  love  and  knowledge — since  there  u 
No  other  choice :  your  sire  hath  chosen  already : 
His  worship  is  but  fear. 

ADAH. 
Oh,  Cain !  choose  love. 

CAIIf. 

For  thee,  my  Adah,  I  choose  not — it  was 
Born  with  me — but  I  love  nought  else. 

ADAH. 

Our  parepts  / 

CAIN. 

Did  they  love  us  when  they  snatch'd  from  the  tree 
That  which  hath  driven  us  all  from  Paradise  ? 

ADAH. 

We  were  not  bom  then — and  if  we  had  been, 
Should  we  not  love  them  and  our  children,  Cain? 

CAIN. 

My  little  Enoch !  and  his  lisping  sister  ! 
Could  I  but  deem  them  happy,  I  would  half 

Forget but  it  can  never  be  forgotten 

Through  thrice  a  thousand  generations !  nevei 

Shall  men  love  the  remembrance  of  the  man 

Who  sow'd  the  seed  of  evil  and  mankind 

In  the  same  hour !  They  pluck'd  the  tree  of  scienc* 

And  sin — and,  not  content  with  their  own  sorrow, 

Begot  me — thee — and  all  the  few  that  are, 

And  all  the  unnumber'd  and  innumerable 

Multitudes,  millions,  myriads,  which  may  be, 

To  inherit  agonies  accumulated 

By  ages ! — And  /  must  be  sire  of  such  things  ! 

Thy  beauty  and  thy  love — my  love  and  joy, 

The  rapturous  moment  and  the  placid  hour, 

All  we  love  in  our  children  and  each  other, 

But  lead  them  and  ourselves  through  many  years 

Of  sin  and  pain— or  few,  but  still  of  sorrow, 

Intercheck'd  with  an  instant  of  brief  pleasure, 

To  Death — the  unknown !   Methinks  the  tree  of  know 

ledge 

Hath  not  fulfill'd  its  promise : — if  they  sinn'd, 
At  least  they  ought  to  have  known  all  things  thai  a»« 
Of  knowledge — and  the  mystery  of  death. 
What  do  they  know  ? — that  they  are  miserable. 
What  need  of  snakes  and  fruits  to  teach  us  that ' 

ADAH. 

I  am  not  wretched,  Cain,  and  if  thou 
Wert  happy 

CAIN. 

Be  thou  happy  then  alone 


568 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


I  will  hart  nought  to  do  witb  happiness, 
Which  bumbles  me  and  mine. 

ADAH. 

Alone  I  could  not, 

Nor  would  be  happy :  but  with  those  around  us, 
I  think  I  could  be  so,  despite  of  death, 
Which,  as  I  know  it  not,  I  dread  not,  though 
It  seems  an  awful  shadow — if  I  may 
Judge  from  what  I  have  heard. 

LUCIFER. 

And  thou  could*  not 
Alone,  thou  say'st,  be  happy  ? 

ADAH. 

Alone!  Oh,  my  God! 
Who  could  be  happy  and  alone,  or  good  ? 
To  me  my  solitude  seems  sin  ;  unless 
When  I  think  how  soon  I  shall  see  my  brother, 
His  brother,  and  our  children,  and  our  parents. 

LUCIFER. 

Yet  thy  God  is  alone ;  and  is  he  happy, 
Lonely  and  good  ? 

ADAH. 

He  is  not  so ;  he  hath 

The  angels  and  the  mortals  to  make  happy, 
And  thus  becomes  so  in  diffiising  joy  : 
What  else  can  joy  be  but  the  spreading  joy  7 

LUCIFER. 

Ask  of  your  sire,  the  exile  fresh  from  Eden ; 
Or  of  his  first-born  son ;  ask  your  own  heart ; 

It  is  not  tranquil. 

ADAH. 

Alas !  no ;  and  you — 
Are  you  of  heaven  ? 

LUCIFER. 
If  I  am  not,  inquire 

The  cause  of  this  all-spreading  happiness 
(Which  you  proclaim)  of  the  all- great  and  good 
Maker  of  life  and  living  things ;  it  is 
His  secret,  and  he  keeps  it.    We  must  bear, 
And  some  of  us  resist,  and  both  in  rain, 
His  seraphs  say ;  but  it  is  worth  the  trial, 
Since  better  may  not  be  without :  there  is 
A  wisdom  in  the  spirit,  which  directs 
To  right,  as  in  the  dim  blue  air  the  eye 
Of  you,  young  mortals,  lights  at  once  upon 
The  star  which  watches,  welcoming  the  mom. 

ADAH. 

It  is  a  beautiful  star ;  I  love  it  for 
Iti  beauty. 

LUCIFER. 

And  why  not  adore  ?  i 

ADAH. 

Our  father 
Adores  the  Invisible  only. 

LUCIFE*. 

But  the  symbols 
Of  the  Invisible  are  the  loveliest 
Of  what  is  visible ;  and  yon  bright  star 
I>  l*?*der  of  the  host  of  heaven. 
ADAH. 

Our  father 

Sailh  that  no  has  beheld  the  God  himself 
Wl  •!  made  him  and  our  mother. 

LUCIFER. 

Hast  thou  seen  him  7 


Yes — in  his  works. 


ADAH. 

AUC1FER. 

But  in  his  being  7 

ADAH. 


Save  in  my  father,  who  is  God's  own  image ; 
Or  in  his  angels,  who  are  like  to  thee — 
And  brighter,  yet  less  beautiful  and  powerful 
In  seeming :  as  the  silent  sunny  noon, 
All  light,  they  look  upon  us  ;  but  thou  seem'st 
Like  an  ethereal  night,  where  long  white  clouo* 
Streak  the  deep  purple,  and  unnumber'd  starn 
Spangle  the  wonderful  mysterious  vault 
With  things  that  look  as  if  they  would  be  suns ; 
So  beautiful,  unnumber'd,  and  endearing, 
Not  dazzling,  and  yet  drawing  us  to  them, 
They  fill  my  eyes  with  tears,  and  so  dost  thou. 
Thou  seem'st  unhappy ;  do  not  make  us  so, 
And  I  will  weep  for  thee. 

LUCIFER. 

Alas !  those  tears  ! 
Goulds t  tbou  but  know  what  oceans  will  be  shed— 

ADAH. 

Byrne? 

LUCIFER. 

By  all? 

ADAH.      • 

What  an  7 

LUCIFER. 

The  million  n  :illions— 

The  myriad  myriads — the  all-peopled  ear  Jj — 
The  unpeopled  earth — and  the  o'er-peopled  bell, 
Of  which  thy  bosom  is  the  germ. 
ADAH. 

OhCaki! 
This  spirit  curseth  us. 

CAIN. 

Let  him  say  on ; 

Him  win  I  follow. 

ADAH. 

Whither? 

LUCIFKR. 

To  a  place 

Whence  he  snail  come  back  to  thee  in  an  nour , 
But  in  that  hour  see  things  of  many  days . 

ADAH. 

How  can  that  be  7 

LUCIFER. 

Did  not  your  Maker  make 
Out  of  old  worlds  this  new  one  in  few  day*  7 
And  cannot  I,  who  aided  in  this  work, 
Show  in  an  hour  what  he  hath  made  in  many, 
Or  hath  destroy'd  in  few  ? 

CAIN. 
Lead  on. 

ADAH. 

Will  be 
In  sooth  return  within  an  hour  7 

LUCIFER. 

He  sharf. 

With  us  acts  are  exempt  from  time,  and  we 
Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour, 
Or  stretch  an  hour  into  eternity : 
We  bi-eathe  not  by  a  mortal  measurement — 
But  that 's  a  mystery      Cain,  come  on  with  rm» 


CAIN. 


363 


ADAH. 

Will  he  return? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay,  woman !  he  alone 

Of  mortals  from  that  place  (the  first  and  last 
Who  shall  return,  save  ONE  ) — shall  come  back  to  thee, 
To  make  that  silent  and  expectant  world 
As  populous  as  this :  at  present  there 
Are  few  inhabitants. 

ADAH. 

Where  dwellest  thou? 

LUCIFER. 

Throughout  all  space.  Where  should  I  dwell?  Where  are 
Thy  God  or  Gods — there  am  I ;  all  things  are 
Divided  with  me  ;  life  and  death — and  time — 
Eternity — and  heaven  and  earth — and  that 
Which  is  not  heaven  nor  earth,  but  peopled  with 
Those  who  once  peopled  or  shall  people  both — 
These  are  my  realms !  So  that  I  do  divide 
Hit,  and  possess  a  kingdom  which  is  not 
His,     If  I  were  not  that  which  I  have  said. 
Could  I  stand  here  ?  His  angels  are  within 
Your  vision. 

ADAH. 

So  they  were  when  the  fair  serpent 
Spoke  with  our  mother  first. 

LUCIFER. 

Cain !  thou  hast  heard. 
If  thou  dost  long  for  knowledge,  I  can  satiate 
That  thirst :  nor  ask  thee  to  partake  of  fruits 
Which  shall  deprive  thee  of  a  single  good 
The  conqueror  has  led  thee.    Follow  me. 

CAt.f. 

Spirit,  I  have  said  it.      [Exeunt  LCCIFER  and  C  AIX. 
ADAH  (foUmct,  exdcaming) 

Cain!  my  brother!  Cain! 


ACT  IL 

SCENE   I. 
The  Abyt*  of  Space, 

CAIS. 

I  tread  on  air,  and  sink  not ;  yet  I  fear 
To  rink. 

LVCIFER. 

Have  faith  in  me,  and  thou  shah  be 
Borne  on  the  air,  of  which  I  am  the  prince. 

CAIN. 

Can  I  do  so  without  impiety  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Believe — and  sink  not !  doubt — and  perish !  thus 
Would  run  the  edict  of  the  other  God, 
Who  names  me  demon  to  his  angels ;  they 
Echo  the  sound  to  miserable  things, 
Which,  knowing  nougnt  oeyond  their  shallow  senses, 
Worship  the  word  which  strikes  their  ear,  and  deem 
Evil  or  good  what  is  proclaim'd  to  them 
[n  their  abasement.     I  will  have  none  such : 
Worship  or  worship  not,  thou  shall  behold 
The  worlds  beyond  thy  little  world,  nor  be 
Amerced,  for  doubts  beyond  thy  little  life, 
With  torture  of  my  dooming.     There  will  come 
\n  hour,  when,  toss'd  upon  some  water-drops, 
A.  man  shall  say  to  a  man,  "  Believe  in  me, 
A.nd  walk  lite  waters  ;"  and  the  man  shall  walk 
2K  52 


The  billows  and  be  safe.     /  will  not  say 
Believe  in  me,  as  a  conditional  creed 
To  save  thee ;  but  fly  with  me  o'er  the  gulf 
Of  space  an  equal  flight,  and  I  will  show 
What  thou  dar'st  not  deny,  the  history 
Of  past,  and  present,  and  of  future  worlds. 

CAI5. 

Oh,  god,  or  demon,  or  whate'er  thou  art, 
Is  yon  our  earth  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Dost  thou  not  recognise 
The  dust  which  form'd  your  father  ? 
o*nr, 

Can  it  be? 

Yon  small  blue  circle,  swinging  in  far  ether, 
With  an  inferior  circlet  near  it  still, 
Which  looks  like  that  which  lit  our  earthly  night  I 
Is  this  our  Paradise  ?  Where  are  its  walls, 
And  they  who  guard  them  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Point  me  out  the  rile 
Of  Paradise. 

CAT*. 

How  should  I  ?  As  we  move 
Like  sunbeams  onward,  it  grows  small  and  smallec 
And  as  it  waxes  little,  and  then  less, 
Gathers  a  halo  round  it,  like  the  lighl 
Which  shone  the  roundesi  of  ihe  stars,  when  I 
Beheld  them  from  the  skirts  of  Paradise  : 
Methinks  they  both,  as  we  recede  from  them, 
Appear  to  join  the  innumerable  star* 
Which  are  around  us  ;  and,  as  we  move  on, 
Increase  their  myriads. 

LUCIFER. 

And  if  there  should  t* 
Worlds  greater  than  ihine  own,  innabited 
By  greater  things,  and  they  themselves  far  more 
In  number  than  the  dust  of  thy  dull  earth, 
Though  multiplied  to  animated  atoms, 
All  living,  and  all  doom'd  to  death,  and  wretched, 
What  wouldst  thou  think? 

CAIH. 

I  should  be  proud  of  thought 
Which  knew  such  thing*. 

LUCIFER. 

But  if  that  high  thought  w*t« 
Link'd  to  a  servile  mass  of  matter,  and, 
Knowing  such  things,  aspiring  to  such  things, 
And  science  still  beyond  them,  were  chain'd  down 
To  the  most  gross  and  petty  paltry  wants, 
All  foul  and  fulsome,  and  the  very  best 
Of  thine  enjoyments  a  sweet  degradation, 
A  mosl  enervating  and  filthy  cheat, 
To  lure  thee  on  to  the  renewal  of 
Fresh  souls  and  bodies,  all  foredoom' d  to  be 
A*  frail,  and  few  so  happy 

CAIS. 

Spirit!  I 

Know  nought  of  death,  save  as  a  dreadful  thing. 
Of  which  I  have  heard  my  parents  speak,  as  of 
A  hideous  heritage  I  owe  to  them 
No  less  than  life ;  a  heritage  not  happy, 
If  I  may  judge  till  now.     But,  spirit,  if 
It  be  as  thou  hast  said  (and  I  within 
Fee!  the  prophetic  torture  of  its  truth), 
Here  let  me  die :  for  to  give  birth  to  U>OM 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


VVho  can  but  suffer  many  years,  and  die, 
Methiuks,  lit  merely  propagating  death, 
And  multiplying  murder. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  canst  not 

A U.  die — there  is  what  must  survive. 
CAIN. 

The  Other 

Spake  not.  of  this  unto  my  father,  when 
He  shirt  him  forth  from  Paradise,  with  death 
Written  upon  his  forehead.    But  at  least 
Let  what  is  mortal  of  me  perish,  that 
I  may  be  in  the  rest  as  angels  are. 

LUCIFER. 
I  am  angtlic :  wouldst  thou  be  as  I  am? 

CAIN. 

I  know  not  what  thou  art :  I  see  thy  power, 
And  ste  t'nou  show'st  me  things  beyond  my  power, 
Beyond  all  power  of  my  bom  faculties, 
Although  inferior  still  to  my  desires 
And  my  conceptions. 

LUCIFER. 

What  are  they,  which  dwell 
So  humbly  in  their  pride,  as  to  sojourn 
With  worms  in  clay  ? 

CAIN. 

And  what  art  thou,  who  dwellest 
So  haughtily  in  spirit,  and  canst  range 
Nature  and  immortalky,  and  yet 
Seem'st  sorrowful  ? 

LUCIFER. 

I  seem  that  which  I  am ; 
And  therefore  do  I  ask  of  thee,  if  thou 
Wouldst  be  immortal  ? 

CAIN. 

Thou  hast  said,  I  must  be 
Immortal  in  despite  of  me.    I  knew  not 
This  until  lately — but,  since  it  must  be, 
Let  me,  or  happy  or  unhappy,  learn 
To  anticipate  my  immortality. 

LUCIFER. 
fhou  didst  before  I  came  upon  thee. 

CAIN. 

How? 

LUCIFER. 

RT  suffering. 

CAIN. 

And  must  torture  be  immortal  ? 

LUCIFER. 

We  and  thy  sons  will  try.    But  now,  behold ' 
Is  it  not  glorious  ? 

CAIN 

Oh,  thou  beautiful 
And  unimaginable  ether !  and 
Fe  multiplying  masses  of  increased 
And  still-increasing  lights  !  what  are  ye?  what 
Is  this  blue  wilderness  of  interminable 
Air,  where  ye  roll  along,  as  I  have  seen 
The  leaves  along  the  limpid  streams  of  Eden  ? 
Is  your  course  measured  for  ye  !  Or  do  ye 
Sweep  on  m  your  unbounaed  revelry 
Through  an  aerial  universe  of  endless 
Expansion,  at  which  my  soul  aches  to  think, 
Intoxicated  with  eternity? 
Oh  God !  Oh  Gods  !  or  whatsoe'er  ye  are ! 
How  beautiful  ve  we '  how  beautiful 


Your  works,  or  accidents,  or  whatsoe'er 
They  may  be !  Let  me  die,  as  atoms  die 
(If  that  they  die),  or  know  ye  in  your  might 
And  knowledge!  My  thoughts  aie  not  in  this  h*i 
Unworthy  what  I  see,  though  my  dust  is : 
Spirit !  let  me  expire,  or  see  them  nearer. 

LUCIFER 
Art  thou  not  nearer  7  look  back  to  thine  earth ! 

CAIN. 

Where  is  it  ?  I  see  nothing  save  a  mass 
Of  most  innumerable  lights. 

LUCIFEU 

Look  there! 

CAIN. 

I  cannot  see  it. 

LUCIFER.  ' 
Yet  it  sparkles  still. 

CAIN. 

What,  yonder? 

LUCIFER. 

Yea. 

CAIN. 

And  wilt  thou  tell  me  so  ? 
Why,  I  have  seen  the  fire-flies  and  fire-worms 
Sprinkle  the  dusky  groves  and  the  green  banics 
In  the  dim  twilight,  brighter  than  yon  world 
Which  bears  them. 

LUCIFEH. 

Thou  hast  seen  both  worms  and  worlds, 
Each  bright  and  sparkling, — what  dost  think  of  them? 

CAIN. 

That  they  are  beautiful  in  their  own  sphere, 
And  that  the  night,  which  makes  both  beautiful, 
The  little  shining  fire-fly  in  its  flight, 
And  the  immortal  star  in  its  great  course, 
Must  both  be  guided. 

LUCIFER. 

But  by  whom,  or  what? 

CAIN. 
Show  me. 

LUCIFER. 

Dar'st  thou  behold  ? 

CAIN. 

How  know  I  what 

I  dare  behold  ?  as  yet,  thou  hast  shown  nought 
I  dare  not  gaze  on  further. 

LUCIFER. 

On,  then,  with  roe. 
Wouldst  thou  behold  things  mortal  or  immortal  ? 

CAIN. 
Why,  what  are  things? 

,  LUCIFER. 

Both  partly :  but  what  doth 
Sit  next  thy  heart? 

CAIN. 
The  things  I  sec. 

LUCIFER. 

But  what 
Sate  nearest  it  ? 

CAIN. 

The  things  I  have  not  seen, 
Nor  ever  shall — the  mysteries  of  death. 

LUCIFER. 

What  if  I  show  to  thee  things  which  have  died, 
As  I  have  shown  thee  much  wnich  cannot  di*  * 


CAIN. 


371 


CAIN. 

Do  so. 

LUCIFER. 

Away,  then  !  oil  our  mighty  wings, 

CAIN. 

Oh  !  how  we  cleave  the  blue !  The  stars  fade  from  us ! 
The  earth !  where  is  my  earth  ?  let  me  look  on  it, 
For  I  was  made  of  it. 

LUCIFER. 

'T  is  now  beyond  thee, 
Less  in  the  universe  than  thou  in  it : 
Yet  deem  not  that  thou  canst  escape  it ;  thou 
Shalt  soon  return  to  earth,  and  all  its  dust ; 
'T  is  part  of  thy  eternity,  and  mine. 

CAIN. 
Where  dost  thou  lead  me  ? 

LUCIFER. 

To  what  was  before  thee ! 

The  phantasm  of  the  world  ;  of  which  thy  world 
Is  but  the  wreck. 

CAIN. 

What !  is  it  not  then  new  ? 

LUCIFER. 

No  more  than  life  is:  and  that  was  ere  thou 
Or  /  were,  or  the  things  which  seem  to  us 
Greater  than  either :  many  things  will  have 
No  end  ;  and  some,  which  would  pretend  to  have 
Had  no  beginning,  have  had  one  as  mean 
As  thou  ;  and  mightier  things  have  been  extinct 
To  make  way  for  much  meaner  than  we  can 
Surmise  ;  for  mon*ents  only  and  the  ipace 
Have  been  and  must  be  all  unchangeable. 
But  changes  nuke  not  death,  except  to  clay  ; 
But  thou  art  clay — and  canst  but  comprehend 
That  which  was  clay,  and  such  thou  shall  behold. 

CAIN. 

Clay,  spirit!  What  thou  wilt,  I  can  survey. 

LUCIFER. 

Away,  then ! 

CAIN. 

But  the  lights  fade  from  me  fast, 
And  some  till  now  grew  larger  as  we  approach'd, 
And  wore  the  look  of  worlds. 

LUCIFER. 

And  such  they  are. 
CAIN. 

.i*>d  Edens  in  them  7 

LUCIFER. 
It  may  be. 

CAIN. 

And  men  ? 
LUCIFER. 
?3a,  or  things  higher. 

CAIN. 

Ay !  and  serpents  too? 
LUCIFER. 

VTculdst  thou  have  men  without  them  7  must  no  reptile 
Breathe,  save  the  erect  ones  7 

CAIN. 

How  the  lights  recede! 
Where  fly  we  ? 

LUCIFEB. 

To  the  world  of  phantoms,  which 
Are  beings  past,  and  shadows  still  to  come. 

CAIN. 

But  i'  prey's  ua~k.  ind  dark — the  stars  are  gone! 


LUCIFER. 

And  yet  thou  seest. 

CAIN. 

Tis  a  fearful  light1 

No  sun,  no  moon,  no  lights  innumerable. 
The  very  blue  of  the  empurpled  night 
Fades  to  a  dreary  twilight ;  yet  I  see 
Huge  dusky  masses,  but  unlike  the  worlds 
We  were  approaching,  which,  begirt  with  light, 
Seem'd  full  of  life  even  when  their  atmosphere 
Of  light  gave  way,  and  show'd  them  taking  shapes 
Unequal,  of  deep  valleys  and  vast  mountains  ; 
And  some  emitting  sparks,  and  some  displaying 
Enormous  liquid  plains,  and  some  begirt 
With  luminous  belts,  and  floating  moons,  which  tool1 
Like  them  the  features  of  fair  earth : — instead, 
All  here  seems  dark  and  dreadful. 
LUCIFER. 

But  distinct. 
Thou  seekest  to  behold  death,  and  dead  things  7 

CAIN. 

I  seek  it  not ;  but  as  I  know  there  are 
Such,  and  that  my  sire's  sin  makes  him  and  me, 
And  all  that  we  inherit,  liable 
To  such,  I  would  behold  at  once  what  I 
Must  one  day  see  perforce. 

LUCIFER. 

Behold! 

CAIN. 

'Tis  darkness. 

LUCIFER. 

And  so  it  shall  be  ever ;  but  we  will 
Unfold  its  gates ! 

CAIN. 

Enormous  vapours  roll 
Apart— what's  this? 

LUCIFER. 

Enter ! 

CAIN. 

Can  I  return? 
LUCIFER. 

Return !  be  sure :  how  else  should  death  be  peopled  7 
Its  present  realm  is  thin  to  what  it  will  be, 
Through  thee  and  thine. 

CAIN. 

The  clouds  still  open  wide 
And  wider,  and  make  widening  circles  round  us 

LUCIFER. 

Advance ! 

CAIN. 
And  thou ! 

LUCIFER. 

Fear  not — without  me  thou 

Couldst  not  have  gone  beyond  thy  world.    On !  on .' 
[They  disappear  through  the  doua* 


SCENE  H. 

Hades. 
Enter  LUCIFER  and  CAIN. 

CAIN. 

How  silent  and  how  vast  are  these  dim  worlds ' 
For  they  seem  more  than  one,  and  yet  more  peopm 
Than  the  huge  brilliant  luminous  orbs  which  swung 
So  thickly  in  the  upper  air,  that  I 


S72 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Had  decm'd  them  rather  the  bright  populace 

Of  sonic  ail  unimaginable  heaven 

Than  things  to  be  inhabited  themselves, 

But  that  on  drawing  near  them  I  beheld 

Their  swelling  into  palpable  immensity 

Of  matter,  which  seem'd  made  for  life  to  dwell  on, 

Rather  than  life  itself.     But  here,  all  is 

So  shadowy  and  so  full  of  twilight,  that 

it  speaks  of  a  day  past. 

LUCIFER. 

It  is  the  realm 
Of  death.— Wouldst  hare  it  present? 

CAIN. 

Tin  I  know 

That  which  it  really  is,  I  cannot  answer. 
But  if  it  be  as  I  have  heard  my  father 
Deal  out  in  his  long  homilies,  't  is  a  thing— 
Oh  God!  I  dare  not  think  on 'i !  Cursed  be 
He  who  invented  life  that  leads  to  death ! 
Or  the  dull  mass  of  life,  that  being  life 
Could  not  retain,  but  needs  must  forfeit  it- 
Even  for  the  innocent ! 

LUCIFER. 
Dost  thou  curse  thy  father? 

CAIN. 

Cursed  he  not  me  in  giving  me  my  birth? 
Cursed  he  not  me  before  my  birth,  in  daring 
To  pluck  the  fruit  forbidden? 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  say'st  well : 

The  curse  is  mutual 't  wixt  thy  sire  and  thee— 
But  for  thy  sons  and  brother  ? 

CAIN. 

Let  them  share  it 

With  me,  their  sire  and  brother !  What  else  is 
BequeathM  to  me  ?  I  leave  them  my  inheritance. 
Oh  ye  interminable  gloomy  realms 
Of  swimming  shadows  and  enormous  shapes, 
Some  fully  shown,  some  indistinct,  and  all 
Mighty  and  melancholy — what  are  ye  ? 
Live  ye,  or  have  ye  lived  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Somewhat  of  both. 

CAIN. 

Then  what  is  death? 

LUCIFER. 

What?  Hath  not  He  who  made  ye 

Said 'tis  another  life? 

CAIN. 

Ti'l  now  He  hath 
Said  nothing,  save  that  all  shall  die. 

LUCIFER. 

Perhaps 
He  one  day  will  unfold  that  further  secret. 

CAIN. 

Happy  the  day ! 

LUCIFER. 

Yes,  happy !  when  unfolded 
Through  agonies  unspeakable,  and  clogg'd 
With  agonies  eternal,  to  innumerable 
Vet  unborn  myriads  of  unconscious  atoms, 
All  to  be  animated  for  this  only  ! 

CAIN. 

What  are  these  mighty  phantoms  which  I  see 
Floating  around  me  ? — 'hey  wear  not  the  form 
Of  die  intelligences  I  have  seen 


Round  our  regretted  and  uuenter'd  Eden, 
Nor  wear  the  form  of  man  as  I  have  vicw'd  it 
In  Adam's,  and  in  Abel's,  and  in  mine, 
Nor  in  my  sister-bride's  nor  in  my  children's  ; 
And  yet  they  have  an  aspect,  which,  though  not 
Of  men  nor  angels,  looks  like  something  which, 
If  not  the  last,  rose  higher  than  the  first, 
Haughty,  and  high,  and  beautiful,  and  full 
Of  seeming  strength,  but  of  inexplicable 
Shape ;  for  I  never  saw  such.    They  bear  not 
The  wing  of  seraph,  nor  the  face  of  man, 
Nor  form  of  mightiest  brute,  nor  aught  that  is 
Now  breathing ;  mighty  yet  and  beautiful 
As  the  most  beautiful  and  mighty  which 
Live,  and  yet  so  unlike  them,  that  I  scarce 
Can  call  them  living. 

LUCIFER. 

Yet  they  lived. 

CAIN. 

Where? 

LUCIFER. 

Whu« 
Thou  livest. 

CAIN. 

When? 

LUCIFER. 

On  what  thou  callest  earth 
They  did  inhabit. 

CAIN. 
Adam  is  the  first. 

LUCIFER. 

Of  thine,  I  grant  thee — but  too  mean  to  be 
The  last  of  these. 

CAIN. 

And  what  are  they  ? 
LUCIFER. 

That  which 
Thou  shall  be. 

CAIN. 

But  what  were  they  ? 
LUCIFER. 

Living,  high, 

Intelligent,  good,  great,  and  glorious  things, 
As  much  superior  unto  all  thy  sire, 
Adam,  could  e'er  have  been  in  Eden,  as 
The  sixty-thousandth  generation  shall  be, 
In  its  dull  damp  degeneracy,  to 
Thee  and  thy  son ; — and  how  weak  they  are,  judge 
By  thy  own  flesh. 

CAIN. 
Ah  me !  and  did  they  perish  ? 

LUCIFER. 
Yes,  from  their  earth,  as  thou  wilt  fade  from  thine. 

CAIN. 

But  was  mine  theirs  ? 

LUCIFER. 
It  was. 

CAIN. 

But  not  as  now : 
It  is  too  little  and  too  lowly  to 
Sustain  such  creatures. 

LUCIFER. 

True,  it  was  more  glonou*. 

CAIN. 

And  wherefore  did  it  fall? 


CAIN. 


373 


LUCIFER. 

Ask  Him  who  fells. 

CAIN. 

But  how  ? 

LUCIFER. 

By  a  most  crushing  and  inexorable 
Destruction  and  disorder  of  the  elements, 
Which  struck  a  world  to  chaos,  as  a  cnac» 
Subsiding  has  struck  out  a  world :  such  things, 
Though  rare  in  time,  are  frequent  in  eternity.— 
Pass  on,  and  gaze  upon  the  past. 

CAIN. 

T  is  awfid ! 

LUCIFER. 

And  true.     Behold  these  phantoms !  they  were  once 
Material  as  thou  art. 

CAIN. 

And  must  I  be 
Like  them? 

LUCIFER. 

Let  Him  who  made  thee  answer  that. 
I  show  thee  what  thy  predecessors  are, 
And  what  they  were  thou  feelest,  in  degree 
Inferior  as  thy  petty  feelings,  and 
Thy  pettier  portion  of  the  immortal  part 
Of  high  intelligence  and  earthly  strength. 
What  ye  in  common  have  with  what  they  had 
Is  life,  and  what  ye  shall  have — death  ;  the  rest 
Of  your  poor  attributes  is  such  as  suits 
Reptiles  engender'd  out  of  the  subsiding 
Slime  of  a  mighty  universe,  crush'd  into 
A  scarcely-yet  shaped  planet,  peopled  with 
Things  whose  enjoyment  was  to  be  in  blindness— 
A  Paradise  of  Ignorance,  from  which 
Knowledge  was  barr'd  as  poison.     But  behold 
What  these  superior  beings  are  or  were : 
Or,  if  it  irk  thee,  turn  thee  back  and  till 
The  earth,  thy  task — I  '11  waft  thee  there  in  safety. 

CAIN. 

No:  I '11  stay  here. 

LUCIFER. 
How  long  ? 
CAIN. 

For  ever !     Since 

I  must  one  day  return  here  from  the  earth, 
I  rather  would  remain ;  I  am  sick  of  all 
That  dust  has  shown  me — let  me  dwell  in  shadows. 

LUCIFER. 

It  cannot  be :  thou  now  beholdest  as 
A  vision  that  which  is  reality. 
To  make  thyself  fit  for  this  dwelling,  thou 
Must  pass  through  what  the  things  thou  see'st  have 


rhe  gates  of  death. 

CAIN. 

By  what  gate  have  we  enter'd 
Even  now? 

LUCIFER. 

By  mine !  But,  plighted  to  return, 
My  spirit  buoys  thee  up  to  breathe  in  regions 
Where  all  is  breathless  save  thyself.     Gaze  on ; 
But  do  not  think  to  dwell  here  till  thine  hour 
Is  come. 

CAIN. 

And  these,  too,  can  they  ne'er  repaaa 
To  earth  again  ? 

Sxl 


LUCIFER. 

TTieir  earth  is  gone  for  ever — 
So  changed  by  its  convulsion,  they  would  not 
Be  conscious  to  a  single  present  spot 
Of  its  new  scarcely-harden'd  surface — 't  was — 
Oh,  what  a  beautiful  world  it  wca  ! 
CAIN. 

And  is ; 

It  is  not  with  the  earth,  though  I  must  till  it, 
I  feel  at  war,  but  that  I  may  not  profit 
By  what  it  bears  of  beautiful,  untoiling, 
Nor  gratify  my  thousand  swelling  thoughts 
With  knowledge,  nor  allay  my  thousand  fears 
Of  death  and  life. 

LUCIFER. 

What  thy  world  is  thou  see'st, 
But  canst  not  comprehend  the  shadow  of 
That  which  it  was. 

CAIN. 

And  those  enormous  creature* 
Phantoms  inferior  in  intelligence 
(At  least  so  seeming)  to  the  things  we  have  pass' d 
Resembling  somewhat  the  wild  habitants 
Of  the  deep  woods  of  earth,  the  hugest  which 
Roar  nightly  in  the  forest,  but  ten-fold 
In  magnitude  and  teiror  ;  taller  than 
The  cherub-guarded  wafls  of  Eden,  with 
Eyes  flashing  like  the  fiery  swords  which  fence  thorn 
And  tusks  projecting  like  the  trees  stripp'd  of 
Their  bark  and  branches— what  were  they  ? 
LUCIFER. 

That  whion 
The  mammoth  is  in  thy  world  ; — but  these  lie 
By  myriads  underneath  its  surface. 


CAIN. 


But 


None  on  it? 

LUCIFER. 

No :  for  thy  frail  race  to  war 
With  them  would  render  the  curse  on  it  useless — 
T  would  be  destroy'd  so  early. 

CAIN. 

But  why  tear  J 
LUCIFER. 

You  have  forgotten  the  denunciation 
Which  drove  your  race  from  Eden — war  with  all  thing* 
And  death  to  all  things,  and  disease  to  most  thing* 
And  pangs,  and  bitterness  ;  these  were  the  fruits 
Of  the  forbidden  tree. 

CAIN. 

But  animals — 
Did  they  too  eat  of  it,  that  they  must  die  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Your  Maker  told  ye,  they  were  made  for  you, 
As  you  for  him. — You  would  not  have  their  doom 
Superior  to  your  own  ?  Had  Adam  not 
Fallen,  all  had  stood. 

CAIN. 

Alas !  the  hopeiess  wretch«a . 
They  too  must  share  my  sire's  fate,  like  his  sons : 
Like  them,  too,  without  having  shared  the  apple , 
Like  them,  too,  without  the  so  dear-bought  knowledge 
It  was  a  lying  tree — for  we  know  nothing. 
At  least  it  promised  knowledge  at  the  price 
Of  death — but  knowledge  siiH :  but  what  know*  ma» 


374 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LVCIIER. 

fy  may  bo  death  leads  to  the  highest  knowledge ; 
And  buing  of  al  things  the  sole  thing  certain, 
At  least  leads  to  the  surest  science :  therefore 
The  tree  was  true,  though  deadly. 

CAIN. 

These  dim  realms ! 
(  see  them,  but  I  know  them  not. 

LUCIFER. 

Because 

Thy  hour  is  yet  afar,  and  matter  cannot 
Comprehend  spirit  wholly — but 't  is  something 
To  know  there  are  such  realms. 

CAIN. 

We  knew  already 
That  there  was  death. 

LUCIFER. 

But  not  what  was  beyond  it. 

CAIN. 
Nor  know  I  now. 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  know'st  that  there  is 
A  state,  and  many  states  beyond  thine  own — 
And  this  them  knewest  not  this  morn. 
CAIN. 

But  all 
Seems  dim  and  shadowy. 

LUCIFER. 

Be  content ;  it  will 
Seem  clearer  to  thine  immortality. 

CAIN. 

And  yon  immeasurable  liquid  space 
Of  glorious  azure  which  floats  on  beyond  us, 
Which  looks  like  water,  and  which  I  should  deem 
The  river  which  flows  out  of  Paradise 
Past  my  own  dwelling,  but  that  it  is  bankless 
And  boundless  and  of  an  ethereal  hue — 
What  is  it  7 

LUCIFER. 

There  is  still  some  sucn  on  earth, 
Although  inferior,  and  thy  children  shall 
Dwell  near  it — 't  is  the  phantasm  of  an  ocean. 

CAIN. 

T  is  like  another  world ;  a  liquid  sun — 
And  those  inordinate  creatures  sporting  o'er 
Its  shining  surface  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Are  its  habitants, 
The  p«.st  leviathans. 

CAIN. 

And  yon  immense 

Serpent,  which  rears  his  dripping  mane  and  vasty 
Head  ten  times  higher  than  the  haughtiest  cedar 
Forth  from  the  abyss,  looking  as  he  could  coil 
Himself  around  the  orbs  we  lately  look'd  on — 
Is  he  not  of  the  kind  which  bask'd  beneath 
The  tree  in  Eden  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Eve>  thy  mother,  best 
Can  tell  what  shape  of  serpent  tempted  her. 

CAIN. 

I  ms  seems  too  terrible.    No  doubt  the  other 
H«rt  more  of  beau*  • 

LUCIFER. 

Hast  thou  ne'er  beheld  him  7 


CAIrf. 

Many  of  the  same  kind  (at  least  so  call'd), 
But  never  that  precisely  which  persuaded 
The  fatal  fruit,  nor  even  of  the  same  aspect, 

LUCIFER. 

Your  father  saw  him  not  7 

CAIN. 

No ;  't  was  my  mother 
Who  tempted  him — she  tempted  by  the  serpent. 

LUCIFER. 

Good  man  !  whene'er  thy  wife,  or  thy  sons'  wives 
Tempt  thee  or  them  to  aught  that 's  new  or  strange, 
Be  sure  thou  see'st  first  who  hath  tempted  them. 

CAIN. 

Thy  precept  comes  too  late :  there  is  no  more 
For  serpents  to  tempt  woman  to. 
LUCIFER. 

But  there 

Are  some  things  still  which  woman  may  tempt  man  to, 
And  man  tempt  woman : — let  thy  sons  look  to  it ! 
My  counsel  is  a  kind  one :  for  't  is  even 
Given  chiefly  at  my  own  expense  :  't  is  true, 
'T  will  not  be  follow'd,  so  there 's  little  lost. 

CAIN. 

I  understand  not  this. 

LUCIFER. 

The  happier  thou  ! — 

The  world  and  thou  are  still  too  young !  Thou  thinkcst 
Thyself  most  wicked  and  unhappy:  is  it 
Not  so  7 

CAIN. 

For  crime  I  know  not ;  but  for  pain, 
I  have  felt  much. 

LUCIFER. 

First-born  of  the  first  man  ! 
Thy  present  state  of  sin — and  thou  art  evil, 
Of  sorrow — and  thou  suflerest,  are  both  Eden, 
In  all  its  innocence,  compared  to  what 
Thou  shortly  may'st  be ;  and  that  state  again, 
In  its  redoubled  wretchedness,  a  paradise 
To  what  thy  sons'  sons'  sons,  accumulating 
In  generations  like  to  dust  (which  they 
In  fact  but  add  to),  shall  endure  and  do. — 
Now  let  us  back  to  earth ! 

CAIN. 

And  wherefore  didst  tho«i 
Lead  me  here  only  to  inform  me  this  ? 

LUCIFER. 
Was  not  thy  quest  for  knowledge  7 

CAIN. 

Yes :  as  being 
The  road  to  happiness. 

LUCIFEK. 

If  truth  be  so, 
Thou  hast  k. 

CAIN. 

Then  my  father's  God  did  weU 
When  he  prohibited  the  fatal  tree. 

LUCIFER. 
But  had  done  better  in  not  planting  it. 
But  ignorance  of  evil  doth  not  save 
From  evil ;  it  must  still  roll  on  the  same, 
A  part  of  all  things. 

CAIN. 

Not  of  all  things,    ito 
[  '11  not  believe  it — for  I  thirst  for  good. 


CAIN. 


37i 


LUCIFER. 

And  who  and  what  doth  not?  IVho  covets  evil 
For  its  own  bitter  sake  ? — None — nothing !  't  is 
The  leaven  of  all  life  and  lifelcssness. 

CAIN. 

Within  those  glorious  orbs  which  we  behold, 
Distant  and  dazzling,  and  innumerable, 
Ere  we  came  down  into  this  phantom  realm, 
111  cannot  come ;  they  are  too  beautiful. 

LUCIFKR. 

Thou  hast  seen  them  from  afar. 
CAIN. 

And  what  of  that? 

Distance  can  but  diminish  glory — they, 
When  nearer,  must  be  more  ineffable. 

LUCIFER. 

Approach  the  things  of  earth  most  beautiful, 
And  judge  their  beauty  near. 
CAIN. 

I  have  done  this—- 
The loveliest  thing  I  know  is  loveliest  nearest. 

LUCIFER. 

Then  there  must  be  delusion. — What  is  that, 
Which  being  nearest  to  thine  eyes,  is  still 
More  beautiful  than  beauteous  things  remote  ? 

CAIN. 

My  sister  Adah. — All  the  stars  of  heaven, 

The  deep  blue  noon  of  night,  lit  by  an  orb 

Which  looks  a  spirit,  or  a  spirit's  world — 

The  hues  of  twilight — the  sun's  gorgeous  coming — 

His  setting  indescribable,  which  fills 

My  eyes  with  pleasant  tears  as  I  behold 

Him  sink,  and  feel  my  heart  float  softly  with  him 

Along  that  western  paradise  of  clouds — 

The  forest  shade — the  green  bough — the  bird's  voice — 

The  vesper  bird's,  which  seems  to  sing  of  love, 

And  mingles  with  the  song  of  cherubim, 

As  the  day  closes  over  Eden's  walls ; — 

All  these  are  nothing  to  my  eyes  and  heart, 

Like  Adah's  face :  I  turn  from  earth  and  heaven 

To  gaze  on  it. 

LUCIFF.R. 

T  is  frail  as  fair  mortality, 
In  the  first  dawn  and  bloom  of  young  creation 
And  earliest  embraces  of  earth's  parents, 
Can  make  its  offspring;  still  it  is  delusion. 

CAIN. 

You  think  so,  being  not  her  brother. 
LUCIFER. 

Mortal! 
My  brotherhood  's  with  those  who  have  no  children. 

CAIN. 
Then  thou  canst  have  no  fellowship  with  u«. 

LUCIFER. 

It  may  be  that  thine  own  shall  be  for  me. 
But  if  thou  dost  possess  a  beautiful 
Being  beyond  all  beauty  in  thine  eyes, 
Why  art  thou  wretched  ? 

CAIN. 

Why  do  I  exist? 

Why  art  tkmi  wretched  ?  why  are  all  things  so  ? 
Even  He  who  made  us  must  be  as  the  maker 
Of  th.nirs  unhappy  !  To  produce  destruction 
Cao  suruly  never  be  the  task  of  joy, 
And  yet  my  sire  says  He  's  omnipotent . 
Then  why  is  evil — He  being  good  ?     I  ask'd 


This  question  of  my  father ;  and  he  said, 

Because  tliis  evil  only  was  the  path 

To  good.     Strange  good,  that  must  arise  from  rmt 

Its  deadly  opposite !  I  lately  saw 

A  lamb  stung  by  a  reptile  :  the  poor  suckling 

Lay  foaming  on  the  earth,  beneath  the  vain 

And  piteous  bleating  of  its  restless  dam : 

My  father  pluck'd  some  herbs,  and  laid  them  to 

The  wound ;  and  by  degrees  the  helpless  wretcii 

Resumed  its  careless  life,  and  rose  to  drain 

The  mother's  milk,  who  o'er  it  tremulous 

Stood  licking  its  reviving  limbs  with  joy. 

Behold,  my  son !  said  Adam,  how  from  evil 

Springs  good ! 

LUCIFER. 

What  didst  thou  answer  ? 

CAIN. 

Nothing    f 

He  is  my  father :  but  I  thought,  that 't  were 
A  better  portion  for  the  animal 
Never  to  have  been  stung  at  alt,  tnan  to 
Purchase  renewal  of  its  little  life 
With  agonies  unutterable,  though  ' 
Dispell'd  by  antidotes. 

LUCIFER. 

But  as  thou  saidst, 
Of  all  beloved  things  thou  lovest  her 
Who  shared  thy  mother's  milk,  and  giveth  hen 
Unto  thy  children 

CAIN. 

Most  assuredly : 
What  should  I  be  without  her  ? 
LUCIFER. 

What  am  I  ? 
CAIN. 
Dost  thou  love  nothing? 

LUCIFER. 

What  does  thy  God  lore? 

CAIN. 

All  things,  my  father  says ;  but  I  confess 
1  see  it  not  in  their  allotment  here. 

LUCIFER. 

And  therefore  thou  canst  not  see  if  /  love 
Or  no,  except  some  vast  and  general  purpose, 
To  which  particular  things  must  melt  like  snow, 

CAIN. 

Snows !  what  are  they? 

LUCIFER. 

Be  happier  in  not  knowing 
What  thy  remoter  offspring  must  encounter ; 
But  bask  beneath  the  clime  which  knows  no  winter 

CAIN. 

But  dost  thou  not  love  something  like  thyself? 

LUCIFER. 
And  dost  thou  love  thyself? 

CAIN. 

Yes,  but  love  mote 

What  makes  my  feelings  more  endurable. 
And  is  more  than  myself,  because  I  love  it, 

LUCIFER. 

Thou  lovest  it,  because  'tis  beautiful, 
As  was  the  apple  in  thy  mother's  eye ; 
And  when  it  ceases  to  be  so,  thy  love 
Will  cease,  like  any  other  appetite. 

CA'X. 

Cease  to  be  beautiful !  how  can  that  be? 


37r 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LUCIFER. 

W.th  time. 

CAIN. 

But  time  has  past,  and  hitherto 
Even  Adam  and  my  mother  both  are  fair : 
Not  fair  like  Adah  and  the  seraphim — 
But  very  fair. 

LUCIFER. 

All  that  must  pas*  away 

In  them  and  her. 

CAIN. 

I  'm  sorry  for  it ;  but 
Cannot  concci ire  my  love  for  her  the  less. 
And  when  her  beauty  disappears,  methinks 
He  who  creates  all  beauty  will  lose  more 
Than  me  in  seeing  perish  such  a  work. 

LUCIFER. 
I  pity  tfcee  who  lovest  what  must  perish. 

CAIN. 

And  I  thee  who  lov'st  nothing. 
LUCIFER. 

And  thy  brother- 
Sits  he  not  near  thy  heart? 

CAIN. 

Why  should  he  not? 
LUCIFER. 
Thy  father  loves  him  well — so  does  thy  God. 

CAIN. 
And  so  do  I.. 

LUCIFER. 

'T  is  well  and  meekly  done, 

CAIN. 
Meekly! 

LUCIFER. 

He  is  the  second  born  of  flesh, 
And  is  his  mother's  favourite. 

CAIN. 

Let  him  keep 
Her  favour,  since  the  serpent  was  the  first 

To  win  H. 

LUCIFER. 
And  his  father's? 

CAIN. 

What  is  that 
To  me  ?  should  I  not  love  that  which  all  love  ? 

LUCIFER. 

And  the  Jehovah— the  indulgent  Lord, 
And  beauteous  planter  of  barr'd  Paradise — 
H«s,  too,  looks  smilingly  on  Abel. 

CAIN. 

I 

Ne'er  saw  Him,  and  I  know  not  if  He  smiles. 

LUCIFER. 

But  vou  have  seen  his  angels. 
CAIN. 

Rarely. 

LOCIFER. 

But 

Sufficiently  to  see  they  love  your  brother ; 
Hi*  sacrifices  are  acceptable. 
CAIN. 
So  be  they !  wherefore  speak  to  me  of  this  ? 

LUCIFER. 

thou  hast  thought  of  this  ere  now. 

CA.IK. 

And  if 


[  have  thought,  why  recall  a  thought  that (hepaute*, 

as  agitated) — Spirit ! 
Here  we  are  in  thy  world  ;  speak  not  of  mine. 
Thou  hast  shown  me  wonders ;  thou  hastshown  me  tlj-*« 
Mighty  Pre- Adamites  who  walk'd  the  earth 
Of  which  ours  is  the  wreck :  thou  hast  pointed  cut 
Myriads  of  starry  worlds,  of  which  our  own 
Is  the  dim  and  remote  companion,  m 
Infinity  of  life :  thou  hast  shown  me  shadows 
Of  that  existence  with  the  dreaded  name 
Which  my  sire  brought  us — death ;  thou  hast  shown  me 

much — 

But  not  all :  show  me  where  Jehovah  dwells. 
In  his  especial  paradise — or  thine : 
Where  is  it? 

LUCIFER. 

Here,  and  o'er  all  space. 
CAIN. 

But  ye 

Have  some  allotted  dwelling — as  all  things ; 
Clay  has  its  earth,  and  other  worlds  their  tenants , 
All  temporary  breathing  creatures  their 
Peculiar  element ;  and  things  which  have 
Long  ceased  to  breathe  our  breath  have  theirs,  then 

say'st ; 

And  the  Jehovah  and  thyself  have  thine — 
Ye  do  not  dwell  together  ? 

LUCIFER. 

No,  we  reign 
Together,  but  our  dwellings  are  asunder. 

CAIN. 

Would  there  were  only  one  of  ye !  perchance 
An  unity  of  purpose  might  make  union 
In  elements  which  seem  now  jarr'd  in  storms. 
How  came  ye,  being  spirits,  wise  and  infinite, 
To  separate  ?  Are  ye  not  as  brethren  in 
Your  essence,  and  your  nature,  and  your  glory  7 

LUCIFER. 

Art  thou  not  Abel's  brother  ? 
CAIN. 

We  are  brethren, 

And  so  we  shall  remain ;  but,  were  it  not  so, 
Is  spirit  like  to  flesh  ?  can  it  fall  out  ? 
Infinity  with  immortality  ? 
Jarring  and  turning  space  to  misery— 
For  what? 

LUCIFER. 

To  reign. 

CAIN. 

Did  ye  not  tell  me  that 
Ye  are  both  eternal? 

LUCIFER. 

Yea! 

CAIN. 

And  what  I  have  seen. 
Yon  blue  immensity,  is  boundless  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay. 

CAIN. 

And  cannot  ye  both  reign  then  ? — is  there  nat 
Enough?— why  should  ye  differ  ? 

LUCIFER. 

We  both  reign. 

CAIN. 

But  one  of  you  makes  evil. 


CAIN. 


377 


LUCIFER. 

Which? 

CAIN. 

Thou!  for 
If  thou  canst  do  man  good,  why  dost  thou  not  ? 

LUCIFER. 

And  why  not  He  who  made  ?     /  made  ye  not ; 
Vc  aie  his  creatures,  and  not  mine. 

CAIN. 

Then  leave  us 

His  creatures,  as  thou  say'st  we  are,  or  show  me 
Thy  dwelling,  or  his  dwelling. 

LUCIFER. 

I  could  show  thee 

Both ;  but  the  time  will  come  thou  shall  see  one 
Of  them  for  evermore. 

CAIN. 

And  why  not  now  ? 
LUCIFER. 

Thy  human  mind  hath  scarcely  grasp  to  gather 
The  little  I  have  shown  thee  into  calm 
And  clear  thought ;   and  thou  wouldst  go  on  aspiring 
To  the  great  double  mysteries  !  the  two  Principles  ! 
And  gaze  upon  them"  on  their  secret  thrones  ! 
Dust !  limit  thy  ambition,  for  to  see 
Either  of  these,  would  be  for  thee  to  perish ! 

CAIN. 

And  let  me  perish,  so  I  see  them ! 

LUCIFER. 

There 

1  he  son  of  her  who  snatch'd  the  apple  spake ! 
But  thou  wouldst  only  perish,  and  not  see  them ; 
Fhat  sight  is  for  the  oJier  state. 

CAIN. 

Of  death? 

LUCIFER. 

That  is  the  prelude. 

CAIN. 

Then  I  dread  it  less, 
Now  that  I  know  it  leads  to  something  definite. 

LUCIFER. 

And  now  I  will  convey  thee  to  thy  world, 

Where  thou  shalt  multiply  the  race  of  Adam, 

Eai,  drink,  toil,  tremble,  laugh,  weep,  sleep,  and  die. 

CAIN. 

And  to  what  end  have  I  beheld  these  things 
Which  thou  hast  shown  me  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Didst  thou  not  require 

Knowledge  ?     And  have  I  not,  in  what  I  show'd, 
Taught  thee  to  know  thyself? 

CAIN. 

Alas !  I  seem 
Nothing. 

LUCIFER. 

And  this  should  be  the  human  sum 
Of  knowledge,  to  know  mortal  nature's  nothingness ; 
Bequeath  that  science  to  thy  children,  and 
T  will  spare  them  many  tortures. 

CAIN. 

Haughty  spirit ! 

Plioii  speak'st  it  proudly ;  but  thyself,  though  proud, 
Hast  a  superior. 

LUCIFER. 

No !     By  heaven,  which  He 
Holds,  -.nd  the  abyss,  and  the  immensity 
53 


Of  worlds  and  life,  which  I  hold  with  him — No ' 

I  have  a  victor — true ;  but  no  superior. 

Homage  He  has  from  all — but  none  from  me: 

I  battle  it  against  him,  as  I  ba'.tled 

In  highest  heaven.     Through  all  eternity, 

And  the  unfathomable  gulfs  of  Hades, 

And  the  interminable  realms  rf  space, 

And  the  infinity  of  endless  ag-:s, 

All,  all,  will  I  dispute  !     And  world  by  world, 

And  star  by  star,  and  universi  by  universe, 

Shall  tremble  in  the  balance,  till  the  great 

Conflict  shall  cease,  if  ever  it  shall  cease, 

Which  it  ne'er  shall,  till  he  or  I  be  quench'd  ! 

And  what  can  quench  our  immortality, 

Our  mutual  and  irrevocable  hate  ? 

He  as  a  conqueror  will  call  the  conquer'd 

Evil ;  but  what  will  be  the  food  He  gives  ? 

Were  I  the  victor,  his  wor)  s  would  be  d«-em'u 

The  only  evil  ones.     And  pou,  ye  new 

And  scarce-born  mortals,  what  have  beei  his  gilt» 

To  you  already  in  your  little  world  ? 

CAIN. 

But  few  ;  and  some  of  those  but  butt,  . 
LUCIFER. 

Bac* 

With  me,  then,  to  thine  earth,  and  try  the  rest 
Of  his  celestial  boons  to  ye  and  yours. 
Evil  and  good  are  things  in  their  own  essence, 
And  not  made  good  or  evil  by  the  giver ; 
But  if  he  gives  you  good — so  call  him ;  if 
Evil  springs  from  Aim,  do  not  name  it  mine, 
Till  ye  know  better  its  true  fount ;  and  jud»c 
Not  by  words,  though  of  spirits,  but  the  fruits 
Of  your  existence,  such  as  it  must  be. 
One  good  gift  has  the  fatal  apple  given — 
Your  reason  : — let  it  not  be  oversway'd 
By  tyrannous  threats  to  force  you  into  fail'i 
'Gainst  all  external  sense  and  inward  feebng ; 
Think  and  endure, — and  form  an  inner  we  rid 
In  your  own  bosom — where  the  outward  fails-: 
So  shall  you  nearer  be  the  spiritual 
Nature,  and  war  triumphant  with  your  own. 

[They  dtsappejt 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Earth  near  Eden,  as  in  Act  1. 
Enter  CAIN  and  ADAH. 

ADAH. 

Hush  !  tread  softly,  Cain. 

CAIN. 

I  will ;  but  wherefore  ? 

ADAR. 

Our  little  Enoch  sleeps  upon  yon  bed 
Of  leaves,  beneath  the  cypress. 
CAIN. 

Cypress!  'tis 

A  gloomy  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it  moum'd 
O'er  what  it  shadows  ;  wherefore  didst  thou  choose  f 
For  our  child's  canopy  ? 

ADAH. 

Because  its  branches 


BYRON  S  WORKS. 


Shut  out  the  sui  like  night,  and  therefore  seem'd 
fitting  to  shadow  slumber. 

CAIN. 

Ay,  the  last — 
And  longest ;  but  no  matter — lead  me  to  him. 

[They  go  up  to  the  child, 
How  lovely  he  appears  !  his  little  checks, 
In  their  p-re  incarnation,  vying  with 
The  rose-leaves  strewn  beneath  them. 
ADAH. 

And  his  lips,  too, 

How  beautifully  parted  !  No,  you  shall  not 
Kiss  him,  at  least  not  now:  he  will  awake  soon — 
His  hour  of  mid-day  rest  is  nearly  over, 
But  it  were  pity  to  disturb  him  till 
'T  is  closed. 

CAIN. 

You  have  said  well ;  I  will  contain 
My  heart  till  then.    He  smiles,  and  sleeps  ! — Sleep  on 
And  smile,  Uiou  little,  young  inheritor 
Of  a  world  scarce  less  young :  sleep  on,  and  smile ! 
Thinf,  are  the  hours  and  days  when  both  are  cheering 
And  innocent !  thou  hast  not  pluck'd  the  fruit — 
Thou  know'st  no^  thou  art  naked  !   Must  the  time 
Come  thou  shall  be  amerced  for  sins  unknown, 
Which  were  not  thine  nor  mine  ?     But  now  sleep  on ! 
His  cheeks  are  reddening  into  deeper  smiles, 
And  shining  lids  are  trembling  o'er  his  long 
Lashes,  dark  as  the  cypress  which  waves  o'er  them : 
Half  open,  from  beneath  them  the  clear  blue 
Laughs  out,  although  in  slumber.     He  must  dream — 
Of  what?     Of  Paradise !— Ay !  dream  of  it, 
My  disinherited  boy  !     'T  is  but  a  dream ; 
For  never  more  thyself,  thy  sons,  nor  fathers, 
Shall  walk  in  that  forbidden  place  of  joy ! 

ADAH. 

Deai  Cain  !     Nay,  do  not  whisper  o'er  our  son 
Such  melancholy  yearnings  o'er  the  past ; 
Why  wilt  thou  always  mourn  for  Paradise  ? 
Can  we  not  make  another  ? 

CAIN. 

Where? 

ADAH. 

Here,  or 

IVhere'er  thou  wilt :  where'er  thou  art,  I  feel  not 
The  want  of  this  so  much  regretted  Eden. 
Have  I  not  thee,  our  boy,  our  sire,  and  brother, 
And  Zillah— our  sweet  sister,  and  our  Eve, 
To  whom  we  owe  so  much  besides  our  birth  ? 

CAIN. 
Yes,  death,  loo,  is  amongst  the  debts  we  owe  her. 

ADAH. 

Cain  !  that  proud  spirit,  who  withdrew  thee  hence, 
Hath  sadden'd  thine  still  deeper.     I  had  hoped 
The  promised  wonders  which  thoa  hast  beheld, 
Visions,  thou  say'st,  of  past  and  present  worlds, 
Would  have  composed  thy  mind  into  the  calm 
Of  a  contented  knowledge ;  but  I  see 
Thy  guide  hath  done  thee  evil :  still  I  thank  him, 
And  can  forgive  him  all,  that  he  so  soon 
Hath  given  thee  back  to  us. 

CAIN. 

So  soon  ? 

ADAH. 

'T  is  scarcely 
IVo  noun  since  ye  departed    two  long  hours 


To  me,  but  only  hours  upon  the  sun. 

CAIN. 

And  yet  I  have  approach'd  that  sun,  and  seen 
rVorlds  which  he  once  shone  on,  and  never  more 
hall  light ;  and  worlds  he  never  lit :  methought 
Years  had  roll'd  o'er  my  absence. 

ADAH. 

Hardly  hours. 

CAIN. 

The  mind  then  hath  capacity  of  time, 
And  measures  it  by  that  which  it  beholds, 
Pleasing  or  painful,  little  or  almighty. 
i  had  beheld  the  immemorial  works 
Df  endless  beings  ;  skirr'd  extinguish'd  worlds : 
And,  gazing  on  eternity,  methought 
I  had  borrow'd  more  by  a  few  drops  of  ages 
Prom  its  immensity  ;  but  now  I  feel 
My  littleness  again.     Well  said  the  spirit, 
That  I  was  nothing ! 

ADAH. 

Wherefore  said  he  so  ? 
Jehovah  said  not  that. 

CAIN. 

No :  he  contents  him 
With  making  us  the  nothing  which  we  are ; 
And  after  flattering  dust  with  glimpses  of 
Eden  and  immortality,  resolves 
It  back  to  dust  again — for  what  ? 

ADAH. 

Thou  know  st— 
Even  for  our  parents'  error. 

OIN. 

What  is  that 
To  us  ?  they  sinn'd,  then  let  them  die ! 

ADAH. 

Thou  hast  not  spoken  well,  nor  is  that  thought 
Thy  own,  but  of  the  spirit  who  was  with  thee. 
Would  /  could  die  for  them,  so  they  might  live  ! 

CAIN. 

Why,  so  say  I — provided  that  one  victim 
Might  satiate  the  insatiable  of  life, 
And  that  our  little  rosy  sleeper  there 
Might  never  taste  of  death  nor  human  sorrow, 
Nor  hand  it  down  to  those  who  spring  from  him. 

ADAH. 

How  know  we  that  some  such  atonement  one  da/ 
May  not  redeem  our  race  ? 

CAIN. 

By  sacrificing 

The  harmless  for  the  guilty  ?  what  atonement 
Were  there?  why,  we  are  innocent:  what  have  we 
Done,  that  we  must  be  victims  for  a  deed 
Before  our  birth,  or  need  have  victims  to 
Atone  for  this  mysterious,  nameless  sin—- 
If  it  be  such  a  sin  to  seek  for  knowledge  ? 

ADAH. 

Alas !  tho-j  sinnest  now,  my  Cain ;  thy  words 
Sound  impious  in  mine  ears. 

CAIN. 

Then  leave  me ! 
ADAH. 

Nevei 
Though  thy  Ood  left  thee. 

CAIN. 
Say,  wht  Vave  we  here  ? 


CAIN. 


379 


ADAH. 

Two  a'tars,  which  our  brother  Abel  made 
During  thine  absence,  whereupon  to  offer 
A  sacrifice  to  God  on  thy  return. 

CAIN. 

And  how  knew  Ae,  that  /  would  be  so  ready 
With  the  burnt-offerings,  which  he  daily  brings 
With  a  meek  brow,  whose  base  humility 
Shows  more  of  fear  than  worship,  as  a  bribe 
To  the  Creator  ? 

ADAH. 
Surely,  't  is  well  done. 

CAIN. 
One  altar  may  suffice ;  J  have  no  offering. 

ADAH. 

The  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  early,  beautiful 
Blossom  and  bud,  and  bloom  of  flowers,  and  fruits  ; 
These  are  a  goodly  offering  to  the  Lord, 
Given  with  a  gentle  and  a  contrite  spirit. 

CAIN. 

I  have  toil'd,  and  till'd,  and  sweaten  in  the  sun, 

According  to  the  curse: — must  I  do  more? 

For  what  should  I  be  gentle  ?  for  a  war 

With  all  the  elements  ere  they  wjll  yield 

The  bread  we  eat  ?  For  what  must  I  be  grateful  ? 

For  being  dust,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust, 

Till  I  return  to  dust  ?  If  I  am  nothing — 

For  nothing  shall  I  be  a  hypocrite, 

And  seem  well  pleased  with  pain?  For  what  should  I 

Be  contrite  ?  for  my  father's  sin,  already 

Expiate  with  what  we  all  have  undergone, 

And  to  be  more  than  expiated  by 

The  ages  prophesied,  upon  our  seed. 

Little  deems  our  young  blooming  sleeper,  there, 

The  germs  of  an  eternal  misery 

To  myriads  is  within  him  !  better  't  were 

I  snatch'd  him  in  his  sleep,  and  dash'd  him  'gainst 

The  rocks,  than  let  him  live  to— 

ADAH. 

Oh,  my  God ! 

Touch  not  the  child — my  child !  thy  child !  Oh  Cain ! 

CAIN. 

Fear  not !  for  all  the  stars,  and  all  the  power 
Which  sways  them,  I  would  not  accost  yon  infant 
With  ruder  greeting  than  a  father's  kiss. 

ADAH. 

Then,  why  so  awful  in  thy  speech  ? 
CAIN. 

I  said, 

T  were  better  that  he  ceased  to  live,  than  give 
Life  to  so  much  of  sorrow  as  he  must 
Endure,  and,  harder  still,  bequeath  ;  but  since 
That  saying  jars  you,  let  us  only  say — 
'T  were  better  that  he  never  had  been  born. 

ADAH. 

Oh,  do  not  say  so !  Where  were  then  the  joys, 

The  mother's  joys  of  watching,  nourishing, 

And  loving  him ?  Soft!  he  awakes.     Sweet  Enoch! 

[She  goes  to  the  child. 

Oh  Cain  !  look  on  him  ;  see  how  full  of  life, 
Of  strength,  of  bloom,  of  beauty,  and  of  joy, 
How  like  to  me — how  like  to  thee,  when  gentle, 
For  then  we  are  all  alike ;  is  't  not  so,  Cain  ? 
Mother,  and  sire,  ami  son,  our  features  are 
Reflected  in  each  o'hcr  ;  as  they  are 
In  the  ciror  waters,  when  they  are  gentle,  and 


When  thou  art  gentle.     Love  us,  then,  my  Cain  ! 
And  love  thyself  for  our  sakes,  ior  we  iove  thee. 
Look !  how  he  laughs  and  stretches  out  his  arm*. 
And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  thine. 
To  hail  his  father ;  while  his  little  form 
Flutters  as  wing'd  with  joy.     Talk  not  of  pam 
The  childless  cherubs  well  might  envy  thee 
The  pleasures  of  a  parent !  Bless  him,  Cain ' 
As  yet  he  hath  no  words  to  thank  thee,  but 
His  heart  will,  and  thine  own  too. 
CAIN. 

Bless  thee,  boy ! 

If  that  a  mortal  blessing  may  avail  thee, 
To  save  thee  from  the  serpent's  curse ! 

ADAH. 

It  shall. 

Surely  a  father's  blessing  may  avert 
A  reptile  subtlety. 

CAIN. 

Of  that  I  doubt ; 
But  bless  him  ne'ertheless. 

ADAH. 

Our  brother  come*. 
CAIN. 
Thy  brother  Abel. 

Enter  ABEL. 

ABEL. 

Welcome,  Cain!     My  brother, 
The  peace  of  God  be  on  thee ! 
CAIN. 

Abel!  hail! 

ABEL. 

Our  sister  tells  me  that  thou  hast  been  wandering, 
In  high  communion  with  a  spirit,  far 
Beyond  our  wonted  range.   Was  he  of  those 
We  have  seen  and  spoken  with,  like  to  our  father  7 

CAIN. 
No. 

ABEL. 

Why  then  commune  with  him  ?  he  m^y  be 
A  foe  to  the  Most  High. 

CAIN. 

And  friend  to  man. 
Has  the  Most  High  been  so — if  so  you  term  him  7 

ABEL. 

Term  him  !  your  words  are  strange  to-day,  my  broth* 
My  sister  Adah,  leave  us  for  a  while — 
We  mean  to  sacrifice. 

ADAH. 

Farewell,  my  Cam ; 

But  first  embrace  thy  son.     May  his  soft  spirit, 
And  Abel's  pious  ministry,  recall  thee 
To  peace  and  holiness ! 

[Exit  ADAH,  with  ha  -fiila 

ABEL. 

Where  hast  thou  been  J 

•      ,  CAIN. 

I  know  not. 

ABEL. 

Nor  what  thou  hast  seen  ? 
CAIN. 

The  dea/t 

The  immortal,  the  unbounded,  the  omnipotent. 
The  overpowering  mysteries  of  space — 
The  innumerable  worlds  that  were  and  are — 
A  whirlwind  of  such  overwhelmin 


so 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Suns,  moons,  and  earths,  upon  their  loud-voiced  spheres 
Singing  in  thunder  round  me,  as  have  made  me 
Unfit  for  mortal  converse :  leave  me,  Abel. 

ABEL. 

Thine  eyes  are  flashing  with  unnatural  light — 
Thy  cheek  is  flush'd  with  an  unnatural  hue— 
Thy  words  are  fraught  with  an  unnatural  sound—- 
What may  this  mean  ? 

CAIN. 
It  means 1  pray  thee,  leave  me. 

ABEL. 
Not  till  we  have  pray'd  and  sacrificed  together. 

CAIN. 

Abel,  I  pray  thee,  sacrifice  alone — 
Jehovah  loves  thee  well. 

ABEL. 
Both  well,  I  hope. 

CAIN. 

But  thee  the  better :  I  care  not  for  that ; 
Thou  art  fitter  for  his  worship  than  I  am  : 
Revere  him,  then — but  let  it  be  alone — 
At  least  without  me. 

ABEL. 

Brother,  I  should  ill 

Deserve  the  name  of  our  great  father's  son, 
If  as  my  elder  I  revered  thee  not, 
And  in  the  worship  of  our  God  call'd  not 
On  thee  to  join  me,  and  precede  me  in   • 
Our  priesthood — 't  is  thy  place. 

CAIN. 

But  I  have  ne'er 

Asserted  it. 

ABEL. 

The  more  my  grief;  I  pray  thee 
To  do  so  now ;  thy  soul  seems  labouring  in 
Some  strong  delusion  ;  it  will  calm  thee. 

CAIN. 

No; 

Nothing  can  calm  me  more.    Calm  !  say  I  ?    Never 
Knew  I  what  calm  was  in  the  soul,  although 
I  have  seen  the  elements  still'd.     My  Abel,  leave  me ! 
Or  let  me  leave  thee  to  thy  pious  purpose. 

ABEL. 

Neither ;  we  must  perform  our  task  together. 
Spurn  me  not. 

CAIN. 

If  it  must  be  so— well,  then, 
What  shall  I  do? 

ABEL. 

Choose  one  of  those  two  altars. 

CAIN. 

C'noose  for  me :  they  to  me  are  so  much  turf 
And  stone. 

ABEL. 

Choose  thou ! 

CAIN. 

I  have  chosen. 
ABEL. 

T  is  the  highest, 

And  suits  thee,  as  the  elder.    Now  prepare 
Thine  offerings. 

CAIN. 

Where  are  thine  7 
ABEL. 

Behold  them  here — 
Hie  frfUings  of  the  flock,  and  fat  thereof— 


A  shepherd's  humble  offering. 
CAIN. 

I  have  no  flocks : 

I  am  a  tiller  of  the  ground,  and  must 
Yield  what  it  yieldeth  to  my  toil — its  fruit : 

[He  gathers  Jrmtt, 
Behold  them  in  their  various  bloom  and  ripeness. 

[They  dress  their  altars,  and  kindle  a  fiamr.  upon 
them. 

ABEL. 

My  brother,  as  the  elder,  offer  first 

Thy  prayer  and  thanksgiving  with  sacrifice. 

CAIN. 

No— I  am  new  to  this  ;  lead  thou  the  way, 
And  I  will  follow — as  I  may. 

ABEL  (kneeling). 

Oh  God! 

Who  made  us,  and  who  breathed  the  breath  of  life 
Within  our  nostrils,  who  hath  blessed  us, 
And  spared,  despite  our  father's  sin,  to  make 
His  children  all  lost,  as  they  might  have  been, 
Had  not  thy  justice  been  so  temper'd  with 
The  mercy  which  is  thy  delight,  as  to 
Accord  a  pardon  like,  a  paradise, 
Compared  with  our  great  crimes : — Sole  Lord  of  ugh: . 
Of  good,  and  glory,  and  eternity  ! 
Without  whom  all  were  evil,  and  with  whom 
Nothing  can  err,  except  to  some  good  end 
Of  thine  omnipotent  benevolence — 
Inscrutable,  but  still  to  be  fulfill'd — 
Accept  from  out  thy  humble  first  of  shepherd's 
First  of  the  first-born  flocks — an  offering, 
In  itself  nothing — as  what  offering  can  be 
Aught  unto  thee  ? — but  yet  accept  it  for 
The  thanksgiving  of  him  who  spreads  it  in 
The  face  of  thy  high  heaven,  bowing  his  own 
Even  to  the  dust,  of  which  he  is,  in  honour 
Of  thee,  and  of  thy  name,  for  evermore ! 

CAIN  (standing  erect  during  this  speech  f 
Spirit !  whate'er  or  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Omnipotent,  it  may  be — and,  if  good, 
Shown  in  the  exemption  of  thy  deeds  from  evL ; 
Jehovah  upon  earth !  and  God  in  heaven ! 
And  it  may  be  with  other  names,  because 
Thine  attributes  seem  many,  as  thy  works  : 
If  thou  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers, 
Take  them !  If  thou  must  be  induced  with  altars, 
And  soften'd  with  a  sacrifice,  receive  them ! 
Two  beings  here  erect  them  unto  thee. 
If  thoulovest  blood,  the  shepherd's  shrine,  which  smoke* 
On  my  right  hand,  hath  shed  it  for  thy  service, 
In  the  first  of  his  flock,  whose  limbs  now  reek 
In  sanguinary  incense  to  thy  skies  ; 
Or  if  the  sweet  and  blooming  fruits  of  earth, 
And  milder  seasons,  which  the  unstain'd  turf 
I  spread  them  on,  now  offers  in  tr.u  face 
Of  the  broad  sun  which  ripen'd  them,  may  seem 
Good  to  thee,  inasmuch  as  they  have  not 
Suffer'd  in  limb  or  life,  and  rather  form 
A  sample  of  thy  works,  than  supplication 
To  look  on  ours !  If  a  shrine  without  victim. 
And  altar  without  gore,  may  win  thy  favour, 
Look  on  it !  and  for  him  who  dresseth  it, 
He  is — such  as  thou  mad'st  him  ;  and  seeks  nothing 
Which  must  be  won  by  kneeling  :  if  he 's  evil, 
Strike  him !  thou  art  omnipotent,  and  may's!,— 


CAIN. 


33» 


For  what  can  he  oppose  ?  If  he  be  good, 
Strike  him,  or  spare  him,  as  thou  wilt !  since  all 
Rests  upon  thee ;  and  good  and  evil  seem 
To  have  no  power  themselves,  save  in  thy  win  j 
And  whether  that  be  good  or  ill  I  know  not, 
Not  being  omnipotent,  or  fit  to  judge 
Omnipotence,  but  merely  to  endure 
Its  mandate,  which  thus  far  I  have  endured. 

[Thejire  upon  the  altar  of  ABEL  kindle*  into  a 
column  of  the  brightest  flame,  and  at.ce.nds 
to  heaven;  while  a  whirlwind  throws  down 
the  altar  of  CAIN,  and  scatters  the  fruits 
abroad  upon  the  earth. 

ABEL   (kneeling). 
Oh,  brother,  pray !  Jehovah 's  wroth  with  thee ! 

CAIN. 

Why  so? 

ABEL. 

Thy  fruits  are  scatter'd  on  the  earth. 

CAIN. 

From  earth  they  came,  to  earth  let  them  return ; 
Their  seed  will  bear  fresh  fruit  there  ere  the  summer : 
Thy  burnt  flesh-offering  prospers  better ;  see 
How  heaven  licks  up  the  flames,  when  Uiick  with  blood ! 

ABEL. 

Think  not  upon  my  offering's  acceptance, 
But  make  another  of  thine  own  before 
It  is  too  late. 

CAIN. 

I  will  build  no  more  altars, 
Nor  suffer  any. — 

ABEL   (rising). 
Cain !  what  meanest  thou  ? 

CAIN. 

To  cast  down  yon  vile  flatt'rer  of  the  clouds, 
The  smoky  harbinger  of  thy  dull  prayers — 
Thine  altar,  with  its  blood  of  lambs  and  kids, 
Which  fed  on  milk,  to  be  destroy'd  in  blood. 

ABEL   ( opposing  him). 

Thou  shall  not: — add  not  impious  works  to  impious 
Words !  let  that  altar  stand — 't  is  hallow'd  now 
By  the  immortal  pleasure  of  Jehovah, 
In  his  acceptance  of  the  victims. 
CAIN. 

Hit! 

His  pleasure !  what  was  his  high  pleasure  in 
The  fumes  of  scorching  flesh  and  smoking  blood, 
To  the  pain  of  the  bleating  mothers,  which 
Still  yeam  for  their  dead  offspring  ?  or  the  pangs 
Of  the  sad  ignorant  victims  underneath 
Thy  pious  knife  ?  Give  way !  this  bloody  record 
Shall  not  stand  in  the  sun,  to  shame  creation ! 

ABEL. 

Brother,  give  back !  thou  shall  not  louch  my  allar 
Wilh  violence  :  if  that  thou  wilt  adopt  it, 
To  try  another  sacrifice,  't  is  thine. 

CAIN. 

Another  sacrifice  !  Give  way,  or  else 
Thai  sacrifice  may  b'j 

ABEL. 

What  meanest  thou  ? 
CAIN. 

Give— 

Uive  way !  thy  G«vl  loves  blood ! — ihcn  look  lo  it: — 
Give  '•ay,  ere  he  h»..n  more! 
2L 


ABEL. 

In  his  great  name, 

I  sland  belween  Ihee  and  Ihc  shrine  wluch  hatb 
Had  his  acceptance. 

CAIN. 

If  thou  lov'st  Ihyself, 

Sland  back  till  I  have  strew'd  this  turf  along 
Its  native  soil : — else 

ABEL    (opposing  him). 

I  love  God  far  more 
Than  life. 
CAIN  (striking  him  with  a  brand,  on  the  temples,  whi .» 

he  snatches  from  the  altar). 
Then  take  thy  life  unto  thy  God, 
Since  he  loves  lives. 

ABEL    (falls). 

What  hast  tho.t  done,  my  brother  7 

CAIN. 
Brother! 

ABEL. 

Oh,  God !  receive  thy  servant,  and 
Forgive  his  slayer,  for  he  knew  not  what 
He  did. — Cain,  give  me — give  me  thy  hand  ;  anu  let 

Poor  Zillah 

CAIN  (after  a  moment's  stupefaction). 

My  hand !  't  is  all  red,  and  with — 
What? 

[A  long  pause. — /Booking  slowly  round 
Where  am  I  ?  alone !  Where 's  Abel  ?  where 
Cain  ?  Can  it  be  thai  I  am  he  ?  My  brother, 
Awake ! — why  liest  Ihou  so  on  the  green  earth  ? 
'Tis  not  the  hour  of  slumber: — why  so  pale? 

What  hast  thou  ? thou  wert  full  of  life  ihis  morn  j 

Abel !  I  pray  Ihee,  mock  me  not !  I  smote 

Too  fiercely,  but  not  fatally.    Ah,  why 

Wouldst  thou  oppose  me  ?  This  is  mockery  ; 

And  only  done  to  daunt  me: — 'twas  a  blow — 

And  but  a  blow.    Stir — stir — nay,  only  slir ! 

Why,  so — thai 's  well ! — Ihou  breath'st !  breathe  ^wp 

me! 
Oh,  God!  Oh,  God! 

ABEL  (very faintly). 

What 's  he  who  speaks  of  God  7 

CAIN. 

Thy  murderer. 

ABEL. 

Then  may  God  forgive  him  !  Cain, 
Comfort  poor  Zillah: — she  has  but  one  brother 
Now.  [ABEL  diet. 

CAIN. 

And  I  none  !  Who  makes  me  brotherless  ? 
His  eyes  are  open !  then  he  is  not  dead  ! 
Death  is  like  sleep  ;  and  sleep  shuts  down  our  lids. 
His  lips,  too,  are  apart ;  why  then  he  breathes  ! 
And  yet  I  feel  it  not. — His  heart! — his  hear* ' — 

Let  me  see,  doth  it  beat? — melhinks No! — no! 

This  is  a  vision,  else  I  am  become 
The  native  of  another  and  worse  world. 
The  earth  swims  round  me : — what  is  this  ? — 't  if  wot  . 
[Puts  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  then  looks  yt  ii 
And  yet  there  are  no  dew? !  'T  is  blood — my  blood- 
My  brother's  and  my  own ;  and  shed  by  me ! 
Then  what  have  I  further  to  do  with  life, 
Since  I  have  taken  life  from  my  own  flesh  ? 
But  lie  cannot  be  dead ! — Is  silence  death  ? 
No ;  he  will  wake :  then  let  me  watch  bv  him 


302 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


L  Te  cannot  be  so  slight,  as  to  be  quench'd 
Thus  quickly  ! — he  hath  spoken  to  me  since — 
What  shall  I  stv  to  him  ?— My  brother  !— No  ; 
He  will  not  answer  to  that  name  ;  for  brethren 
Smite  not  each  other.    Yet — yet — speak  to  me. 
Oh !  for  a  word  more  of  that  gentle  voice, 
That  I  may  bear  to  hear  my  own  again  ! 

Enter  ZII.LAH. 

ZILLAH. 

I  heard  a  heavy  sound :  what  can  it  be  ? 

T  is  Cain  ;  and  watching  by  my  husband.    What 

Dost  Uiou  there,  brother  ?  Doth  he  sleep  ?  Oh  !  heaven ! 

What  means  this  paleness,  and  yon  stream  ? — No !  no ! 

It  is  not  blood  ;  for  who  would  shed  his  blood  ? 

Abel !  what's  this  ! — who  hath  done  this?  He  moves 

not; 

He  breathes  not :  and  his  hands  drop  down  from  mine 
With  stony  lifelessness  !  Ah!  cruel  Cain! 
Why  cam'st  thou  not  in  time  to  save  him  from 
This  violence  ?  Whatever  hath  assail'd  him, 
Thou  wert  the  stronger,  and  should'st  have  stepp'd  in 
Between  him  and  aggression  !  Father  ! — Eve  ! — 
Adah ! — come  hither  !  Death  is  in  the  world ! 

[Exit  ZILLAH -calling  on  her  parent*,  etc. 

CAIN   (solus). 

And  who  hath  brought  him  there  ? — I — who  abhor 
The  name  of  death  so  deeply,  that  the  thought 
Empoison'd  all  my  life,  before  I  knew 
His  aspect — I  have  led  him  here,  and  given 
My  brother  to  his  cold  and  still  embrace, 
As  if  he  would  not  have  asserted  his 
Inexorable  claim  without  my  aid. 
I  am  awake  at  last — a  dreary  dream 
Had  madden'd  me  : — but  he  shall  ne'er  awake  ! 

Enter  ADAM,  EVE,  ADAH,  and  ZILLAH. 

ADAM. 

A  voice  of  woe  from  Zillah  brings  me  her*. — 
What  do  I  see  ? — 'T  is  true  ! — My  son  ! 
Woman,  behold  the  serpent's  work,  and  thine ! 

[To  ETE. 

EVE. 

Oh !  speak  not  of  it  now :  the  serpent's  fangs 
Are  in  my  heart.    My  best  beloved,  Abel ! 
Jehovah  !  this  is  punishment  beyond 
A  mother's  sin,  to  take  him  from  me  ! 

ADAM. 

Who, 

Or  what  hath  done  this  deed  ? — speak,  Cain,  since  thou 
Wert  present :  was  it  some  more  hostile  angel, 
Who  walks  not  with  Jehovah  ?  or  some  wild 
Brute  of  the  forest  ? 

EVE. 

Ah  !  a  livid  light 

rJreaks  through,  as  trom  a  thunder-cloud  !  yon  brand, 
Massy  and  bloody  !  snatch'd  from  off  the  altar, 

And  black  with  smoke,  and  red  with 

ADAM. 

Speak,  my  son ! 

SiiH.ik,  and  assure  us,  wretciied  as  we  arc, 
I'liat  we  are  not  more  miserable  still. 

ADAH. 

*>i»? ak.  Cain  '  and  say  it  was  not  thou ! 

EVE. 

It  was. 


I  see  it  now — he  hangs  his  guilty  head, 
And  covers  his  ferocious  eye  with  hands 
Incarnadine. 

ADAH. 

Mother,  thou  dost  him  wrong — 
Cain  !  clear  thee  from  this  horrible  accusal, 
Which  grief  wrings  from  our  parent. 
EVE. 

Hear,  Jeho\  ih 

May  the  eternal  serpent's  curse  be  on  him ! 
For  he  was  fitter  for  his  seed  than  ours. 
May  all  his  days  be  desolate  !  May 

ADAH. 

Hold ! 

Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  thy  son — 
Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  my  brother, 
And  my  betroth'd. 

EVE. 

He  hath  left  thee  no  brfHher — 
Zillah  no  husband — me  no  son  / — for  this 
I  curse  him  from  my  sight  for  evermore ! 
All  bonds  I  break  between  us,  as  he  broke 

That  of  his  nature,  in  yon Oh  death  !  death ! 

Why  didst  thou  not  take  me,  who  first  incurr'd  theo  ? 
Why  dost  thou  not  so  now  ? 

ADAM. 

Eve !  let  not  this, 
Thy  natural  grief,  lead  to  impiety ! 
A  heavy  doom  was  long  forespoken  to  us  ; 
And  now  that  it  begins,  let  it  be  borne 
In  such  sort  as  may  show  our  God,  that  we 
Are  faithful  servants  (o  his  holy  wilL 

EVE   (pointing  to  CAIN). 
His  will !  the  will  of  yon  incarnate  spirit 
Of  death,  whom  I  have  brought  upon  the  eartn 
To  strew  it  with  the  dead.    May  all  the  curses 
Of  life  be  on  him !  and  his  agonies 
Drive  him  forth  o'er  the  wilderness,  like  u-', 
From  Eden,  till  his  children  do  by  him 
As  he  did  by  his  brother !  May  the  swords 
And  wings  of  fiery  cherubim  pursue  him 
By  day  and  night — snakes  -pring  up  in  his  path- 
Earth's  fruits  be  ashes  in  his  mouth — the  leaves 
On  which  he  lays  his  head  to  sleep  be  strew'd 
With  scorpions !  May  his  dreams  be  of  his  victim ! 
His  waking  a  continual  dread  of  death ! 
May  the  clear  rivers  turn  to  blood,  as  he 
Stoops  down  to  stain  them  with  his  raging  lip ! 
May  every  clement  shun  or  change  to  him  ! 
May  he  live  in  the  pangs  which  others  die  with ! 
And  death  itself  wax  something  worse  than  death 
To  him  who  first  acquainted  him  with  man  ! 
Hence,  fratricide  !  henceforth  that  word  is  Coin, 
Through  all  the  coining  myriads  of  mankind, 
Who  shall  abhor  thee,  though  thou  wert  their  sire  ' 
May  the  grass  wither  from  thy  feet !  the  woods 
Deny  thee  shelter  !  earth  a  home  !  the  dust 
A  grave  !  the  sun  his  light !  and  heaven  her  God  ' 

[Exit  E  i  K, 

ADAM. 

Cain  !  get  thee  forth  ;  we  dwell  no  more  together. 
Depart !  and  leave  the  dead  to  me — I  am 
Henceforth  alone — we  never  must  n  ect  more- 

ADAH. 

Oh,  part  not  with  him  thus,  my  father  ;  do  not 
Add  thy  deep  curse  to  Eve's  upon  his  h»  ad 


CAIN. 


383 


ADAM. 

cursn  him  not  :  his  spirit  be  his  curse. 
.  ome.  Zillah  ! 

ZILLAH. 

I  must  watch  my  husband's  corse. 

ADAM. 

We  will  return  again,  when  he  is  gone 
Who  hath  provided  for  us  this  dread  office. 
Come,  Zillah! 

ZILLAH. 

Yet  one  kiss  on  yon  pale  clay, 
And  those  lips  once  so  warm  —  my  heart  !  my  heart  ! 
[Exeunt  ADAM  and  ZILLAH,  weeping. 

ADAH. 

Cain  !  thou  hast  heard,  we  must  go  forth.  I  am  ready  ; 

So  shall  our  children  be.     I  will  bear  Enoch, 

And  you  his  sister.     Ere  the  sun  declines 

Let  us  depart,  nor  walk  the  wilderness 

Cnder  the  cloud  of  night.  —  Nay,  speak  to  me, 

To  me  —  thine  own. 

CAIN. 

Leave  me  ! 


ADAH. 


Why,  all  have  left  thee. 

CAIN. 

And  wherefore  lingerest  thou  ?  Dost  thou  not  fear 
To  dwell  with  one  who  hath  done  this  ? 


ADAH. 


I  fear 


Nothing  except  to  leave  thee,  much  as  I 
Shrink  from  the  deed  which  leaves  thee  brotherless. 
I  must  not  speak  of  this  —  it  is  between  thee 
And  the  great  God. 

A  Voice  from  within  ore/aim*, 

Cain!  Cain! 

ADAH. 

Hear'st  thou  that  voice  7 
The  Voice  within. 

Cain!  Cain! 

ADAH. 

It  soundeth  like  an  angel's  tone. 
Enter  the  AXGEL  OF  THE  LORD. 

ANGEL. 

Where  is  thy  brother  Abel? 

CAIN. 

Am  I  then 
My  brother's  keeper  ? 

AICKEL. 

Cam  !  what  hast  thou  done  ? 
The  voice  of  thy  slain  brother's  blood  cries  out, 
Even  from  the  ground,  unto  the  Lord  !  —  Now  art  thou 
Cursed  from  the  earth,  which  opened  late  her  mouth 
To  drink  thy  brother's  blood  from  thy  rash  hand. 
Henceforth,  when  thou  shall  till  the  ground,  it  shall  not 
5Tield  thee  her  strength  ;  a  fugitive  shall  thou 
Be  from  this  day,  and  vagabond  on  earth  ! 

ADAH. 

Hiis  punishment  is  more  than  he  can  bear. 
Behold,  thou  drivest  him  from  the  face  of  earth, 
Ami  from  the  face  of  God  shall  he  be  hid. 
A  lua.  We  and  vagabond  on  earth, 
T  will  uome  to  pass,  that  whoso  findeth  him 
Snail  slav  hm> 

fiAIN. 

Would  thcv  could  !  but  who  are  they 


Shall  slay  me?  where  are  these  on  the  lone  eartfc 
As  yet  unpeopled  ? 

AXGEL. 

Thou  hast  slain  thy  brother, 
And  who  shall  warrant  thee  against  thy  son  ? 

ADAH. 

Angel  of  light !  be  merciful,  nor  say 

That  this  poor  aching  breast  now  nourishes 

A  murderer  in  my  boy,  and  of  his  father. 

ANGEL. 

Then  he  would  but  be  what  his  father  is. 
Did  not  the  milk  of  Eve  give  nutriment 
To  him  thou  now  see'st  so  besmcar'd  with  tiood  ? 
The  fratricide  might  well  engender  parricides. — 
But  it  shall  not  be  so — the  Lord  thy  God 
And  mine  commandeth  me  to  set  his  seal 
On  Cain,  so  that  he  may  go  forth  in  safety. 
Who  slayeth  Cain,  a  sevenfold  vengeance  shall 
Be  taken  on  his  head.     Come  hither ! 

CAIN. 

NVhat 
Wouldst  thou  wilh  me? 

A.NGEI  . 

To  mark  upon  thy  brow 
Exemption  from  such  deeds  as  thou  hast  done. 

CAIN. 

No,  let  me  die ! 

ANGEL. 

It  must  not  be. 
[The  ANGEL  teU  the  mark  on  CAIN'S  trtno, 

CAIN. 

It  burns 

My  brow,  but  nought  to  that  which  is  within  it. 
Is  there  more  ?  let  me  meet  it  as  I  may. 

ANGEL. 

Stern  hast  thou  been  and  stubborn  from  the  womb, 
As  the  ground  thou  must  henceforth  till ;  but  he 
Thou  slew'st  was  gentle  as  the  flocks  he  tended. 

TAIN. 

After  the  fall  too  soon  was  I  begotten  ; 

Ere  yet  my  mother's  mind  subsided  from 

The  serpent,  and  my  sire  still  mourn'd  for  Eden. 

That  which  I  am,  I  am ;  I  did  not  seek 

For  life,  nor  did  I  make  mysolf ;  but  could  I 

With  my  own  death  redeem  him  from  the  duct-— 

And  why  not  so  ?  let  him  return  to  day, 

And  I  lie  ghastly !  so  shall  be  restored 

By  God  the  life  to  him  he  loved ;  and  takeu 

From  me  a  being  I  ne'er  loved  to  bear. 

ANGEL. 

Who  shall  heal  murder  ?  what  is  done  is  done. 
Go  forth  !  fulfil  thy  days !  and  be  thy  deeds 
Unlike  the  last !  [The  ANGEL  disappear*. 

ADAH. 

He 's  gone,  let  us  go  forth ; 
I  hear  our  little  Enoch  cry  within 
Our  bower. 

CAIN. 

Al» !  little  knows  he  what  he  weeps  iur  J 
And  I  who  have  shed  blood  cannot  shed  tears  ' 
But  the  four  rivers  '  would  not  cleanse  my  souL 
Thiiik'st  thou  my  boy  will  bear  to  look  on  me  ? 

ADAH. 

If  I  thought  that  he  would  not,  I  would — 


1  The  "four  rivers"  which  flowed  round  Edr>n,  ana  corue 
qaently  the  only  water*  with  »  hich  Cain  was  acquainted  up«* 
the  earth. 


3&1 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CAIN  (interrupting  her). 


No, 


No  more  ot  threats :  we  have  had  too  many  of  them : 
Go  to  our  children ;  I  will  follow  thee. 

ADAH. 

f  will  not  leave  thee  lonely  with  the  dead ; 
I  <et  us  dupart  together. 

CAIN. 

Oh !  thou  dead 

And  everlasting  witness  !  whose  unsinking 
Blood  darkens  earth  and  heaven !  what  thou  now  art, 
I  know  not !  but  if  thou  see'st  what  /  am, 
I  think  thou  wilt  forgive  him,  whom  his  God 
Can  ne'er  forgive,  nor  his  own  soul. — Farewell ! 
I  must  not,  dare  not,  touch  what  I  have  made  thee. 
I,  who  sprung  from  the  same  womb  with  thee,  drain'd 
The  same  breast,  clasp'd  thee  often  to  my  own, 
hi  fondness  brotherly  and  boyish,  I 
Can  never  meet  thee  more,  nor  even  dare 
To  do  that  for  thee,  which  thou  shouldst  have  done 
For  me — compose  thy  limbs  into  their  grave — 
The  first  grave  yet  dug  for  mortality. 
But  who  hath  dug  that  grave?  Oh,  earth!  Oh,  earth ! 
For  all  the  fruits  thou  hast  render'd  to  me,  I 
Give  thee  back  this. — Now  for  the  wilderness. 

[ADAH  stoops  down  and  kisses  the  body  of  ABEL. 


AD  A  11. 

A  dreary,  and  an  early  doom,  my  brother, 
Has  been  thy  lot !  Of  all  who  mourn  for  thee, 
I  alone  must  not  weep.     My  office  is 
Henceforth  to  dry  up  tears,  and  not  to  shed  them , 
But  yet,  of  all  who  mourn,  none  mourn  like  me, 
Not  only  for  thyself,  but  him  who  slew  thee. 
Now,  Cain !  I  will  divide  thy  burden  with  thee. 

CAIN. 

Eastward  from  Eden  will  we  take  our  way ; 
'Tis  the  most  desolate,  and  suits  my  steps. 

ADAH. 

Lead !  thou  shall  be  my  guide,  and  may  our  God 
Be  thine !  Now  let  us  carry  forth  our  children. 

CAIN. 

And  he  who  lieth  there  was  childless. 

1  have  dried  the  fountain  of  a  gentle  race, 

Which  might  have  graced  his  recent  marriage  couch, 

And  might  have  tempcr'd  this  stern  blood  of  mine, 

Uniting  with  our  children  Abel's  offspring ! 

O  Abel ! 

ADAH. 

Peace  he  with  liim ! 

CAIN. 

But  with  me ! 

[Exeunt. 


Sterner;  or,  K\\t 

A  TRAGEDY. 


TO    THE    ILLUSTRIOUS    GOETHE, 

BY  ONE  OP  HIS  HUMBLEST  ADMIRERS, 
THIS  TRAGEDY  IS  DEDICATED. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  drama  is  taken  entirely  from  the  "  Ger- 
man's Tale,  Kruitzner,"  published  many  years  ago  in 
"Lee'*  Canterbury  Tale*;"  written  (I  believe)  by  two 
Msters,  of  whom  one  furnished  only  this  story  and 
another,  both  of  which  are  considered  superior  to  the 
remainder  of  the  collection.  I  have  adopted  the  char- 
kcters.  plan,  and  even  tne  language,  of  many  parts  of 
I  his  story.  Some  of  the  characters  are  modified  or 
altered,  a  few  of  the  names  changed,  and  one  character 
(Ida  of  Stralenheim)  added  by  myself:  but  in  the  rest 
the  original  is  chiefly  followed.  When  I  was  young 
(aliout  fourteen,  1  think)  1  first  read  this  tale,  which 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  me  ;  and  may,  indeed,  be 
Mad  to  contain  the  germ  of  much  that  I  have  since 
written.  1  am  not  sure  that  it  ever  was  vet-/  popular ;  or 
at  any  rate  its  popularity  has  since  been  eclipsed  by  that 
•  if  oihei  great  writers  in  the  same  department.  But  I 
have  generally  found  that  those  who  had  read  it,  agreed 
with  rne  in  their  estimate  of  the  singular  power  of  mind 
»ml  conception  which  it  developes.  I  should  also  add 


conception,  rather  than  execution  ;  for  the  story  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  more  developed  with  greater  advan- 
tage. Amongst  those  whose  opinions  agreed  with  mine 
upon  this  story,  I  could  mention  some  very  high  names ; 
but  it  is  not  necessary,  nor  indeed  of  any  use  ;  for  every 
one  must  judge  according  to  their  own  feelings.  I 
merely  refer  the  reader  to  the  original  story,  that  he  may 
see  to  what  extent  I  have  borrowed  from  it ;  and  am  not 
unwilling  that  he  should  find  much  greater  pleasure  in 
perusing  it  than  the  drama  which  is  founded  upon  its 
contents. 

I  had  begun  a  drama  upon  this  tale  so  far  back  as 
1815  (the  first  I  ever  attempted,  except  one  at  thirteen 
years  old,  called  "  Ulric  and  Ilvina,"  which  I  had  sense 
enough  to  burn),  and  had  nearly  comphted  an  act, 
when  I  was  interrupted  by  circumstances  This  is  some- 
where amongst  my  papers  in  England  ;  b  ••  'as  not 

been  found,  I 'have  re-written  the  first, -  the 

subsequent  acts. 

The  whole  is  neither  intended,  nor  in  ary  ihtpe 
adapted,  for  the  stage. 

February,  1822. 


WERNER. 


385 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN. 
WERNER. 
ULRIC. 

STRALENHEIM. 
IDENSTEIN. 
GABOR. 
FRITZ. 


HENRICK. 

ERIC. 

ARXIIEIM. 

MEISTER. 

RODOLPH. 

LUDWIG. 


WOMEN. 

JOSEPHINE. 

IDA  STRALENHEIM. 


Scene — partly  on  the  frontier  of  Silesia,  and  partly  in 
Siegendorf  Castle,  near  Prague. 

Time — the  close  of  the  thirty  years'  war. 


WERNER. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE   I. 

The  Hall  of  a  decayed  Palace  near  a  small  Town  on  the 
n-rrthern  Frontier  of  Silesia — the  Night  tempestuous. 
WERNER  and  JOSEPHINE  hi*  wife. 

JOSEPHINE. 
M  j  love,  be  calmer ! 

WERNER. 

I  am  calm. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Tome— 

Yes,  but  not  to  thyself:  thy  pace  is  hurried, 
And  nr  one  walks  a  chamber  like  to  ours 
With  steps  like  thine  when  his  heart  is  at  rest. 
Were  it  a  garden,  I  should  deem  thee  happy, 
And  stepping  with  the  bee  from  flower  to  flower ; 
But  here ! 

WERNER. 

'T  is  chill ;  the  tapestry  lets  through 
The  wind  to  which  it  waves :  my  blood  is  frozen. 

JOSEPHINE. 
Ah.no! 

WERNER  (smiling). 
Why !  wouldst  thou  have  it  so  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  would 
Have  it  a  healthful  current. 

WERNER. 

Let  it  flow 
Until 't  is  spilt  or  check'd — how  soon,  I  care  not. 

JOSEPHINE. 

\nd  am  I  nothing  in  thy  heart  ? 
.    WERNER. 

All— all. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Tf  ten  canst  thou  wish  for  that  which  must  break  mine  ? 

WERNER  (approaching  her  slowly). 
but  for  thee  I  had  been — no  matter  what, 
But  much  of  good  and  evil ;   what  I  am, 
Thou  knowest ;  what  I  might  or  should  have  been, 

2  L  2  54 


Thou  knowest  not :  but  still  I  love  thee,  nor 
Shall  aught  divide  us. 

[WERNER  wulks  on  abruptly,  and  then  aj 
preaches  JOSEPHINE. 

The  storm  of  the  night, 
Perhaps,  affects  me :  I  'm  a  thing  of  feelings, 
And  have  of  late  been  sickly,  as,  alas ! 
Thou  know'st  by  sufferings  more  than  mine,  my  lovw 
In  watching  me. 

JOSEPHINE. 
To  see  thee  well  is  much — 

To  see  thee  happy 

WERNER. 

Where  hast  thou  seen  such  ? 
Let  me  be  wretched  with  the  rest ! 
JOSEPHINE. 

But  think 

How  many  in  this  hour  of  tempest  shiver 
Beneath  the  biting  wind  and  heavy  rain, 
Whose  every  drop  bows  them  down  nearer  earth, 
Which  hath  no  chamber  for  them  save  beneath 
Her  surface. 

WERNER. 

And  that 's  not  the  worst :  who  cares 
For  chambers  ?  rest  is  all.     The  wretches  whom 
Thou  namest — ay,  the  wind  howls  round  them,  and 
The  dull  and  dropping  rain  saps  in  their  bones 
The  creeping  marrow.     I  have  been  a  soldior, 
A  hunter,  and  a  traveller,  and  am 
A  beggar,  and  should  know  the  thing  thou  talk'st  of. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  art  thou  not  new  shelter'd  from  them  all  / 

WERNER. 

Yes — and  from  these  alone. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  that  is  somethir.g 

WERNER. 

True — to  a  peasant. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Should  the  nobly  born 

Be  thankless  for  that  refuge  which  their  habits 
Of  early  delicacy  render  more 
Needful  than  to  the  peasant,  when  the  ebb 
Of  fortune  leaves  them  on  the  shoals  of  life  ? 

WERNER. 

It  is  not  that,  thou  know'st  it  is  not :  we 
Have  borne  all  this,  I  '11  not  say  patiently, 
Except  in  thee — but  we  have  borne  it. 
JOSEPHINE. 

Well! 

WERNER. 

Something  beyond  our  outward  sufferings  (though 
These  were  enough  to  gnaw  into  our  souls) 
Hath  stung  me  oft,  and,  more  than  ever,  now 
When,  but  for  this  untoward  sickness,  which 
Seized  me  upon  this  desolate  frontier,  and 
Hath  wasted  not  alone  my  strength,  but  moans, 
And  leaves  us, — no  !   this  is  beyond  tne  !   but 
For  this  I  had  been  happy — thou  been  happy — 
The  splendour  of  my  rank  sustain'd — my  name— 
My  father's  name — been  still  upheld  ;  and,  more 

Than  those 

JOSEPHINE  (abruptly). 
My  son— our  son — our  TTlnc. 
Been  clasp'd  again  in  these  long-empty  arms. 


300 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


\nd  all  a  incl1  fcr's  hunger  satisfied. 

Twelve  year*     he  was  but  eight  then :  beautiful 

He  was,  and  beautiful  he  must  be  now. 

My  Ulric !  mjr  adored  ! 

WERNER. 

I  have  been  full  oft 

The  chase  of  fortune ;  now  she  hath  o'ertaken 
My  spirit  where  it  cannot  turn  at  bay, — 
Sick,  poor,  and  lonely. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Lonely !  my  dear  husband  ? 

WERNER. 

Or  worse — involving  all  I  love,  in  this 

Far  worse  man  solitude.     Alone,  I  had  died, 

And  all  been  over  in  a  nameless  grave. 

JOSEPHINE. 

And  I  had  not  outlived  thee  ;  but  pray  take 
Comfort !  We  have  struggled  long ;  and  they  who  strive 
With  fortune  win  or  weary  her  at  last, 
So  that  they  find  the  goal,  or  cease  to  feel 
Further.     Take  comfort, — we  shall  find  our  boy. 

WERNER. 

We  were  in  sight  of  him,  of  every  thing 

Which  could  bring  compensation  for  past  sorrow — 

And  to  be  baffled  thus ! 

JOSEPHINE. 
We  are  not  baffled. 

WERNER. 

Are  we  not  pennyless  ?     . 

JOSEPHINE. 

We  ne'er  were  wealthy. 

WERNER. 

But  I  was  bom  to  wealth,  and  rank,  and  power ; 
Enjoy'd  them,  loved  them,  and,  alas !  abused  them, 
And  forfeited  them  by  my  lather's  wrath, 
In  my  n'er-fervent  youth ;  but  for  the  abuse 
Long  sufferings  have  atoned.     My  father's  death 
Loft  the  path  open,  yet  not  without  snares. 
This  cold  and  creeping  kinsman,  who  so  long 
Kept  his  eye  on  me,  as  the  snake  upon 
The  fluttering  bird,  hath  ere  this  time  outstept  me, 
Become  the  master  of  my  rights,  and  lord 
Of  that  which  lifts  him  up  to  princes  in 
Dominion  and  domain. 

JOSEPHINE 

Who  knows  ?  our  son 

Miy  have  return'd  back  to  his  grandsire,  and 
Even  now  uphold  thy  rights  for  thee  ! 
WERNER. 

'Tis  hopeless. 

Since  his  strange  disappearance  from  my  father's, 
Entailing,  as  it  were,  my  sins  upon 
Himself,  no  tidings  have  reveal'd  his  course. 
I  parted  with  him  to  his  grandsire,  on 
The  oromise  that  his  anger  would  stop  short 
Of  the  third  generation  ;  but  Heaven  seems 
To  claim  her  stern  prerogative,  and  visit 
Upon  my  boy  his  father's  faults  and  follies. 

JOSEPHINE. 

[  must  hope  better  still, — at  least  we  have  yet 
Batfli-.d  the  long  pursuit  of  Stralenheim. 

WERNER. 

We  should  have  done,  but  for  this  fatal  sickness, 
More  fatal  than  a  mortal  malady, 
because  it  takes  not  life,  but  life's  sole  solace : 
Even  now  I  feel  my  spirit  girt  about 


By  the  snares  of  this  avaricious  fiend  ;  — 
How  do  I  know  he  hath  not  track'd  us  here  ' 

JOSEPHINE. 

He  d  tes  not  know  thy  penon  ;  and  his  spies, 

Who  so  long  watch'd  thee,  have  been  left  at  Hainbu:  fh 

Our  unexpected  journey,  and  this  change 

Of  name,  leave  all  discovery  far  behind  : 

None  hold  us  here  for  aught  save  what  we  seem. 

WERNER. 

Save  what  we  seem !  save  what  we  are — sick  begf,  tni 

Even  to  our  very  hopes. Ha  !  ha  ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas! 
That  bitter  laugh  t 

WERNER. 

Who  would  read  in  this  form 
The  high  soul  of  the  son  of  a  long  line  ? 
Who,  in  this  garb,  the  heir  of  princely  lands  ? 
JVho,  in  this  sunken,  sickly  eye,  the  pride 
Of  rank  and  ancestry ;  in  this  worn  cheek, 
And  famine-hollow'd  brow,  the  lord  of  halls, 
Which  daily  feast  a  thousand  vassals  1 
JOSEPHINE. 

You, 

Ponder'd  not  thus  upon  these  worldly  things, 
My  Werner  !  when  you  deign'd  to  choose  for  bride 
The  foreign  daughter  of  a  wandering  exile. 

WERNER. 

An  exile's  daughter  with  an  outcast  son 
Were  a  fit  marriage  ;  but  I  still  had  hopes 
To  lift  thee  to  the  state  we  both  were  born  for. 
Your  father's  house  was  noble,  though  decay'd ; 
And  worthy  by  its  birth  to  match  with  ours. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Your  father  did  not  think  so,  though  't  was  noble ; 
But  had  my  birth  been  all  my  claim  to  match 
With  thee,  I  should  have  deem'd  it  what  it  is. 

WERNER. 

And  what  is  that  in  thine  eyes  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

All  which  it 
Has  done  in  our  behalf, — nothing. 

WERNER. 

How, — nothing  7 

JOSEPHINE. 

Or  worse  ;  for  it  has  been  a  canker  in 

Thy  heart  from  the  beginning :  but  for  this, 

We  had  not  felt  our  poverty,  but  as 

Millions  of  myriads  feel  it,  cheerfully ; 

But  for  these  phantoms  of  thy  feudal  fathers, 

Thou  might'st  have  earn'd  thy  bread  as  thousands  earn  O, 

Or,  if  that  seem  too  humble,  tried  by  commerce, 

Or  other  civic  means,  to  mend  thy  fortunes. 

WERNER  (ironically). 
And  been  an  Hanseatic  burgher  ?  Excellent ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Whate'er  thou  might'st  have  been,  to  me  thou  an, 
What  no  state,  high  or  low,  can  ever  change, 
My  heart's  first  choice ; — which  chose  the<>,  knowm* 

neither 

Thy  birth,  thy  hopes,  thy  pride;  nought,  save  thy  sorrow* 
While  they  last,  let  me  comfort  or  divide  them  ; 
When  they  end,  let  mine  end  with  them,  or  thee  ! 

WERNER. 

My  better  argel !  such  as  I  have  ever  found  the«  , 
This  rashness,  or  this  weakness  of  my  temper. 


WERNER. 


3S7 


Ne'er  raised  a  thought  to  injure  thee  or  thine. 
Thou  didst  not  mar  my  fortunes :  my  own  nature 
In  youth  was  such  as  to  unmake  an  empire, 
Had  such  been  my  inheritance  ;  but  now, 
Cliasten'd,  subdued,  outworn,  and  taught  to  know 
Myself, — to  lose  this  for  our  son  and  thee ! 
Trust  me,  when,  in  my  two-and-twentieth  spring, 
My  father  barr'd  me  from  my  father's  house, 
The  last  sole  scion  of  a  thousand  sires 
(For  I  was  then  the  last),  it  hurt  me  less 
Than  to  behold  my  boy  and  my  boy's  mother 
Excluded  in  their  innocence  from  what 
My  faults  deserved  exclusion  ;  although  then 
My  passions  were  all  living  serpents,  and 
Twined  like  the  gorgon's  round  me. 

[A  knocking  is  heard. 
JOSEPHINE. 

Hark! 

WERNER. 

A  knocking ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Who  can  it  be  at  this  lone  hour  ?  we  have 
Few  visitors. 

WERNER. 

And  poverty  hath  none, 
Save  those  who  come  to  make  it  poorer  still. 
Well,  I  am  prepared. 

[WERNER  puts  his  hand  into  his  bosom,  as  if  to 
tearch  fur  some  weapon. 
JOSEPHINE. 
Oh  !   do  not  look  so.    I 
Will  to  the  door  ;  it  cannot  be  of  import 
In  this  lone  spot  of  wintry  desolation — 
The  very  desert  saves  man  from  mankind. 

[She  goes  to  the  door. 
Enter  IDENSTEIN, 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  fair  good  evening  to  my  fairer  hostess 

And  worthy what 's  your  name,  my  friend  ? 

WERNER. 

Are  you 

Not  afraid  to  demand  it  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Not  afraid ! 

Egad  !  I  am  afraid.    You  look  as  if 
I  ask'd  for  something  better  than  your  name, 
By  the  face  you  put  on  it. 

WERNER. 

Better,  sir  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Better  or  worse,  like  matrimony,  what 

Shall  I  say  more  ?  You  have  been  a  guest  this  month 

Here  in  the  prince's  palace — (to  be  sure, 

His  highness  had  resign'd  it  to  the  ghosts 

And  rats  these  twelve  years— but 't  is  still  a  palace)  - 

I  say  you  have  been  our  lodger,  and  as  yet 

We  do  not  know  your  name. 

WERNER. 

My  name  is  Werner 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  goodly  namn-  a  very  worthy  name, 
As  eV.r  was  gi't  upon  a  trader's  board  ; 

nave  a  cousin  in  the  lazaretto 
Of  Hamburgh,  who  has  got  a  wife  who  bore 
The  same. '  He  is  an  officer  of  trust, 


Surgeon's  assistant  (hoping  to  be  surgeon), 
And  has  done  miracles  i'  the  way  of  business. 
Perhaps  you  are  related  to  my  relative  ? 

WERNER. 

To  yours  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh,  yes,  we  are,  but  distantly. 

[Aside  to  WERNER 
Cannot  you  humour  the  dull  gossip,  till 
We  learn  his  purpose? 

IDENSTFIN. 

Well,  I  'm  glad  of  that ; 

I  thought  so  all  along ;  such  natural  yearnings 
Play'd  round  my  heart — blood  is  not  water,  cousin  ; 
And  so  let 's  have  some  wine,  and  drink  unto 
Our  better  acquaintance  :  relatives  should  be 
Friends. 

WERNER. 

You  appear  to  have  drunk  enough  already 
And  if  you  had  not,  I  've  no  wine  to  offer, 
Else  it  were  yours  ;  but  this  you  know,  or  should  know 
You  see  I  am  poor  and  sick,  and  will  not  see 
That  1  would  be  alone  ;  but  to  your  business ! 
What  brings  you  here  ? 

JDENSTEIN. 

Why,  what  should  bring  me  here? 

WERNER. 

I  know  not,  though  I  think  that  I  could  guess 
That  which  will  send  you  hence. 

JOSEPHINE   (aside). 

Patience,  dear  Werner '. 

IDENSTEIN. 

You  don't  know  what  has  happen'd,  then  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

How  should  we  F 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  river  has  o'erflow'd. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas  !  we  have  known 
That  to  our  sorrow,  for  these  five  days,  since 
It  keeps  us  here. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  what  you  don't  know  is, 
That  a  great  personage,  who  fain  would  cross 
Against  the  stream,  and  three  postilions'  wishes, 
Is  drown'd  below  the  ford,  with  five  post-horses, 
A  monkey,  and  a  mastiff,  and  a  valet. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Poor  creatures  !  are  you  sure  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes,  of  the  monket 

And  the  valet,  and  the  cattle  ;  but  as  yet 
We  know  not  if  his  excellency 's  dead 
Or  no ;  your  noblemen  are  hard  to  drown. 
As  it  is  fit  that  men  in  office  should  be 
But,  what  is  certain  is,  that  he  has  swallow'J 
Enough  of  the  Oder  to  have  burst  two  peasant*. 
And  now  a  Saxon  and  Hungarian  traveller, 
Who,  at  their  proper  peril,  snatch'd  him  from 
The  whirling  river,  have  sent  on  to  cravti 
A  lodging,  or  a  grave,  according  as 
It  *na/  turn  out  with  the  live  or  dead  both 

JOS.~PHI.~E. 

And  whw  e  w»U  yo»  receive  him  ?  Jwre,  I  &  pe. 
i  If  we  can  be  ot  service — sav  the  word. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


IDENSTEIN. 

Here !  no ,  but  in  the  prince's  own  apartment, 
As  fits  a  noble  guest :  't  is  damp,  no  doubt, 
Not  having  been  inhabited  these  twelve  years ; 
But  then  lie  comes  from  a  much  damper  place, 
So  scarcely  will  catch  cold  in  't,  if  ho  be 
Still  liable  to  cold — and  if  not,  why 
He  '11  be  worse  lodged  to-morrow :  ne'erthelcss, 
I  have  order'd  fire  and  all  appliances 
To  be  got  ready  for  the  worst — that  is, 
In  case  he  should  survive. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Poor  gentleman ! 
I  hope  he  will,  with  all  my  heart. 
WERNER. 

Intcndant, 
Have  you  not  learn'd  his  name  7  My  Josephine, 

[Aside  to  his  wife. 
Retire — I  'U  sift  this  <bol.  [Exit  JOSEPHINE. 

IDENSTEIN. 

His  name  7  oh  Lord ! 
Who  knows  if  he  hath  now  a  name  or  no ; 
T  is  time  enough  to  ask  it  when  he 's  able 
To  give  an  answer,  or  if  not,  to  put 
His  heir's  upon  his  epitaph.     Methought, 
Just  now  you  chid  me  for  demanding  names  7 

WERXER. 
True,  true,  I  did  so  ;  you  say  well  and  wisely. 

Enter  GABOR. 

OABOR. 
If  I  intrude,  I  crave 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh  !  no  intrusion ! 

This  is  the  palace  ;  this  a  stranger  like 
Fourself ;  I  pray  you  make  yourself  at  home: 
But  where 's  his  excellency,  and  h»v  fares  he  7 

GAEOK. 

Wctly  and  wearily,  but  out  of  peril ; 
He  paused  to  change  his  garments  in  a  cottage 
(Where  I  dofF'd  mine  for  these,  and  came  on  hither), 
And  h  as  almost  recover'd  from  his  drenching. 
He  will  be  here  anon. 

IDENSTEIN. 

What  ho,  there !  bustle ! 
Without  there,  Herman,  Weilburg,  Peter,  Conrad  ! 

[Gives  directions  to  different  servants  who  enter. 
A  nobleman  sleeps  here  to-night — see  that 
All  is  in  order  in  the  damask  chamber — 
Keep  up  the  stove — I  will  myself  to  the  cellar — 
AnJ  Madame  Idenstein  (my  consort,  stranger) 
Shall  furnish  forth  the  bed-apparel ;  for, 
To  say  the  truth,  they  are  marvellous  scant  of  this 
Within  the  palace  precincts,  since  his  highness 
Left  it  some  do/en  years  ago.    And  then 
His  excellency  will  sup,  doubtless  7 

GABOR. 

Faith ! 

I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  should  think  the  pillow 
Would  please  him  better  than  the  table,  after 
His  sor.kiii»  in  your  river :   but  for  fear 
Your  vinrms  should  be  thrown  away,  I  mean 
To  sup  myself,  and  have  a  friend  without 
Who  will  do  honour  to  your  good  cheer  with 
\  travel's  appeti'e. 


IDENSTEIN. 

But  are  you  sure 

His  excellency but  his  name,  what  is  it  7 

GABOR. 
I  do  not  know. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  yet  you  saved  his  life. 

GABOR. 
I  help'd  my  friend  to  do  so. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well,  that 's  strange 
To  save  a  man's  life  whom  you  do  not  know. 

GABOR. 

Not  so ;  for  there  are  some  I  know  so  well, 
I  scarce  should  give  myself  the  trouble. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Pray 

Good  friend,  and  who  may  you  be  ? 
GABOR. 

By  my  family, 
Hungarian. 

IDENSTEIN. 
Which  is  call'd  ? 

OABOR. 

It  matters  little. 
IDENSTEIN   (aside). 

I  think  that  all  the  world  are  grown  anonymous, 
Since  no  one  cares  to  tell  me  what  he  's  call'd ! 
Pray,  has  his  excellency  a  large  suite  7 
GABOR. 

Sufficient, 

IDENSTEIN. 

How  many  ? 

GABOR. 

I  did  not  count  them. 
We  came  up  by  mere  accident,  and  just 
In  time  to  drag  him  through  his  carriage  window. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Well,  what  would  I  give  to  save  a  great  man  ! 

No  doubt  you  '11  have  a  swinging  sum  as  recompense. 

GABOR. 

Perhaps. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Now,  how  much  do  you  reckon  on  ? 

GABOR. 

I  have  not  yet  put  up  myself  to  sale : 

In  the  mean  time,  my  best  reward  would  be 

A  glass  of  your  Hochheimer,  a  green  glas.? 

Wreathed  with  rich  grapes  and  Bacchanal  devices, 

O'erflowing  with  the  oldest  of  your  vintage  ; 

For  which  I  promise  you,  in  case  you  e'er 

Run  hazard  of  being  drown'd  (although  I  own 

It  seems,  of  all  deaths,  the  least  likely  for  y^u), 

I  '11  pull  you  out  for  nothing.     Quick,  my  friend, 

And  think,  for  every  bumper  I  shall  quaff", 

A  wave  the  less  may  roll  above  your  head. 

IDENSTEIN   (aside). 

I  don't  much  like  this  fellow — close  and  dry 
He  seems,  two  things  which  suit  me  not ;  however. 
Wine  he  shall  have ;  if  that  unlocks  him  not, 
I  shall  not  sleep  to-night  for  curiosity. 

[Exit  IDENS-:  c-  v 
GABOR  (to  WERNER.) 
This  master  of  the  ceremonies  is 
The  intendant  of  the  palace,  I  presume. 
T  is  a  fine  building,  but  decay 'd. 


WERNER. 


389 


WERNER. 

The  apartment 

Designed  for  him  you  rescued,  will  be  found 
In  fitter  order  for  a  sickly  guest. 

GABOR. 

I  wonder  then  you  occupied  it  not, 
For  you  seem  delicate  in  health. 

WERNER  (quickly). 
Sir! 

OABOR. 

Pray 
Excuse  me :  have  I  said  aught  to  offend  you? 

WERNER. 

Nothing :  but  we  are  strangers  to  each  other. 

OABOR. 

And  that 's  the  reason  I  would  have  us  less  so ! 
I  thought  our  bustling  guest  without  had  said 
You  were  a  chance  and  passing  guest,  the  counterpart 
Of  me  and  my  companions. 

WERNER. 

Very  true. 

GABOR. 

Then,  as  we  never  met  before,  and  never, 
It  may  be,  may  again  encounter,  why, 
I  thought  to  cheer  up  this  old  dungeon  here 
(At  least  to  me)  by  asking  you  to  share 
The  fare  of  my  companions  and  myself. 

WERNER. 
Pray,  pardon  me  ;  my  health 

GABOR. 

Even  as  you  please. 

t  nave  been  a  soldier,  and  perhaps  am  blunt 
(11  bearing. 

WERNER. 

I  have  also  served,  and  can 
Requite  a  soldier's  greeting. 

GABOR. 

In  what  service? 
The  Imperial  ? 
WERNER  (quickly,  and  then  interrupting  himself). 

I  commanded — no — I  mean 
I  served  ;  but  it  is  many  years  ago, 
When  first  Bohsmia  raised  her  banner  'gainst 
The  Austrian. 

GABOR. 

Well,  that's  over,  now,  and  peace 
Has  turn'd  ran  e  thousand  gallant  hearts  adrift 
To  live  a?  »hey  Vst  may :  and,  to  say  truth, 
Some  tafce  the  shortest. 

WERNER. 

What  is  that? 

GABOR. 

Whate'er 

They  my  their  hands  on.     All  Silesia  and 
Lusatia's  \\ooJt  are  tenanted  by  bands 
Of  the  late  troops,  who  levy  on  the  country 
Their  maintenance  :  the  Chatelains  must  keep 
"'heir  castle,  walls — beyond  them  't  is  but  doubtful 
Travel  for  your  rich  count  or  full-blown  baron. 
My  comfort  is  that,  wander  where  I  may, 
I  've  little  left  to  lose  now. 

WERNER. 

And  I — nothing. 

GABOR. 

That 's  harder  still.     You  say  you  were  a  soldier. 


WERNER. 

I  was. 

GABOR. 

You  look  one  still.    All  soldiers  are 
Or  should  be  comrades,  even  though  enemies. 
Our  swords  when  drawn  must  cross,  our  engines  aiir 
(While  levell'd)  at  each  other's  hearts  ;  but  whoa 
A  truce,  a  peace,  or  what  you  will,  remits 
The  steel  into  its  scabbard,  and  lets  sleep 
The  spark  which  lights  the  matchlock,  we  are  brethren. 
You  are  poor  and  sickly — I  am  not  rich,  but  healthy , 
I  want  for  nothing  which  I  cannot  want ; 
Yoa  seem  devoid  of  this — wilt  share  it  ? 

[GABOR  pulls  out  his  pwts. 

WERNER. 

Who 
Told  you  I  was  a  beggar  ? 

OABOR. 

You  yourself, 

In  saying  you  were  a  soldier  during  peace  time. 
WERNER  (looking  at  him  with  suspicion). 
You  know  me  not  ? 

GABOR. 

I  know  no  man,  not  «ven 
Myself:  how  should  I  then  know  one  I  ne'er 
Beheld,  till  half  an  hour  since  ? 

WERNER. 

Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Your  offer 's  noble,  were  it  to  a  friend, 
And  not  unkind  as  to  an  unknown  stranger, 
Though  scarcely  prudent;  but  no  less  I  thank  you. 
I  am  a  beggar  in  all  save  his  trade, 
And  when  I  beg  of  any  one,  it  shall  be 
Of  him  who  was  the  first  to  offer  what 
Few  can  obtain  by  asking.     Pardon  me. 

[Exit  WEKSEF. 

GABOR  (solus). 

A  goodly  fellow,  by  his  looks,  though  worn, 
As  most  good  fellows  are,  by  pain  or  pleasure, 
Which  tear  life  out  of  us  before  our  time : 
I  scarce  know  which  most  quickly  ;  but  he  seems 
To  have  seen  better  days,  as  who  has  not 
Who  has  seen  yesterday? — But  here  approaches 
Our  sage  intendant,  with  the  wine ;  however, 
For  the  cup's  sake,  I  '11  bear  the  cup-bearer. 

Enter  IDENSTEIN. 

'T  is  here !  the  supernaculum  !  twenty  years 
Of  age,  if  't  is  a  day. 

GABOR. 

Which  epoch  makes 

Young  women  and  old  wine,  and  't  is  great  pity 
Of  two  such  excellent  things,  increase  of  years, 
Which  still  improves  the  one,  should  spoil  the  other. 
Fill  full — Here 's  to  our  hostess — your  fair  wife. 

[Takes  the  giast 

IDENSTEIN. 

Fair ! — Well,  I  trust  your  taste  in  wine  is  equal 
To  that  you  show  for  beauty  ;  but  I  pledge  you 
Neve  rtheless. 

GABOR. 

Is  not  the  lovely  woman 
I  met  in  the  adjacent  hall,  who,  with 
An  air,  and  port,  and  eye,  which  would  hare  bfttiw 
Beseem'd  this  palace  in  its  brightest  days 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


(Though  in  a  garb  adapted  to  its  present 
Abandonment),  return'd  my  salutation — 
Is  not  the  same  your  spouse  ? 

IDENSTXIIf. 

I  would  she  were  ! 
But  you  're  mistaken — that 's  the  stranger's  wife. 

GABOR. 

And  by  her  aspect  she  might  be  a  prince's  : 
Though  time  hath  touch'd  her  too,  she  still  retains 
Much  beauty,  and  more  majesty. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  that 

Is  more  than  I  can  say  for  Madame  Idenstein, 
At  least  in  beauty :  as  for  majesty, 
She  has  some  of  its  properties  which  might 
Be  spared — but  never  mind ! 

GABOR. 

I  don't.     But  who 

May  be  this  stranger.     He  too  hath  a  bearing 
Above  his  outward  fortunes. 

IDENSTEIN. 

There  I  differ. 

He 's  poor  as  Job,  and  not  so  patient ;  but 
Who  he  may  be,  or  what,  or  aught  of  him, 
Except  his  name  (and  that  I  only  leam'd 
To-night),  I  know  not. 

GABOR. 

But  how  came  he  here  7 

IDENSTEIN. 

In  a  most  miserable  old  caleche, 

About  a  month  since,  and  immediately 

Fell  sick,  almost  to  death.     He  should  have  died. 

GABOR. 

render  and  true! — but  why? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  what  is  life 
Without  a  living  ?  He  has  not  a  stiver. 

GABOR. 

In  that  case,  I  much  wonder  that  a  person 
Of  your  apparent  prudence  should  admit 
Guests  so  forlorn  into  this  noble  mansion. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's  true  ;  but  pity,  as  you  know,  does  make 
One's  heart  commit  these  follies  ;  and  besides, 
They  had  some  valuables  left  at  that  time, 
Which  paid  their  way  up  to  the  present  hour, 
And  so  I  thought  they  might  as  well  be  lodged 
Here  as  at  the  small  tavern,  and  I  gave  them 
The  run  of  some  of  the  oldest  palace  rooms. 
They  served  to  air  them,  at  the  least  as  long 
As.  they  could  pay  for  fire-wood. 
GABOR. 

Poor  souls ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

A* 

fcxi  ceding  poor. 

0ABOR. 

And  yet  unused  to  poverty, 
If  1  mist <IK<I  not.    Whither  were  they  going  ? 

IDfcNSTEIN. 

Oh  '  Heaven  knows  where,  unless  to  heaven  itself 
Sonio.  days  ago  that  look'd  the  likeliest  journey 
Foj  Werner. 

GABOR. 

Werner !  I  have  heard  the  name, 
Bui  it  may  be  a  feign'd  one. 


IDI.NSTEIN-. 

Like  enough ! 

But  hark  !  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices,  and 
A  blaze  of  torches  from  without.     As  sure 
As  destiny,  his  excellency 's  come. 
I  must  be  at  my  post :  will  you  not  join  me, 
To  help  him  from  his  carriage,  and  present 
Your  humble  duty  at  the  door  ? 
GABOR. 

I  dragg'd  him 

From  out  that  carriage  when  he  would  have  given 
His  barony  or  county  to  repel 
The  rushing  river  from  his  gurgling  throat. 
He  has  valets  now  enough :  they  stood  aloof  then, 
Shaking  their  dripping  ears  upon  the  shore, 
All  roaring,  "Help  !"  but  offering  none  ;  and  as 
For  duty  (as  you  call  it)  I  did  mine  then, 
Now  do  yours.    Hence,  and  bow  and  cringe  him  heio! 

IDENSTEIN. 

/  cringe ! — but  I  shall  lose  the  opportunity — 
Plague  take  it !  he  '11  be  here,  and  I  not  there ! 

[Exit  IDENSTEIN,  hastily. 
Re-enter  WERNER. 
WERNER  (to  himself). 
I  heard  a  noise  of  wheels  and  voices.     How 
All  sounds  now  jar  me  ! 

(Perceiving  GABOR).     Still  here!  Is  he  not 
A  spy  of  my  pursuer's  ?  His  frank  offer, 
So  suddenly,  and  to  a  stranger,  wore 
The  aspect  of  a  secret  enemy  ; 
For  friends  are  slow  at  such. 

GABOR. 

You  seem  rapt, 

And  yet  the  time  is  not  akin  to  thought. 
These  old  walls  will  be  noisy  soon.     The  baron, 
Or  count  (or  whatsoe'er  this  half-drown'd  noble 
May  be),  for  whom  this  desolate  village,  and 
Its  lone  inhabitants,  show  more  respect 
Than  did  the  elements,  is  come. 

IDENSTEIN  (without'). 

This  way — 

This  way,  your  excellence  : — have  a  care, 
The  staircase  is  a  little  gloomy,  and 
Somewhat  decay'd ;  but  if  we  had  expected 
So  high  a  guest — pray  take  my  arm,  my  lord ! 

Enter  STRALENHEIM,  IDENSTEIX,  and  Attendants, 
partly  his  own,  and  partly  retainers  of  the  domain  of 
which  IDENSTEIN  is  Intendant. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I '!!  rest  me  here  a  moment. 

IDENSTEIN  (to  the  servants). 
Oh  !  a  chair  ! 

Instantly,  knaves  !  [STRALENHEIM  sits  down, 

WERNER  (aside). 
'Tishe! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  'm  better  now. 
Who  are  these  strangers  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Please  you,  my  good  ';««  J, 
One  says  he  is  no  stranger. 

WERNER  (aloud  and  hastily). 

Whn  says  thai  ? 
[They  look  at  him 


WERNER. 


391 


IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  no  one  spoke  of  you,  or  to  ywt  ! — but 

Here 's  one  his  excellency  may  be  pleased 

To  recognise.  [Pointing  to  GABOR. 

OABOR. 

I  seek  not  to  disturb 
His  noble  memory. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  apprehend 

This  is  one  of  the  strangers  to  whose  aid 
I  owe  my  rescue.     Is  not  that  the  other  ? 

[Pointing  to  WERNER. 
My  state,  when  I  was  succour'd,  must  excuse 
My  uncertainty  to  whom  I  owe  so  much. 

IDKNSTEIN. 

He  ! — no,  my  lord  !  he  rather  wants  for  rescue 
Than  can  afford  it.     'T  is  a  poor  sick  man, 
Travel-tired,  and  lately  risen  from  a  bed 
From  whence  he  never  dream' d  to  rise. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Methought 
That  there  were  two. 

GABOR. 

There  were,  in  company ; 
But,  in  the  service  render'd  to  your  lordship, 
I  needs  must  say  but  one,  and  he  is  absent. 
The  chief  part  of  whatever  aid  was  render'd 
Was  hi.i :   it  was  his  fortune  to  be  first. 
My  will  was  not  inferior,  but  his  strength 
And  youth  outstripp'd  me ;  therefore  do  not  waste 
your  thanks  on  me.     I  was  but  a  glad  second 
Unto  a  nobler  principal. 

SI  RALENHEIM. 

Where  is  he  ? 

AN  ATTENDANT. 

My  lord,  he  tarried  in  the  cottage,  where 
\"our  excellency  rested  for  an  hour, 
And  said  he  would  be  here  to-morrow. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Till 

That  hour  arrives,  I  can  but  offer  thanks, 

And  then 

GABOR. 

I  seek  no  more,  and  scarce  deserve 
So  much.     My  comrade  may  speak  for  himself. 

STRALENHEIM 

(Fixing  his  eyes  upon  WERNER,  then  aside). 
It  cannot  be  !  and  yet  he  must  t>e  look'd  to. 
'T  is  twenty  years  since  I  beheld  him  with 
These  eyes ;  and,  though  my  agents  still  have  kept 
Theirs  on  him,  policy  has  held  aloof 
My  own  from  his,  not  to  alarm  him  into 
Suspicion  of  my  plan.     Why  did  I  leave 
At  Hamburgh  those  who  would  have  made  assurance 
If  this  be  he  or  no  '!     I  thought,  ere  now, 
To  have  been  lord  of  Siegendorf,  and  parted 
In  haste,  though  even  the  elements  appear 
To  fight  against  me,  and  this  sudden  flood 
May  keep  me  prisoner  here  till 

[He  pauses  and  looks  at  WERNER  ;  then  resumes. 

This  man  must 

Be  watch'd.     If  it  is  he,  he  is  so  changed, 
His  father,  rising  from  his  grave  a<*ain, 
Would  pass  him  by  unknown.     I  must  be  wary; 
An  error  would  spoil  all. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Your  lordship  seems 


Pensive.     Will  it  not  please  you  to  piss  on  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

'T  is  past  fatigue  which  gives  my  weigh' d-dowi  spins 
An  outward  show  of  thought.     I  will  to  rest. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  prince's  chamber  is  prepared,  with  all 
The  very  furniture  the  prince  used  when 
Last  here,  in  its  full  splendour. 

(Aside.)  Somewhat  tatter' d 

And  devia'sh  damp,  but  fine  enough  by  torch-light; 
And  that 's  enough  for  your  right  noble  blood 
Of  twenty  quarterings  upon  a  hatchment ; 
So  let  their  bearer  sleep  'nealh  something  like  on« 
Now,  as  he  one  day  will  for  ever  lie. 

STRALENHEIM  (rising  and  turning  to  GABOR'} 
Good  night,  good  people !     Sir,  I  trust  to-morrow 
Will  find  me  apler  to  requite  your  service. 
In  the  mean  time,  I  crave  your  company 
A  moment  in  my  chamber. 

GABOR. 

I  attend  you. 

STRALENHEIM  * 

(After  a  few  steps,  pauses,  and  calls  WERNER). 
Friend ! 

WERNER. 

Sir? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Sir  !  Lord  !— oh,  Lord  !  Why  don't  yo,i  SA» 
His  lordship,  or  his  excellency  ?     Pray, 
My  lord,  excuse  this  poor  man's  want  of  breeding : 
He  hath  not  been  accustom'd  to  admission 
To  such  a  presence. 

STRALENHEIM   (to  IDENSTEIN). 

Peace,  intendant ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh! 

I  am  dumb. 

STRALENHEIM   (to  WERNER). 

Have  you  been  long  here  ? 

WERNER. 

Long? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  sought 
An  answer,  not  an  echo. 

WERNER. 

You  may  seek 

Both  from  the  walls.     I  am  not  used  to  answer 
Those  whom  I  know  not. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Indeed !  ne'ertheless, 
Yon  might  reply  with  courtesy,  to  what 
Is  ask'd  in  kindness. 

WERNER. 

When  I  know  it  such, 
I  will  requite — that  is,  reply — in  unison. 

STRALENHEIM. 

The  intendant  said,  you  had  been  detain'd  by  sickles*. 
If  I  could  aid  you — -journeying  the  same  way  7 

WERNER  (quickly). 
I  am  not  journeying  the  same  way. 

STRALENHEIM. 

.   How  know  ve 
That,  ere  you  know  my  route  ? 
WEBNER. 

Because  there  11 
But  one  way  that  the  rich  and  poor  must  treaii 


392 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Together.     You  diverged  from  that  dread  path 
Some  hours  ago,  and  I  some  days ;  henceforth 
Our  roads  must  lie  asunder,  though  they  tend 
Ail  to  one  home. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your  language  is  above 
Your  station. 

WERNER  (bitterly). 
Is  it? 

STRALFMIF.IM. 

Or,  at  least,  beyond 
Your  garb. 

WERNER. 

T  is  well  that  it  is  not  beneath  it, 
As  sometimes  happens  to  the  better  clad. 
But,  in  a  word,  what  would  you  with  me  ? 
STRALENHEIM  (startled). 

I! 

WERNER. 

Yes — you !     You  know  me  not,  and  question  me, 
And  wonder  that  I  answer  not — not  knowing 
My  inquisitor.     Explain  what  you  would  have, 
And  then  I  '11  satisfy  yourself,  or  me. 

STRALENHEIM. 

1  knew  not  that  you  had  reasons  for  reserve. 

WERNER. 

Many  have  such  : — Have  you  none  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

None  which  can 
Interest  a  mere  stranger. 

WERNER. 

Then  forgive 

The  same  unknown  and  humble  stranger,  if 
He  wishes  to  remain  so  to  the  man 
Who  can  have  nought  in  common  with  him. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Sir, 

I  will  not  balk  your  humour,  though  untoward : 
I  only  meant  you  service — but,  good  night ! 
lutendant,  show  the  way  ! 

(to  GABOR).  Sir,  you  will  with  me  ? 
[Exeunt  STRALENHEIM  and  Attendants,  IDEN- 
STEIN  and  GABOR. 

WERNER  (solus). 

'T  is  he !     I  'm  taken  in  the  toils.     Before 

I  quitted  Hamburgh,  Giulio,  his  late  steward, 

Inform'd  me,  that  he  had  obtain'd  an  order 

From  Brandenburgh's  elector,  for  the  arrest 

Of  Kruitzner  (such  the  name  I  then  bore),  when 

I  came  upon  the  frontier ;  the  free  city 

Alone  preserved  my  freedom — till  I  left 

Its  walls — fool  that  I  was  to  quit  them !     But 

1  deem'd  this  humble  garb,  and  route  obscure, 

Had  baffled  the  slow  hounds  in  their  pursuit. 

What 's  to  be  done  ?     He  knows  me  not  by  person ; 

Nor  could  aught,  save  the  eye  of  apprehension, 

Have  recognised  him,  after  twenty  years, 

<V  e  met  so  rarely  and  so  coldly  in 

Our  youlli.     But  those  about  him !     Now  I  can 

Divine  the  franlmess  of  the  Hungarian,  who, 

Na  doubt,  is  a  mere  tool  and  spy  of  Stralcnheim's 

1  o  sound  ard  to  secure  me.     Without  means  ! 

Sick,  poor — oegirt  too  with  the  flooding  rivers, 

Impassable  even  to  the  wealthy,  with 

All  the  appliances  whi-h  purchase  modes 

'If  overpowering  peril  with  men's  lives,— 


How  can  I  hope  ?  An  hour  ago,  methought 
My  state  beyond  despair ;  and  now,  't  is  such. 
The  past  seems  paradise.     Another  day, 
And  I  'm  detected, — on  the  very  eve 
Of  honours,  rights,  and  my  inheritance, 
When  a  few  drops  of  gold  might  save  me  still 
In  favouring  an  escape. 

Enter  IDENSTEIN  and  FRITZ  in  conversation. 

FRITZ. 

Immediately. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  tell  you,  't  is  impossible. 

FRITZ. 

It  must 

Be  tried,  however ;  and  if  one  express 
Fail,  you  must  send  on  others,  till  the  answer 
Arrives  from  Frankfort,  from  the  commandant, 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  will  do  what  I  can. 

FRITZ. 

And  recollect 

To  spare  no  trouble ;  you  will  be  repaid 
Tenfold. 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  baron  is  retired  to  rest  ? 

FRITZ. 

He  hath  thrown  himself  into  an  easy  chair 
Beside  the  fire,  and  slumbers  ;   and  has  order'd 
He  may  not  be  disturb'd  until  eleven, 
When  he  will  take  himself  to  bed. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Before 
An  hour  is  past,  I  '11  do  my  best  to  serve  him. 

FRITZ. 
Remember!  [Exit  FBJTZ 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  devil  take  these  great  men !  they 
Think  all  things  made  for  them.     Now  here  nust  1 
Rouse  up  some  half  a  dozen  shivering  vassals 
From  their  scant  pallets,  and,  at  peril  of 
Their  lives,  despatch  them  o'er  the  river  towai  is 
Frankfort.     Methinks  the  baron's  own  experience 
Some  hours  ago  might  teach  him  fellow-feeling : 
But  no,  "  it  must,"  and  there 's  an  end.     How  now  ? 
Are  you  there,  Mynheer  Werner  ? 
WERNER. 

You  have  left 
Your  noble  guest  right  quickly. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes — he 's  dozing 

And  seems  to  like  that  none  should  sleep  besides. 
Here  is  a  packet  for  the  commandant 
Of  Frankfort,  at  all  risks  and  all  expenses ; 
But  I  must  not  lose  time :  good  night ! 

[Exit  IDENSTEIH. 
WERNER. 

"  To  Frankfort !" 

So,  so,  it  thicl&ns  !  Ay,  "  the  commandant." 
This  tallies  well  with  all  the  prior  steps 
Of  this  cool  calculating  fiend,  who  walks 
Between  me  and  my  father's  house.     No  doubt 
He  writes  for  a  detachment  to  convey  me 
Into  some  secret  fortress. — Sooner  than 

This 

[WERNER  looks  around,  and  snatches  up  o  knift 
lying  on  a  table  in  a  recess. 


WERNER. 


Now  I  am  master  of  myself  at  least. 
Hark  ! — footsteps !  How  do  I  know  that  Stralenheim 
Will  wait  for  even  the  show  of  that  authority 
Which  is  to  overshadow  usurpation  ? 
That  he  suspects  me 's  certain.     I  'm  alone ; 
He  witn  a  numerous  train.     I  weak  ;  he  strong 
In  gold,  in  numbers,  rank,  authority. 
I  nameless,  or  involving  in  my  name 
Destruction,  till  I  reach  my  own  domain ; 
He  full-blown  with  his  titles,  which  impose 
Still  further  on  these  obscure  petty  burghers 
Than  they  could  do  elsewhere.     Hark  !  nearer  still ! 
I  '11  to  the  secret  passage,  which  communicates 

With  the No  !  all  is  silent — 't  was  my  fancy ! — 

Still  as  the  breathless  interval  between 

The  flash  and  tnunder  : — I  must  hush  my  soul 

Amidst  its  perils.     Yet  I  will  retire, 

To  see  if  still  be  unexplored  the  passage 

[  wot  of:  it  will  serve  me  as  a  den 

Of  secrecy  for  some  hours,  at  the  worst. 

[WERNER  draws  a  panel,  and  exit,  doting  it 
after  him. 

Enter  GABOR  and  JOSEPHINE. 

QABOR. 

Where  is  your  husband  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Here,  I  thought :  I  left  him 
Not  long  since  in  his  chamber.     But  these  rooms 
Have  many  outlets,  and  he  may  be  gone 
To  accompany  the  intendant. 
GABOR. 

Baron  Stralenheim 

Put  many  questions  to  the  intendant  on 
The  subject  of  your  lord,  and,  to  be  plain, 
I  have  my  doubts  if  he  means  well. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas! 

What  can  there  be  in  commc-n  with  the  proud 
And  wealthy  baron  and  the  unknown  Werner? 

GABOR. 

That  you  know  best. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Or,  if  it  were  so,  how 
Come  you  to  stir  yourself  in  his  behalf, 
Rather  than  that  of  him  whose  life  you  saved  ? 

GABOR. 

I  help'd  to  save  him,  as  in  peril ;  but 
I  did  not  pledge  myself  to  serve  him  in 
Oppression.     I  know  well  these  nobles,  and 
Their  thousand  modes  of  trampling  on  the  poor. 
I  have  proved  them  ;  and  my  spirit  boils  up,  when 
I  find  them  practising  against  the  weak  : — 
This  is  my  only  motive. 

JOSEPHINE. 

It  would  be 

Not  easy  to  persuade  my  consort  of 
Tour  good  intentions. 

SABOR. 

Is  he  so  suspicious  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

He  was  not  once ;  but  time  and  troubles  have 
Made  him  what  you  beheld. 

GABOR. 

I  'm  sorry  for  it. 

Suspicion  is  a  heavy  armour,  and 
2  M  55 


With  its  own  weight  impedes  more  than  protects. 
Good  night.    I  trust  to  meet  with  him  at  a;iy-l>rc-,ik. 

[Exit  GABOR. 

Re-enter  IDENSTEIN  and  some  peasants.     JosEPHir«« 
retires  up  the  Hall. 

FIRST    PEASANT. 

But  if  I  'm  drown'd  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  you  '11  be  well  paid  for  t. 
And  have  risk'd  more  than  drowning  for  as  much. 
I  doubt  not. 

SECOND    PEASANT. 

But  our  wives  and  families  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Cannot  be  worse  off  than  they  are,  and  may 
Be  better. 

THIRD    PEASANT.  * 

I  have  neither,  and  will  venture. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That's  right.     A  gallant  carle,  and  fit  to  be 
A  soldier.     I  '11  promote  you  to  the  ranks 
In  the  prince's  body-guard — if  you  succeed  ; 
And  you  shall  have  besides  in  sparkling  coin 
Two  thalers. 

THIRD    PEASANT. 

No  more  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Out  upon  your  avarice  ; 
Can  that  low  vice  alloy  so  much  ambition  ? 
I  tell  thee,  fellow,  that  two  thalers  in 
Small  change  will  subdivide  into  a  treasure. 
Do  not  five  hundred  thousand  heroes  daily 
Risk  lives  and  souls  for  the  tithe  of  one  thaler  ? 
When  had  you  half  the  sum  ? 

THIRD    PEASANT. 

Never — but  ne  ti 
The  less  I  must  have  three. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Rave  you  forgot 
Whose  vassal  you  were  born,  knave  ? 

THIRD    PEASANT. 

No — the  prince  v 
And  not  the  stranger's. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Sirrah  !   in  the  prince's 
Absence,  I  'm  sovereign  ;  and  the  baron  is 
My  intimate  connexion  ; — "  Cousin  Idenstein  ! 
(Quoth  he)  you  '11  order  out  a  dozen  villains." 
And  so,  you  villains !  troop — march — march,  I  say 
And  if  a  single  dog's  ear  of  this  packet 
Be  sprinkled  by  the  Oder — look  to  it ! 
For  every  page  of  paper,  shall  a  hide 
Of  yours  be  stretch'd  as  parchment  on  a  drum, 
Like  Ziska's  skin,  to  beat  alarm  to  all 
Refractory  vassals,  who  cannot  effect 
Impossibilities — Away,  ye  earth-worms  ! 

[Exit,  driving  them  •«» 
JOSEPHINE  (coming  forward). 
I  fain  would  shun  these  scenes,  too  oft  repeated, 
Of  feudal  tyranny  o'er  petty  victims  ; 
I  cannot  aid,  and  will  not  witness  such. 
Even  here,  in  this  remote,  unnamed,  duii  spo* 
The  dimmest  in  the  district's  map,  exist 
The  insolence  of  wealth  in  poverty 
O'er  something  poorer  still — (he  uride  cf  ran* 


304 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


In  servitude  oV.  something  stilt  more  servile ; 
And  vice  in  misery,  affecting  still 
A  tatter'd  splendour.     What  a  state  of  being! 
In  Tuscany,  my  own  dear  sunny  land, 
Our  nobles  were  but  citizens  and  merchants, 
Like  Cosmo.     We  had  evils,  but  not  such 
As  these ;  and  our  all-ripe  and  gushing  valleys 
Made  poverty  more  cheerful,  where  each  herb 
Was  in  itself  a  ineal,  and  every  vine 
Rain'd,  as  it  were,  the  beverage  which  makes  glad 
The  heart  of  man  ;  and  the  ne'er  unfelt  sun 
(But  rarely  clouded,  and  when  clouded,  leaving 
His  warmth  behind  in  memory  of  his  beams) 
Makes  the  worn  mantle,  and  the  thin  robe,  less 
Oppressive  than  an  emperor's  jewell'd  purple. 
But,  here !  the  despots  of  the  north  appear 
To  imitate  the  ice-wind  of  their  clime, 
Searching  the  shivering  vassal  through  his  rags, 
To  wring  his  soul — as  the  bleak  elements 
His  form.     And  't  is  to  be  amongst  these  sovereigns 
My  husband  pants  !   and  such  his  pride  of  birth—- 
That twenty  years  of  usage,  such  as  no 
Father,  born  in  an  humble  state,  could  nerve 
His  soul  to  persecute  a  son  withal, 
Hath  changed  no  atom  of  his  early  nature ; 
But  I,  born  nobly  also,  from  my  father's 
Kindness  was  taught  a  different  lesson.     Father ! 
May  thy  long-tried  and  now  rewarded  spirit 
Look  down  on  us,  and  our  so  long-desired 
Ulric !  I  love  my  son,  as  thou  didst  me  ! 
What's  that?  Thou,  Werner!  can  it  be:  and  thus! 
Enter  WERNER  hastily,  with  the  knife  in  his  hand,  by 
the  secret  panel,  which  he  closes  hurriedly  after  him. 
WERNER  (not  at  first  recognising  her). 

Discover'd  !  then  I  '11  stab (recognising  her). 

Ah!  Josephine, 
*Vhy  art  thou  not  at  rest  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

What  rest  ?  My  God ! 
vVhat  doth  this  mean ? 

WERNER  (shelving  a  rouleau). 

Here 's  gold — gold,  Josephine 
Will  rescue  us  from  this  detested  dungeon. 

JOSEPHINE. 
And  how  obtam'd  ?— that  knife  ! 

WERNER. 

'T  is  bloodless— yet. 
Iway — we  must  to  our  chamber. 
JOSEPHINE. 

But  whence  com'st  thou  ? 

WERNER. 

Ask  not !  but  let  us  think  where  we  shall  go— 
Tliis — this  will  make  us  way.  (showing  the  gold) — 

I  'II  fit  them  now. 
JOSEPHINE. 
dare  not  think  thee  guilty  of  dishonour. 

WERNER. 

Dishonour. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  have  said  it. 

WERNER. 

Let  us  hence : 
I'  is  the  last  night,  1  trust,  that  we  need  pass  here. 

JOSEPHINE 
tnc1  not  the  worst,  I  hopo 


WERNER. 

Hope  !  I  make  sure. 
Jut  let  us  to  our  chamber. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yet  one  question ! 
What  hast  thou  done  ? 

WERNER  {fiercely'). 

Left  one  thing  undone,  whicn 
lad  made  all  well :  let  me  not  think  of  it. 
Away! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Alas,  that  I  should  doubt  of  thee ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

.4  Hall  in  the  same  Palace. 
Enter  IPENSTEIN  and  others. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Fine  doings !  goodly  doings !  honest  doings ! 

A  baron  pillaged  in  a  prince's  palace  ! 

Where,  till  this  hour,  such  a  sin  ne'er  was  heard  of. 

FRITZ. 

it  hardly  could,  unless  the  rats  despoil'd 
The  mice  of  a  few  shreds  of  tapestry. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh !  that  I  ere  should  live  to  see  this  day ! 
The  honour  of  our  city 's  gone  for  ever. 

FRITZ. 

Well,  but  now  to  discover  the  delinquent ; 
The  baron  is  determined  not  to  lose 
This  sum  without  a  search. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  so  am  I. 

FRITZ. 

But  whom  do  you  suspect? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Suspect !  all  people 
Without — within — above — below — Heaven  help  me ' 

FRITZ. 
Is  there  no  other  entrance  to  the  chamber  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

None  whatever. 

FRITZ. 

Are  you  sure  of  that? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Certain.     I  have  lived  and  served  here  since  mybirtn, 
And  if  there  were  such,  must  have  heard  of  such, 
Or  seen  it. 

FRITZ. 

Then  it  must  be  some  one  who 
Had  access  to  the  antechamber. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Doubtless. 

FRITZ. 

The  man  call'd  Werner 's  poor ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Poor  as  a  tniso  , 

But  lodged  so  far  off,  in  the  other  wing, 
By  which  there 's  no  communication  with 
The  baron's  chamber,  that  it  can't  be  he : 
Besides,  I  bade  him  "  good  night"  in  the  halt 
Almost  a  mile  off,  and  which  only  leads 
To  his  own  apartment,  about  the  same  time 
When  this  burglarious,  larcenous  felony 
Appears  to  have  been  committed. 


WERNER. 


39.'. 


FRITZ. 

There 's  another — 
The  stranger 

IDENSTEIN. 

The  Hungarian  ? 

FRITZ. 

He  who  help'd 
To  fish  the  baron  from  the  Oder. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Not 

Unlikely.     But,  hold — nyght  it  not  have  been 
One  of  the  suite  ? 

FRITZ. 

How?   We,  Sir! 

IDENSTEIN. 

No — not  yo«, 

But  some  of  the  inferior  knaves.     You  say 
The  baron  was  asleep  in  the  great  chair — 
The  velvet  chair — in  his  embroider'd  night-gown  ; 
His  toilet  spread  before  him,  and  upon  it 
A  cabinet  with  letters,  papers,  and 
Several  rouleaux  of  gold ;  of  which  one  only 
Has  disappear'd : — the  door  unbolted,  with 
No  difficult  access  to  any. 

FRITZ. 

Good  sir, 

Be  not  so  quick :  the  honour  of  the  corps, 
Which  forms  the  baron's  household,  's  unimpeach'd, 
From  steward  to  scullion,  save  in  the  fair  way 
Of  peculation  ;  such  as  in  accompts, 
Weights,  measures,  larder,  cellar,  buttery, 
Where  all  men  take  their  prey ;  as  also  in 
Postage  of  letters,  gathering  of  rents, 
Purveying  feasts,  and  understanding  with 
The  honest  trades  who  furnish  noble  masters  : 
But  for  your  petty,  picking,  downright  thievery, 
We  scorn  it  as  we  do  board-wages :  then 
Had  one  of  our  folks  done  it,  he  would  not 
Have  been  so  poor  a  spirit  as  to  hazard 
His  neck  for  one  rouleau,  but  have  swoop'd  all ; 
Also  the  cabinet,  if  portable. 

IDENSTEIN. 

There  is  some  sense  in  that 

FRITZ. 

No,  sir ;  be  sure 

T  was  none  of  our  corps  ;  but  some  petty,  trivial 
Picker  and  stealer,  vi  ithout  art  or  genius. 
The  only  question  is — Who  else  could  have 
Access,  save  the  Hungarian  and  yourself? 

IDENSTEIS. 

You  don't  mean  me  ? 

FRITZ. 

No,  sir ;  I  honour  more 
Four  talents 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  my  principles,  I  hope. 

FRITZ. 

Of  course.     But  to  the  point :  What 's  to  be  done  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Nothing — but  there 's  a  good  deal  to  be  said. 
We  '11  offer  a  reward  ;  move  heaven  and  earth, 
And  the  police  (though  there  's  none  nearer  than 
Frankfort);   post  notices  in  manuscript 
(For  we've  no  printer);   and  set  by  my  clerk 
To  rshd  them  (for  few  can,  save  he  and  I). 
We'll  ;end  out  villains  to  strip  beggars,  and 


Search  empty  pockets  ;   also,  to  arrest 
All  gypsies,  and  ill-clothed  and  sallow  people. 
Prisoners  we'll  have  at  least,  if  not  the  culprit  - 
And  for  the  baron's  gold — if  't  is  not  found, 
At  least  he  shall  have  the  full  satisfaction 
Of  melting  twice  the  substance  in  the  raising 
The  ghost  of  this  rouleau.     Here 's  alchymy 
For  your  lord's  losses  \ 

FRITZ. 

He  hath  found  a  better. 

IDENSTEIN.  , 

Where? 

FRITZ. 

In  a  most  immense  inheritance. 
The  late  Count  Siegendorf,  his  distant  kinsman, 
Is  dead  near  Prague,  in  his  castle,  and  my  lord 
Is  on  his  way  to  take  possession. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Was  there 
No  heir? 

FRITZ. 

Oh,  yes  ;  but  he  has  disappear'd 
Long  from  the  world's  eye,  and  perhaps  the  worm 
A  prodigal  son,  beneath  his  father's  ban 
For  the  last  twenty  years ;  for  whom  his  sire 
Refused  to  kill  the  fatted  calf;  and,  theref**- 
If  living,  he  must  chew  the  husks  still,     btu 
The  baron  would  find  means  to  silence  him, 
Were  he  to  re-appear :  he 's  politic, 
And  has  much  influence  with  a  certain  court. 

IDENSTEIN. 

He's  fortunate. 

FRITZ. 

'T  is  true,  there  is  a  grandson, 
Whom  the  late  count  reclaim'd  from  his  son's  hand* 
And  educated  as  his  heir ;  but  then 
His  birth  is  doubtful. 

IDENSTEIN. 

How  so  ? 

FRITZ. 

His  sire  made 

A  left-hand  love,  imprudent  sort  of  marriage, 
With  an  Italian  exile's  dark-eyed  daughter : 
Noble,  they  say,  too ;  but  no  match  for  such 
A  house  as  SiegendorPs.     The  grandsire  ill 
Could  brook  the  alliance  ;  and  could  ne'er  be  brought 
To  see  the  parents,  though  he  took  the  son. 

IDENSTEIN. 

If  he 's  a  lad  of  mettle,  he  may  yet 
Dispute  your  claim,  and  weave  a  web  that  may 
Puzzle  your  baron  to  unravel. 
FRITZ. 

Why, 

For  mettle,  he  has  quite  enough :  they  say, 
He  forms  a  happy  mixture  of  his  sire 
And  grandsire's  qualities, — impetuous  as 
The  former,  and  deep  as  the  latter  ;  but 
The  strangest  is,  that  he  too  disappear'd 
Some  months  ago. 

IDENSTEIN. 
The  devil  he  did' 

FRITZ. 

Why.  ye*. 

It  must  have  been  at  his  suggestion,  at 
An  hour  so  critical  as  was  the  eve 
Of  the  old  man's  death,  whose  heart  was  broken  bv  n- 


396 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


I1>ENSTEIN. 

fVas  there  no  cause  assign'd  ? 

FRITZ. 

Plenty,  no  doubt, 

And  none  perhaps  the  true  one.     Some  averr'd 
It  was  to  seek  his  parents ;  some,  because 
The  old  man  held  his  spirit  in  so  strictly 
(But  that  could  scarce  be,  for  he  doted  on  him): 
A  third  believed  he  wish'd  to  serve  in  war, 
But  peace  being  made  soon  after  his  'departure, 
He  might  have  since  return'd,  were  that  the  motive ; 
A  fourth  set  charitably  have  surmised, 
As  there  was  something  strange  and  mystic  in  him, 
That  in  the  wild  exuberance  of  his  nature, 
He  had  join'd  the  black  bands,  who  lay  waste  Lusatia, 
The  mountains  of  Bohemia  and  Silesia, 
Since  the  last  years  of  war  had  dwindled  into 
A  kind  of  general  condottiero  system 
Of  bandit  warfare  ;  each  troop  with  its  chief, 
And  all  against  mankind. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That  cannot  be. 

A  young  heir,  bred  to  wealth  and  luxury, 
To  risk  his  life  and  honours  with  disbanded 
Soldiers  and  desperadoes ! 

FRITZ. 

Heaven  best  knows ! 
But  there  are  human  natures  so  allied 
Unto  the  savage  love  of  enterprise, 
That  they  will  seek  for  peril  as  a  pleasure. 
I  've  heard  that  nothing  can  reclaim  your  Indian, 
Or  tame  the  tiger,  though  their  infancy 
Were  fed  on  milk  and  honey.     After  all, 
Vour  Wallenstein,  your  Tilly  and  Gustavus, 
Your  Bannicr,  and  your  Torstenson  and  Weimar, 
Were  but  the  same  thing  upon  a  grand  scale ; 
And  now  that  they  are  gone,  and  peace  proclaim'd, 
They  who  would  follow  the  same  pastime  must 
Pursue  it  on  their  own  account.     Here  comes 
The  baron,  and  the  Saxon  stranger,  who 
Was  his  chief  aid  in  yesterday's  escape, 
But  did  not  leave  the  cottage  by  the  Oder 
Until  this  morning. 

Enter  STRALENHEIM  and  ULRIC. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Since  you  have  refused 
All  compensation,  gentle  stranger,  save 
Inadequate  thanks,  you  almost  check  even  them, 
Making  me  feel  the  worthlessness  of  words, 
And  blush  at  my  own  barren  gratitude, 
They  seem  so  niggardly,  compared  with  what 
Your  courteous  courage  did  in  my  behalf. 

ULRIC. 
I  pray  you  press  the  theme  no  further. 

STRALENHEIM. 

But 

Can  I  not  serve  you  ?  You  are  young,  and  of 

That  mould  which  throws  out  heroes ;  fair  in  favour ; 

Brave,  I  know,  by  my  living  now  to  say  so, 

And,  doubtlessly,  with  such  a  form  and  heart, 

Would  look  into  the  fiery  eyes  of  war, 

As  ardently  for  glory  as  you  dared 

An  obscure  death  to  save  an  unknown  stranger 

In  an  as  perilous  but  opposite  element. 

You  8'*".  madr  for  the  service :  I  have  served ; 


Have  rank  by  birth  and  soldiersnip,  and  friends 

Who  shall  be  yours.    'Tis  true,  this  pause  of  peac# 

Favours  such  views  at  present  scantily ; 

But 't  will  not  last,  men's  spirits  are  too  stirririg  j 

And,  after  thirty  years  of  conflict,  peace 

Is  but  a  petty  war,  as  the  times  show  us 

In  every  forest,  or  a  mere  arm'd  truce. 

War  will  reclaim  his  own  ;  and,  in  the  mean  lime, 

You  might  obtain  a  post,  which  would  insure 

A  higher  soon,  and,  by  my  influence,  fail  not 

To  rise.     I  speak  of  Brandenburgh,  whereiv 

I  stand  well  with  the  elector ;  in  Bohemia, 

Like  you,  I  am  a  stranger,  and  we  are  now 

Upon  its  frontier. 

ULRIC. 

You  perceive  my  garb 
Is  Saxon,  and  of  course  my  service  due 
To  my  own  sovereign.     If  I  must  decline 
Your  offer,  't  is  with  the  same  feeling  which 
Induced  it. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Why,  this  is  mere  usury ! 
I  owe  my  life  to  you,  and  you  refuse 
The  acquittance  of  the  interest  of  the  debt, 
To  heap  more  obligations  on  me,  till 
I  bow  beneath  them. 

ULRIC. 

You  shall  say  so,  when 
I  claim  the  payment. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Well,  sir,  since  you  will  iiol 
You  are  nobly  born  ? 

ULRIC. 
I  've  heard  my  kinsmen  say  so 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your  actions  show  it.    Might  I  ask  your  name? 

ULRIC. 
Ulric. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Your  house's  ? 

ULRIC. 

When  I  'm  worthy  oi  it, 
I  '11  answer  you. 

STRALENHEIM   (dtide). 

Most  probably  an  Austrian, 
Whom  these  unsettled  times  forbid  to  boast 
His  lineage  on  these  wild  and  dangerous  frontiers, 
Where  the  name  of  his  country  is  abhorr'd. 

[Aloud  to  FRITZ  and  IDENSTE  rf 
So,  sirs !  how  have  you  sped  in  your  researches  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Indifferent  well,  your  excellency. 

8TRALENHEIM. 

Then 
I  am  to  deem  the  plunderer  is  caught? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Humph ! — not  exactly. 

STRALENREIM. 

Or  at  least  suspected. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Oh !  for  that  matter,  very  much  suspected. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Who  may  he  be? 

IDEN8TEIW. 

Why,  don't  you  know,  my  lord  ' 


WERNER. 


39: 


STRALK.M1KIM. 

How  snould  I  ?  I  was  fast  asleep. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  so 

Was  I,  and  that 's  the  cause  I  know  no  more 
Than  does  your  excellency. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Dolt! 

IDENSTEIN. 

Why,  if 

Four  lordslup,  being  robb'd,  don't  recognise 
The  rogue ;  how  should  I,  not  being  robb'd,  identify 
The  thief  among  so  many  ?  In  the  crowd, 
May  it  please  your  excellency,  your  thief  looks 
Exactly  like  the  rest,  or  rather  better : 
'T  is  only  at  the  bar  and  in  the  dungeon 
That  wise  men  know  your  felon  by  his  features  ; 
But  I  '11  engage,  that  if  seen  there  but  once, 
Whether  he  be  found  criminal  or  no, 
His  face  shall  be  so. 

STRALENHEIM   (to  FRITZ). 

Prithee,  Fritz,  inform  me 
What  hath  been  done  to  trace  the  fellow  ? 

FRITZ. 

Faith ! 
My  lord,  not  much  as  yet,  except  conjecture. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Besides  the  loss  (which,  I  must  own,  affects  me 
Just  now  materially),  I  needs  would  find 
The  villain  out  of  public  motives  ;  for 
So  dexterous  a  spoiler,  who  could  creep 
.Through  my  attendants,  and  so  many  peopled 
And  lighted  chambers,  on  my  rest,  and  snatch 
The  gold  before  my  scarce-closed  eyes,  would  soon 
Leave  bore  your  borough,  Sir  Intcndant ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

True; 
If  there  were  aught  to  carry  off,  my  lord. 

OLRIC. 

What  is  all  this  7 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  join'd  us  but  this  morning, 
And  have  not  heard  that  I  was  robb'd  last  night. 

DLRIC. 

Some  rumour  of  it  reach'd  me  as  I  pass'd 
The  outer  chambers  of  the  palace,  but 
I  know  no  further. 

STRALENHEIM. 

It  is  a  strange  business : 
The  intendant  can  inform  you  of  the  facts. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Most  willingly.     You  see 

STRALENHEIM  (impatiently). 

Defer  your  tale, 

Till  certain  of  the  hearer's  patience. 
IDENSTEIN. 

That 

Can  only  be  approved  by  proofs.     You  see 

gTRALENHEiM  (again interrupting  him,  and  address- 
ing ULRIC). 

In  short,  I  was  asleep  upon  a  chair, 
My  cabinet  before  me,  with  some  gold 
Upon  it  (more  than  I  much  like  to  lose, 
Though  in  part  only)  :  some  ingenious  person 
Contrived  to  glide  through  all  my  own  attendants 
Besides  those  of  the  place,  and  bore  away 
2*2 


A  hundred  golden  ducats,  which  to  find 

I  would  be  fain,  and  there 's  an  rnd  ;  perhaps 

You  (as  I  still  am  rather  faint),   vould  add 

To  yesterday's  great  obligation,  this, 

Though  slighter,  yet  not  slight,  o  aid  these  men 

(Who  seem  but  lukewarm)  in  r  ^covering  it  ? 

DLRIC. 

Most  willingly,  and  without  los  <  of  time — 
(To  IDENSTEIN).     Come  hither,  Mynheer ! 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  so  much  haste  boclet 

Right  little  speed,  and 

ULRIC. 

Standing  motionless. 
None  ;  so  let 's  march,  we  '11  talk  as  we  go  on. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But 

DLRIC. 

Show  the  spot,  and  then  I  '11  answer  you. 

FRITZ. 

I  will,  sir,  with  his  excellency's  leave. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Do  so,  and  take  yon  old  ass  with  you. 

FRITZ. 

Hence ! 
DLRIC. 

Come  on,  old  oracle,  expound  thy  riddle  ! 

[Exit  with  IDENSTEIN  and  FRIT* 

STRALENHEIM   (s&lus). 

A  stalwart,  active,  soldier-looking  stripling. 

Handsome  as  Hercules  ere  his  first  labour. 

And  with  a  brow  of  thought  beyond  his  years 

When  in  repose,  till  his  eye  kindle  up 

In  answering  yours.     I  wish  I  could  engage  him  ; 

I  have  need  of  some  such  spirits  near  me  now, 

For  this  inheritance  is  worth  a  struggle. 

And  though  I  am  not  the  man  to  yield  without  one, 

Neither  are  they  who  now  rise  up  between  me 

And  my  desire.     The  boy,  they  say,  's  a  bold  one : 

But  he  hath  play'd  the  truant  in  some  hour 

Of  freakish  folly,  leaving  fortune  to 

Champion  his  claims :  that 's  well.  The  father,  whom 

For  years  I  've  track'd,  as  does  the  blood-hound,  neve* 

In  sight,  but  constantly  in  scent,  had  put  me 

To  fault,  but  here  I  have  him,  and  that 's  belter. 

It  must  be  he  !  All  circumstance  proclaims  it ; 

And  careless  voices,  knowing  not  the  cause 

Of  my  inquiries,  still  confirm  it — Yes  ! 

The  man,  his  bearing,  and  the  mystery 

Of  his  arrival,  and  the  time  ;  the  account,  too, 

The  intendant  gave  (for  I  have  not  beheld  her) 

Of  his  wife's  dignified  but  foreign  aspect: 

Besides  the  antipathy  with  which  we  met, 

As  snakes  and  lions  shrink  back  from  each  other 

By  secret  instinct  that  both  must  be  foes 

Deadly,  without  being  natural  prey  to  either ; 

All — all — confirm  it  to  my  mind  :  however, 

We  '11  grapple,  ne'ertheless.     In  a  few  hours 

The  order  comes  from  Frankfort  >r  'hese  water* 

Rise  not  the  higher  (and  the  weather  favours 

Their  quick  abatement),  and  I  '11  have  him  sale 

Within  a  dungeon,  where  he  may  avouch 

His  real  estate  and  name  ;  and  there  's  no  harm  c>>n«. 

Should  he  prove  other  than  I  deem.     This  robbery 

(Save  for  the  actual  loss)  is  lucky  also  : 

He 's  poor,  and  that 's  suswcious — ho  t  unknown 


391 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


And  that '»  defenceless, — true,  we  have  no  proofs 
Of  guilt,  but  what  hath  he  of  innocence  ? 
Were  he  a  man  indifferent  to  my  prospects, 
In  other  bearings,  I  should  rather  lay 
The  inculpation  on  the  Hungarian,  who 
Hath  someth:'jig  which  I  like  not ;  and  alone 
Of  all  around,  except  the  intendant,  and 
The  prince's  household  and  my  own,  had  ingress 
Familiar  to  the  chamber. 

Enter  GABOR. 

Friend,  how  fare  you  ? 

OABOR. 

As  those  who  fare  well  every  where,  when  they 
Have  supp'J  and  slumber'd,  no  great  matter  how — 
And  you,  my  lord  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

Better  in  rest  than  purse : 
Mine  inn  is  like  to  cost  me  dear. 
OABOR. 

I  heard 

Of  your  late  hss :  but 't  is  a  trifle  to 
One  of  your  order. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  would  hardly  think  so 
Were  the  loss  yours. 

OABOR. 

I  never  had  so  much 

(At  once  I  in  mv  whole  life,  and  therefore  am  not 
Fit  to  decide.     But  I  came  here  to  seek  you. 
Your  couriers  are  turn'd  back — I  have  outstrip!  them, 
In  my  return. 

STRALENHEIM. 

You!— Why? 

6ABOR. 

I  went  at  day-break, 
To  watch  for  the  abatement  of  the  river, 
As  being  anxious  to  resume  my  journey. 
Your  messengers  were  all  check'd  like  myself; 
And,  seeing  the  case  hopeless,  I  await 
The  current's  pleasure. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Would  the  dogs  were  in  it ! 
Why  dia  tnev  not,  at  least,  attempt  the  passage  7 
I  nrder'a  jus  at  all  risks. 

CABOR. 

Could  you  order 

The  Oder  to  divide,  as  Moses  did 
The  Red  Sea  (scarcely  redder  than  the  flood 
Of  the  swoln  stream),  and  be  obcy'd,  perhaps 
They  might  have  ventured. 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  must  see  to  it : 

The  knaves !  the  slaves ! — but  they  shall  smart  for  this. 
[Exit  STRALENHEIM. 

6ABOR  (solus). 

There  goes  my  noble,  feudal,  self-will'd  baron  ! 
Epitome  of  what  brave  chivalry 
The  preux  chevaliers  of  the  good  old  times 
Have  left  us.     Yesterday  he  would  have  given 
His  lands  I  if  he  hath  any),  and,  still  dearer, 
His  sixteen  quarterings,  for  as  much  fresh  air 
A.S  would  hav.e  filled  a  bladder,  while  he  lay 
Gurgling  and  foaming  halfway  through  the  window 
Of  his  o'erset  ann  water-logg'd  conveyance ; 
And  now  be  storms  at  half  a  dozen  wretches 


Because  they  love  their  lives  too  !  Yet  he  's  righi 

'T  is  strange  they  should,  when  such  us  he  may  pul 

them 

To  hazard  at  his  pleasure.     Oh  !   thou  world ! 
Thou  art  indeeda  melancholy  jest !        [Exit  GABOB 


SCENE  II. 

The  Apartment  of  WERNER,  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  JOSEPHINE  and  ULRIC. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Stand  back,  and  let  me  look  on  thee  again ! 
My  Ulric  ! — my  beloved ! — can  it  be — 
After  twelve  years  ? 

ULRIC. 

My  dearest  mother ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yes! 

My  dream  is  realized — how  beautiful — 
How  more  than  all  I  sigh'd  for  !  Heaven  receive 
A  mother's  thanks ! — a  mother's  tears  of  joy  ! 
This  is  indeed  thy  work  ! — At  such  an  hour  too, 
He  comes  not  only  as  a  son  but  saviour. 

ULRIC. 

If  such  joy  await  me,  it  must  double 
What  I  now  feel,  and  lighten,  from  my  heart, 
A  part  of  the  long  debt  of  duty,  not 
Of  love  (for  that  was  ne'er  withheld) — forgive  me ' 
This  long  delay  was  not  my  fault. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  know  it. 

But  cannot  think  of  sorrow  now,  and  doubt 
If  I  e'er  felt  it,  't  is  so  dazzled  from 
My  memory,  by  this  oblivious  transport  •— • 
My  son ! 

Enter  WERNER. 

WERNER. 

What  have  we  here  ? — more  s'-rangers  ? 
JOSEPHINE. 

No  I 
Look  upon  him !  What  do  you  see  ? 

WERNEH. 

A  stripling, 

For  the  first  time 

ULRIC  ^kneeling). 
For  twelve  long  years,  my  father'. 

WERNER. 

Oh,  God ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

He  faints ! 

WERNER. 

No — I  am  better  now — 
Ulric !   (Embraces  him). 

ULRIC. 

My  father,  Siegendorf ! 

WERNER  (starting). 

Hush!  boy— 

The  walls  may  hear  that  name ! 
ULRIC. 

What  then? 

WERNER. 

Why,  «hen— 

But  we  will  talk  of  that  anon.     Remember, 
I  must  be  known  here  but  as  Werner.     Come! 
Come  to  my  arms  again !  Why,  thou  look'st  alJ 


WERNER. 


39!) 


should  have  been,  and  was  not.     Josephine ! 
Sure  't  is  no  father's  fondness  dazzles  me ; 
Hut  had  1  seen  that  form  amid  ten  thousand 
Youth  of  the  choicest,  my  heart  would  have  chosen 
This  for  my  son  ! 

ULRIC. 
And  yet  you  knew  me  not ! 

WERNER. 

Alas !  I  have  had  that  upon  my  soul 
Which  makes  me  look  on  all  men  with  an  eye 
That  only  knows  the  evil  at  first  glance. 

ULRKC. 

My  memory  served  me  far  more  fondly :  I 
Have  not  forgotten  aught ;  and  oft-times  in 
The  proud  and  princely  halls  of — (I  '11  not  name  them, 
As  you  say  that  'tis  perilous),  but  i'  the  pomp 
Of  your  sire's  feudal  mansion,  I  look'd  back 
To  the  Bohemian  mountains  many  a  sunset, 
And  wept  to  see  another  day  go  down 
O'er  thee  and  me,  with  those  huge  hills  between  us. 
They  shall  not  part  us  more. 

WERNER. 

I  know  not  that. 
Are  you  aware  my  father  is  no  more  ? 

ULRIC. 

Oh  heavens  !  I  left  him  in  a  green  old  age, 
And  looking  like  the  o:ik,  worn,  but  still  steady 
Amidst  the  elements,  whilst  younger  trees 
Fell  fast  around  him.  'T  was  scarce  three  months  since. 

WER.NER. 
Why  did  you  leave  him  ? 

JOSEPHINE   (embracing  ULRIC). 

Can  you  ask  that  question? 
Is  he  not  here  ? 

WERNER. 

True ;  he  hath  sought  his  parents, 
And  found  them ;  but,  oh !  how,  and  in  what  state  ? 

ULRIC. 

All  shall  be  better'd    What  we  have  to  do 
Is  to  proceed,  and  to  assert  our  rights, 
Or  rather  yours  ;  for  I  waive  all,  unless 
Your  father  has  disposed  in  such  a  sort 
Of  his  broad  lands  as  to  make  mine  the  foremost, 
So  that  I  must  prefer  my  claim  for  form : 
But  I  trust  better,  and  that  all  is  yours. 

WERNER. 

Hare  you  not  heard  of  Stralenheim  ? 
ULRIC. 

I  saved 

His  life  but  yesterday :  he 's  here. 
WERNER. 

You  saved 

The  serpent  who  will  sting  us  all ! 
ULRIC. 

You  speak 
Riddles :  what  is  this  Stralenheim  to  us  ? 

WERNER. 

Every  thing.     One  who  claims  our  fathers'  lands : 
Our  distant  kinsman,  and  our  nearest  foe. 

ULRIC. 

i  never  heard  his  name  till  now.    The  count, 
Indeed,  spoke  sometimes  of  a  kinsman,  who, 
If  his  own  line  should  fail,  might  be  remotely 
Involved  in  the  succession :  but  his  titles 
Were  never  named  before  me — and  what  then  7 
His  riyht  must  jield  to  ours. 


WERNER. 

Ay,  if  at  Prague  -• 

But  here  he  is  all-powerful ;   and  has  soread 
Snares  for  thy  father,  which,  if  hitherto 
He  hath  escaped  them,  is  by  fortune  not 
By  favour 

ULRIC. 

Doth  he  personally  know  you  * 

WERNER. 

No ;  but  he  guesses  shrewdly  at  my  person, 
As  he  betray'd  last  night ;  and  I,  perhaps, 
But  owe  my  temporary  liberty 
To  his  uncertainty. 

ULRIC. 

I  think  you  wrong  him, 

(Excuse  me  for  the  phrase)  ;  but  Stralenheim 
Is  not  what  you  prejudge  him,  or,  if  so, 
He  owes  me  something  both  for  past  and  present ; 
I  saved  his  life,  he  therefore  trusts  in  me ; 
He  hath  been  plunder'd  too,  since  he  came  hither ; 
Is  sick  ;   a  stranger ;   and  as  such  not  now 
Able  to  trace  the  villain  who  hath  robb'd  him  ; 
I  have  pledged  myself  to  do  so ;   and  the  business 
Which  brought  me  here  was  chiefly  that :  but  I 
Have  found,  in  searching  for  another's  dross, 
My  own  whole  treasure — you,  my  parents ! 
WERNER   (agitatedly). 

Who 

Taught  you  to  mouth  that  name  of  "  villain  ?" 
ULRIC. 

WhU 
More  noble  name  belongs  to  common  thieves  ? 

WERNER. 

Who  taught  you  thus  to  brand  an  unknown  being 
With  an  infernal  stigma  ? 

ULRIC. 

My  own  feelings 
Taught  me  to  name  a  ruffian  from  his  deeds. 

WERNER. 

Who  taught  you,  long-sought,  and  ill-found  boy  !  thai 
It  would  be  safe  for  my  own  son  to  insult  me  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  named  a  villain.    What  is  there  in  common 
With  such  a  being  and  my  father  ? 

WERNER. 


That  ruffian  is  thy  father ! 


Every  thing ! 


JOSEPHINE. 

Oh,  my  son ! 

Believe  him  not — and  yet ! (Her  voice  falters. } 

ULRIC  (starts,  looks  earnestly  at  WERNER,  and  tht* 
says  slowly). 

And  you  avow  it  ? 

WERNER. 

Ulric!  before  you  dare  despise  your  father, 
Learn  to  divine  and  judge  his  actions.     Young, 
Rash,  new  to  life,  and  rear'd  in  luxury's  lap, 
Is  it  for  you  to  measure  passion's  force 
Or  misery's  temptation  ?  Wait — (not  long, 
I  cometh  like  the  night,  and  quickly) — Wait! — 
Wait  till,  like  me,  your  hopes  are  blighted — till 
Sorrow  and  shame  are  handmaids  of  your  cabin  , 
Famine  and  poverty  your  guests  at  table ; 
Despair  your  bed- fellow — then  rise,  but  not 
From  sleep,  and  judge  !  Should  that  day  e'er 
Should  you  see  then  the  serpent,  who  hath  coil'd 


«00 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


f  Iimstlf  around  all  that  it  dear  and  noble 

Of  you  and  yours,  lie  slumbering  in  your  path, 

With  but  hit  (bids  between  your  steps  and  happiness, 

When  fce,  who  tires  but  to  tear  from  you  name, 

Lands,  life  itself;  Des  at  your  mercy,  with 

Chance  your  conductor ;  midnight  for  your  mantle ; 

The  bare  knife  in  your  hand,  and  earth  asleep, 

Even  to  your  deadliest  foe ;  and  be  as 'twere 

Inviting  death,  by  looking  like  it,  while 

Hu  death  alone  can  save  you : — Thank  your  God ! 

If  then,  like  me,  content  with  petty  plunder, 

Vou  turn  aside 1  did  so. 

CLRIC. 

But 

WER5EH   (abruptly). 


I  win  not  brook  a  hi 


Hear  me ! 
irce  dare 


Listen  to  my  own  (if  that  be  human  still)— 
Hear  me  !  you  do  not  know  this  man — I  do. 
He  's  mean,  deceitful,  avaricious.    You 
Deem  yourself  safe,  as  young  and  brave  ;  but  learn 
None  are  secure  from  desperation,  few 
From  subtilty.    My  worst  foe,  Stralenheim, 
Housed  in  a  prince's  palace,  couch'd  within 
A  prince's  chamber,  lay  below  my  knife ! 
An  instant — a  mere  motion — the  least  impulse — 
Bad  swept  him  and  all  (ears  of  mine  from  earth. 
He  was  within  my  power — my  knife  was  raised- 
Withdrawn — and  I  'm  in  his:  are  you  not  so? 
Who  tells  you  that  he  knows  you  not  ?    Who  says 
He  hath  not  lured  you  here  to  end  you,  or 
To  plunge  you,  with  your  parents,  in  a  dungeon  ? 

[Hepautn. 

ULRIC. 

Proceed — proceed! 

WERXER. 

Me  he  hath  ever  known, 
And  hunte-1  through  each  change  of  time — name — 


And  why  not  you  J  Are  you  more  versed  in  men  ? 
He  wound  snares  round  me ;  flung  along  my  path 
Reptiles,  whom,  in  my  youth,  I  would  have  spurn' d 
Even  from  my  presence :  but,  in  spurning  now, 
F9  only  with  fresh  venom.    Will  you  be 
More  patient  ?  Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there  are  crimes 
Made  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
Which  nature  cannot  master  or  forbear. 

CLRIC  (look*  Jim  at  kern,  and  that  at  JOSEPHINE). 
My  mother! 

WERrER. 

Ay !  I  thought  so :  you  have  now 
Only  one  parent.     I  have  lost  alike 
Father  and  son,  and  stand  alone 

ULRIC. 

But  stay! 

[WERXER  ruthe*  out  of  the  chamber. 
JOSEPHINE  (to  CLRIC). 
Follow  him  not,  until  this  storm  of  passion 
Abates.    Thmk'st  thou  that  were  it  well  for  him 
I  had  not  followed  ? 

CLRIC. 

I  obey  you,  mother, 

Althoog»>  reluctantly.     My  first  act  shall  not 
8*  one  of  disc  bedience. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Oh  '  he  is  jjooC . 


Condemn  him  not  from  his  mvn  month,  out  trust 
To  me  who  hare  borne  sr>  much  with  him,  and  for  him 
That  this  is  but  the  surface  of  his  soul, 
And  that  the  depth  is  rich  in  better  things. 

ULRIC. 

These  then  are  but  my  father's  principles ! 
My  mother  thinks  not  with  him  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Nor  doth  he 

Think  as  he  speaks.     Alas !  long  years  of  grief 
Have  made  him  sometimes  thus. 
ULRIC. 

Explain  to  me 

More  clearly,  then,  these  claims  of  Stralenheim, 
That,  when  I  see  the  subject  in  its  bearings, 
I  may  prepare  to  face  him,  or,  at  least, 
To  extricate  you  from  your  present  perils. 
I  pledge  myself  to  accomplish  this — but  would 
I  had  arrived  a  few  hours  sooner ! 
JOSEPHI.NE. 

Ay! 
Hadst  thou  but  done  so ! 

Enter  GABOR  and  IDEJCSTEIJT,  with  Attendants. 
6ABOR  (to  ULRIC). 

I  have  sought  you,  comrade. 
So  this  is  my  reward ! 

ULRIC 

What  do  you  mean  ? 
OABOR. 

'S  death !  have  I  lived  to  these  years,  and  for  this  ? 
(  To  iDEirsxEia).  But  for  your  age  aad  folly,  I  would- 

IDE9STEIK. 

Helj 
Hands  off  I  touch  an  intendant ! 

OABOR. 

Do  not  think 

I  '11  honour  you  so  much  as  to  save  your  throat 
From  the  Ravenstone,1  by  choking  you  myself! 

IDESSTE1N. 

I  thank  you  for  the  respite  ;  but  there  are 
Those  who  have  greater  need  of  it  than  me. 

ULRIC. 
Unriddle  this  vile  wrangling,  or 

GABOR. 

At  once,  then. 

The  baron  has  been  robb'd,  and  upon  me 
This  worthy  personage  his  deign'd  to  fix 
His  kind  suspicions — me  !  whom  he  ne'er  saw 
Till  yester  evening. 

IDENSTEIX. 

Wouldst  hart  nw  suspect 
My  own  acquaintances  ?    You  hi  «  to  learn 
That  I  keep  better  company. 

OABOR. 

You  shaU 

Keep  the  best  shortly,  and  the  last  for  all  men — 
The  worms  !  you  hound  of  malice ! 

[GABOR  teiza  on  him. 
ULRIC  (interfering). 

Nay,  no  violence : 
He 's  old,  unarm'd — be  temperate,  Gabor  ! 

OABOR    (UUiHg  ^olDEXSTEIX). 

True- 


1  The  Ravrnstone,  "  Rabenstein."  »  the  ttnu  gibbet  at 
Germany,  and  so  called  from  lU«ravpn»  pe-'hiuc  on  it 


WEE: 


40! 


lam  a  Cool  to  lose  myself  became 

Fools  dean  me  knave :  k  k  their  homage. 

CLSUC 


F»r«  TV;  ? 


How 


I  1!  BUT  SO. 


EH  him! 


OASOX. 

I  in  nhn    frrr  im  * 

IDEjrtTZXJr. 


Than  TOO  iba^  do,  if  lfaer«  be  w»if  •  or 
The  baron  rial  cw:*  ! 


Poet  kt  abet  yaa  •  yoar 

Does  he  not? 


CASOB. 

Tfam  next  tiiM  let  him 


Buthe«b< 


Wei  w! 


Si 


MjaoUeloni,  Inhere! 


Dare  w/'Ji  TOO  ? 

0ABOB* 

YOB  faow  hest,  if  j.BtodijV 
Flood  has  Bot  wasB*d  away  roar  i 
Bwi  that's  a  trifle.    I  su 
IB  Bhrases  not  eqonoeal,  hy  JOB 


Opprac'd  kern  by  the*e 
Toyo.fcr 


To  look  fcr  dneves  at  hocae  vere  part  of  It, 
bat,  •  oae  vord,  if  I 

—  "    1-*  T"J^-I*.    -T*.  ^1   ^*r   1  !T-i-l 

Worthy  to  be  M  of  *  warn  Be  KM. 


I  ittr  ant  irfr  tV  hirti.  iia«t  IMMJIILI, 

Of  what  I  hate  done  for  jou.  and  «  hat  jou  owe  a% 


TLii  ^d  ^r^.^  -M.  \  v*-.  af,  -,- 
Yowgoid.     I  abo  koow  that  were  I  erea 
The  nBain  I  am  dcon'd,  the  ccroce  reader'd 
So  rceeadjr  wodd  act  perawt  jon  to 

v,  -.-.»  lealfc,  Bweyl  dna^h  =:  H 


Swdb  »  worid  leave  yoar  «MtckeoB  hot  a  IbdL 
;  I  dema»d  of  JTMI 


From  TOOT  OWT,  l~_n  » 

Jll  ttBdioB  of  their  a 

Yoa  owe  to  t 

A«d  Mever  thoa^t  to  hue  aafcM  *o  i 


'Sdeath!  who, 
M  •e'er  had  k? 


Maybewf 

Except  soci 

Art  hot,  sir. 

Before  the hreath of  mi «iili,  and  hearai 

STBALKSHEEM. 


We  fcwad  JM  •  the  Oder : 

WowVi  we  hwl  let  ;«•  there! 


ISce*nr*dlBe»;  hwtawght  km  ean'd 


402 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


Decline  all  question  of  your  guilt  or  innocence  ? 

OABOR. 

My  lord,  my  lord,  this  is  mere  cozenage ; 

A  vile  equivocation  :  you  well  know 

Your  doubts  are  certainties  to  all  around  you — 

Your  looks,  a  voice — your  frowns,  a  sentence ;  you 

Are  practising  your  power  on  me — because 

You  have  it ;  but  beware,  you  know  not  whom 

You  strive  to  tread  on. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Threat's!  thou  ? 

GABOR. 

Not  so  much 

As  you  accuse.     You  hint  the  basest  injury, 
And  I  retort  it  with  an  open  warning. 

STRALENHEIM. 

As  you  have  said,  't  is  true  I  owe  you  something, 
For  which  you  seem  disposed  to  pay  yourseif. 

OABOR. 
Not  with  your  gold. 

STRALENHEIM. 

With  bootless  insolence. 
[To  his  Attendant*  and  IDENSTEIN. 
You  need  not  further  to  molest  this  man, 
But  let  him  go  his  way.     Ulric,  good  morrow  ! 
[Exit  STRALENHEIM,  IDENSTEIN,  and  Attendants. 

OABOR  (following). 

I  '11  after  him,  and 

ULRIC  (stopping  him). 
Not  a  step. 

CABOR. 

Who  shall 
Oppose  me  7 

ULRIC. 

Your  own  reason,  with  a  moment's 
Thought. 

OABOR. 

Must  I  bear  this  ? 

ULRIC. 

Pshaw !  we  all  must  bear 
The  arrogance  of  something  higher  than 
Ourselves — the  highest  cannot  temper  Satan, 
Nor  the  lowest  his  vicegerents  upon  earth. 
I  've  seen  you  brave  the  elements,  and  bear 
Things  which  had  made  this  silk-worm  cast  his  skin — 
And  shrink  you  from  a  few  sharp  sneers  and  words  ? 

GABOR. 

Must  I  bear  to  be  deem'd  a  thief?     If  't  were 
A  bandit  of  the  woods,  I  could  have  borne  it- 
There  's  something  daring  in  it — but  to  steal 
The  moneys  of  a  slumbering  man  ! — 

ULRIC. 

It  seems,  then, 
You  are  not  guilty. 

GABOR. 

Do  I  hear  aright  ? 
rou,  too! 

'JLRIC. 

I  merely  ask'd  a  simple  question. 

GABOR. 

(f  foe  judge  ask'd  me,  I  would  answer  "  No  " — 
T  o  you  I  answer  thus.  [He  draws. 

ULRIC  (drawing). 

Withal)  my  heart. 


JOSEPHINE. 

Without  there  !  Ho  !  help  !  help !— Oh !  God  !  here  'i 

murder  !  [Exit  JOSEPHINE,  shrieking. 

GABOR  and  VLRicJight.     GABOR  is  disarmed  just  iu 

STRALENHEIM,  JOSEPHINE,  IDENSTEIN,  etc.  re- 

enter. 

JOSEPHINE. 
Oh !  glorious  Heaven  !  he 's  safe  ! 

STRALENHEIM   (to  JOSEPHINE). 

Who's  safe  ? 

JOSEPHINE. 

My 

ULRIC  (interrupting  her  with  a  stern  look,  and  turning 
afterwards  to  STRALENHEIM). 

Both! 
Here 's  no  great  harm  done. 

STRALENHEIM. 

What  hath  caused  all  this  ? 
ULRIC. 

FOK,  baron,  I  believe ;  but  as  the  effect 
Is  harmless,  let  it  not  disturb  you. — Gabor ! 
There  is  your  sword  ;  and  when  you  bare  it  next, 
Let  it  not  be  against  your  friends. 

[ULRIC  pronounces  the  last  words  slowly  and 
emphatically  in  a  low  voice  to  GABOR. 

GABOR. 

I  thank  you 
Less  for  my  life  than  for  your  counsel. 

STRALENHEIM. 

These 
Brawls  must  end  here. 

GABOR  (taking  his  sword). 
They  shall.     You  have  wrong'd  me,  U-nc, 
More  with  your  unkind  thoughts  than  sword ;  I  would 
The  last  were  in  my  bosom  rather  than 
The  first  in  yours.     I  could  have  borne  yon  noble's 
Absurd  insinuations — Ignorance 
And  dull  suspicion  are  a  part  of  his 
Entail  will  last  him  longer  than  his  lands. — 
But  I  may  fit  him  yet: — you  have  vanquish'd  me. 
I  was  the  fool  of  passion  to  conceive 
That  I  could  cope  with  you,  whom  I  had  seen 
Already  proved  by  greater  perils  than 
Rest  in  this  arm.     We  may  meet  by  and  by, 
However — but  in  friendship.  [Exit  G  IBOR 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  will  brook 

No  more  !     This  outrage  following  up  his  insult! , 
Perhaps  his  guilt,  has  cancell'd  all  the  little 
I  owed  him  heretofore  for  the  so  vaunted 
Aid  which  he  added  to  your  abler  succour. 
Ulric,  you  are  not  hurt  ? 

ULRIC. 
Not  even  by  a  scratcn. 

STRALENHEIM  (to  IDENSTEIN). 

Intendant !  take  your  measures  to  secure 
Yon  fellow  :  I  revoke  my  former  lenity. 
He  shall  be  sent  to  Frankfort  with  an  escort, 
The  instant  that  the  waters  have  abated 

IDENSTEIN. 

Secure  him !  he  hath  got  his  swora  again — 
And  seems  to  know  the  use  on 't ;  't  is  his  tr&de 
Belike : — I  'm  a  civilian. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Fool !  are  not 
Yon  score  of  vassals  dogging  at  vour  hecln 


WERNER. 


403 


Enough  to  seize  a  dozen  such  ?  Hence !  after  him ! 

umic. 
Huron,  f  Jo  beseech  you  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  must  be 
Oley'd      No  words  ! 

iDiwrrxnr. 

Well,  if  it  must  be  so— 

March,  vassals !  I  'm  your  leader — and  will  bring 
The  rear  up  :   a  wise  general  never  should 
Kxpose  his  precious  life— on  which  all  rests. 
i  like  that  article  of  war. 

[Exit  IDENSTEIN  and  Attendant*. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Come  hither, 

Ulric : — what  does  that  woman  here  ?  Oh !  now 
I  recognise  her,  't  is  the  stranger's  wife 
Whom  they  name  "  Werner.!' 
ULRIC. 

'T  is  his  name. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Indeed! 
Is  not  your  husband  visible,  fair  dame? 

JOSEPHINE. 

Who  seeks  him? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No  one — for  the  present :  but 
I  fain  would  parley,  Ulric,  with  yourself 
Alone. 

ULRIC. 
I  will  retire  with  you. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Not  so. 

Ytu  art.  the  latest  stranger,  and  command 
All  places  here. 
(Aside  to  ULRIC  as  she  goes  out).  Oh  !  Ulric,  have  a 

care — 
Remember  what  depends  on  a  rash  word ! 

ULRIC  (to  JOSEPHINE). 
Fear  not ! — 

[Exit  JOSEPHINE. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ulric,  I  think  that  I  may  trust  you  ? 

You  saved  my  life — and  acts  like  these  beget 

Unbounded  confidence. 

ULRIC. 

Say  on. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Mysterious 

And  long-engender'd  circumstances  (not 
To  be  now  fully  enter'd  on)  have  made 
This  man  obnoxious — perhaps  fatal  to  me. 

ULRIC. 

Who?  Gabor,  the  Hungarian? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No— this  "Werner"— 
Witn  the  false  name  and  habit. 

ULRIC. 

How  can  this  be  7 

He  is  the  poorest  of  the  poor — and  yellow 
Sickness  sits  cavern'd  in  his  hollow  eye : 
The  map  is  helpless. 

STRALENHEIM. 

He  is — 't  is  no  matter — 
But  »f  h<?  be  »he  man  I  deem  (and  that 
fie  is  so,  all  around  us  here — and  much 
Thai  is  not  hf;re — confirm  my  apprehension), 


He  must  be  made  secure,  ere  twelve  hrurs  further. 

•.•LKIC. 
And  what  have  1  to  do  with  this  ' 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  have  sent 

To  Frankfort,  to  the  governor,  my  friend — 
(I  have  the  authority  to  do  so  by 
An  order  of  the  house  of  Brandenburgh) 
For  a  fit  escoit — but  this  cursed  flood 
Bars  all  access,  and  may  do  for  some  hours. 

ULRIC. 
It  is  abating. 

8TRALENHEIM. 

That  is  well. 

ULRIC. 

But  how 
Am  I  concem'd  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

As  one  who  did  so  much 
For  me,  you  cannot  be  indifferent  to 
That  which  is  of  more  import  to  me  than 
The  life  you  rescued. — Keep  your  eye  on  him  ! 
The  man  avoids  me,  knows  that  I  now  know  him.— 
Watch  him ! — as  you  would  watch  the  wild  boar  when 
He  makes  against  you  in  the  hunter's  gap — 
Like  him  he  must  be  spear'd. 
ULRIC. 

Why  so  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

He  stands 

Between  me  and  a  brave  inheritance. 
Oh !  could  you  see  it !  But  you  shall. 
ULRIC. 

I  hope  so, 

STRALENHEIM. 

It  is  the  richest  of  the  rich  Bohemia, 
Unscathed  by  scorching  war.     It  lies  so  near 
The  strongest  city,  Prague,  that  fire  and  sword 
Have  skimm'd  it  lightly :  «o  that  no-.v,  besides 
Its  own  exuberance,  it  bears  double  value 
Confronted  with  whole  realms  afar  and  near 
Made  deserts. 

ULRIC. 
You  describe  it  faithfully. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Ay — could  you  see  it,  you  would  say  so— but 
As  I  have  said,  you  shall. 

ULKIC. 

I  accept  the  omen. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Then  claim  a  recompense  from  it  and  me, 
Such  as  both  may  make  worthy  your  acceptance 
And  services  to  me  and  mine  for  ever. 

ULRIC. 

And  this  sole,  sick,  and  miserable  wretch- 
This  wayworn  stranger — stands  between  you  and 
This  paradise? — (As  Aciam  did  between 
The  devil  and  his.) — [Aside.] 

STRALENHEIM. 

He  doth. 

ULRIC. 

Hath  he  no  right  • 

STRALENHEIM. 

Right!  none.     A  disinherited  prodigal, 

Who  for  these  twenty  years  disgraced  his  lireage 

In  al!  his  acts-   hut  chiefly  by  his  Tnai  -iage. 


404 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


And  living  amidst  commerce- fetching  burghers, 
And  dabbling  merchants,  in  a  mart  of  Jews. 

ULRIC. 
He  has  a  wife,  then  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  'd  be  sorry  to 

Call  such  your  mother.     You  have  seen  the  woman 
He  callt  his  wife. 

ULRIC. 
Is  she  not  so  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

No  more 

Than  he 's  your  father : — an  Italian  girl, 
The  daughter  of  a  banish'd  man,  who  lives 
On  love  and  poverty  with  this  same  Werner. 

ULRIC. 
They  are  childless,  then  ? 

STRALENHEIM. 

There  is  or  was  a  bastard, 
Whom  the  old  man — the  grandsire  (as  old  age 
Is  ever  doting)  took  to  warm  his  bosom, 
As  it  went  chilly  downward  to  the  grave  : 
But  the  imp  stands  not  in  my  path — he  has  fled, 
No  one  knows  whither  ;  and  if  he  had  not, 
His  claims  alone  were  too  contemptible 
To  stand. Why  do  you  smile  ? 

ULRIC. 

At  your  vain  fears  : 

A  poor  man  almost  in  his  grasp — a  child 
Of  doubtful  birth — can  startle  a  grandee ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

All 's  to  be  fear'd,  where  all  is  to  be  gain'd. 

ULRIC. 
True ;  and  aught  done  to  save  or  to  obtain  it. 

STRALEXHEIM. 

You  have  harp'd  the  very  string  next  to  my  heart. 
I  may  depend  upon  you  ? 

ULRIC. 

'T  were  too  late 
To  doubt  it, 

STRALENHEIM. 

Let  no  foolish  pity  shake 
Your  bosom  (for  the  appearance  of  the  man 
Is  pitiful) — he  is  a  wretch,  as  likely 
To  have  robb'd  me  as  the  fellow  more  suspected, 
Except  that  circumstance  is  less  against  him ; 
He  being  lodged  far  off,  and  in  a  chamber 
Without  approach  to  mine ;  and,  to  say  truth, 
I  think  too  well  of  blood  allied  to  mine, 
To  deem  he  would  descend  to  such  an  act ; 
Besides,  he  was  a  soldier,  and  a  brave  one 
Once — though  too  rash. 

ULRIC. 

And  they,  my  lord,  we  know 
By  your  experience,  never  plunder  till 
They  knock  the  brains  out  first — which  makes  them 

heirs, 
Not  thieve?      The  dead,  who  feel  nought,  can  lose 

notning, 

N«r  e'er  be  robb'd  :  their  spous  are  a  bequest — 
No  more. 

STRALENHEIM. 

Go  to :  you  are  a  wag.     But  say 
i  may  he  sure  you  Ml  keep  an  eye  on  this  man, 
And  let  me  know  his  slightest  movement  towards 
Oonc«flment  or  escape? 


ULRIC. 

Ycu  may  be  sure 

You  yourself  could  not  watch  him  more  than  I 
Will  be  his  sentinel. 

STRALENHEIM. 

By  this  you  make  me 
Yours,  and  for  ever. 

ULRIC. 
Such  is  my  intention. 

[Exeunt 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I. 

A.  Hall  in  the  tame  Palace,  from  whence  the  secret 
Passage  leads. 

Enter  WERNER  and  GABOR. 

GABOR. 

Sir,  I  have  told  my  tale ;  if  it  so  please  you 
To  give  me  refuge  for  a  few  hours,  well — 
If  not — I  '11  try  my  fortune  elsewhere. 

WERNER. 

How 

Can  I,  so  wretched,  give  to  misery 

A  shelter? — wanting  such  myself  as  much 

As  e'er  the  hunted  deer  a  covert 

6ABOR. 

Or, 

The  wounded  lion  his  cool  cave.  Methinks 
You  rather  look  like  one  would  turn  at  bay, 
And  rip  the  hunter's  entrails. 

WERNER. 

Ah! 

GABOR. 

I  care  not 

If  it  be  so,  being  much  disposed  to  do 
The  same  myself;  but  will  you  shelter  me  ? 
I  am  oppress'd  like  you — and  poor  like  you—- 
Disgraced— 

WERNER  (abruptly). 
Who  told  you  that  I  was  disgraced  7 

OABOR. 

No  one ;  nor  did  I  say  you  were  so :  with 
Your  poverty  my  likeness  ended  ;  but 
I  said  /  was  so — and  would  add,  with  truth, 
As  undeservedly  as  you. 

WERNER. 

Again ! 
As/? 

OABOR. 

Or  any  other  honest  man. 

What  the  devil  would  you  have  ?  You  don't  believe  m* 
Guilty  of  this  base  theft  ? 

WERNER. 

No,  no — I  cannot, 

GABOR. 

Why,  that 's  my  heart  of  honour !  yon  young  gallant- 

Your  miserly  intendant,  and  dense  noble — 

All — all  suspected  me  ;  and  why  ?  because 

I  am  the  worst-clothed  and  least-named  amongst  them 

Although,  were  Momus'  lattice  in  our  breasts, 

My  soul  might  brook  to  open  it  more  widely 

Than  theirs  ;  but  thus  it  is — you  poor  and  Kelp.e**- 

Both  still  more  than  myself 


WERNER. 


40* 


WERNER. 

How  know  you  that  ? 

OABOR. 

f  ou  're  i  ight ;  I  asx  for  shelter  at  the  hand 

W  hjch  1  call  helpless  ;  if  you  now  deny  it, 

1  were  well  paid.     But  you,  who  seem  to  have  proved 

The  wholesome  bitterness  of  life,  know  well, 

By  sympathy,  that  all  the  outspread  gold 

Of  the  New  World,  the  Spaniard  boasts  about, 

Could  never  tempt  the  man  who  knows  its  worth, 

Weigh'd  at  its  proper  value  in  the  balance, 

Save  in  such  guise  (and  there  I  grant  its  power, 

Because  I  feel  it)  as  may  leave  no  nightmare 

Upon  his  heart  o'  nights. 

WERNER. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

6ABOR. 

Just  what  I  say ;  I  thought  my  speech  was  plain: 
You  are  no  thief— nor  I — and,  as  true  men, 
Should  aid  each  o'her. 

WERNER. 

It  is  a  damn'd  world,  sir. 
OABOR. 

So  is  the  nearest  of  the  two  next,  as 
The  priests  say  (and  no  doubt  they  should  know  best), 
Therefore  1  'U  stick  by  this — as  being  loth 
To  suffer  martyrdom,  at  least  with  such 
An  epitaph  as  larceny  upon  my  tomb. 
It  is  but  a  night's  lodging  which  I  crave  ; 
To-morrow  I  will  try  the  waters,  as 
The  dove  did,  trusting  that  they  have  al>    ed. 

WERNER. 
Abated  ?  is  there  hope  of  that  ? 

GABOR. 

There  was 

\t  noontide. 

WERNER. 
Then  we  may  be  safe, 

OABOR. 

Are  you 
In  peril? 

WERNER. 

Poverty  is  ever  so. 

GABOR. 

That  I  know  by  long  practice.    Will  you  not 
Promise  to  make  mine  less ! 

WERNER. 

Your  poverty  ? 
GABOR. 

No — you  don't  look  a  leech  for  that  disorder ; 
I  meant  my  peril  only :  you  've  a  roof, 
And  I  have  none ;  I  merely  seek  a  covert. 

WERNER. 

Rightly ;  for  how  should  such  a  wretch  as  I 
Have  gold  ? 

GABOR. 

Scarce  honestly,  to  say  the  truth  on't, 
Although  I  almost  wish  you  had  the  baron's. 

WERNER. 
Dare  you  insinuate  ? 

GABOR. 
What? 


To  whom  you  speak  ? 

2N 


WERNER. 

Are  you  aware 


GABOR. 

No ;  and  I  am  not  used 
Greatly  to  care.    (A  noise  heard -without).    Bat  far- -V' 
they  come ! 

WERNER. 

Who  come  ? 

GABOR. 

The  intendant  and  his  man-hounds  after  me . 
I  'd  face  them — but  it  were  in  vain  to  expect 
Justice  at  hands  like  theirs.    Where  shall  I  go  ? 
But  show  me  any  place.     1  do  assure  you, 
If  there  be  faith  in  man,  I  am  most  guiltless : 
Think  if  it  were  your  own  case ! 

WERNER  (aside). 

Oh,  just  God ! 
Thy  hell  is  not  hereafter !  Am  I  dust  still  ? 

GABOR. 

I  see  you  're  moved  ;  and  it  shows  well  in  you : 
I  may  live  to  requite  it. 

WERNER. 

Are  you  not 
A  spy  of  Stralenheim's  ? 

OABOR. 

Not  I !  a.-.d  if 
I  were,  what  is  there  to  espy  in  you  ? 
Although  I  recollect  his  frequent  question 
About  you  and  your  spouse,  might  lead  to  some 
Suspicion ;  but  you  best  know — what — and  why : 
I  am  his  deadliest  foe. 

WERNER. 

Ya*? 

GABOR. 

After  such 

A  treatment  for  the  service  which  in  part          . 
I  render'd  him — I  am  his  enemy  ; 
If  you  are  not  his  friend,  you  will  assist  me. 

WERNER 

Iwffl. 

GABOR. 

But  how  ? 

WERNER  (thawing  the  paneT). 
There  is  a  secret  spring ; 
Remember,  I  discover'd  it  by  chance, 
And  used  it  but  for  safety. 

GABOR. 

Open  it, 
And  I  wiH  use  it  for  the  same. 

WERNER. 

I  found  it, 

As  I  have  said :  it  leads  through  winding  walls, 
(So  thick  as  to  bear  paths  within  their  ribs, 
Yet  lose  no  jot  of  strength  or  stateliness) 
And  hollow  cells,  and  obscure  niches,  to 
I  know  not  whither ;  you  must  not  advance  : 
Give  me  your  word. 

OABOR. 

It  is  unnecessary : 

How  should  I  make  my  way  in  darkness,  through 
A  Gothic  labyrinth  of  unknown  windings  ? 

WERNEK. 

Yes,  but  who  knows  to  what  place  it  may  lead  7 
/  know  not — (mark  you  !)• — but  who  knows  it  might  no* 
Lead  even  into  the  chambers  of  your  foe  ? 
So  strangely  were  contrived  these  galleries 
By  our  Teutonic  fathers  in  old  days, 
When  man  built  less  against  the  elements 


106 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


fhan  his  next  neighbour.     You  must  not  advance 
Beyond  the  two  first  windings ;  if  you  do, 
(Albeit  I  never  pass'd  them),  I  '11  not  answer 
For  what  you  may  be  led  to. 

GABOR. 

But  I  will. 
A  thousand  thanks ! 

WERNER. 

You  '11  find  the  spring  more  obvious 
On  the  other  side ;  and,  when  you  would  return, 
[t  yields  to  the  least  touch. 

GABOR. 

I  '11  in — farewell ! 
[GABOR  goes  in  by  the  secret  panel. 

WERNER  (solus). 

What  have  I  done  ?  Alas !  what  had  I  done 
Before  to  make  this  fearful  ?  Let  it  be 
Still  some  atonement  that  I  save  the  man, 
Whose  sacrifice  had  saved  perhaps  my  own — 
They  come !  to  seek  elsewhere  what  is  before  them ! 
Enter  IDENSTEIN,  and  others. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Is  he  not  here  ?  He  must  have  vanish'd  then 

Thiough  the  dim  Gothic  glass  by  pious  aid 

Of  pictured  sam's,  upon  the  red  and  yellow 

C  asements,  through  which  the  sunset  streams  like  sunrise 

On  long  pearl-colour'd  beads  and  crimson  crosses, 

And  gilded  crosiers,  and  cross'd  arms,  and  cowls, 

And  helms,  and  twisted  armour,  and  long  swords, 

All  the  fantastic  furniture  of  windows, 

Dim  with  brave  knights  and  holy  hermits,  whose 

Likeness  and  fame  alike  rest  on  some  panes 

Of  crystal,  which  each  rattling  wind  proclaims 

As  frail  as  any  other  life  or  glory. 

He '»  gone,  however. 

WERNER. 

Whom  do  you  seek  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  villain ! 

WERNER. 

Why  need  you  come  so  far,  then  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

In  the  search 
Of  him  who  robb'd  the  baron. 

WERNER. 

Are  you  sure 
You  have  divined  the  man  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

As  sure  as  you 
Stand  there ;  but  where 's  he  gone  ? 

WERNER. 

Who? 

IDENSTEIN. 

He  we  sought. 

WERNER. 

¥  MI  see  he  a  not  here. 

IDENSTEIN. 

And  yet  we  traced  him 
Up  to  this  hall :  are  you  accomplices, 
Or  deal  vou  in  the  black  art 7 

WERNER. 

I  deal  plainly, 
fo  manv  men  the  blackest. 

IDENSTEIN. 

It  may  be 


I  have  a  question  or  two  for  yourself 
Hereafter ;  but  we  inuct  continue  now 
Our  search  for  t'  other. 

WERNER 

You  had  best  Degin 
Your  inquisition  now ;  I  may  not  be 
So  patient  always. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  should  like  to  know, 
In  good  sooth,  if  you  really  are  the  man 
That  Stralenheim  's  in  quest  of? 
WERNER. 

Insolent ! 
Said  you  not  that  he  was  not  here  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Yes,  one  : 

But  there 's  another  whom  he  tracks  more  keenly, 
And  soon,  it  may  be,  with  authority 
Both  paramount  to  his  and  mine.     But,  come  ! 
Bustle,  my  boys !  we  are  at  fault. 

[Exit  IDENSTEIN  and  Attendant* 

WERNER. 

In  what 

A  maze  hath  my  dim  destiny  involved  me ! 
And  one  base  sin  hath  done  me  less  ill  than     • 
The  leaving  undone  one  far  greater.     Down, 
Thou  busy  devil !  rising  in  my  heart ! 
Thou  art  too  late !  I  '11  nought  to  do  with  blood. 
Enter  ULRIC. 

ULRIC. 
I  sought  you,  father. 

WERNER. 

Is  't  not  dangerous  7 

ULRIC. 

No  ;  Stralenheim  is  ignorant  of  all 
Or  any  of  the  ties  between  tis :  more — 
He  sends  me  here  a  spy  upon  your  actions, 
Deeming  me  wholly  his. 

WERNER. 

I  cannot  think  it : 

'Tis  but  a  snare  he  winds  about  us  both, 
To  swoop  the  sire  and  son  at  once. 
ULRIC. 

I  cannot 

Pause  at  each  petty  fear,  and  stumble  at 
The  doubts  that  rise  like  briars  in  our  path, 
But  must  break  through  them  as  an  unarm'd  carle 
Would,  though  with  naked  limbs,  were  the  wolf  nistl»  ^ 
In  the  same  thicket  where  he  hew'd  for  bread  : 
Nets  are  for  thrushes,  eagles  are  not  caught  so  ; 
We  '11  overfly,  or  rend  them. 

WERNER. 

Show  me  how ! 

ULRIC. 

Can  you  not  guess  7 

WERNER. 

I  cannot, 
ULRIC. 

That  is  strange. 
Came  the  thought  ne'er  into  your  mind  Last  night  1 

WERNER. 

I  understand  you  not. 

ULRIC. 

Then  we  shall  never 

More  understand  each  other.     But  to  change 
The  topic 


WERNER. 


407 


WERNER. 

You  mean  to  pursue  it,  as 
T  is  of  our  safety . 

ULRIC. 

Right ;  I  stand  corrected. 
I  see  the  subject  now  more  clearly,  and 
Our  general  situation  in  its  bearings. 
The  waters  are  abating ;   a  few  hours 
Will  bring  his  summon'd  myrmidons  from  Frankfort, 
When  you  will  be  a  prisoner,  perhaps  worse, 
And  I  an  outcast,  bastardized  by  practice 
Of  this  same  baron,  to  make  way  for  him. 

WERNER. 

And  now  your  remedy !     I  thought  to  escape 
By  means  of  this  accursed  gold,  but  now 
I  dare  not  use  it,  show  it,  scarce  look  on  it. 
Methinks  it  wears  upon  its  face  my  guilt 
For  motto,  not  the  mintage  of  the  state  ; 
And,  for  the  sovereign's  head,  my  own  begirt 
With  hissing  snakes,  who  curl  around  my  temples, 
And  cry  to  all  beholders — lo !  a  villain  ! 

ULRIC. 

You  must  not  use  it,  at  least,  now ;  but  take 
This  ring.  [He  gives  WERNER  a  jewel. 

WERNER. 

A  gem !  it  was  my  father's. 
ULRIC. 

And 

As  such  is  now  your  own.    With  this  you  must 
Bribe  the  intendant  for  his  old  caleche 
And  horses  to  pursue  your  route  at  sunrise, 
Together  with  my  mother. 

WERNER. 

And  leave  you, 
So  lately  found,  in  peril  too  ? 

ULRIC. 

Fear  nothing ! 

The  only  fear  were  if  we  fled  together, 
For  that  would  make  our  ties  beyond  all  doubt. 
The  waters  only  lie  in  floods  between 
This  burgh  and  Frankfort ;  so  far 's  in  our  favour. 
The  route  on  to  Bohemia,  though  encumber'd, 
Is  not  impassable  ;  and  when  you  gain 
A  few  hours'  start,  the  difficulties  will  be 
The  same  to  your  pursuers.     Once  beyond 
The  frontier,  and  you  're  safe. 

WERNER. 

My  noble  boy ! 
ULRIC. 

Hush !  hush !  no  transports :  we  '11  indulge  in  them 
In  Castle  Siegendorf!     Display  no  gold: 
Show  Idenstein  the  gem  (I  know  the  man, 
And  have  look'd  through  him) :  it  will  answer  thus 
A  double  purpose.    Stralenheim  lost  gold — 
No  jewel :   therefore,  it  could  not  be  his ; 
And  then,  the  man  who  was  possess'd  of  this 
Can  hardly  be  suspected  of  abstracting 
The  baron's  coin,  when  he  could  thus  convert 
This  ring  to  more  than  Stralenheim  has  lost 
Bv  his  last  night's  slumber.     Be  not  over  timid 
In  your  address,  nor  yet  too  arrogant, 
And  Iden*tcm  will  serve  you. 

WERNER. 

I  will  follow 
In  all  things  your  direction. 


ULRIC. 

I  would  have 

Spared  you  the  trouble ;  but  had  I  appea  r'd 
To  take  an  interest  in  you,  and  still  more 
By  dabbling  with  a  jewel  in  your  favour, 
All  had  been  known  at  once. 

WERNER 

My  guardian  angel ! 

This  overpays  the  past !     But  how  wilt  thou 
Fare  in  our  absence  ? 

ULRIC. 

Stralenheim  knows  nothing 
Of  me  as  aught  of  kindred  with  yourself! 
I  will  but  wait  a  day  or  two  with  him 
To  lull  all  doubts,  and  then  rejoin  my  father. 

WERNER. 

To  part  no  more ! 

ULRIC. 

I  know  not  that ;  but  at 
The  least  we  '11  meet  again  once  more. 
WERNER. 

My  boy ! 

My  friend — my  only  child,  and  sole  preserver ' 
Oh,  do  not  hate  me ! 

ULRIC. 
Hate  my  father ! 

WERNER. 

Ay, 

My  father  hated  me :  why  not  my  son  ? 

ULRIC. 
Your  father  knew  you  not  as  I  do. 

WERNEK. 

Scorpions 

Are  in  thy  words !    Thou  know  me  ?    In  this  gui»« 
Thou  canst  not  know  me — I  am  not  myself— 
Yet  (hate  me  not)  I  will  be  soon. 
ULRIC. 

I  '11  wait  I 

In  the  mean  time  be  sure  that  all  a  son 
Can  do  for  parents  shall  be  done  for  mine. 

WERNER. 

I  see  it,  and  I  feel  it ;  yet  I  feel 

Further — that  you  despise  me. 

ULRIC. 

Wherefore  shouid  I  > 

WERNER. 

Must  I  repeat  my  humiliation  7 
ULRIC. 

No! 

I  have  fathom'd  it,  and  you.     But  let  us  talk 
Of  this  no  more.     Or  if  it  must  be  ever, 
Not  now;  your  error  has  redoubled  all 
The  present  difficulties  of  our  houst, 
At  secret  war  with  that  of  Stralenheim  ; 
All  we  have  now  to  think  of  is  to  baffle 
HIM.     1  have  shown  one  way. 
WERNER. 

The  only  ane, 
And  I  embrace  it,  as  I  did  my  son, 
Who  show'd  himself  and  father's  taftty  in 
One  day. 

ULRIC. 

You  shall  be  safe :  let  that  suffice. 
Would  Stralenheim's  appearance  in  Ronemit 
'••  Disturb  your  right,  or  mine,  if  once  we  were 
i  Admitted  lo  our  lands  ? 


108 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


WERNER. 

Assuredly, 

Situate  as  we  are  now,  although  the  first 
Possessor  might,  as  usual,  prove  the  strongest, 
Espcci.illy  the  next  in  blood. 

ULRIC. 

Blood!  'tis 

A  word  of  many  meanings  :  in  the  veins 
And  out  of  them  it  is  a  different  thing — 
And  so  it  should  be,  when  the  same  in  blood 
(As  it  is  call'd)  are  aliens  to  each  other, 
Like  Theban  brethren :  when  a  part  is  bad, 
A  few  spilt  ounces  purify  the  rest. 

WERNER. 

I  do  not  apprehend  you. 

ULRIC. 

That  may  be— 

And  should,  perhaps, — and  yet — but  get  ye  ready ; 
You  and  my  mother  must  away  to-night. 
Here  comes  the  intendant ;  sound  him  with  the  gem  ; 
T  will  sink  into  his  venial  soul  like  lead 
Into  the  deep,  and  bring  up  slime,  and  mud, 
And  ooze,  too,  from  the  bottom,  as  the  lead  doth 
With  its  greased  understratum  ;  but  no  less 
Will  serve  to  warn  our  vessels  through  these  shoals. 
The  freight  is  rich,  so  heave  the  line  in  time  ! 
Farewell !  I  scarce  have  time,  but  yet  your  hand, 
My  father ! 

WERNER. 

Let  me  embrace  thee ! 
ULRIC. 

We  may  be 

Observed :  subdue  your  nature  to  the  hour ! 
Keep  off  from  me  as  from  your  foe ! 

WERNER. 

Accursed 

Be  he  who  is  the  stifling  cause,  which  smothers 
The  best  aud  sweetest  feeling  of  our  hearts, 
At  such  an  hour  too  ! 

ULRIC. 

Yes,  curse — it  will  ease  you ! 
Htrc  is  the  intendant. 

Enter  IDENSTEIH 

Master  Idenstein, 

How  fare  you  in  your  purpose  ?    Have  you  caught 
The  rogue"? 

IDENSTEIN. 

No,  faith ! 

ULRIC. 

Well,  there  are  plenty  more : 
You  may  have  better  luck  another  chase. 
Where  is  the  baron  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

Gone  back  to  his  chamber : 
And,  now  I  think  on 't,  asking  after  you 
With  nobly-born  impatience. 
ULRIC. 

Your  great  men 

Must  be  answer'd  on  the  instant,  as  the  bound 
Of  the  stung  steed  replies  unto  the  spur  : 
'T  is  well  they  have  horses,  too,  for  if  they  had  not, 
I  fear  that  men  must  draw  their  chariots,  as 
Thev  sav  kings  die'  Sesostns. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Who  was  he  7 


ULRIC. 

An  old  Bohemian — an  imperial  gipsy. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  gipsy  or  Bohemian,  't  is  the  same, ' 

For  they  pass  by  both  names.    And  was  he  one  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  've  heard  so ;  but  I  must  take  leave.     Intendant, 
Your  servant ! — Werner  (to  WERNER,  slightly),  if  tlia. 

be  your  name, 
Yours.  [Exit  ULRIC. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  well-spoken,  pretty-faced  young  man ! 
And  prettily  behaved !  He  knows  his  station, 
You  see,  sir :  how  he  gave  to  each  his  due 
Precedence ! 

WERNER. 

I  perceived  it,  and  applaud 
His  just  discernment  and  your  own. 

IDENSTEIN. 

That 's  well- 
That  's  very  well.  You  also  know  your  place,  too, 
And  yet  I  don't  Know  that  1  know  your  place. 

WERNUR   (shelving  the  ring). 
Would  this  assist  your  knowledge  ? 

IDENSTEIN. 

How!— What!— Eh! 
A  jewel ! 

WERNER. 
T  is  your  own,  on  one  condition. 

IDENSTEIN. 

Mine! — Name  it! 

WERNER. 

That  hereafter  you  permit  ra« 
At  thrice  its  value  to  redeem  it :  't  is 
A  family  ring. 

IDENSTEIN. 

A  family !  your*  /  a  gem ! 
I  'm  breathless ! 

WERNER. 

You  must  also  furnish  me, 
An  hour  ere  daybreak,  with  all  means  to  qun 
This  place. 

IDENSTEIN. 

But  is  it  real  ?  let  me  look  on  it : 
Diamond,  by  all  that 's  glorious ! 
WERNER. 

Come,  1 11  trust  you  j 

You  havo  gucss'd,  no  doubt,  that  I  was  born  above 
My  present  seeming. 

IDENSTEIN. 

I  can't  say  I  did, 

Though  this  looks  like  it ;  this  is  the  true  breeding 
Of  gentle  blood ! 

WERNER. 

I  have  important  reasons 
For  wishing  to  continue  privily 
My  journey  hence. 

IDENSTEIN. 

So  then  you  are  the  man 
Whom  Stralenheim 's  in  quest  of! 
WERNER. 

I  am  not; 

But  being  taken  for  him  might  conduct         • 
So  much  embarrassment  to  me  just  now, 
And  to  the  baron's  self  hereafter — 'tis 
To  spare  both,  that  I  would  avoid  all  bustle. 


WERNER. 


409 


Be  you  the  man  or  no,  't  is  not  my  business  ; 

Besides,  I  never  should  obtain  the  half 

From  this  proud  niggardly  noble,  who  would  raise 

The  country  for  some  missing  bits  of  coin, 

And  never  offer  a  precise  reward — 

But  this  !  Another  look  ! 

WERNER. 

Gaze  on  it  freely ; 
At  day-dawn  it  is  yours. 

IDEXSTEIN. 

Oh,  thou  sweet  sparkler ! 
Thou  more  than  stone  of  the  philosopher ! 
Thou  touchstone  of  Philosophy  herself! 
Thou  bright  eye  of  the  Mine  !  thou  load-star  of 
The  soul !  the  true  magnetic  pole  to  which 
All  hearts  point  duly  north,  like  trembling  needles  ! 
Thou  flaming  spirit  of  the  earth  !   which,  sitting 
High  on  the  monarch's  diadem,  attracted 
More  worship  than  the  majesty  who  sweats 
Beneath  the  crown  which  makes  his  head  ache,  like 
Millions  of  hearts  which  bleed  to  lend  it  lustre  ! 
Shalt  thou  be  mine  ?     I  am,  methinks,  already 
A  little  king,  a  lucky  alchymist ! — 
A  wise  magician,  who  has  bound  the  devil 
Without  the  forfeit  of  his  soul.     But  come, 
Werner,  or  what  else  ? 

WERITER. 

Call  me  Werner  still: 
You  may  yet  know  me  by  a  loftier  title. 

IDEirSTEl* 

I  do  believe  in  thee  !  thou  art  the  spirit 
Of  whom  I  long  have  dream'd,  in  a  low  garb. — 
But  come,  I '!!  serve  thee  ;  thou  shall  be  as  free 
As  air,  despite  the  waters :  let  us  hence — 
I  '11  show  thee  I  am  honest — (oh,  thou  jewel !) 
Thou  shall  be  furnish'd,  Werner,  with  such  means 
Of  flight,  that  if  thou  wert  a  snail,  not  birds 
Should  overtake  thee. — Let  me  gaze  again ! 
I  have  a  foster-brother  in  the  mart 
Of  Hamburgh,  skill'd  in  precious  stones — how  many 
Carats  may  it  weigh? — Come,  Werner,  I  will  wing  thee. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 

STRALENHEIM'S  Chamber. 
STRALENHEIM  and  FRITZ. 

FRITZ. 
A\l  's  remdy,  my  good  lord  ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  am  not  sleepy, 

And  yet  I  must  to  bed  ;  I  fain  would  say 
To  rest,  but  something  heavy  on  my  spirit, 
Too  dull  for  wakefulness,  too  quick  for  slumber, 
Sits  on  me  as  a  cloud  along  the  sky, 
Which  will  not  let  the  sunbeams  throush,  nor  yet 
Descend  in  rain  and  end,  but  spreads  itself 
'Twist  earth  and  heaven,  like  envy  between  man 
And  man,  an  everlasting  mist ; — I  will 
I7nto  my  pillow. 

FRITZ. 
May  you  rest  there  weD ! 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  feeC,  <ind  fear,  I  shall. 

2  jr  2  57 


FRITZ. 

And  wherefore  fear? 

STRALENHEIM. 

I  know  not  why,  and  therefore  do  fear  more, 

Because  an  undescribable but  't  is 

All  folly.     Were  the  locks  (as  I  desired) 
Changed  to-day,  of  this  chamber  ?  for  last  night's 
Adventure  makes  it  needful. 

FRITZ. 

Certainly, 
According  to  your  order,  and  beneath 
The  inspection  of  myself  and  the  young  Saxon 
Who  saved  your  life.     I  think  they  call  him  "  Ulric." 

STRALENHEIM. 

You  think  !  you  supercilious  slave  !   what  right 

Have  you  to  tax  your  memory,  which  should  be 

Quick,  proud,  and  happy  to  retain  the  name 

Of  him  who  saved  your  master,  as  a  litany 

Whose  daily  repetition  marks  your  duty — 

Get  hence  !  "you  think"  indeed  !  you,  who  stood  still 

Howling  and  dripping  on  the  bank,  whilst  I 

Lay  dying,  and  the  stranger  dash'd  aside 

The  roaring  torrent,  and  restored  me  to 

Thank  him — and  despise  you.  "  You  think .'"  and  scare* 

Can  recollect  his  name  !  I  will  not  waste 

Mere  words  on  you.     Call  me  betimes. 

FRITZ. 

Good  night ! 
I  trust  U.-morrow  will  restore  your  lordship 
To  renov  ted  strength  and  temper. 

[The  scene  closet 


SCENE  ra. 

The  tecret  Passage. 

GABOR  (solus}. 

Four — 

Five — sue  hours  have  I  counted,  like  the  guard 
Of  out-posts,  on  the  never-merry  clock  : 
That  hollow  tongue  of  time,  which,  even  when 
It  sounds  for  joy,  takes  something  from  enjoyment 
With  every  clang.    'T  is  a  perpetual  knell, 
Though  for  a  marriage  feast  it  rings :  each  stroke 
Peals  of  a  hope  the  less  ;  the  funeral  note 
Of  love  deep-buried  without  resurrection 
In  the  grave  of  possession  ;  while  the  knoH 
Of  long-lived  parents  finds  a  jovial  echo 
Totriple  time  in  the  son's  ear. 

I  'm  cold- 

I  'm  dark — I  've  blown  my  fingers — number'd  o'er 
And  o'er  my  steps — and  knock'd  my  head  against 
Some  fifty  buttresses— and  roused  the  rats 
And  bats  in  general  insurrection,  till 
Their  cursed  pattering  feet  and  whirring  wings 
Leave  me  scarce  hearing  for  another  sound. 
A  light !  It  is  at  distance  (if  I  can 
Measure  in  darkness  distance)  :  but  it  blinks 
As  through  a  crevice  or  a  key-hole,  in 
The  inhibited  direction  ;  I  must  on, 
Nevertheless,  from  curiosity. 
A  distant  lamp-light  is  an  incident 
In  such  a  den  as  this.     Pray  Heaven  it  lead  me 
To  nothing  that  may  tempt  me !    Else  Heaven  aid  m« 
To  obtain  or  to  escape  it  J  Shining  still ' 
Were  it  the  star  of  Lucifer  himself. 


•no 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Or  lie  himself  girt  with  its  beams,  I  could 

Contain  no  longer.     Softly  !   mighty  well  ! 

That  corner 's  turn'd — so — ah  !   no,  right !  it  draws 

Nearer.     Here  is  a  darksome  angle — so, 

That's  weather' d. — Let  me  pause. — Suppose  it  leads 

Into  some  greater  danger  than  that  which 

.1  hive  escaped  ? — no  matter,  't  is  a  new  one  ; 

And  novel  perils,  iike  fresh  mistresses, 

\Vear  more  magnetic  aspects :  I  will  on, 

And  be  it  where  it  may — I  have  my  dagger, 

Which  may  protect  me  at  a  pinch. — Burn  still, 

Thou  little  light !     Thou  art  my  ignis  fatuus  ! 

My  stationary  Will  o'  the  wisp  ! — So !  so ! 

He  hears  my  invocation,  and  fails  not. 

[The  tcene  closes. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  Garden. 

Enter  WERNER. 

[  could  not  sleep — and  now  the  hour 's  at  hand ; 
All's  ready.     Idenstein  has  kept  his  word: 
And,  station'd  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Ifpon  the  forest's  edge,  the  vehicle 
Awaits  us.     Now  the  dwindling  stars  begin 
To  pale  in  heaven  ;  and  for  the  last  time  I 
Look  on  these  horrible  walls.     Oh  !  never,  never 
Shall  I  forget  them.     Here  I  came  most  poor, 
Hut  not  dishonour'd  :  and  I  leave  them  with 
A  stain, — if  not  upon  my  name,  yet  in 
My  heart!  A  never-dying  canker-worm, 
Which  all  the  coming  splendour  of  the  lands, 
And  rights,  and  sovereignty  of  Sicgendorf, 
Can  scarcely  lull  a  moment :  I  must  find 
Some  means  of  restitution,  which  would  ease 
My  soul  in  part ;  but  how,  without  discovery  ? — 
It  must  be  done,  however  ;  and  I  '11  pause 
Upon  the  method  the  first  hour  of  safely. 
The  madness  of  my  miser '{  led  to  this 
Base  infamy ;  repentance  must  retrieve  it : 
I  will  have  nought  of  Stralenheim's  upon 
My  spirit,  though  he  would  grasp  all  of  mine ; 
Lands,  freedom,  life, — and  yet  he  sleeps  !  as  soundly, 
Perhaps,  as  infancy,  with  gorgeous  curtains 
Spread  for  his  canopy,  o'er  silken  pillows, 

Such  as  when Hark !  what  noise  is  that  ?  Again  ! 

The  branches  shake ;  and  some  loose  stones  have  fallen 
From  yonder  terrace. 

[ULRic  leaps  down  from  the  terrace. 
Ulric  !  ever  welcome ! 

fhrioe  welcome  now  !  this  filial 

ULRIC. 

Stop!  before 


We  approach,  tell  me 


WERNER. 

Why  look  you  so  ? 

ULRIC. 


Do  I 


rtchold  my  father,  01- 


WERNER. 

What? 

C  I.Kit:. 

An  assassin . 

WURWEU. 


uvsttn<%  or  insolent ' 


ULRIC. 
Reply,  sir,  as 
You  prize  your  life,  or  mine  ! 

WERNER. 

To  what  must  I 
Answer  ? 

ULRIC. 

Are  you  or  are  you  not  the  assassin 
Of  Stralenheim  ? 

WERNER. 

I  never  was  as  yet 
The  murderer  of  any  man.     What  mean  you  7 

ULRIC. 

Did  you  not  this  night  (as  the  night  before) 
Retrace  the  secret  passage  ?     Did  you  not 

Again  revisit  Stralenheim's  chamber  ?  and 

[ULRic 

WERNER. 

Proceed. 

ULRIC. 
Died  he  not  by  your  hand? 

WERNER. 

Great  God! 

ULRIC. 

You  are  innocent,  then  !  my  father 's  innocent ! 
Embrace  me !  Yes, — your  tone — your  look — yes,  yes- 
Yet  say  so ! 

WERNER. 

If  I  e'er,  in  heart  or  mind, 
Conceived  deliberately  such  a  thought, 
But  rather  strove  to  trample  back  to  hell 
Such  thoughts — if  e'er  they  glared  a  moment  thiouga 
The  irritation  of  my  oppress'd  spirit — 
May  Heaven  be  shut  for  ever  from  my  hopes 
As  from  mine  eyes  ! 

UT.RIO. 

But  Stralenheim  is  dead. 

WERNER. 

'T  is  horrible  !  't  is  hideous,  as  't  is  hateful  !— 
But  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 
ULRIC. 

No  bolt 

Is  forced ;  no  violence  can  be  detected, 
Save  on  his  body.     Part  of  his  own  household 
Have  been  alarm'd  ;  but  as  the  intendant  is 
Absent,  I  took  upon  myself  the  care 
Of  mustering  the  jwlice.     His  chamber  has, 
Past  doubt,  been  enter'd  secretly.     Excuse  me, 
If  nature 

WERNER. 

Oh,  my  boy  !  what  unknown  woes 
Of  dark  fatality,  like  clouds,  are  gathering 
Above  our  house ! 

ULRIC. 

My  father,  I  acquit  you  ! 
But  will  the  world  do  so  ?  Will  even  the  judge, 
If but  you  must  away  this  instant. 

WERNER. 

No! 

I  '11  face  it,    Who  shall  dare  suspect  me  ? 
ULRIC. 

Tec 

You  had  no  guests — no  visitors — no  life 
Breathing  around  you,  save  my  mother's  7 
WERNER. 

Ah! 


WERNER. 


411 


1'he  Hungarian ! 

ULRIC. 

H1?  is  gone !  he  disappear'd 
Ere  sunset. 

WERNER, 

No ;  I  hid  him  in  that  very 
Conceal'd  and  fatal  gallery. 

ULRIC. 

There  I  '11  find  him. 

[ULRIC  is  going. 

WERNER. 

It  us  too  late  :  he  had  left  the  palace  ere 

I  quitted  it.     I  found  the  secret  panel 

Open,  and  the  doors  which  lead  from  that  hall 

Which  masks  it :  I  but  thought  he  had  snatch'd  the  silent 

And  favourable  moment  to  escape 

The  myrmidons  of  Idenstein,  who  were 

Dogging  him  yester-even. 

ULRIC. 

You  re-closed 
The  panel  ? 

WERNER. 

Yes  ;  and  not  without  reproach 
(And  inner  trembling  for  the  avoided  peril) 
At  his  dull  heedlessness,  in  leaving  thus 
His  shelterer's  asylum  to  the  risk 
Of  a  discovery. 

ULRIC. 
You  are  sure  you  closed  it  ? 

WERNER. 

Certain. 

ULRIC. 
That 's  well ;  but  had  been  better  if 

You  ne'er  had  turn'd  it  to  a  den  for [He  pauses. 

WERNER. 

Thieves ! 

Thou  wouldst  say :  I  must  bear  it,  and  deserve  it ; 
But  not 

ULRIC. 

No,  father,  do  not  speak  of  this ; 
This  is  no  hour  to  think  of  petty  crimes, 
But  to  prevent  the  consequence  of  great  ones. 
Why  would  you  shelter  this  man  ? 

WARNER. 

Could  I  shun  it? 

A  man  pursued  by  my  chief  foe  ;  disgraced 
For  my  own  crime  ;  a  victim  to  my  safety, 
Imploring  a  few  hours'  concealment  from 
The  very  wretch  who  was  the  cause  he  needed 
Such  refuge.     Had  he  been  a  wolf,  I  could  not 
Have,  in  such  circumstances,  thrust  him  forth. 

ULRIC. 

And  like  the  wolf  he  hath  repaid  you.     But 
(t  is  too  late  to  ponder  this  :  you  must 
Set  out  ere  dawn.     I  will  remain  here  to 
Trace  out  the  murderer,  if  't  is  possible. 

WERNER. 

But  this  my  sudden  flight  will  give  the  Moloch 
•Suspicion,  two  n,ew  victims,  in  the  lieu 
W  one,  if  I  remain.     The  fled  Hungarian, 

Who  seems  the  culprit,  and 

ULRIC. 

Who  seems!  Who  else 
Csc  bo  so? 

WERNER. 

Not  /,  th"ugh  just  now  vou  doubted — 


You,  my  son  /—doubted 

ULRIC. 

And  do  you  doubt  of  him 
The  fugitive  ? 

WERNER. 

Boy  !  since  I  fell  into 

The  abyss  of  crime  (though  not  of  such  crime),  I, 
Having  seen  the  innocent  oppress'd  for  me, 
May  doubt  even  of  the  guilty's  guilt.     Your  heart 
Is  free,  and  quick  with  virtuous  wrath  to  accuse 
Appearances ;  and  views  a  criminal 
In  innocence's  shadow,  it  may  be, 
Because  't  is  dusky. 

ULRIC. 

And  if  I  do  so, 

What  will  mankind,  who  know  you  not,  or  knew 
But  to  oppress  ?   You  must  not  stand  the  hazard. 
Away ! — I  '11  make  all  easy.     Idenstein 
Will,  for  his  own  sake  and  his  jewel's,  hold 
His  peace — he  also  is  a  partner  in 

Your  flight — moreover 

WERNER. 

Fly !  and  leave  my  name 

Link'd  with  the  Hungarian's,  or  preferr'd,  as  poorest, 
To  bear  the  brand  of  bloodshed? 

ULRIC. 

Pshaw !  leave  any  thing 
Except  our  fathers'  sovereignty  and  castles, 
For  which  you  have  so  long  panted  and  in  vain ! 
What  name  1  You  leave  no  name,  since  that  you  bo» 
Is  feign'd. 

WERNER. 

Most  true  ;  but  still  I  would  not  have  it 
Engraved  in  crimson  in  men's  memories, 
Though  in  this  most  obscure  abode  of  men — 
Besides,  the  search 

ULRIC. 

I  will  provide  against 

Aught  that  can  touch  you.     No  one  knows  you  here 
As  heir  of  Siegendorf :  if  Idenstein 
Suspects,  't  is  but  suspicion,  and  he  is 
A  fool :  his  folly  shall  have  such  employment, 
Too,  that  the  unknown  Werner  shall  give  way 
To  nearer  thoughts  of  self.     The  laws  (if  e'er 
Laws  reach'd  this  vtflage)  are  all  in  abeyance 
With  the  late  general  war  of  thirty  years, 
Or  crush'd,  or  rising  slowly  front  the  dust, 
To  which  the  march  of  armies:  trampled  them. 
Stralenheim,  although  noble,  is  unheeded 
Here,  save  as  such — withou'.  lands,  influence, 
Save  what  hath  perish'd  with  him ;  few  prolong 
A  week  beyond  their  funeral  rites  their  sway 
O'er  men,  unless  by  relatives,  whose  interest 
Is  roused :  such  is  not  here  the  case  ;  he  died 
Alone,  unknown, — a  solitary  grave, 
Obscure  as  his  deserts,  w;ihout  a  scutcheon. 
Is  all  he  '11  have,  or  wants.     If  /  discover 
The  assassin,  't  will  be  well — if  not,  believe  me, 
None  else,  though  all  the  full-fed  train  of  menial* 
May  howl  above  his  ashes,  as  they  did 
Around  him  in  his  danger  on  the  Oder, 
Will  no  more  stir  a  finger  now  than  then. 
Hence !  hence !  I  must  not  hear  your  answer  •  4on» 
The  stars  are  almost  faded,  and  the  gray 
Begins  to  grizzle  the  black  hair  of  night. 
You  shall  not  answer — Pardon  me.  that  I 


412 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Am  peremptory  ;  "t  is  your  son  that  speaks, 

Your  long-lost,  late-found  son — Let 's  call  my  mother ! 

Softly  and  swiftly  step,  and  leave  the  rest 

To  me ;  1 11  answer  for  the  event  as  far 

As  regards  you,  and  that  is  the  chief  point, 

As  my  first  duty,  which  shall  be  observed. 

We'll  meet  in  Castle  Siegendorf— once  more 

Our  banners  shall  be  glorious !  Think  of  that 

Alone,  and  leave  all  other  thoughts  to  me, 

Whose  youth  may  better  battle  with  them — Hence ! 

And  may  your  age  be  happy ! — I  will  kiss 

My  mother  once  more,  then  Heaven's  sfieed  be  with  you! 

WERNER. 
This  counsel 's  safe — but  is  it  honourable  ? 


ULRIC. 
To  save  a  father  is  a  child's  chief  honour. 


[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  1. 

A  Gothic  Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Siegendorf,  near  Prague, 
Enter  ERIC  and  HENRICK,  retainers  of  the  Count. 

ERIC. 

So,  better  times  are  come  at  last ;  to  these 
Old  walls  new  masters  and  high  wassail,  both 
A  long  desideratum. 

HENRICK. 

Yes,  for  masters, 

It  might  be  unto  those  who  long  for  novelty, 
Though  made  by  a  new  grave:  but  as  for  wassail, 
Methinks  the  old  Count  Siegendorf  maintain'd 
His  feudal  hospitality  as  high 
As  e'er  another  prince  of  the  empire. 
ERIC. 

Why, 

For  the  mere  cup  and  trencher,  we  no  doubt 
Fared  passing  well ;  but  as  for  merriment 
And  sport,  without  which  salt  and  sauces  season 
The  cheer  but  scantily,  our  sizings  were 
Even  of  the  narrowest, 

HENRICK. 

The  old  count  loved  not 
The  roar  of  revel ;  are  you  sure  that  this  does  ? 

ERIC. 

As  yet  he  hath  been  courteous  as  he 's  bounteous, 
And  we  all  love  him. 

HENRICK. 
His  reign  is  as  yet 

Hardly  a  year  o'erpast  its  honey-moon, 
And  the  first  year  of  sovereigns  is  bridal ; 
Anon,  we  shall  perceive  his  real  sway 
And  moods  of  mind. 

ERIC. 

Pray  Heaven  he  keep  the  present ! 
Then  his  brave  son,  Count  Ulric — there  's  a  knight! 
Pity  the  wars  are  o'er ! 

HENRICK. 
Why  so  ? 

ERIC. 

Look  on  him ! 
And  answer  that  yourself 

HENRICK. 

He 's  very  youthful, 


And  strong  and  beautiful  as  a  young  tiger. 

ERIC. 
That 's  not  a  faithful  vassal's  likeness. 


HENRICK. 


But 


Perhaps  a  true  one. 

ERIC. 

Pity,  as  I  said, 

The  wars  are  over :  in  the  hall,  who  like 
Count  Ulric  for  a  well-supported  pride, 
Which  awes  but  yet  offends  not  ?  in  the  field, 
Who  like  him  with  his  spear  in  hand,  when,  gnashing 
His  tusks,  and  ripping  up  from  right  to  left 
The  howling  hounds,  the  boar  makes  for  the  thicket  ? 
Who  backs  a  horse,  or  bears  a  hawk,  or  wears 
A  sword  like  him  ?  Whose  plume  nods  knightlier  ? 

HENRICK. 

No  one's,  I  grant  you  :  do  not  fear,  if  war 
Be  long  in  coming,  he  is  of  that  kind 
Will  make  it  for  himself,  if  he  hath  not 
Already  done  as  much. 

ERIC. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 
HENRICK. 

You  can't  deny  his  train  of  followers 
(But  few  our  fellow  native  vassals  born 
On  the  domain)  are  such  a  sort  of  knaves 
As (pauses). 

ERIC. 

What? 

RENRICK. 

The  war  (you  lo"*  so  much)  leaves  living  ; 
Like  other  parents,  she  spoils  her  worst  children. 

ERIC 

Nonsense !  they  are  all  brave  iron-visaged  fellows, 
Such  as  old  Tilly  loved. 

HENRICK. 

And  who  loved  Tilly? 

Ask  that  at  Magdebourg — or,  for  that  matter, 
Wallenstein  either — they  are  gone  to 

ERIC. 

Rest; 
But  what  beyond,  't  is  not  ours  to  pronounce. 

HENRKIC. 

I  wish  they  had  left  us  somet'.iing  of  their  rest : 
The  country  (nominally  now  at  peace) 
Is  overrun  with — God  knows  who — they  fly 
By  night,  and  disappear  with  sunrise ;  but 
Leave  no  less  desolation,  nay,  even  more 
Than  the  most  open  warfare. 
ERIC. 

But  Count  Ulric— 
What  has  all  this  to  do  with  him  ? 

HENRICK. 

With  him! 

He might  prevent  it.    As  you  say  he 's  fond 

Of  war,  why  makes  he  it  not  on  those  marauder*  t 

ERIC. 
You'd  better  ask  himself. 

HENRICK. 

I  would  as  soon 
Ask  of  the  lion  why  he  laps  not  mik. 

ERIC. 
And  here  he  comes ! 

IIENRICK. 
The  devil !  you  '11  hold  your  tongue  7 


WERNER. 


EK1C. 

Why  do  you  turn  so  pale  ? 

HENRICK. 

'T  is  nothing — but 
Be  silent ! 

ERIC. 

I  will,  upon  what  you  have  said. 

HENRICK. 

I  assure  you  I  meant  nothing,  a  mere  sport 

Of  words,  no  more ;  besides,  had  it  been  otherwise) 

He  is  to  espouse  the  gentle  baroness, 

Ida  of  Stralenheim,  the  late  baron's  heiress, 

And  she  no  doubt  will  soften  whatsoe'er 

Of  fierceness  the  late  long  intestine  wars 

Have  given  all  natures,  and  most  unto  those 

Who  were  born  in  them,  and  bred  up  upon 

The  knees  of  homicide  ;  sprinkled,  as  it  were, 

With  blood  even  at  their  baptism.     Prithee,  peace, 

On  all  that  I  have  said ! 

Enter  ULRIC  and  RODOLTH. 

Good  morrow,  count ! 
ULRIC. 

Good  morrow,  worthy  Henrick.     Eric,  is 
All  ready  for  the  chase  ? 

ERIC. 

The  dogs  are  order'd 
Down  to  the  forest,  and  the  vassals  out 
To  beat  the  bushes,  and  the  day  looks  promising. 
Shall  I  call  forth  your  excellency's  suite  ? 
What  courser  will  you  please  to  mount  ? 
ULRIC. 

The  dun, 
Walstein. 

ERIC. 

I  fear  he  scarcely  has  recovered 
The  toils  of  Monday  :  't  was  a  noble  chase — 
You  spear'd  four  with  your  own  hand. 

ULRIC. 

True,  good  Eric, 

I  had  forgotten — let  it  be  the  gray,  then, 
Old  Ziska :  he  has  not  been  out  this  fortnight. 

ERIC. 

He  shall  be  straight  caparison'd.     How  many 
Of  your  immediate  retainers  shall 
Escort  you  ? 

ULRIC. 

I  leave  that  to  Weilburgh,  our 
Master  of  the  horse.  [Exit  ERIC, 

Rodolph ! 

RODOLPH. 

My  lord! 

ULRIC. 

The  news 
Is  awkward  from  the — (RODOLPH point*  to  HENRICK. ) 

How  now,  Henrick,  why 
Loiter  you  here  ? 

HENRICK. 
For  your  commands,  my  lord. 

ULRIC. 

Go  to  my  father,  and  present  my  duty, 
And  learn  if  he  would  aught  with  me  before 
mount.  [Exit  HENRICK. 

Rodolph,  our  friends  have  had  a  check 
Upon  the  frontiers  of  Franconia,  and 
T  is  rumour'd  that  the  column  sent  against  them 


Is  to  be  strengthen'd.     I  must  join  them  soon. 

RODOLPH. 
Best  wait  for  further  and  more  sure  advices. 

ULRIC. 

I  mean  it — and  indeed  it  could  not  well 
Have  fallen  out  at  a  time  more  opposite 
To  all  my  plans. 

RODOLPH. 
It  will  be  difficult 
To  excuse  your  absence  to  the  count,  your  father. 

ULRIC. 

Yes,  but  the  unsettled  state  of  our  domain 
In  High  Silesia,  will  permit  and  cover 
My  journey.     In  the  mean  time,  when  we  are 
Engaged  in  the  chase,  draw  off  the  eighty  men 
Whom  Wolffe  leads — keep  the  forests  on  your  route 
You  know  it  well  ? 

RODOLPH. 
As  well  as  on  that  night 

When  we 

ULRIC. 

We  will  not  speak  of  that  until 
We  can  repeat  the  same  with  like  success  ; 
And  when  you  have  join'd,  give  Rosenberg  this  tetter. 

[Gitr*  a  letter. 

Add  further,  that  I  have  sent  this  slight  aclditior. 
To  our  force  with  you  and  Wolffe,  as  herald  of 
My  coming,  though  I  could  but  spare  them  ill 
At  this  time,  as  my  father  loves  to  keep 
Full  numbers  of  retainers  round  the  castle, 
Until  this  marriage,  and  its  feasts  and  fooleries, 
Are  rung  out  with  its  peal  of  nuptial  nonsense. 

RODOLPH. 

I  ill  ought  you  loved  the  lady  Ida? 
ULRIC. 

Why, 

I  do  so— but  it  follows  not  from  that 
I  would  bind  in  my  youth  and  glorious  years, 
So  brief  and  burning,  with  a  lady's  zone, 
Although  't  were  that  of  Venus  ; — but  I  love  her, 
As  woman  should  be  loved,  fairly  and  solely. 

RODOLPH. 
And  constantly? 

ULRIC. 

I  think  so ;  for  I  love 

Nought  else. — But  I  have  not  the  time  to  pause 
Upon  these  gewgaws  of  the  heart.     Great  tilings 
We  have  to  do  ere  long.  Speed !  speed !  good  Rodo'ptr 

RODOLPH. 

On  my  return,  however,  I  shall  find 

The  Baroness  Ida  lost  in  Countess  Sicgendorf! 

ULRIC. 

Perhaps :  my  father  wishes  it,  and  sootn, 
'T  is  no  bad  policy  ;  this  union  with 
The  last  bud  of  the  rival  branch  at  once 
Unites  the  future  and  destroys  the  past. 

RODOLPH. 
Adieu ! 

ULRIC. 

Yet  hold — we  had  better  keep  vOgctnci 
Until  the  chase  begins  ;  then  draw  thou  off, 
And  do  as  I  have  said. 

RODOLPH. 

I  will.     But  to 
Return — 't  was  a  most  kind  act  in  the  count, 
Your  father,  to  send  up  to  Eonigsburg 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Foi  >ti;s  fa  r  orphan  of  tne  boron,  and 
To  n  Ji  hoi  us  his  daughter. 

ULRJC. 

Wondrous  kind ! 
Espeua..y  as  little  kindness  till 
Ther  grew  between  them. 

RODOLPH. 

The  late  baron  died 
Of  a  fever,  did  he  not? 

ULRIC. 

How  should  I  know? 

RODOLPH. 

I  have  h«?ard  it  whisper'd  there  was  something  strange 
About  his  death — and  even  the  place  of  it 
Is  scarcely  known. 

ULRIC. 

Some  obscure  village  on 
The  Saxon  or  Silesian  frontier. 
RODOLPH. 

He 

Has  left  no  testament — no  farewell  words ! 
ULRIC. 

I  am  neither  confessor  nor  notary, 
So  cannot  say. 

RODOLPH. 

Ah !  here 's  the  lady  Ida. 
Enter  IDA.  STRALEWHEIM. 

ULRIC. 
V  »u  are  early,  my  sweet  cousin ! 

IDA. 

Not  too  .  rly, 

Dear  Ulric,  if  I  do  not  interrupt  you. 
Why  do  you  call  me  "  cousin  ?" 

ULRIC  (smiling). 

Are  w«  Aot  so  ? 

IDA. 

r«w,  but  I  do  not  like  the  name ;  methinks 
A.  sounds  so  cold,  as  if  you  thought  upon 
flur  pedigree,  and  only  weigh'd  our  blood. 

ULRIC  (starling). 
Blood! 

IDA. 

Why  does  yours  start  from  your  cheeks  ? 
ULRIC. 

Ay!  doth  it? 
,  IDA. 

I 1  doth — but  no !  it  rushes  like  a  torrent 
K  ven  to  your  brow  again. 

ULRIC  (recovering  himself). 
And  if  it  fled, 

[t  only  was  because  your  presence  sent  it 
Back  to  my  heart,  which  beats  for  you,  sweet  cousin 

IDA. 
» Cousin"  again! 

ULRIC. 

Nay,  then  I  '11  call  you  sister. 

IDA. 

like  that  name  still  worse — would  we  kad  ne'er 
Been  aught  of  kindred ! 

ULRIC  (gloomily). 

Would  we  never  had ! 

IDA. 

Oh  Haavon  :  And  can  you  wish  that  ? 

ULRIC. 

Dearest  Ida ! 


)id  I  not  echo  your  own  wish  ? 
IDA. 

Yes,  UL-ic, 
Jut  then  I  wish'd  it  not  with  such  a  glance, 
Lnd  scarce  knew  what  I  said  ;  but  let  me  be 
ister  or  cousin,  what  you  will,  so  that 
still  to  you  am  something. 

ULRIC. 

You  shall  be 
All— all 

IDA. 

And  you  to  me  care  so  already  ; 
Jut  I  can  wait. 

ULRIC. 

Dear  Ida ! 

IDA. 

Call  me  Ida, 
iTour  Ida,  for  I  would  be  yours,  none  else's — 
'ndeed  I  have  none  else  left,  since  my  poor  father— 

[She  pause*. 
ULRIC. 

You  have  mine — you  have  me. 
IDA. 

Dear  Ulric !  how  I  wist 
My  father  could  but  view  our  happiness, 
Which  wants  but  this ! 

ULRIC. 

Indeed ! 

IDA. 

You  would  have  loved  him  j 
He  you  ;  for  the  brave  ever  love  each  other : 
His  manner  was  a  little  cold,  his  spirit 
Proud  (as  is  birth's  prerogative),  but  under 
This  grave  exterior — would  you  had  known  each  other! 
Had  such  as  you  been  near  him  on  his  journey, 
He  had  not  died  without  a  friend  to  soothe 
His  last  and  lonely  moments. 

ULRIC. 

Who  says  that  J 

IDA. 

What? 

ULRIC. 

That  he  died  alone. 

IDA. 

The  general  rumour, 
And  disappearance  of  his  servants,  who 
Have  ne'er  return'd :  that  fever  was  most  deadly 
Which  swept  them  all  away. 

ULRIC. 

If  they  wwe  near  him, 
He  could  not  die  neglected  or  alone. 

IDA. 

Alas  !  what  is  a  menial  to  a  death-bed, 
When  the  dim  eye  rolls  vainly  round  for  what 
It  loves  ? — they  say  he  died  of  a  fever. 
ULRIC. 

Say! 
It  was  so. 

IDA. 

I  sometimes  dream  otherwise. 

CLRIC. 

All  dreams  are  fii  te. 

IDA. 

And  yet  I  see  hiir  u 
I  see  YOU. 


WERNER. 


ULRIC. 

Where  ? 

IDA. 

In  sleep — I  see  him  lie 
Palo,  bleeding,  and  a  man  with  a  raised  knife 
Reside  him. 

ULRIC. 

But  do  you  not  see  htsface  J 

IDA  (looking  at  Aim). 
No !  oh,  my  God  !  do  you  ? 
ULRIC. 

Why  do  you  ask  ? 

IDA. 

Because  you  look  as  if  you  saw  a  murderer  ! 

ULRIC  (agitatedly). 

Ida,  this  is  mere  childishness :  your  weakness 
Infects  me,  to  my  shame  ;  but  as  all  feelings 
Of  yours  are  common  to  me,  it  affects  me. 
Prithee,  sweet  child,  change 

IDA. 

Child,  indeed  !  I  have 

Full  fifteen  summers  !  [A  bugle  founds. 

RODOLPH. 

Hark,  my  lord,  the  bugle  ! 
IDA  (peevishly  to  RODOLPH). 
Why  -iced  you  tell  him  that  ?  Can  he  not  hear  it, 
Willful  your  echo  ? 

RODOLPH. 
Pardon  me,  fair  baroness  ! 

IDA. 

I  will  not  pardon  you,  unless  you  earn  it 
By  aiding  me  in  my  dissuasion  of 
Count  Ulric  from  the  chase  to-day. 
RODOLPH. 

You  will  not, 
Lady,  need  aid  of  mine. 

ULRIC. 

I  must  not  now 
Forego  it. 

IDA. 

But  you  shall ! 

ULRIC. 
Shall! 

IDA. 

Yes,  or  be 

No  true  knight. — Come,  dear  Ulric  !  yield  to  me 
In  this,  for  this  one  day  ;  the  day  looks  heavy, 
And  you  are  turn'd  so  pale  and  ill. 
ULRIC. 

You  jest. 

IDA. 

Indeed  I  do  not :  ask  of  Rodolph. 
RODOLPH. 

Truly, 

My  lord,  within  this  quarter  of  an  hour, 
You  have  changed  more  than  I  e'er  saw  you  change 
In  years. 

ULRIC. 

'T  is  nothing ;  but  if  't  were,  the  air 
Would  soon  restore  me.     I  'm  the  true  cameleon, 
And  live  but  on  the  atmosphere ;  your  feasts 
In  castle  halls,  and  social  banquets,  r.ur^e  not 
My  spirit — I  'm  a  forester,  and  breather 
Of  the  stecn  mountain-tops,  where  I  love  all 
The  eagle  loves. 


IDA. 
Except  his  prey.  I  hoim. 

ULRIC. 

Sweet  Ida,  wish  me  a  fair  chase,  and  I 
Will  bring  you  six  boars'  heads  for  trophies  home 

IDA. 

And  will  you  not  stay,  then  ?     You  shall  not  go  T 
Come  !  I  will  sing  to  you. 

ULRIC. 

Ida,  you  scarcely 
Will  make  a  soldier's  wife. 

IDA. 

1  do  not  wish 

To  he  so ;  for  I  trust  these  wars  are  over, 
And  you  will  live  in  peace  on  your  domains. 

Enter  WERNER,  a*  COUNT  SIEGENDORF. 

ULRIC. 

My  father,  I  salute  you,  and  it  grieves  me 
With  such  brief  greeting — You  have  heard  our  bugle ; 
The  vassals  wait. 

SIEGE.NDORF. 

So  let  them — you  forget 
To-morrow  is  the  appointed  festival 
In  Prague,  for  peace  restored.     You  are  apt  to  fullt/w 
The  chase  with  such  an  ardour  as  will  scarce 
Permit  you  to  return  to-day,  or  if 
Return'd,  too  much  fatigued  to  join  to-morrow 
The  nobles  in  our  marshall'd  ranks. 
ULRIC. 

You,  count, 

Will  well  supply  the  place  of  both — I  am  not 
A  lover  of  these  pageantries. 

SIEGE.NDORF. 

No,  Ulric ; 
It  were  not  well  that  you  alone  of  all 

Oar  young  nobility 

IDA. 

And  far  the  noblest 
In  aspect  and  demeanour. 

SIEGE.NDORF  (lO  IDA). 

True,  dear  child, 

Though  somewhat  frankly  said  for  a  fair  damsel.— 
But,  Ulric,  recollect  too  our  position, 
So  lately  reinstated  in  our  honours. 
Believe  me,  't  would  be  mark'd  in  any  house, 
But  most  in  ours,  that  ONE  should  be  found  wanting 
At  such  a  time  and  place.     Besides,  the  Heaven 
Which  gave  us  back  our  own,  in  the  same  moment 
It  spread  its  peace  o'er  all,  hath  double  claims 
On  us  for  thanksgiving ;  first,  for  our  country, 
And  next,  that  we  are  here  to  share  its  blessings. 

ULRIC  (aside). 
Devout,  too !  Well,  sir,  I  obey  at  once. 

[Then  aloud  to  a  servant. 
Ludwig,  dismiss  the  train  without ! 

[Exit  LUDWIU. 

IDA. 

And  so 

You  yield  at  once  to  him,  what  1  for  hours 
Might  supplicate  in  vain. 

SIEGENBOKF   (*ff  tiing). 

You  arc  rot  jealous 
Of  me,  I  trust,  my  pretty  rebel !  who 
Would  sanction  disobedience  against  all 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Except  thyself?    But  fear  not,  thou  shall  rule  him 
Hereafter  with  a  fonder  sway  and  firmer. 

IDA. 

But  I  should  like  to  govern  note. 

6IEGENDORF. 

You  shall, 

Your  harp  ;  which,  by  the  way,  awaits  you  with 
The  countess  in  her  chamber.     She  complains 
That  you  are  a  sad  truant  to  your  music : 
She  attends  you. 

IDA. 

Then  good  morrow,  my  kind  kinsmen ! 
Ulric,  you  '11  come  and  hear  me  ? 
ULBJC. 

By  and  by. 
IDA. 

Be  sure  I  'U  sound  it  better  than  your  bugles ; 
Then  pray  you  be  as  punctual  to  its  notes: 
I  '11  play  you  King  Gustavus'  march. 
ULRIC. 

And  why  not 
Old  Tilly's. 

IDA. 

Not  that  monster's  !  I  should  think 
My  harp-strings  rang  with  groans,  and  not  with  music, 
Could  aught  of  his  sound  on  it ; — but  come  quickly ; 
Your  mother  will  be  eager  to  receive  you. 

[Exit  IDA. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ulric,  I  wish  to  speak  with  you  alone. 

ULRIC. 
My  time 's  your  vassal. —  [4fide  to  RODOLPH. 

Rodolph,  hence !  and  do 
As  I  directed  ;  and  by  his  best  speed 
And  readiest  means  let  Rosenberg  reply. 

RODOLPH. 

Count  Siegendorf,  command  you  aught?  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  journey  past  the  frontier. 

SIEGENDORF  (starts). 

Ah!— 
Where  ?  on  what  frontier  ? 

RODOLPH. 

The  Silesian,  on 

My  my— (aside  to  ULRIC).     When  shall  I  say  ? 
ULRIC  (aside,  to  RODOLPH). 

To  Hamburgh. 
(Aade  to  himtdf).     That 
Word  will,  I  think,  put  a  firm  padlock  on 
His  further  inquisition. 

RODOLPH. 

Count,  to  Hamburgh. 
SIEGENDORF  (agitated). 
Hamburgh  !  DO,  I  have  noughi  to  do  there,  nor 
Am  aught  connected  with  that  city.     Then 
God  speed  you ! 

RODOLPH. 

Fare  ye  well,  Count  Siegendorf! 

[Exit  RODOLPH. 

8IEGKNDORF. 

Chic,  this  man,  who  has  just  departed,  is 
One  of  those  strange  companions,  whom  I  fain 
Would  reason  with  you  on. 

ULBJC. 

My  lord,  he  is 

Noble  by  birth,  of  one  of  the  first  house* 
In  Saxony. 


EIEGENUORF. 

I  talk  not  of  his  birth, 
But  of  his  bearing.     Men  speak  lightly  of  him. 

ULK1C. 

So  they  will  do  of  most  men.     Even  the  monarch 
Is  not  fenced  from  his  chamberlain's  slander,  or 
The  sneer  of  the  last  courtier  whom  he  has  made 
Great  and  ungrateful. 

(IEGENDORF. 

If  I  must  be  plain, 

The  world  speaks  more  than  lightly  of  this  Rodolph : 
They  say  he  is  leagued  with  the  "  black  bands"  who  stil 
Ravage  the  frontier. 

ULRIC. 

And  will  you  believe 
The  world  ? 

SIEGEXDORF. 

In  this  case — yes. 
ULRIC. 

In  any  case, 

I  thought  you  knew  it  better  than  to  take 
AD  accusation  for  a  sentence. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Son! 

I  understand  you :  you  refer  to but 

My  destiny  has  so  involved  about  me 
Her  spider  web,  that  I  can  only  flutter 
Like  the  poor  fly,  but  break  it  not.     Take  heed, 
Ulric ;  you  have  seen  to  what  the  passions  led  me ; 
Twenty  long  years  of  misery  and  famine 
Quench'd  them  not — twenty  thousand  more,  perchance 
Hereafter  (or  even  here  in  moment*  which 
Might  date  for  years,  did  anguish  make  the  dial), 
May  not  obliterate  or  expiate 
The  madness  and  dishonour  of  an  instant. 
Ulric,  be  warn'd  by  a  father ! — I  was  not 
By  mine,  and  you  behold  me ! 
ULB.IC. 

I  behold 

The  prosperous  and  beloved  Siegendorf, 
Lord  of  a  prince's  appanage,  and  honour'd 
By  those  he  rules,  and  those  he  ranks  with. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ah! 

Why  wilt  thou  call  me  prosperous,  while  I  fear 
For  thee  ?  Beloved,  when  thou  lovest  me  not ! 
All  hearts  but  one  may  beat  in  kindness  for  me- 
But  if  my  son's  is  cold  !— — 
ULRIC. 
Who  dare  say  thai  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

None  else  but  I,  who  see  it— -fed  it — keener 
Than  would  your  adversary,  who  dared  say  so, 
Your  sabre  in  his  heart !     But  mine  survives 
The  wound. 

ULRIC. 

You  err.     My  nature  is  not  given 
To  outward  fondling ;  how  should  it  be  so, 
After  twelve  years'  divorcement  from  my  parents  T 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  did  not  I  too  pass  those  twelve  torn  years 
In  a  like  absence  ?     But 't  is  vain  to  urge  you — 
Nature  was  never  call'd  back  by  remonstrance, 
Let 's  change  the  theme.     I  wish  you  to  consider 
That  these  young  violent  nobles  of  high  same, 
But  dark  deeds  (ay,  the  darken,  if  :  U  rumour 


WERNER. 


417 


Reports  be  true),  with  whom  thou  consortest, 

W  ill  lead  thee 

CLRIC  (impatifntly). 
1  'U  be  led  by  no  man. 

SIEGE.XDORF. 

Nor 

be  leader  of  such,  I  would  hope :  at  once 
To  wean  thee  from  the  perils  of  thy  youth 
And  haughty  spirit,  I  have  thought  it  well 
Th:it  thou  should'st  wed  the  lady  Ida — more, 
As  thou  appear'st  to  love  her. 
ULHIC. 

I  have  said 

I  will  obey  your  orders,  were  they  to 
Unite  with  Hecate — can  a  son  say  more  ? 

SIEGEJfDORF. 

He  says  too  much  in  saying  this.     It  is  not 

The  nature  of  thine  age,  nor  of  thy  blood. 

Nor  of  thy  temperament,  to  talk  so  coolly, 

Or  act  so  carelessly,  in  that  which  is 

The  bloom  or  blight  of  all  men's  happiness, 

(For  glory's  pillow  is  but  restless,  if 

Love  lay  not  down  his  cheek  there):  some  strong  bias, 

Some  master  fiend,  is  in  thy  service,  to 

Misrule  the  mortal  who  believes  him  slave. 

And  makes  his  every  thought  subservient ;  else 

Thou  'dst  say  at  once,  "  I  love  young  Ida,  and 

Will  wed  her,"  or,  "  I  love  her  not,  and  all. 

fhe  powers  of  earth  shall  never  make  me." — ?  i 

Would  I  have  answer'd. 

ULRIC. 
Sir,  you  teed  for  love 

BIEGENDORF. 

I  did,  and  it  has  been  my  only  refuge 
In  many  miseries. 

ULRIC. 

Which  miseries 
Had  never  been  but  for  this  love-match. 

SIEGE.NDORF. 

Still 

Against  your  age  and  nature !  who  at  twenty 
E'er  answer'd  thus  till  now  ? 
CLRIC. 

Did  you  not  warn  me 
Against  your  own  example  ? 

EIEGENDORF. 

Boyish  sophist ! 
In  a  word,  do  you  love,  or  love  not,  Ida  ? 

ULRIC. 

What  matters  it,  if  I  am  ready  to 
Obey  you  in  espousing  her  ? 

SIEGEXDORF. 

As  far 

As  you  feel,  nothing,  but  all  life  for  her. 
She 's  young — all-beautiful — adores  you — is 
Gndow'd  with  qualities  to  give  happiness, 
Such  as  rounds  common  life  into  a  dream 
Of  something  which  your  poets  cannot  paint, 
And  (if  it  were  not  wisdom  to  love  virtue) 
for  which  philosophy  might  barter  wisdom  ; 
And  giving  so  much  happiness  deserves 
A  little  in  return.     I  would  not  have  her 
Break  her  heart  for  a  man  who  has  none  to  break, 
')r  wither  on  her  stalk  like  some  pale  rose 
Deserted  by  the  bird  sjie  thought  a  nightingale, 

According  to  the  orient  tale.     She  is 

2O  58 


ULRIC. 

The  daughter  of  dead  Stralenhcim,  your  ioe ! 
I  'U  wed  her,  ne'ertheless  ;  though,  to  say  truth, 
Just  now  I  am  not  violently  transported 
In  favour  of  such  unions. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  she  loves  you. 

CLRIC. 

And  I  love  her,  and  therefore  would  think  twice. 

SIEGEXDORF. 

Alas !  Love  never  did  so. 

ULRIC. 

Then  't  is  time 

He  should  begin,  and  take  the  bandage  from 
His  eyes,  and  look  before  he  leaps  :  till  now 
He  hath  ta'en  a  jump  i'  the  dark. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  you  consenl ' 

ULRIC. 

I  did  and  do. 

SIEGEKDORF. 

Then  fix  the  day. 
ULRIC. 

T  is  usual, 
And,  certes,  courteous,  to  leave  that  to  the  lady. 

SIEGEXDORF. 

/  wiH  engage  for  her. 

ULRIC. 
So  will  not  / 

For  any  woman ;  and  as  what  I  fix, 
I  fain  would  see  unshaken,  when  she  gives 
Her  answer,  I  '11  give  mine. 

SIEGENDORF.  < 

But 't  is  your  office 
To  woo. 

ULRIC. 

Count,  'tis  a  marriage  of  your  making, 
So  be  it  of  your  wooing ;  but  to  please  you 
I  will  now  pay  my  duty  to  my  mother, 
With  whom,  you  know,  the  ladv  Ida  is — 
What  would  you  have  ?  You  have  forbid  my  stirring 
For  manly  sports  beyond  the  castle  wails, 
And  I  obey  ;  you  bid  me  turn  a  chamberer, 
To  pick  up  gloves,  and  fans,  and  knittins-needles, 
And  list  to  songs  and  tunes,  and  watch  for  smiles, 
And  smile  at  pretty  prattle,  and  look  into 
The  eyes  of  feminie,  as  though  they  were 
The  stars  receding  early  to  our  wish 
Upon  the  dawn  of  a  world- winning  battle— 
What  can  a  son  or  man  do  more  ?  [Exit  ULRIO, 

SIEGEM/ORF  (iolux). 

Too  much  I — 
Too  much  of  duty  and  too  little  love ! 
He  pays  me  in  the  coin  he  owes  me  not : 
For  such  hath  been  my  wayward  fate,  I  could  not 
Fulfil  a  parent's  duties  by  his  side 
Till  now ;  but  love  he  owes  me,  for  my  thought* 
Xe'er  left  him,  nor  my  eyes  long'd  without  tears 
To  see  my  child  again,  and  now  I  have  found  him ' 
But  how  ?  obedient,  but  with  coldness  ;  duteous 
In  my  sight,  but  with  carelessness  ;  mysterious, 
Abstracted — distant — much  given  to  long  absence, 
And  where — none  know — in  league  with  the  most  rittov* 
Of  our  young  nobles :   though,  to  do  him  justice, 
He  never  stoops  down  to  their  vulgar  pleasures ; 
Yet  there 's  some  tie  t  ctween  them  which  I 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


Umavi-l.    1'h"  /  look  u|  to  him — consult  him — 
Throng  round  him  as  a  leader :  but  with  me 
He  hatii  no  confidence !  Ah !  can  I  hope  it 
After — what !  doth  my  father's  curse  descend 
Even  to  my  child  ?  Or  is  the  Hungarian  near 
To  shed  more  blood,  or— oh !  if  it  should  be ! 
Spirit  of  Stralenheim,  dost  thou  walk  these  walls 
To  witner  him  and  his — who,  though  they  slew  not, 
ti  nlatch'd  the  door  of  death  for  thee  ?  'T  was  not 
Our  fault,  nor  is  our  sin :  thou  wert  our  foe, 
And  yet  I  spared  thee  when  my  own  destruction 
Slept  with  thee,  to  awake  with  thine  awakening ! 
And  only  took — accursed  gold  !  thou  liest 
Like  poison  in  my  hands ;  I  dare  not  use  thee, 
Nor  part  from  thee ;  thou  earnest  in  such  a  guise, 
Methinks  thou  wouldst  contaminate  all  hands 
Like  mino.     Yet  I  have  done,  to  atone  for  thee, 
Tbou  villanous  gold  !   and  thy  dead  master's  doom, 
Though  he  died  not  by  me  or  mine,  as  much 
As  if  he  were  my  brother !  I  have  ta'en 
His  orphan  Ida — cherish'd  her  as  one 
Who  will  be  mine. 

Enter  an  ATTENDANT. 

ATTENDANT. 

The  abbot,  if  it  please 
Your  excellency,  whom  you  sent  for,  waits 
Upon  you.  [Exit  ATTENDANT. 

Enter  the  PRIOR  ALBERT. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Peace  be  with  these  walls,  and  all 
Within  them ! 

8IEOENDORF. 

Welcome,  welcome,  holy  father ! 
And  may  thy  prayer  be  heard ! — all  men  have  need 
Of  such,  and  I 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Have  the  first  claim  to  all 
The  prayers  of  our  community.     Our  convent, 
Erected  by  your  ancestors,  is  still 
Protected  by  their  children. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes,  good  father ; 
Continue  daily  orisons  for  us 
In  these  dim  days  of  heresies  and  blood, 
Though  the  schismatic  Swede,  Gustavus,  is 
Gone  home. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

To  the  endless  home  of  unbelievers, 
Where  there  is  everlasting  wail  and  woe, 
Gnashing  of  teeth,  and  tears  of  blood,  and  fire 
Eternal,  and  the  worm  which  dieth  not ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

True,  father :  and  to  avert  those  pangs  from  one, 
Who,  though  of  our  most  faultless,  holy  church, 
Yet  died  without  its  last  and  dearest  offices, 
Which  smooth  the  soul  through  purgatorial  pains, 
1  have  *.o  otfer  humbly  this  donation 
In  masses  for  his  spirit. 

|  SIEGENDORF  qffert  the  gold  which  he  had  taken 
Jrom  STRALENHEIM. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Count,  if  I 

Reusive  it.  't  is  because  I  know  too  wel 
Refusal  would  offend  you.     Be  assured 


The  largess  shall  be  only  dealt  in  alms, 
And  every  mass  no  less  sung  for  the  deaf1 
Our  house  needs  no  donations,  thanks  to  yours. 
Which  has  of  old  endovv'd  it  ;  but  from  you 
And  yours  in  all  meet  things  't  is  fit  we  obey. 
For  whom  shall  mass  be  said  ? 

SIEGENDORF  (faltering). 

For — for — the  aeax 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

His  name. 

SIEGENDORF. 

'T  is  from  a  soul,  and  not  a  nam« 
I  would  avert  perdition. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

I  meant  not 
To  pry  into  your  secret.    We  will  pray 
For  one  unknown,  the  same  as  for  the  proudest. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Secret !  I  have  none  ;  but,  father,  he  who 's  gone 
Might  have  one ;  or,  in  short,  he  did  bequeath — 
No,  not  bequeath — but  I  bestow  this  sum 
For  pious  purposes. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

A  proper  deed 
In  the  behalf  of  our  departed  friends. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  he,  who 's  gone,  was  not  my  friend,  but  foe, 
The  deadliest  and  the  staunchest. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Better  still ! 

To  employ  our  means  to  obtain  heaven  for  the  sod 
Of  our  dead  enemies,  is  worthy  those 
Who  can  forgive  them  living. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  I  did  not 

Forgive  this  man.     I  loathed  him  to  the  last, 
As  he  did  me.     I  do  not  love  him  now, 
But 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Best  of  all !  for  this  is  pure  religion ! 
You  fain  would  rescue  him  you  hate  from  hell — 
An  evangelical  compassion! — with 
Your  own  goW  too ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father,  't  is  not  my  gold. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Whose  then  ?  you  said  it  was  no  legacy. 

SIEGENDORF. 

No  matter  whose— of  this  be  sure,  that  he 
Who  own'd  it  never  more  will  need  it,  save 
In  that  which  it  may  purchase  from  your  altars  • 
T  is  yours,  or  theirs. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Is  there  no  blood  upon  it  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

No  :  but  there 's  worse  than  blood— eternal  charr.e . 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Did  he  who  own'd  it  die  in  his  bed  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Alas! 
He  did. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Son !  you  relapse  into  revenge, 
If  you  tegret  your  enemy's  bloodless  death. 

SIEGENDORF. 

His  death  was  fathomlessly  deep  in  blood. 


WERNER. 


41!) 


PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Vou  said  he  died  in  his  bed,  not  battle. 


SIEGENDORF. 


He 


Died,  I  scarce  Know — out — ne  was  stabb'd  i'  the  dark, 

And  now  you  have  it — perish'd  on  his  pillow 

Hy  a  cut-throat ! — ay !  you  may  look  upon  me  ! 

/  am  not  the  man.     I  '11  meet  your  eye  on  that  point, 

As  I  can  one  day  God's. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Nor  did  he  die 
By  means,  or  men,  or  instrument  of  yours  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

No !  by  the  God  who  sees  and  strikes 

°RIOR  ALBERT. 

Nor  know  you 
Who  slew  hin 

SIEGENDORF. 

1  could  only  guess  at  one, 
And  he  to  me  a  stranger,  unconnected, 
As  unemploy'd.    Except  by  one  day's  knowledge, 
I  never  saw  the  man  who  was  suspected. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

Then  you  are  free  from  guilt. 

SIEGENDORF  (eagerly), 

Oh!  ami?— say! 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

You  have  said  so,  and  know  best. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Father !  I  have  spoken 

The  truth,  and  nought  but  truth,  if  not  the  whole : 
Yet  say  I  am  not  guilty !  for  the  blood 
'Jf  this  man  weighs  on  me,  as  if  I  shed  it, 
Though  by  the  Power  who  abhorrcth  human  blood, 
(  did  not ! — nay,  once  spared  it,  when  I  might 
And  could — ay,  perhaps  should — (if  our  self-safety 
He  e'er  excusable  in  such  defences 
Against  the  attacks  of  over-potent  foes) ; 
But  pray  for  him,  for  me,  and  all  my  house  ; 
For,  as  I  said,  though  I  be  innocent, 
(  know  not  why,  a  like  remorse  is  on  me 
As  if  he  had  fallen  by  me  or  mine.     Pray  for  me, 
Father !  I  have  pray'd  myself  in  vain. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

I  will. 

Be  comforted !    You  are  innocent,  and  should 
Be  cairn  as  innocence. 

SIEGENDORF. 

But  calmness  is  not 
Always  the  attribute  of  innocence : 
I  feel  it  is  not. 

PRIOR  ALBERT. 

But  it  will  be  so, 

When  the  mind  gathers  up  its  truth  within  it. 
Remember  the  great  festival  to-morrow, 
In  which  you  rank  amidst  our  chiefest  nobles, 
As  well  as  your  brave  son ;  and  smooth  your  aspect ; 
Nor  in  the  general  orison  of  thanks 
For  bloodshed  stopt,  let  blood,  you  shed  not,  rise 
A  cloud  upon  your  thoughts.    This  were  to  be 
Too  sensitive.    Tak<>  comfort,  and  forget 
Such  tnings,  and  leave  remorse  unto  the  guilty. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V 

SCENE  I. 

A  large  and  magnificent  Gothic.  Hall  in  the  Castle  <f( 
Siegendorf,  decorated  with  Trophies,  Banners,  anil 
Arms  of  that  family. 

Enter  ARNHEIM  and  MEISTER,  Attendants  of  'Cons? 
SIEGENDORF. 

ARNHEIM. 

Be  quick !  the  count  will  soon  return :  the  ladies 
Already  are  at  the  portal.     Have  you  sent 
The  messengers  in  sevch  of  him  he  seeks  for? 

MEISTER. 

I  have,  in  all  directions,  over  Prague, 
As  far  as  the  man's  dress  and  figure  could 
By  your  description  track  him.    The  devil  take 
These  revels  and  processions !  All  the  pleasure 
(If  such  there  be)  must  fall  to  the  spectators. 
I  'm  sure  none  doth  to  us  who  make  the  show. 

ARNHEIM. 

Go  to  '  my  lady  countess  comes. 

MEISTER. 

I  'd  rather 

Ride  a  day's  hunting  on  an  outworn  jade, 
Than  follow  in  the  train  of  a  great  man 
In  these  dull  pageantries. 

ARNHEIM. 

Begone,  and  rail 
Within.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  the  COUNTESS  JOSEPHINE,  SIEGENDORF,  and 
IDA  STRALENHEIM. 

JOSEPHINE. 
Well,  Heaven  be  praised,  the  show  is  over ! 

IDA. 

How  can  you  say  so !    Never  have  I  dreamt 
Of  aught  so  beautiful !    The  flowers,  the  boughs, 
The  banners,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  knights, 
The  gems,  the  robes,  the  plumes,  the  happy  faces, 
The  coursers,  and  the  incense,  and  the  sun, 
Streaming  through  the  stain'd  windows,  even  the  tombs, 
Which  look'd  so  calm,  and  the  celestial  hymns, 
Which  seem'd  as  if  they  rather  came  from  heaven 
Than  mounted  there.    The  bursting  organ's  peal 
Rolling  on  high  like  a  harmonious  thunder , 
The  white  robes,  and  the  lifted  eyes  ;  the  world 
At  peace  !  and  all  at  peace  with  one  another  ! 
Oh,  my  sweet  mother !  [Embracing  JOSEPHIKJC 

JOSEPHINE. 

My  beloved  child ! 
For  such,  I  trust,  thou  shall  be  shortly. 

IDA. 

Oh! 

I  am  so  already.    Feel  how  my  heart  beats ! 

JOSEPHINE. 

It  does,  my  love  ;  and  never  may  t  throb 
With  aught  more  bitter  ! 

IDA. 

Never  shall  it  do  so ! 

How  should  it?  What  should  make  us  grieve?  I  h«e 
To  hear  of  sorrow :  how  can  we  be  sad, 
Who  love  each  other  so  entirely  ?    You, 
The  count,  and  Ulric,  and  vour  daughter,  Ida. 


t20 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


JOSEPHINE. 

Pooi  child! 

IDA. 

Do  you  pity  me? 

JOSEPHINE. 

No ;  I  but  envy, 

And  that  in  sorrow,  not  in  the  world's  sense 
Of  the  universal  vice,  if  one  vice  be 
More  general  than  another. 
IDA. 

I  '11  not  hear 

A  word  against  a  world  which  still  contains 
You  and  my  Ulric.     Did  you  ever  see 
Aught  like  him  7  How  he  tower'd  amongst  them  all ! 
How  all  eyes  follow'd  him !    The  flowers  fell  faster — 
Rain'd  from  each  lattice  at  his  feet,  methought, 
Than  before  all  the  rest,  and  where  he  trod 
I  dare  be  sworn  that  they  grow  still,  nor  e'er 
Will  wither. 

JOSEPHINE 

You  will  spoil  him,  little  flatterer! 
If  he  should  hear  you. 

IDA. 

But  he  never  will. 
I  dare  not  say  so  much  to  him — I  fear  him. 

JOSEPHINE. 
\Vhy  so  ?  he  loves  you  well. 

IDA. 

But  I  can  never 

Shape  my  thoughts  of  him  into  words  to  him. 
Besides,  he  sometimes  frightens  me. 
JOSEPHINE. 

How  so  7 

IDA. 

A  cloud  comes  o'er  his  blue  eyes  suddenly, 
Yet  he  says  nothing. 

JOSEPHINE. 

It  is  nothing :  all  men, 
Especial! y  in  these  dark  troublous  times, 
Have  much  to  think  of. 

IDA. 

But  I  cannot  think 
Of  aught  save  him. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Yet  there  are  other  men, 

In  the  world's  eye,  as  goodly.    There  's,  for  instance, 
The  young  Count  Waldorf,'  who  scarce  once  withdrew 
His  eyes  from  yours  to-day. 
IDA. 

I  did  not  see  him, 

Hot  Ulric.     Did  you  not  see  at  the  moment 
When  all  knelt,  and  I-wcpt  ?  and  yet  methought 
Through  my  fast  tears,  though  they  were  thick  and 

warm, 
I  saw  him  smiling  on  me. 

JOSEPHINE. 

I  could  not 

See  aught  save  heaven,  to  which  my  eyes  were  raised 
Together  with  the  people's. 

IDA. 

I  thought  too 
:if  heaven,  although  I  look'd  on  Uiric. 

JOSEPHINE. 

Come, 

I.K5t  us  retire  :  they  will  be  here  anon, 
he  banquet.    We  will  lay 


Aside  these  nodding  plumes  and  dragging  trains. 

IDA. 

And,  above  all,  these  stiff  and  heavy  jewels, 
Which  make  my  head  and  heart  ache,  as  both  throb 
Beneath  their  glitter  o'er  my  brow  and  zone. 
Dear  mother,  I  am  with  you.  [Exeunt 

Enter  COUNT  SIEOENDORF  in  full  dress,  from  Ihr 
solemnity,  and  LUDWIG. 

SIEOENDORF. 

Is  he  not  found  ? 

I.UDWIG. 

Strict  search  is  making  every  where ;  and  if 
The  man  be  in  Prague,  be  sure  he  will  be  found. 

SIEGENDOKF. 

Where's  Ulric? 

LUDWIG. 

He  rode  round  the  other  way, 
With  some  young  nobles ;  but  he  left  them  soon ; 
And,  if  I  err  not,  not  a  minute  since 
I  heard  his  excellency,  with  his  train, 
Gallop  o'er  the  west  drawbridge. 

Enter  ULRIC,  splendidly  dressed. 

SIEOENDORF    (to  LuDWIG). 

See  they  cease  not 
Their  quest  of  him  I  have  described.      [I'.xit  LUL'SVIG. 

Oh!  Ulric, 

How  have  I  long'd  for  thce ! 
ULRIC. 

Your  wish  is  granted — 
Behold  me ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  have  seen  the  murderer. 

ULRIC. 
Whom?  Where? 

SIEOENDORF. 

The  Hungarian,  who  slew  Straleriheim. 

ULRIC. 
You  dream. 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  live !  and  as  I  live,  I  saw  him — 
Heard  him !  He  dared  to  utter  even  my  name. 

U.LRIC. 
What  name? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Werner !  '<  was  mine. 
ULRIC. 

It  must  be  so 
No  more :  forget  it. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Never!  never!  all 

My  destinies  were  woven  in  that  name  . 
It  will  not  be  engraved  upon  my  tomb, 
But  it  may  lead  me  there. 

ULRIC. 

To  the  point — the  Hungarian? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Listen! — The  church  was  throng'd;  the  hymn  was  raised' 
"  Te  Z)eum"  peal'd  from  nations,  rather  than 
From  choirs,  in  one  great  cry  of  "  God  be  praise  »' 
For  one  day's  peace  after  thrice  ten  dread  fears. 
Each  bloodier  than  the  former ;   I  arose, 
With  all  the  nobles,  and  as  I  look'd  down 
Along  the  lines  of  lifted  faces, — from 
Our  banner'd  and  escutcheon'd  gaU«"v  I 


WERNER. 


421 


Saw,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  (for  I  saw 

A  moment,  and  no  more),  what  struck  me  sightless 

To  all  else — the  Hungarian's  face  ;  I  grew 

Sick  ;   and  when  I  recover'd  from  the  mist 

Which  curl'd  about  my  senses,  and  again 

Look'd  down,  I  saw  him  not.     The  thanksgiving 

Was  over,  and  we  march'd  back  in  procession. 

ULRIC. 
Continue. 

SIEGENDORF. 

When  we  reach'd  the  Muldau's  bridge, 
The  joyous  crowd  above,  the  numberless 
Barks  mann'd  with  revellers  in  their  best  garbs, 
Which  shot  along  the  glancing  tide  below, 
The  decorated  street,  the  long  array, 
The  clashing  music,  and  the  thundering 
Of  far  artillery,  which  seem'd  to  bid 
A  long  and  loud  farewell  to  its  great  doings, 
The  standards  o'er  me,  and  the  tramplings  round, 
The  roar  of  rushing  thousands,  all — all  could  not 
Chase  this  man  from  my  mind  ;  although  my  senses 
No  longer  held  him  palpable. 

ULRIC. 

You  saw  him 
No  more,  then  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  look'd,  as  a  dying  soldier 
Looks  at  a  draught  of  water,  for  this  man  ; 

But  still  I  saw  him  not ;  but  in  his  stead 

ULRIC. 
What  in  his  stead  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

My  eye  for  ever  fell 
Upon  your  dancing  crest ;  the  loftiest, 
As  on  the  loftiest  and  the  loveliest  head 
It  rose  the  highest  of  the  stream  of  plumes, 
Which  overflow'd  the  glittering  streets  of  Prague. 

ULRIC. 
What 's  this  to  the  Hungarian  ? 

S'EGENDORF. 

Much,  for  I 

Had  almost  then  forgot  him  in  my  son, 
When  just  as  the  artillery  ceased,  and  paused 
The  music,  and  the  crowd  embraced  in  lieu 
Of  shouting,  I  heard  in  a  deep,  low  voice, 
Distinct  and  keener  far  upon  my  ear 
Than  the  late  cannon's  volume,  this  word — "  Werner  /" 

ULRIC. 
Ctter'd  by 

SIEGENDORF. 

HIM  !  I  turn'd — and  saw — and  fell. 

ULRIC. 
And  wherefore  ?  Were  you  seen  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

The  officious  care 

Of  those  around  me  dragg'd  me  from  the  spot, 
Seeing  my  faintness,  ignorant  of  the  cause ; 
You,  too,  were  too  remote  in  the  procession 
(The  old  nobles  being  divided  from  their  children) 
To  aid  me. 

ULRIC. 
But  1 11  aid  you  now. 

SIEGENDORF. 

In  xvliat  ? 

ULRIC. 

In  searching  for  this  man,  or when  he 's  found, 

2  o  2 


What  shall  we  do  with  him  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  know  not  that. 
ULRIC. 
Then  wherefore  seek  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Because  I  cannot  rest 

Till  he  is  found.     His  fate,  and  Stralenheim's, 
And  ours,  seem  intertwisted  ;  nor  can  be 
Unravell'd,  till  - 

Enter  cm  ATTENDANT. 

ATTENDANT. 

A  stranger,  to  wait  on 
Your  Excellency. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Who? 

ATTENDANT. 

He  gave  no  name. 

HEOENDORF. 

Admit  him,  ne'ertheless. 

[The  ATTENDANT  introduce*  GABCR,  and  ef 
terwards  exit, 

Ah! 

OABOR. 

'T  is,  then,  Werner  ! 
SIEGENDORF  (haughtily). 
The  same  you  knew,  sir,  by  that  name  ;  and  you  J 

OABOR  (looking  round). 
I  recognise  you  both  ;  father  and  son, 
It  seems.     Count,  I  have  heard  that  you,  or  yours, 
Have  lately  been  in  search  of  me  :  I  am  here. 

SIECENDORF. 

I  have  sought  you^  and  have  found  you  ;  you  are  charge* 
(Your  own  heart  may  inform  you  why)  with  such 
A  crime  as  -  [He  paute* 

6ABOR. 

Give  it  utterance,  and  then 
1  '11  meet  the  consequences. 

SIEGENDORF. 

You  shall  do  so—- 
Unless - 

OABOR. 

First,  who  accuses  me  ? 

SIEG'JNDORF. 

All  things, 

If  not  all  men  :  the  universal  rumour  — 
My  own  presence  on  the  spot  —  the  place  —  the  time-  • 
And  every  speck  of  circumstance,  unite 
To  fix  the  blot  on  you. 

GABOR. 

And  on  me  only  1 

Pause  ere  you  answer:  is  no  other  name, 
Save  mine,  stain'd  in  this  business  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Trifling  villain  . 

Who  play'st  with  thine  own  guilt  ?  Of  all  that  breath* 
Thou  best  dost  know  the  innocence  of  him 
'Gainst  whom  thy  breath  would  blow  thy  bloody  slandct  . 
But  I  will  talk  no  further  with  a  wretch, 
Further  than  justice  asks.     Answer  at  once, 
And  without  quibbling,  to  my  charge. 

OABOR. 


Who  says  so  7 


8IEGENDORF. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


GABOR. 
I. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  how  disprove  it? 
GABOR. 

By 

Tht.  presence  of  the  murderer. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Name  him! 
GABOR. 

He 

May  hare  more  names  than  one.  Your  lordship  had  so 
Once  on  a  time. 

SIEGENDORF. 

If  you  mean  me,  I  dare 
Your  utmost. 

GABOR. 

You  may  do  so,  and  in  safety : 
I  know  the  assassin. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Where  is  he  ? 
GABOR  (pointing  to  ULRIC). 

Beside  you ! 

[ULRic  rushes  forward  to  attack  GABOR  ; 
SIEGENDORF  interposes. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Liar  and  fiend !  but  you  shall  not  be  slain ; 

These  w&Jls  are  mine,  and  you  are  safe  within  them. 

[He  turn*  to  ULRIC. 
Ulric,  repel  this  calumny,  as  I 
Will  do.     I  avow  it  is  a  growth  so  monstrous, 
1  could  not  deem  it  earth-born  :  but,  be  calm ; 
It  will  refute  itself.     But  touch  him  not. 

[ULRic  endeavours  to  compote  himself. 

OABOR. 
I xx>k  at  him,  and  then  hear  me. 

SIEGENDORF. 

(First  to  GABOR,  and  then  looking  at  ULRIC). 
I  hear  thee. 

My  God!  you  look 

ULRIC. 
How? 

SIEGENDORF. 

As  on  that  dread  night 
When  we  met  in  tne  garden. 

ULRIC  (composes  himself). 
It  is  nothing. 

GABOR. 

Count,  you  are  bound  to  hear  me.     I  came  hither 
Not  seeking  you,  but  sought.    When  I  knelt  down 
Amidst  the  people  in  the  church,  I  dream'd  not 
To  find  the  beggar'd  Werner  in  the  seat 
Of  senators  and  princes  ;  but  you  have  call'd  me, 
Apd  w«  have  met. 

8IEGENDORF. 

Go  on,  sir. 

OABOR. 

Ere  I  do  so, 

Allow  me  to  inquire  who  profited 
By  Stralenheim's  death  ?  Was 't  I — as  poor  as  ever ; 
And  poorer  by  suspicion  on  my  name. 
The  baron  lost  in  that  last  outrage  neither 
Jewels  nor  gold  ;  his  life  alone  was  sought— 
A  life  which  stood  between  the  claims  of  others 
To  honours  and  estates,  scarce  less  than  princely. 


SIIGENEORF. 

These  hints,  as  vague  as  vain,  attach  no  less 
To  me  than  to  my  son. 

GABOR. 

I  can't  help  that. 

But  let  the  consequence  alight  on  him 
Who  feels  himself  the  guilty  one  amongst  us. 
I  speak  to  you,  Count  Siegendorf,  because 
I  know  you  innocent,  and  deem  you  just, 
But  ere  I  can  proceed — Dare  you  protect  me 't— 
Dare  you  command  me  ? 

[SIEGENDORF  Jirst  looks  at  the  Hungarian,  ami 
then  at  ULRIC,  who  has  unbuckled  his  sabre,  and 
is  drawing  lines  u,-ith  it  on  the  floor — still  in  u 
sheath. 
DLRIC  (looks  at  his  father,  and  says) 

Let  the  man  go  or  ! 
GABOR. 

I  am  unarm'd,  count — bid  your  son  lay  down 
His  sabre. 

ULRIC  (offers  it  to  him  contemptuously). 
Take  it. 

GABOR. 

No,  sir ;  't  is  enough 

That  we  are  both  unarm'd — I  would  not  choose 
To  wear  a  steel  which  may  be  stain'd  with  more 
Blood  than  came  there  in  battle. 

ULRIC  (casts  the  sabre  from  him  in  contempt). 

It — or  some 

Such  other  weapon,  in  my  hands — spared  yours 
Once,  when  disarm'd  and  at  my  mercy. 

GABOR. 

True— 

I  have  not  forgotten  it :  you  spared  me  for 
Your  own  especial  purpose — to  sustain 
An  ignominy  not  mine  own. 

ULRIC. 

Proceed. 

The  tale  is  doubtless  worthy  the  relater. 
But  is  it  of  my  father  to  hear  further  ? 

[To  SlEGENDOltl. 

SIEGENDORF  (takes  his  son  by  the  hand). 
My  son  !  I  know  mine  own  innocence — and  doubt  not 
Of  yours — but  I  have  promised  this  man  patience ; 
Let  him  continue. 

GABOR. 

I  will  not  detain  you 
By  speaking  of  myself  much  ;  I  began 
Life  early — and  am  what  the  world  has  made  me. 
At  Frankfort,  on  the  Oder,  where  I  pass'd 
A  winter  in  obscurity,  it  was 
My  chance  at  several  places  of  resort 
(Which  I  frequented  sometimes,  but  not  often) 
To  hear  related  a  strange  circumstance, 
In  February  last.     A  martial  force, 
Sent  by  the  state,  had,  after  strong  resistance 
Secured  a  band  of  desperate  men,  supposed 
Marauders  from  the  hostile  camp. — They  proved, 
However,  not  to  be  so— but  banditti, 
Whom  either  accident  or  enterprise 
Had  carried  from  their  usual  haunt — the  forestj 
Which  skirt  Bohemia — even  into  Lusatia. 
Many  amongst  them  were  reported  of 
High  rank — and  martial  law  slept  for  a  time, 
At  last  they  were  escorted  o'er  the  frontiers, 
And  placed  beneath  the  civil  jurisdictian 


WERNER. 


423 


Of  the  free  town  of  Frankfort.     Of  their  fat< , 
I  know  no  more. 

8IEGE3DORF. 

And  what  Is  this  to  Ulric  ? 

GABOR. 

Amongst  them  there  was  said  to  be  one  man 
Of  wonderful  endowments : — birth  and  fortune, 
Youth,  strength,  and  bea'ity,  almost  superhuman, 
Ant!  courage  as  unrivall'd,  were  proclaim'd 
His  by  the  public  rumour ;   and  his  sway, 
Not  only  over  his  associates  but 
His  judges,  was  attributed  to  witchcraft. 
Such  was  his  influence : — I  have  no  great  faith 
In  any  magic  save  that  of  the  mine — 
I  therefore  deem'd  him  wealthy — But  my  soul 
Was  roused  with  various  feelings  to  seek  out 
This  prodigy,  if  only  to  behold  him. 

SIEGENUORF. 

And  did  you  so  ? 

GABOR. 

You  'U  hear.     Chance  favour5  d  me : 
A  popular  affray  in  the  pubkc  square 
Drew  crowds  together — it  was  one  of  those 
Occasions,  where  men's  souls  look  out  of  them, 
And  show  them  as  they  are — even  in  their  faces: 
The  moment  my  eye  met  his — I  exclaim'd 
"This  is  the  man  !"  though  he  was  then,  as  since, 
With  the  nobles  of  the  city.     I  felt  sure 
I  had  not  err'd,  and  watch'd  him  long  and  nearly : 
I  noted  down  his  form — his  gesture — features, 
Stature  and  bearing — and  amidst  them  all, 
*Midst  every  natural  and  acquired  distinction, 
I  could  discern,  methought,  the  assassin's  eye 
And  gladiator's  heart. 

ULRIC  (smiling'). 

The  tale  sounds  well. 
GABOR. 

And  may  sound  better. — He  appear'd  to  me 
One  of  those  beings  to  whom  Fortune  bends 
As  she  doth  to  the  daring — and  on  whom 
The  fates  of  others  oft  depend  ;  besides, 
An  indescribable  sensation  drew  me 
Near  to  this  man,  as  if  my  point  of  fortune 
Was  to  be  fix'd  by  him — There  I  was  wrong. 

SIEGESDORF. 

And  may  not  be  right  now. 

GABOR. 

I  follow'd  him — 

Solicited  his  notice — and  obtain'd  it — 
Though  not  his  friendship  : — it  was  his  intention 
To  leave  the  city  privately — we  left  it 
Together — and  together  we  arrived 
In  the  poor  town  where  Werner  was  concealed, 

And  Stralenheim  was  succour'd Now  we  are  on 

The  verge — dare  you  hear  further  ? 

SIEGEKDORF. 

I  must  do  so— 
Or  I  have  heard  too  much. 

GABOR. 

I  saw  in  you 

\  man  above  his  station — and  if  not 
So  high,  as  now  I  find  you,  ir  mv  then 
Conceptions — 't  was  that  I  had  rarely  seen 
Men  such  as  you  appear'd  in  heignt  of  mind, 
In  the  most  high  of  worldly  rank ;  you  were 
I'oor — even  to  aH  save  rajis — I  would  have  ihared 


My  purse,  though  slender,  with  you — ycu  refused  it. 

SIEGESDOKF. 

Doth  my  refusal  make  a  debt  to  you, 
That  thus  you  urge  it  ? 

GABOR. 

Still  you  owe  me  something, 
Though  not  for  that — and  I  owed  you  my  safetv, 
At  least  my  seeming  safety — when  the  slaves 
Of  Stralenheim  pursued  me  on  the  grounds 
That  1  had  robb'd  him. 

SIEGEXDORF. 

I  conceal'd  you — I, 
Whom,  and  whose  house,  you  arraign,  reviving  vip«  ' 

GABOR. 

I  accuse  no  man — save  in  my  defence. 
You,  count !   have  made  yourself  accuser — judge — 
Your  hall 's  my  court,  your  heart  is  my  tribunal. 
Be  just,  and  /  '11  be  merciful. 

SIEGEJiDORF, 

You  merciful ! 
You !  base  calumniator ! 

GABOR. 
I.     'Twill  rest 

With  me  at  last  to  be  so.     You  conceal'd  me — 
In  secret  passages  known  to  yourself, 
You  said,  and  to  none  else.     At  dead  of  night, 
Weary  with  watching  in  the  dark,  and  dubious 
Of  tracing  back  my  way — I  saw  a  glimmer 
Through  distant  crannies  of  a  twinkling  light. 
I  follow'd  it,  and  reach'd  a  door — a  secret 
Portal — which  open'd  to  the  chamber,  where, 
With  cautious  hand  and  slow,  having  first  undone 
As  much  as  made  a  crevice  of  the  fastening, 
I  look'd  through,  and  beheld  a  purple  bed, 
And  on  it  Stralenheim  !— 

8IEGENDOKF. 

Asleep !  And  yet 
You  slew  him — wretch ! 

GABOR. 

He  was  already  slain, 
And  bleeding  like  a  sacrifice.     My  own 
Blood  became  ice. 

SIEGtNDORF. 

But  he  was  all  alone  ! 

You  saw  none  else !  You  did  not  see  the 

[He  pauses  front  agitation. 

GABOR. 

No; 

77e,  whom  you  dare  not  name — nor  even  I 
Scarce  dare  to  recollect — was  not  then  in 
The  chamber. 

SJEGEXDORF  (to  ULISIC). 

Then,  my  boy  !  thou  art  guiltless  still- 
Thou  bad'st  me  say  /  was  so  once — Oh  !  now 
Do  thou  as  much  ! 

GABOR. 

Be  patient !  I  can  not 
Recede  now,  though  it  shake  the  very  walls 
Which  frown  above  us.     You  remember,  or 
If  not,  your  son  does,— that  the  locks  were  change* 
Beneath  his  chief  inspection — on  the  morn 
Whi-:h  led  to  this  same  night :   how  he  had  enter'd 
He  best  knows — but  within  an  antechamber. 
The  door  of  which  was  half  ajar — I  saw 
A  man  who  wash'd  his  bloody  hands,  and  oft 
With  stern  and  anxious  glance  gazed  back  UDOO 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


llie  bleeding  body — but  it  moved  no  more. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Oh !  God  of  fathers  ! 

OABOR. 

I  beheld  his  features 

As  I  see  yours — but  yours  they  were  not,  though 
Resembling  them — behold  them  in  Count  Ulric's  ! 
Distinct — as  I  beheld  them — though  the  expression 
Is  not  now  what  it  then  was  ; — but  it  was  so 
When  I  first  charged  him  with  the  crime  : — so  lately. 

SIEGENDORF. 

This  is  so 

GABOR  (interrupting  him). 
Nay — but  hear  me  to  the  end  ! 
Now  you  must  do  so. — I  conceived  myself 
Betray'd  by  you  and  him  (for  now  I  saw 
There  was  some  tie  between  you)  into  this 
Pretended  den  of  refuge,  to  become 
The  victim  of  your  guilt ;  and  my  first  thought 
Was  vengeance  :  but  though  arm'd  with  a  short  poniard 
(Having  left  my  sword  without),  I  was  no  match 
For  him  at  any  time,  as  had  been  proved 
That  morning— either  in  addiess  or  force. 
I  turn'd,  and  fled — i'  the  dark :  chance,  rather  than 
Skill,  made  me  gain  the  secret  door  of  the  hall, 
And  thence  the  chamber  where  you  slept — if  I 
Had  found  you  waking,  Heaven  alone  can  tell 
What  vengeance  and  suspicion  might  have  prompted ; 
But  ne'er  slept  guilt  as  Werner  slept  that  night. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  yet  I  had  horrid  dreams  !  and  such  brief  sleep — 
The  stars  had  not  gone  down  when  I  awoke — 
Why  didst  thou  spare  me  ?  I  dreamt  of  my  father — 
And  now  my  dream  is  out ! 

OABOR. 

'T  is  not  my  fault, 

[f  I  have  read  it. — Well !  I  fled  and  hid  me — 
Chance  led  me  here  after  so  many  moons — 
And  show'd  me  Wemer  in  Count  Siegendorf ! 
Werner,  whom  I  had  sought  in  huts  in  vain, 
Inhabited  the  palace  of  a  sovereign  ! 
You  sought  me,  and  have  found  me — now  you  know 
My  secret,  and  may  weigh  its  worth. 

SIEGENDORF  (after  a  pause). 

Indeed ! 

OABOR. 

is  it  revenge  or  justice  which  inspires 
Your  meditation  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Neither — I  was  weighing 
The  value  of  your  secret. 

OABOR. 

You  shall  know  it 

At  once — when  you  were  poor,  and  I,  though  poor, 
Rich  enough  to  relieve  such  poverty 
As  might  have  envied  mine,  I  offer'd  you 
My  puise — you  would  not  share  it : — I  '11  be  franker 
With  you  ;  you  are  wealthy,  noble,  trusted  by 
The  imperial  nowers — ycu  understand  me  7 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes.— 

GABOR. 

Noi  quite.     You  think  me  venal,  and  scarce  true : 
'T  is  no  less  true,  however,  that  my  fortunes 
Have  made  me  both  at  present ;  you  shall  aid  me ; 
1  wnuM  have  aided  you — and  also  have 


Been  somewhat  damaged  in  my  name  to  save 

Yours  and  your  son's.     Weigh  well  what  I  hare  said. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Dare  you  await  the  event  of  a  few  minutes' 
Deliberation  ? 
GABOR  (costs  his  eye  on  ULRIC,  who  is  leaning  agtinsl 

a  pillar). 
If  I  should  do  so  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  pledge  my  life  for  yours.     Withdraw  into 

This  tower.  [Opens  a  turret  door. 

OABOR  (hesitatingly). 
This  is  the  second  safe  asylum 
You  have  offer'd  me. 

SIEGENDORF. 

And  was  not  the  first  so  ? 

OABOR. 

I  know  not  that  even  now — but  will  approve 
The  second.     I  have  still  a  further  shield. — 
I  did  not  enter  Prague  alone — and  should  I 
Be  put  to  rest  with  Stralenheim-*-there  are 
Some  tongues  without  will  wag  in  my  behalf. 
Be  brief  in  your  decision ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  will  be  so — 
My  word  is  sacred  and  irrevocable 
Within  these  walls,  but  it  extends  no  further. 

GABOR. 
I  '11  take  it  for  so  much. 

SIEGENDORF  (points  to  Ui-Ric's  sabre,  still  upon 
the  ground). 

Take  also  that— 
I  saw  you  eye  it  eagerly,  and  him 
Distrustfully. 

OABOR  (takes  up  the  sabre). 
I  will ;  and  so  provide 
To  sell  my  life — not  cheaply. 

[GABOR  goes  into  the  turret,  which  SIEGENDORF  dote*. 
SIEGENDORF  (advances  to  ULRIC). 

Now,  Count  Ulric ! 
For  son  I  dare  not  call  thee — What  say'st  thou  ? 

ULRIC. 
His  tale  is  true. 

SIEGENDORF. 

True,  monster ! 
CLRIC. 

Most  true,  father ; 

And  you  did  well  to  listen  to  it :  what 
We  know,  we  can  provide  against.     He  must 
Be  silenced. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ay,  with  half  of  my  domains ; 
And  with  the  other  half,  could  he  and  thou 
Unsay  this  villany. 

ULRIC. 
It  is  no  time 

For  trifling  or  dissembling.     I  have  said 
His  story 's  true  ;  and  he  too  must  be  silenced. 

SIEGENDORF. 

How  so  ? 

ULRIC. 

As  Stralenheim  is.     Are  you  so  dull 
As  never  to  have  hit  on  this  before  ? 
When  we  met  in  the  garden,  what  except 
Discovery  in  the  act  could  make  me  know 
His  death  ?  or  had  the  prince's  household  been 


WERNER. 


42A 


Then  summon'd,  would  the  cry  for  the  police 
Been  left  to  such  a  stranger  ?  Or  should  I 
Have  loiter'd  on  the  way  ?  Or  could  you,  Werner, 
The  object  of  the  baron's  hate  and  fears, 
Havfl  fled — unless  by  many  an  hour  before 
Suspicion  woke  ?  I  sought  and  fathom'd  you — 
Doubting  if  you  were  false  or  feeble  ;  I 
Perceived  you  were  the  latter ;  and  yet  so 
Confiding  have  I  found  you,  that  I  doubted 
At  times  your  weakness. 

SIEGENDORF. 

Parricide !  no  less 

Than  common  slabber !  What,  deed  of  my  life, 
Or  thought  of  mine,  could  make  you  deem  me  fit 
For  your  accomplice  ? 

ULRIC. 

Father,  do  not  raise 

The  devil  you  cannot  lay,  between  us.    This 
Is  time  for  union  and  for  action,  not 
For  family  disputes.    While  you  were  tortured 
Could  /  be  calm  ?  Think  you  that  I  have  heard 
This  fellow's  tale  without  some  feeling  ?  you 
Have  taught  me  feeling  for  you  and  myself; 
For  whom  or  what  else  did  you  ever  teach  it? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Oh !  my  dead  father's  curse  !  't  is  working  now. 

ULRIC. 

Let  it  work  on !  the  grave  will  keep  it  down ! 
Ashes  are  feeble  foes :  it  is  more  easy 
To  baffle  such,  than  countermine  a  mole, 
Which  winds  its  blind  but  living  path  beneath  you. 
Yet  hear  me  still ! — If  you  condemn  me,  yet 
Remember  who  hath  taught  me  once  too  often 
To  listen  to  him !    Who  proclaim'd  to  me 
That  there  were  crimes  made  venial  by  the  occasion  ? 
That  passion  was  our  nature  ?  that  the  goods 
Of  heaven  waited  on  the  goods  of  fortune  ? 
Who  show'd  me  his  humarity  secured 
By  his  nerves  only  1   Who  deprived  me  of 
All  power  to  vindicate  myself  and  race 
In  open  day  ?  By  his  disgrace  which  stamp'd 
(It  might  be)  bastardy  on  me,  and  on 
Himself — a  felon's  brand  !  The  man  who  is 
At  once  both  warm  and  weak,  invites  to  deeds 
He  longs  to  do,  but  dare  not.     Is  it  strange 
That  I  should  act  what  you  could  think  ?  We  have  done 
With  right  or  wrong,  and  now  must  only  ponder 
Upon  effects,  not  causes.     Stralenheim, 
Whose  life  I  saved,  from  impulse,  as,  unknown, 
I  would  have  saved  a  peasant's  or  a  dog's,  I  slew, 
Known  as  our  foe — but  not  from  vengeance.     He 
Was  a  rock  in  our  way,  which  I  cut  through, 
As  doth  the  bolt,  because  it  stood  between  us 
And  our  true  destination — but  not  idly. 
As  stranger  I  preserved  him,  and  he  owed  me 
His  life;  when  due,  I  but  resumed  the  debt. 
He,  you,  and  I  stood  o'er  a  gulf,  wherein 
I  have  plunged  our  enemy.     You  kindled  first 
The  torch — you  show'd  the  path :  now  trace  me  that 
Of  safety — or  let  me  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  have  done  with  life ! 

I7LRIC. 

Let  us  have  done  with  that  which  cankers  life- 
Familiar  feuds  and  vain  recriminations 
Of  things  which  cannot  be  undone.    We  have 
59 


No  more  to  learn  or  hide :  I  know  no  fear, 
And  have  within  those  very  walls  men  who 
(Although  you  know  them  not)  dare  venture  all  thing* 
You  stand  high  with  the  state  ;  what  passes  here 
Will  not  excite  her  too  gre?t  curiosity  : 
Keep  your  own  secret,  keep  a  steady  eye, 
Stir  not,  and  speak  not ; — leave  the  rest  to  me : 
We  must  have  no  tliird  babblers  thrust  between  us. 

[Exit  ULRIC. 

SIEGENDORF   (solus). 

Am  I  awake  ?  are  these  my  father's  halls  ? 

And  yon — my  son  ?  My  son !  mint      who  have  ever 

Abhorr'd  both  mystery  and  blowl,  and  yet 

Am  plunged  into  the  deepest  hell  of  both ! 

I  must  be  speedy,  or  more  will  be  shed — 

The  Hungarian's ! — Ulric — he  hath  partisans, 

It  seems .  I  might  have  guess'd  as  much.    Oh  fool ' 

Wolves  prowl  in  company.    He  hath  the  key 

(As  I  too)  of  the  opposite  door  which  leads 

Into  the  turret.     Now  then !  or  once  more 

To  be  the  father  of  fresh  crimes — no  less 

Than  of  the  criminal !  Ho !  Gabor !  Gabor ! 

[Exit  into  the  turret,  dosing  the  door  after  hint. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Interior  of  the  Turret. 

GABOR  and  SIEGENDORF. 

GABOR. 
Who  calls? 

SIEGENDORF. 

I — Sie'gendorf !  Take  these,  and  fly T 
Lose  not  a  moment ! 

[Tear*  qff"  a  diamond  star  and  other  jewel*,  an.1 
thrusts  them  into  GABOR'S  hand. 

GABOR. 

What  am  I  to  do 
With  these  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Whate'er  you  will :  sell  them,  or  hoard, 
And  prosper ;  but  delay  net — or  you  are  lost ! 

GABOR. 

You  pledged  your  honour  for  my  safety ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

And 

Must  thus  redeem  it.     Fly !  I  am  not  master, 
It  seems,  of  my  own  castle — of  my  own 
Retainers — nay,  even  of  these  very  walls, 
Or  I  would  bid  them  fall  and  crush  me  !  Fly ! 
Or  you  '11  be  slain  by 

GABOR. 

Is  it  even  so  ? 

Farewell,  then !  Recollect,  however,  count, 
You  sought  this  fatal  interview ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

I  did: 
Let  it  not  be  more  fatal  still : — Begone ! 

GABOR. 
By  the  same  path  I  enter'd  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yes ;  that 's  safe  st& . 
But  loiter  not  in  Prague ; — you  do  *ot  know 
With  whom  you  have  to  deal. 


426 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


GABOR. 

I  know  too  well — 

And  knew  it  ere  yourself,  unhappy  sire ! 
Karewei) '  [Exit  GABOR. 

SIEGENDORF  (solus  and  listening') . 

He  hath  clear'd  the  staircase.    Ah !  I  hear 
The  door  sound  loud  behind  him !   he  is  safe ! 
Safe ! — Oh,  my  father's  spirit ! — I  am  faint 

[He  leans  down  upon  a  stone  seat,  mir  the  wall 
of  the  tower,  in  a  drooping  postart. 

Enter  ULKIC,  with  others  armed,  and  with  weapons 
drawn. 

ULRIC. 
Despatch !— he 's  there ! 

LUDWIO. 

The  count,  my  lord ! 
ULRIC  (recognising  SIEGENDORF). 

You  here,  sir ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Yea :  if  you  want  another  victim,  strike ! 

ULRIC  (seeing  him  stript  of  his  jewels). 
Where  is  the  ruffian  who  hath  plund«r'd  you  ? 
Vassals,  despatch  in  search  of  him  !    You  see 
*T  was  as  I  said,  the  wretch  hath  stript  my  father 
Of  jewels  which  might  form  a  prince's  heirloom! 
Away !  I  '11  follow  you  forthwith. 

[Exeunt  all  but  SIEGENDORF  and  ULRIC. 

What's  this  7 
Where  is  the  villain  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

There  are  two,  sir  ;  which 
Aie  you  in  quest  of? 

ULRIC. 

Let  us  hear  no  more 

f  If  this :  he  must  be  found.    You  have  not  let  him 
Escape  ? 

SIEOENDORF. 

He 's  gone. 

ULRIC. 

With  your  connivance  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

With 
M»  fullest,  freest  aid. 

ULRIC. 

Then  fare  you  well ! 

[ULRIC  t»  going. 

MEGENPORF. 

iNop !  I  command — entreat — implore !  Oh,  Ulric ! 
Will  you  then  leave  me  ? 

ULRIC. 

What !  remain  to  be 

Denounced — dragg'd,  it  may  be,  in  chains  ;  and  all 
!?y  your  inherent  weakness,  half-humanity, 
Seltish  remorse,  and  temporising  pity, 
Tliac  sacrifices  your  whole  race  to  save 
A  vrctch  to  profit  by  our  ruin  !    No,  count, 
Henceforth  you  have  no  son ! 

SI1.GENDORF. 

I  never  had  one  ; 
A 'irt  would  you  ne'er  had  borne  the  useless  name ! 


Where  will  you  go  ?  I  would  not  ser-d  you  forth 
Without  protection. 

ULRIC. 

Leave  that  unto  me. 

I  am  not  alone ;  nor  merely  the  vain  heir 
Of  your  domains :  a  thousand,  ay,  ten  thousand 
Swords,  hearts,  and  hands,  are  mine. 

SIEGENDORF. 

The  foresters ! 

With  whom  the  Hungarian  found  you  first  at  Frank 
fort? 

ULRIC. 

Yes — men — who  are  worthy  of  the  name !  Go  tell 
Your  senators  that  they  look  well  to  Prague  ; 
Their  feast  of  peace  was  early  for  the  times ; 
There  are  more  spirits  abroad  than  have  been  U;d 
With  Wallenstein ! 

Enter  JOSEPHINE  and  IDA. 

JOSEPHINE. 

What  is 't  we  hear  ?  My  SiegonJorf  • 
Thank  Heaven,  I  see  you  safe  ! 

SIEGENDORF. 

Safe! 

IDA. 

Yes,  dear  fvher 

SIEGENDORF. 

No,  no ;  I  have  no  children :  never  more 
Call  me  by  that  worst  name  of  parent. 
JOSEPHINE. 

What 
Means  my  good  lord  ? 

SIEGENDORF. 

That  you  have  giver*  J '  „•  < 
To  a  demon ! 

IDA  (taking  ULRIC'S  hand). 
Who  shall  dare  say  this  cf  U"  ...»  I 

SIEGENDORF. 

Ida,  beware !  there 's  blood  upon  that  har.d 

IDA  (stooping  to  kiss  it). 
I  'd  kiss  it  off,  though  it  were  mine ! 

SIEGENDOKF. 

Il  a  n 

ULRIC. 

Away !  it  is  your  father's !  [1:  xit  ULRIC. 

IDA. 

Oh,  great  trod ! 
And  I  have  loved  this  man ! 

[!DA  falls  senseless — JOSEPHINE  stands  speecfuef 
with  horror. 

SIEGENDORF. 

The  wretch  hath  slain 

Them  both  ! — my  Josephine  !  we  are  now  alone  ! 
Would  we  had  ever  been  so ! — All  is  over 
For  me ! — Now  open  wide,  my  sire,  thy  grare ; 
Thy  curse  hath  dug  it  deeper  for  thy  son 
In  mine  ! — The  race  of  Siegendorf  is  past ,' 


(     -127     ) 


EvaustotrmcU; 

A  DRAMA. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Tliis  production  is  founded  partly  on  the  story  of  a 
Novel,  called  "  The  Three  Brothers,"  published  many 
vears  ago, from  which  M.  G.  Lewis's  "  Wood  Demon" 
was  also  taken — and  partly  on  the  "Faust"  of  the  great 
Goethe.  The  present  publication  contains  the  first  two 
Parts  only,  and  the  opening  chorus  of  the  third.  The 
rest  may  perhaps  appear  hereafter. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN. 

STRANGER,  afterwards  CJDSAR. 
ARNOLD. 
BOURBON. 
PHILIBEKT. 
CELLINI. 

WOMEN. 
BERTHA. 
OLIMPIA. 


Spirits,  Soldiers,  Citizens  of  Rome,  Priests, 
Peasants,  etc. 


THE 


DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


PART  I. 

SCENE  I.— A  Forest. 
Enter  ARNOLD  and  his  mother  BERTHA. 


OUT,  hunchback ! 


ARNOLD. 
I  was  born  so,  mother ! 

BERTHA. 

Out! 

Thou  incubus !  Thou  nightmare !     Of  seven  sons 
The  sole  abortion ! 

ARNOLD. 

Would  that  I  had  been  so, 
^pfi  fover  seen  the  light ' 

BERTHA. 

I  would  so  too ! 

But  as  thou  hast — hence,  hence — and  do  thy  best. 
That  back  of  thine  may  bear  its  burthen  ;  't  is 
More  high,  if  not  so  broad  as  that  of  others. 

ARNOLD. 

Tt  fours  its  burthen  ; — but,  my  heart!  will  it 
Sustain  that  which  you  lay  upon  it,  mother? 


I  love,  or  at  the  least,  I  loved  you :  nothing, 
Save  you,  in  nature,  can  love  aught  like  me. 
You  nursed  me — do  not  kill  me. 

BERTHA. 

Yes — I  nursed  then 

Because  thou  wert  my  first-born,  and  I  knew  not 
If  there  would  be  another  unlike  thee, 
That  monstrous  sport  of  nature.     But  get  hence. 
And  gather  wood ! 

ARNOLD. 

I  will :  but  when  I  bring  it, 
Speak  to  me  kindly,    Though  my  brothers  are 
So  beautiful  and  lusty,  and  as  free 
As  the  free  chase  they  follow,  do  not  spum  me : 
Our  milk  has  been  the  same. 

BERTHA. 

As  is  the  hedgehog's 

Which  sucks  at  midnight  from  the  wholesome  dam 
Of  the  young  bull,  until  the  milkmaid  finds 
The  nipple  next  day  sore  and  udder  dry. 
Call  not  thy  brothers  brethren!  call  me  not 
Mother ;  for  if  I  brought  thee  forth,  it  was 
As  foolish  hens  at  times  hatch  vipers,  by 
Sitting  upon  strange  eggs.     Out,  urchin,  out ! 

[Exit  BERTHA 

ARNOLD   (solus). 

Oh  mother ! She  is  gone,  and  I  must  do 

Her  bidding  ; — wearily  but  willingly 

I  would  fulfil  it,  could  I  only  hope 

A  kind  word  in  return.    What  shall  I  do  ? 

[ARNOLD  begins  to  cut  wood  :  in  doing  Jhis  ht 

wounds  one  of  his  hands. 
My  labour  for  the  day  is  over  now. 
Accursed  be  this  blood  that  flows  so  fast : 
For  double  curses  will  be  my  meed  now 
At  home. — What  home  ?  I  have  no  home,  no  km, 
No  kind — nor  made  like  other  creatures,  or 
To  share  their  sports  or  pleasures.    Must  I  bleed  too, 
Like  them  ?  Oh  that  each  drop  which  falls  to  earth 
Would  rise  a  snake  to  sting  them  as  they  have  stung  mp ' 
Or  that  the  devil,  to  whom  they  liken  me, 
Would  aid  his  likeness !  If  I  must  partake 
His  form,  why  not  his  power  ?  Is  it  because 
I  have  not  his  will  too  ?  For  one  kind  word 
From  her  who  bore  me,  would  still  reconcile  me 
Even  to  this  hateful  aspect.     Let  me  wash 
1'he  wound. 

[ARNOLD  goes  to  a  spring,  and  scoops  to  wasa 

his  hand  :  he  starts  back. 

They  are  right ;  and  Nature's  mirror  shows  me 
What  she  hath  made  me.    I  will  not  look  on  u 
Again,  and  scarce  dare  think  on  't.     Hideous  wreirn 
That  I  am !  The  very  waters  mock  me  with 
My  horrid  shadow — like  a  demon  placed 
Deep  in  the  fountain  to  scare  back  the  cattle 
From  drinking  therein.  He  pause* 

And  shall  I  live  on 


128 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


A  burtuen  ti>  the  earth,  myself,  and  shame 
Unto  wha*.  brought  me  "nto  life  ?    Thou  blood, 
Which  flowest  so  freel/  from  a  scratch,  let  me 
Try  if  thou  wilt  not  in  a  fuller  stream 
Pour  forth  my  woes  for  ever  with  thyself 
On  earth,  to  which  I  will  restore  at  once 
This  hateful  compound  of  her  atoms,  and 
Resolve  back  to  her  elements,  and  take 
The  shape  of  any  reptile  save  myself, 
Ana  make  a  world  for  myriads  of  new  wormsT 
This  knife !  now  let  me  prove  if  it  will  sever 
This  wither'd  slip  of  nature's  nightshade — my 
Vile  form — from  the  creation,  as  it  hath 
The  green  bough  from  the  forest. 

[ARNOLD  places  the  knife  in  the  ground,  with 

the  point  upwards. 

Now  't  is  set, 

And  1  can  fall  upon  it.    Yet  one  glance 
On  the  fair  day,  which  sees  no  foul  thing  like 
Myself,  and  the  sweet  sun,  which  warm'd  me,  but 
In  vain.    The  birds — how  joyously  they  sing ! 
Sc  let  them,  for  I  would  not  be  lamented  : 
But  let  their  merriest  notes  be  Arnold's  knell ; 
The  falling  leaves  my  monument ;  the  murmur 
Of  the  near  fountain  my  sole  elegy. 
Now,  knife,  stand  firmly,  as  I  fain  would  fall ! 

[As  he  rushes  to  throw  himself  upon  the  knife, 

las  eye  is  suddenly  caught  by  the  fountain, 

which  seems  in  motion. 

The  fountain  moves  without  a  wind :  but  shall 
The  ripple  of  a  spring  change  my  resolve  ? 
No.     Yet  it  moves  again !  the  waters  stir, 
Not  as  with  air,  but  by  some  subterrane 
And  rocking  power  of  the  internal  world. 
What 's  here  ?  A  mis*. !  no  more  ? — 

[A  cloud  comes  from  the  fountain.  He  stands 

gazing  upon  it ;  it  is  dispelled,  and  a  tall 

black  man  comes  towards  him. 

ARNOLD. 

What  would  you  ?  Speak  1 
Spirit  or  man  7 

STRANGER. 

As  man  is  both,  why  not 
Say  both  in  one? 

•  ARNOLD. 

Your  form  is  man's,  and  yet 
You  may  be  devil. 

STRANGER. 

So  many  men  are  that 

Wliich  is  so  caa'd  or  thought,  that  you  n.ay  add  me 
To  which  you  please,  wiihout  much  wrong  to  either. 
But  comp :,  you  wish  to  kill  yourself; — pursue 
Your  purpose 

ARNOLD. 

You  have  interrupted  me. 

STRANGER. 

What  is  that  resolution  which  can  e'er 

Be  interrupted  ?  If  I  be  the  devil 

You  deem,  a  single  moment  would  have  made  you 

Mine,  and  for  ever,  by  your  suicide ; 

And  yet  my  coming  saves  you. 

ARNOLD. 

I  said  not 

V  mi  wert  tho  demon,  out  that  your  approach 
W  as  Ike  one. 


STRANGER. 

Unless  you  keep  company 
iVith  him  (and  you  seem  scarce  usfd  to  such  high 
Society),  you  can't  tell  how  h»  approaches ; 
And  for  his  aspect,  look  upon  the  fountain, 
And  then  on  me,  and  judge  which  of  us  twain 
Looks  likest  what  the  boors  believe  to  be 
Their  cloven-footed  terror. 

ARNOLD. 

Do  you — darp  jffrn 
To  taunt  me  with  my  born  deformity  ? 

STRANGER. 

Were  I  to  taunt  a  buffalo  with  this 

Cloven  foot  of  thine,  or  the  switt  dromedarv 

With  thy  sublime  of  humps,  th«»  unimals 

Would  revel  in  the  compliment.     And  yet 

Both  beings  are  more  swift,  more  strong,  more  mighty 

In  action  and  endurance  than  thyself, 

And  all  the  fierce  and  fair  of  the  same  kind 

With  thee.     Thy  form  is  natural :  't  was  only 

Nature's  mistaken  largess  to  bestow 

The  gifts  which  are  of  others  upon  man. 

ARNOLD. 

Give  me  the  strength  then  of  the  buffalo's  foot, 
When  he  spurns  high  the  dust,  beholding  his 
Near  enemy ;  or  let  me  have  the  long 
And  patient  swiftness  of  the  desert-ship, 
The  helmless  dromedary : — and  I  '11  bear 
Thy  fiendish  sarcasm  with  a  saintly  patience. 

STRANGER. 

I  will. 

ARNOLD  (with  surprise). 
Thou  const? 

STRANGER. 

Perhaps.    Would  you  aught  else  t 

ARNOLD. 

Thou  mockest  me. 

STRANGER. 

Not  I.    Why  should  I  mock 
What  all  are  mocking  ?  That 's  poor  sport,  methinks. 
To  talk  to  thee  in  human  language  (for 
Thou  canst  not  yet  speak  mine),  the  forester 
Hunts  not  the  wretched  coney,  but  the  boar, 
Or  wolf,  or  lion,  leaving  paltry  game 
To  petty  burghers,  who  leave  once  a-year 
Their  walls,  to  fill  their  household  caldrons  with 
Such  scullion  prey.     The  meanest  gibe  at  thee, — 
Now  /  can  mock  the  mightiest. 
ARNOLD. 

Then  waste  not 
Thy  time  on  me :  I  seek  thee  not. 

STRANGER. 

Your  thoughts 

Are  not  far  from  me.     Do  not  send  me  back : 
I  am  rot  so  easily  recall'd  to  do 
Good  service. 

ARNOLD. 

What  wilt  thou  do  for  me  7 

STRANGER. 

Change 

Shapes  with  you,  if  you  will,  since  yours  so  irks  you  j 
Or  form  you  to  your  wish  in  any  shape. 

ARNOLD. 

Oh !  then  you  are  indeed  the  demon,  for 
Nought  else  would  wittingly  wear  mine. 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


429 


STRANGKll. 

I'llshowthee 

fhc  brightest  which  the  world  e'er  bore,  and  give  thee 
Thy  choice. 

ARNOLD. 
On  what  condition  ? 

STRANGER. 

There  's  a  question ! 

An  hour  ago  you  would  have  given  your  soul 
To  look  like  other  men,  and  now  you  pause 
To  wear  the  form  of  heroes. 

ARNOLD. 

No ;  I  will  not. 
I  must  not  compromise  my  soul. 

STRANGER. 

What  soul, 
Worth  naming  so,  would  dwell  in  such  a  carcass  ? 

ARNOLD. 

T  is  an  aspiring  one,  whate'er  the  tenement 

In  which  it  is  mislodged.     But  name  your  compact: 

Must  it  be  sign'd  in  blood  ? 

STRANGER. 

Not  in  your  own. 

ARNOLD. 

Whose  blood  then? 

STRANGER. 

We  will  talk  of  that  hereafter. 
But  I  'II  be  moderate  with  you,  for  I  see 
Great  things  within  you.   You  shall  have  no  bond 
But  your  own  will,  no  contract  save  your  deeds. 
Are  you  content? 

ARNOLD. 

I  take  thee  at  thy  word. 

STRANGER. 

Now  then ! — 

[The  Stranger  approaches  the  fountain,  and 
turns  to  ARNOLD. 
A  little  of  your  blood. 
ARNOLD. 

For  what  7 

STRANGER. 

To  mingle  with  the  magic  of  the  waters, 
And  make  the  charm  effective. 

ARNOLD  (holding  out  his  wounded  arm). 
Take  it  all. 

STRANGER. 

Not  now.    A  few  drops  will  suffice  for  this. 

[The  Stranger  takes  some  of  ARNOLD'S  blood  in 
his  hand,  and  caste  it  into  the  fountain. 

Shadows  of  beauty ! 

Shadows  of  power ! 
Rise  to  your  duty—- 
This is  the  hour ! 
Walk  lovely.and  pliant ! 

From  the  depth  of  this  fountain, 
As  the  cloud-shapen  giant 

Bestrides  the  Hartz  mountain.1 
Come  as  ye  were, 

That  our  eyes  may  behold 
The  model  in  air 

Of  the  form  I  will  mould, 
Bright  as  the  Iris 

When  ether  is  spann'd  — 


1  Thi«  is  a  well-k:.own  German  superstition- 
nadow  |irnliiff<!  by  reflection  on  the  Brocken. 
2P 


gigantic 


Such  his  desire  is,         [Pointing  to  ARNO  LI/- 

Such  my  command! 
Demons  heroic — 

Demons  who  wore 
The  form  of  the  Stoic 

Or  Sophist  of  yore — 
Or  the  shape  of  each  victor, 

From  Macedon's  boy 
To  each  high  Roman's  picture, 

Who  breathed  to  destroy — 
Shadows  of  beauty ! 

Shadows  of  power ! 
Up  to  your  duty — 

This  is  the  hour! 

[  Various  Phantoms  arise  from  the  waters,  n.nA 
pass  in  succession  before  tlie  Stranger  ami 
ARNOLD. 

ARNOLD. 
What  do  I  see  ? 

STRANGER. 

The  black-eyed  Roman,  with 
The  eagle's  beak  between  those  eyes  which  ne'er 
Beheld  a  conqueror,  or  look'd  along 
The  land  he  made  not  Rome's,  while  Rome  became 
His,  and  all  theirs  who  heir'd  his  very  name. 

ARNOLD. 

The  phantom 's  bald  ;  my  quest  is  beauty.     Could  I 
Inherit  but  his  fame  with  his  defects  ! 

STRANGER. 

His  brow  was  girt  with  laurels  more  than  hairs. 
You  see  his  aspect— choose  it  or  reject. 
I  can  but  promise  you  his  form  ;  his  fame 
Must  be  long  sought  and  fought  for. 

ARNOLD. 

I  will  fight  too. 

But  not  as  a  mock  Caesar.     Let  him  pass ; 
His  aspect  may  be  fair,  but  suits  me  not. 

.     STRANGER. 

Then  you  are  far  more  difficult  to  please 
Than  Cato's  sister,  or  than  Brutus'  mother, 
Or  Cleopatra  at  sixteen — an  age 
When  love  is  not  less  in  the  eye  than  heart. 
But  be  it  so !  Shadow,  pass  on ! 

[The  Phantom  of  Julius  Casar  disappear*. 
ARNOLD. 

And  can  it 

Be,  that  the  man  who  shook  the  earth  is  gone 
And  left  no  footstep  ? 

STRANGER. 

There  you  err.     His  substance 
Left  graves  enough,  and  woes  enough,  and  fame 
More  than  enough  to  track  his  memory  ; 
But  for  his  shadow,  't  is  no  more  than  your*, 
Except  a  little  longer  and  less  crooked 
I'  the  sun.     Behold  another ! 

[A  second  Phantom  paste* 

ARNOLD. 

Who  is  he? 

STRANGER. 

He  was  the  fairest  and  the  bravest  of 
Athenians.     Look  upon  him  well. 

ARNOLD. 

He  is 
More  lovely  than  the  last.     How  beautiful ' 

HTRAN3EK. 

Such  was  the  curled  son  of  Clinist  . — wnul<j»t  •%<»• 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


InTcst  thce  with  his  form  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Would  that  I  had 

Been  ";K>rn  with  it !  But  since  I  may  choose  further, 
f  wiL  iiak  Airther. 

[The  Shade  of  Alcibiadet  disappears. 

8TRAN1ER. 

Lo  !  Behold  again ! 

ARNOLD. 

What!  that  low  swarthy,  short-nosed,  round-eyed  satyr, 
With  the  wide  nostrils  and  Silenus'  aspect, 
The  splay  feet  and  low  stature !  I  had  better 
Remain  that  which  I  am. 

STRANGER. 

And  yet  he  was 

The  earth's  perfection  of  all  mental  beauty, 
And  personification  of  all  virtue. 
Rut  you  reject  him  ? 

ARNOLD. 

If  his  form  could  bring  mo 
That  which  redeem'd  it — no. 

STRANGER. 

I  have  no  power 

To  promise  that ;  but  you  may  try,  and  find  it 
Easier  in  such  a  form,  or  in  your  own. 

ARNOLD. 

No.     I  vra>  not  born  for  philosophy. 

Though  I  have  that  about  me  which  has  need  on 't. 

Let  him  fleet  on. 

STRANGER. 

Be  air,  thou  hemlock-drinker ! 
[  The  Shadow  of  Socrates  disappears  :  another  rises. 

ARNOLD. 

What 's  here?  whose  broad  brow  and  whose  curly  beard 

And  manly  aspect  look  like  Hercules, 

Save  that  his  jocund  eye  hath  more  of  Bacchus 

Than  the  sad  purger  of  the  infernal  world, 

Leaning  dejected  on  his  club  of  conquest, 

As  if  he  knew  the  worthlessness  of  those 

For  whom  he  had  fought. 

STRANGER. 

It  was  the  man  who  lost 
The  ancient  world  for  love. 

ARNOLD. 

I  cannot  blame  him, 

Since  I  have  risk'd  my  soul,  because  I  find  not 
That  which  he  exchanged  the  earth  for. 

STRANGER. 

Since  so  far 
You  »eem  congenial,  will  you  wear  his  features  ? 

ARNOLD. 

No.     As  you  leave  me  choice,  I  am  difficult, 
If  but  to  sec  the  heroes  I  should  ne'er 
Have  seen  else  on  this  side  of  the  dim  shore 
Whence  they  float  back  before  us. 

STRANGER. 

Hence,  Triumvir 
1  hv  C1-- jpatra  's  waiting. 

[2  fie  Shade  of  Antony  disappears ;  another  rises. 

ARNOLD. 

Who  is  this? 

TViif  truly  lookcth  like  a  demigod, 
Blooming  and  bright,  with  golden  hair,  and  stature, 
If  not  more  high  than  mortal,  yet  immortal 
In  all  that  nameless  bearing  of  his  limbs, 

he  wears  as  the  sun  his  rays — a  something 


'Vhich  shines  from  him,  and  yet  is  but  the  flashing 
Emanation  of  a  thing  more  glorious  s»ill. 
SVas  he  e'er  human  only  J 

STRANGER. 

Let  the  earth  speak, 
'f  there  be  atoms  of  him  left,  or  even 
Of  the  more  solid  gold  that  form'd  his  urn. 

ARNOLD. 
(Vho  was  this  glory  of  mankind  ? 

STRANGER. 

The  shame 

3f  Greece  in  peace,  her  thunderbolt  in  war—. 
Demetrius  the  Macedonian,  and 
Taker  of  cities. 

ARNOLD. 

Yet  one  shadow  more. 
STRANGER  (addressing  the  Shadow). 
Get  thee  to  Lamia's  lap ! 

[The  Shade  of  Denietrius  Poliorcetes  ranisfle*  • 
another  rises. 

STRANGER. 

I  '11  fit  you  still, 
Fear  not,  my  hunchback.     If  the  shadow  of 
That  which  existed  please  not  your  nice  taste, 
[  '11  animate  the  ideal  marble,  till 
Your  soul  be  reconciled  to  her  new  garment. 

ARNOLD. 
Content !  I  will  fix  here. 

STRANGER. 

I  must  commend 
Your  choice.    The  god-like  son  of  the  sea-goddeu. 
The  unshorn  boy  of  Peleus,  with  his  locks 
As  beautiful  and  clear  as  the  amber  waves 
Of  rich  Pactolus  loll'd  o'er  sands  of  gold, 
Softened  by  intervening  crystal,  and 
Rippled  like  flowing  waters  by  the  wind, 
All  vow'd  to  Sperchius  as  they  were — behold  them  I 
And  Aim— as  he  stood  by  Polyxena, 
With  sanction'd  and  with  soften'd  love,  before 
The  altar,  gazing  on  his  Trojan  bride, 
With  some  remorse  within  for  Hector  slain 
And  Priam  weeping,  mingled  with  deep  passion 
For  the  sweet  downcast  virgin,  whose  young  hand 
Trembled  in  his  who  slew  her  brother.     So 
He  stood  i'  the  temple !  Look  u|K>n  him  as 
Greece  look'd  her  last  upon  her  best,  the  instant 
Ere  Paris'  arrow  flew. 

ARNOLD. 

I  gaze  upon  him  as 

As  if  I  were  his  soul,  whose  form  shall  soon 
Envelop  mine. 

STRANGER. 

You  have  done  well.     The  greatest 
Deformity  should  only  barter  wi;h 
The  extremes!  beauty,  if  the  proverb 's  true 
Of  mortals,  that  extremes  meet. 
ARNOLD. 

Come!  BeqirtH 
I  am  impatient. 

STRANGER. 

As  a  youthful  beauty 

Before  her  glass.     You  both  see  what  is  not, 
But  dream  it  is  what  must  be. 
ARNOLD. 

Must  I  wait  ? 

STRANGER. 

No ;  that  were  pity.     But  a  word  or  two : 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


Hi*  nature  is  twelve  cubits  :  would  700  so  far 
Outstep  these  times,  and  be  a  Titan?    Or 
(To  talk  cincmcally)  was  a  son 
Of  Aaak? 

ABKOLD. 

Why  not  7 


Glonous  ambition  ! 

I  lore  the*  most  in  dwarfs  !     A  mortal  of 
Philistine  stature  would  hare  gladly  pared 
His  own  Goliath  down  to  a  slight  David; 
Bat  thou,  my  manikin,  wouldst  soar  a  shot* 
Rather  than  hero.     Thou  shall  be  indulged, 
If  such  be  thy  desire  ;  and  yet,  by  being 
A  little  less  removed  from  present  men 
In  figure,  thou  canst  sway  them  more  ;  for  all 
Would  rise  against  thee  now,  as  if  to  hunt 
A  new-found  mammoth  ;  and  their  cursed  engine*, 
Their  eulverins  and  so  forth,  would  find  way 
Through  our  friend's  armour  there,  with  greater  ease 
Than  the  adulterer's  arrow  through  his  bed 
Which  Thetis  had  forgotten  to  baptize 
In  Styx. 

Jk&KOLD. 

Then  let  it  be  as  thou  deem'st  best. 


I  Had  she  exposed  n.-e,  like  the  Spartan,  ere 

I 1  knew  the  passion  ale  pan  of  life,  I  b& 
Been  a  ciod  «W  the  valley,— happier  nouung 
Than  what  1  am.     tJut  even  thus,  the  lowest, 
Ugliest,  and  meanest  of  mankind,  what  couragt 
And  perseverance  could  hare  d«»ne,  perchance. 
Had  made  me  something — as  a  has  made  ntroes 
Of  the  same  mould  as  mine.     Vou  lately  saw  MM 
Blaster  of  my  own  file,  awl  quick  to  quit  a; 
And  be  who  is  so  is  the  master  of 

Whaterer  dreads  to  die. 

STKAXGEK. 

Decide  between 

What  you  have  been,  «*  will  be. 
AXSOLD. 

I  hare  done  so. 

Ton  hare  opra'd  brighter,  prospects  to  my  eyes, 
And  sweeter  to  my  heart.     As  I  am  now, 
I  might  be  fear'd,  admired,  respected,  tared, 
Of  all  save  those  next  to  me,  of  whom  I 
Would  be  beloved.     As  thou  sho  west  me 
A  choice  of  forms,  I  take  the  one  I  view. 
Ha«e!  haste! 


Thou  shall  be  beauteous  as  the  thing  thon  see'st, 
And  strong  as  what  it  was,  and 

AE90LD. 

lasknot 

Far  valour,  since  deformity  is  oaring. 
[t  is  its  essence  to  o'ertake  mankind 
By  heart  and  sod,  and  make  itself  the  eqcal— 
Ay,  the  superior  of  the  rest.    There  is 
A  spar  m  its  hah  movements,  to  become 
All  that  the  others  cannot,  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  to  both,  to  compensate 
For  stepHame  Nature's  avarice  at  first. 
They  woo  with  fearless  deeds  the  smiles  of  fortune, 
And  oft,  like  Timour  the  lame  Tartar,  win  them. 

SKAXCEK. 

Wei  spoken!     And  thou  doobtless  wut  remain 
Form'd  as  thou  art.     I  may  dismiss  the  mould 
Of  shadow,  which  most  turn  to  flesh,  to  encase 
This  daring  soul,  which  could  achieve  no  less 

Without  it'? 

AKSOLD. 

Had  no  power  presented  me 
The  possibuhy  of  change,  I  would 
Hare  done  the  best  which  spirit  may,  to  make 
Its  way,  with  aB  deformity's  duB,  deadly. 
Discouraging  weight  upon  me,  like  a  mountain, 
In  feeling,  on  my  heart  as  on  my  shoulders — 
A  hateful  and  unsightly  mole-bin  to 
The  eyes  of  happier  man.     I  would  hare  bok'd 
On  beauty  in  that  sex  which  is  the  type 
Of  afl  we  know  or  dream  of  beauts&l 
Beyond  the  world  they  brighten,  with  a  sigh— 
Nat  of  lore,  but  despair;  nor  sought  to  win, 
rhongh  to  a  heart  sfl  love,  what  could  not  lore  M 
In  turn,  because  of  this  rile  crooked  dog, 
Which  makes  me  lonely.    Nay,  I  could  hare  home 
It  all,  had  not  my  mother  spnrn'd  me  from  her. 
Tne  she-bear  beks  her  cubs  into  a  sort 
Of  shane :— rav  dam  beheld  my  shaoe  was  1 


And  what  shall /wear? 

AAXOLD. 

•^'jrr^iV  he 

Who  can  command  al  fir  ms,  wffl  choose  the  highest 
Something  superior  even  »o  that  which  was 
Pebdes  now  before  us.     ferhaps  te. 
Who  slew  Urn,  that  of  Paris :— or— still  higher— 
The  poet's  god,  clothed  in  such  limbs  as  are 


STKAMEK. 


Fof  I  too  lore  a  change. 

AKXOLD. 

Tour  aspect  is 
Dusky,  but  not  uncomely. 


If  I  chose, 
I  might  be  whiter;  hut  I  have  a  penchant 
For  black—  it  is  so  honest,  and  besides 
Can  neither  bliwh  with  shame  nor  pale  wdh  fear 
But  I  hare  worn  it  king  enough  of  late, 
And  now  I  Tluke  your  figure. 
AKXOLD. 


Tes.     Ton 

Shal  change  with  Thetis'  son,  and  I  with  Bertha 
Tear  mother's  oftsprsag.    People  hare  their  tastes , 
Ton  hare  yours — I  mine. 

AKSfOLD. 

Despatch!  despatch! 


Even  •&. 

[TV  Stranger  take*  m*  etrlk  and  m«4* 
Utitmg  die  baf;  «W  Aem  mOrttta  *• 


Of  TheuVsboy! 
Who  sleeps  m  the  i 
Whose  grass  grows  o  er  Tror : 


132 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


From  the  red  earth,  like  Adam,1 

Thy  likeness  I  shape, 
As  the  Being  who  made  him, 

Whose  actions  I  ape. 
Thou  clay,  be  all  glowing, 

Till  the  rose  in  his  cheek 
Be  as  fair  as,  when  blowing, 

It  wears  its  first  streak ! 
Ye  violets,  I  scatter, 

Now  turn  into  eyes ! 
And  thou  sunshiny  water, 

Of  blood  take  the  guise ! 
Let  these  hyacinth  boughs 

Be  his  long,  flowing  hair, 
And  wave  o'er  his  brows, 

As  thou  wavest  in  air  ! 
Let  his  heart  be  this  marble 

I  tear  from  the  rock  ! 
But  his  voice  as  the  warble 

Of  birds  on  yon  oak  ! 
Let  his  flesh  be  the  purest 

Of  mould,  in  which  grew 
The  lily-root  surest, 

And  drank  the  best  dew ! 
Let  his  limbs  be  the  lightest 

Which  clay  can  compound ! 
And  his  aspect  the  brightest 

On  earth  to  be  found  ! 
Elements,  near  me, 

Be  mingled  and  stirr'd, 
Know  me  and  hear  me, 

And  leap  to  my  word  ! 
Sunbeams,  awaken 

This  earth's  animation ! 
'T  is  done  !     He  hath  taken 

His  stand  in  creation ! 
[ARNOLD  falls  senseless  ;  his  soul  passes  into 

the  shape  of  Achilles,  which  rises  from  the 

ground  i  while  the  phantom  has  disappeared, 

part  by  part,  as  the  figure  was  formed  from 

the  earth. 

ARNOLD  (in  his  new  form). 
I  love,  and  I  shall  be  beloved  !  Oh  life ! 
At  last  I  feel  thee  !  Glorious  spirit ! 

STRANGER. 

Stop! 

What  shall  become  of  your  abandon'd  garment, 
Your  hump,  and  lump,  and  clod  of  ugliness, 
Which  late  you  wore,  or  were  ? 
ARNOLD. 

Who  cares  7  Let  wolves 
And  vultures  .ake  it,  if  they  will. 

STRANGER. 

And  if 

1  hey  do,  and  are  not  scared  by  it,  you  '11  say 
It  must  be  peace  time,  and  no  better  fare 
Abroad  i'  the  fields. 

ARNOLD. 

Let  us  but  leave  it  there, 
N"  matter  wnat  becomes  on  'u 

STRANGER. 

That 's  ungracious, 
If  not  ungrateful.     Whatsoe'er  it  be, 


1  Adam  means  "red  earth,"  from  which  the  first  man  was 


It  hath  sustain'd  your  soul  full  many  a  day. 

ARNOLD. 

Ay,  as  the  dunghill  may  conceal  a  gem 
Which  is  now  set  in  gold,  as  jewels  should  be. 

STRANGER. 

But  if  I  give  another  form,  it  must  be 
By  fair  exchange,  not  robbery.     For  they 
Who  make  men  without  women's  aid,  have  long 
Had  patents  for  the  same,  and  do  not  love 
Your  interlopers.     The  devil  may  take  men, 
Not  make  them, — though  he  reap  the  benefit 
Of  the  original  workmanship  : — and  therefore 
Some  one  must  be  found  to  assume  the  shape 
You  have  quitted. 

ARNOLD. 
Who  would  do  so  ? 

STRANGER. 

That  I  know  not. 
And  therefore  I  must. 

ARNOLD. 
You! 

STRANGER. 

I  said  it,  ere 
You  inhabited  your  present  dome  of  beauty. 

ARNCLD. 

True.    I  forget  all  things  in  the  new  joy 
Of  this  immortal  change. 

STRANGER. 

In  a  few  moments 

I  will  be  as  you  were,  and  you  shall  see 
Yourself  for  ever  by  you,  as  your  shadow. 

ARNOLD. 

I  would  be  spared  this. 

STRANGER. 

But  it  cannot  be. 

What !  shrink  already,  being  what  you  are, 
From  seeing  what  you  were  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Do  as  thou  wilt. 
STRANGER  (to  theloteform  of  ARNOLD,  extended  on 

the  eartli). 
Clay  !  not  dead,  but  soulless ! 

Though  no  man  would  choose  thee, 
An  immortal  no  less 

Deigns  not  to  refuse  thee. 
Clay  thou  art :  and  unto  spirit 
All  clay  is  of  equal  merit. 

Fire  !  without  which  nought  can  ive ; 

Fire  !  but  in  which  nought  can  live, 
Save  the  fabled  salamander, 
Or  immortal  souls  which  wander, 

Praying  what  doth  not  forgive, 

Howling  for  a  drop  of  water, 
Burning  in  a  quenchless  lot : 

Fire  !  the  only  element 

Where  nor  fis>h,  beast,  bird,  nor  worni. 

Save  the  worm  which  dieth  not, 
Can  preserve  a  moment's  form, 

But  must  with  thyself  be  blent : 

Fire  !  man's  safeguard  and  his  slauglitet . 

Fire  !  creation's  first-born  daughter, 
And  destruction's  threaten'd  son, 
When  Heaven  with  the  world  hath  ]  n«» 

Fire  !  assist  me  to  renew 

Life  in  what  lies  in  my  view 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


433 


Stiff  and  cold ! 

His  resurrection  rests  with  me  a::d  you! 
One  little  marshy  spark  of  flame — 
And  he  again  shall  seem  the  same ; 
But  I  his  spirit's  place  shall  hold ! 
[An  ignis-fatuuA  Jtils  through  the.  wood,  and  rest* 
on  the  brow  of  the  hody.     The  Stranger  disap- 
pears :  the  body  rises. 

ARNOLD  (in  his  new  form). 
Oh'  horrible! 

STRANGER  (in  ARNOLD'S  late  shape). 

What !  tremblest  thou  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Not  so — 

.  merely  shudder.    Where  is  fled  the  shape 
Thou  lately  worest ! 

STRANGER. 

To  the  world  of  shadows. 
But  let  us  thread  the  present.    Whither  wilt  thou? 

ARNOLD. 
Must  thou  be  my  companion  ? 

8TRANGER. 

Wherefore  not  ? 
Four  betters  keep  worse  company. 

ARNOLD. 

My  betters ! 

STRANGER. 

Oh !  you  wax  proud,  I  see,  of  your  new  form : 
I  'm  glad  of  that.     Ungrateful  loo !     That 's  well ; 
You  improve  apace  : — two  changes  in  an  instant, 
And  you  are  old  in  the  world's  ways  already. 
But  bear  with  me :  indeed  you  '11  find  me  useful 
Upon  your  pilgrimage.     But  come,  pronounce 
Where  shall  we  now  be  errant  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Where  the  world 
Is  thickest,  that  I  may  behold  it  in 
Its  working. 

STRANGER. 

That 's  to  say,  where  there  is  war 
And  woman  in  activity.     Let 's  see  ! 
Spain — Italy — the  new  Atlantic  world — 
ACic  with  all  its  Moors.     In  very  truth, 
There  is  small  choice :  the  whole  race  are  just  now 
Tugging  as  usual  at  each  others'  hearts. 

ARNOLD. 
I  have  heard  great  things  of  Rome. 

STRANGER. 

A  goodly  choice — 

And  scarce  a  better  to  be  found  on  earth, 
Since  Sodom  was  put  out.    The  field  is  wide  too ; 
For  now  the  Frank,  and  Hun,  and  Spanish  scion 
Of  the  old  Vandals,  are  at  play  along 
The  sunny  shores  of'  the  world's  garden. 
ARNOLD. 

How 
Shall  we  proceed  ? 

STRANGFR. 

Like  gallants  on  good  coursers. 
What  ho  !  my  chargers !  Never  yet  were  better, 
Ktice  Phaeton  was  upset  into  the  Po. 
O.-r  pages  too! 

Enter  two  Pagis,  with  four  coal-black  Horses. 

ARNOLD. 

A  noble  sight ! 
2  p  «*  60 


STRANGER. 

And  of 

A  nobler  breed.     Match  me  in  Barbary, 
Or  your  Kochlani  race  of  Araby, 
With  these! 

ARNOLD. 

The  mighty  stream,  which  volumes  high 
From  their  proud  nostrils,  burns  the  very  air ;" 
And  sparks  of  flame,  like  dancing  fire-flies,  wheel 
Around  their  manes,  as  common  insects  swarm 
Round  common  steeds  towards  sui.set. 

•  STRANGER. 

Mount,  my  lord. 
They  and  I  are  your  servitors. 
ARNOLD. 

And  these, 
Our  dark-eyed  pages — what  may  be  their  names? 

STRANGEU. 

You  shall  baptize  them. 

ARNOLD. 

What!  in  holy  water 7 

STB ANGER. 

Why  not  ?    The  deeper  sinnor,  better  saint. 

ARNOLD. 

They  are  beautiful,  and  cnnnot,  sure,  be  demons  1 

STRANGER. 

True ;  the  devil 's  always  ugly ;  and  your  beauty 
Is  never  diabolical. 

ARNOLD. 
I  '11  call  him 

Who  bears  the  golden  horn,  and  wears  such  bright 
And  blooming  aspect,  Huon  ;  for  he  looks 
Like  to  the  lovely  boy  lost  in  the  forest, 
And  never  found  till  now.    And  for  the  other 
And  darker,  and  more  thoughtful,  who  smiles  not, 
But  looks  as  serious  though  serene  as  night, 
Pie  shall  be  Memnan,  from  the  Ethiop  king, 
Whose  statue  turns  a  harper  once  a-day. 
An<I  you  ? 

STRANGER. 

I  have  ten  thousand  names,  and  twice 
As  many  attributes  ;  but  as  I  wear 
A  human  shape,  will  take  a  human  name. 

ARNOLD. 

More  human  than  the  shape  (though  it  was  mine  once) 
I  trust 

STRANGER. 

Then  call  me  Caesar. 
ARNOLD. 

Why,  that  name 

Belongs  to  empires,  and  has  been  but  borne 
By  the  world's  lords. 

STRANGER. 

And  therefore  fittest  for 
The  devil  in  disguise — since  so  you  deem  roe, 
Unless  you  call  me  pope  instead. 

ARNOLD. 

Well  then, 

Caesar  thou  shall  be.     For  myself,  my  name 
Shall  be  plain  Arnold  still. 

CfSAR. 

We  '11  add  a  title— 

"  Count  Arnold  :"  it  hath  no  ungracious  sound 
And  will  look  well  upon  a  billet-doux. 

ARNOLD. 

Or  in  an  order  for  a  battle-field. 


BYRON'S  \VORKS. 


CfSAR 

T»  horse1  Jol»orse!  my  coal-black  steed 
Paws  0  e  ground  and  snuffs  the  air ! 

fr.ene's  i,e:  a  foil  c:~  Arab's  breed 
More  kiiowi  whom  be  most  bear ! 

Oft  the  bkl  be  will  not  tire, 

Swifter  as  it  waxes  higher  ; 

(•  ibe  am  nh  he  w9  not  Mi^V^n, 

On  the  plain  he  overtaken  : 

in  the  wave  be  win  not  sink, 

Nor  pause  at  the  brook's  side  to  drink ; 

In  the  race  he  will  not  pant, 

IB  the  combat  be  11  not  faint; 

On  ihe  su-T.es  he  w;'.'.  no:  s:t:mble, 

Time  nor  toil  shal  make  him  humble : 

In  Ike  stall  be  will  not  stiffen, 

But  S?  M  :r.^c--:  as  a  crirnn, 

OrJy  flyinj  \v;'.h  his  fee:  : 

And  will  not  such  a  voyage  be  sweet? 

Merrily!  merrily!  never  unsound, 

Sbafl  oar  bonny  bJack  horses  skim  OTW  the  pxwnd! 

FVoni  the  Alps  to  the  Caucasus,  ride  we,  or  fly ! 

For  we  Tl  leave  them  behind  in  the  glance  of  an  eye. 
mcmt  tkar  fanes,  «ad  rfiiajjiar. 


SCENE  IL 


AJLXOLD  «d  C.KSAJU 


Too  ire  w(^l  er.'.er'd  i 


Has  been  o'er  i 
Of  blood. 


ARNOLD. 

Ay;  but  »ypath 

seyes  are  full 


UHAB. 

Then  wipe  them,  and  see  dearly.    Why! 
Ttoa  art  a  conqueror;  the  chosen  knight 
And  tree  companion  of  the  gaDant  Bourbon, 
Late  constable  of  France ;  and  now  to  be 
Lord  of  the  cky  which  bath  been  earth's  lord 


L  hermaphrodite  of  i 
L*ty  of  the  world, 

ARKOLD. 

BowoU?   What!  are  there 

A'«wo.lds7 


Toy**,  Tool  find  then  are  such  shortly, 
By  its  rich  harvests,  new  disease,  and  gold ; 
From  one  *•*/  of  the  world  named  a  «**  new  one, 
Because  you  know  no  better  than  the  duB 
And  dubious  notice  of  your  eyes  and  ears. 


Do!  They  wfll  deceive  you  sweetly, 
And  that  is  better  than  the  bitter  troth ! 

AJLMOLD. 

Dog! 


Devil 


CJCSAK. 

Your  obedient,  humble  ..'ii  vanu 

AR50LD. 

Say  mmrttr  rather.    Thou  hast  lured  me      . 
Through  scenes  of  blood  and  lust,  till  I  am  here. 

CESAR. 
And  where  would*  tho*  be  ? 

ARNOLD. 

Oh,  at  peace  —  in  peace 
CJESAR. 

And  where  is  that  which  is  so?   From  the  star 
To  the  winding  worm,  all  life  is  motion,  and 
In  fife  cimsiio'uu  is  the  extremes!  point 
Of  life.    The  planet  wheels  till  it  becomes 
A  comet,  and,  destroying  as  it  sweeps 
The  stars,  goes  out.    The  poor  worm  winds  its  waj 
Living  upon  the  death  of  other  things, 
But  still,  like  them,  must  live  and  die,  the  subject 
Of  something  which  has  made  it  live  and  die. 
You  must  obey  what  all  obey,  the  rule 
Of  fii'd  necessity  :  against  her  edict 
Rebellion  prospers  not. 

AR50LD. 

And  when  it  prospers 

CJTSAK. 


a  no  rebeffion. 


iRJtOLD. 

Will  it  prosper  now  ? 


The  Bourbon  hath  given  orders  for  the  assauit, 
And  by  the  dawn  there  will  be  work. 
ARNOLD. 

Alas! 

And  shaD  the  city  yield  ?  I  see  the  giant 
Abode  of  the  true  God,  and  his  true  saint, 
Saint  Peter,  rear  its  dome  and  cross  into 
That  sky  whence  Christ  ascended  from  the  cross, 
Which  his  blood  made  a  badge  of  glory  and 
Of  joy  (as  once  of  torture  unto  him, 
God  and  God's  son,  man's  sole  and  only  refuge). 

C£SAR. 

T  is  there,  and  shall  be. 

ARNOLD. 

What? 

CJESAA. 

The  crucifix 

Above,  and  many  altar  shrines  below, 
Also  some  culverins  upon  the  walls, 
And  harquebusses,  and  what  not,  besides 
The  men  who  are  to  kindle  them  to  death 
Of  other  men. 

ARNOLD. 

And  those  scarce  mortal  arches, 
Pile  above  pile  of  everlasting  wall, 
The  theatre  where  emperors  and  their  subjects 
(Those  subjects  Romans)  stood  at  gaze  upon 
The  battles  of  the  monarchs  of  the  wild 
And  wood,  the  boo  and  his  titsky  rebels 
Of  the  then  untamed  desert,  brought  to  joust 
In  the  arena  (as  right  well  they  mi?ht. 
When  they  had  left  no  human  foe  uncx.iH.w4. 
Made  even  the  forest  pay  its  tribute  of 
Life  to  their  amphitheatre,  as  well 
As  Dacia  men  to  die  the  eternal  death 
For  a  sole  instant's  pastinie,  and  "  Pass  or 
To  a  new  gladiator  !"—  Must  ii  fol!  1 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


CMMAM, 

The  city  or  the  amphitheatre  ? 

The  church,  or  one,  or  all  7  for  you  confound 

Both  them  and  me. 

AKVOLD. 

To-morrow  sounds  the  assault 
With  <ht  first  cock-crow. 

CCSAB. 

Which,  if  it  end  with 
The  evening's  first  nightingale,  will  be 
Something  new  in  the  annals  of  great  sieges : 
For  men  must  have  their  prey  after  long  toil. 

AKXOI.D. 

The  sun  goes  down  as  calmly,  and  perhaps 
More  beautifully,  than  he  did  on  Rome 
On  the  day  Remus  leapt  her  walL 

C.ESAE. 

I  saw  him. 

ABHOLD. 
Fou! 

CvESAK. 

Yes,  sir.    You  forget  I  am  or  was 
Spirit,  till  I  took  up  with  your  cast  shape 
And  a  worse  name.     I  'm  Cesar  and  a  hunchback 
Now.    Well !  the  first  of  Cesars  was  a  bald-head, 
And  loved  his  laurels  better  as  a  wig 
(So  history  says)  than  as  a  glory.    Thus 
The  world  runs  on,  but  we  11  be  merry  stifl. 
I  saw  your  Romulus  (simple  as  I  am) 
Slay  his  own  twin,  quick-bom  of  the  same  womb, 
Because  he  leapt  a  ditch  ('t  was  then  no  watt, 
Whate'er  it  now  be) ;  and  Rome's  earliest  cement 
Was  brother's  Mood ;  and  if  its  native  blood 
Be  spilt  till  the  choked  Tiber  be  as  red 
As  e'er  't  was  yellow,  it  wifl  never  wear 
The  deep  hue  of  the  ocean  and  the  earth, 
Which  the  great  robber  sons  of  Fratricide 
Have  made  their  never-ceasing  scene  of  slaughter 
For  ages. 

AR9COLD. 

But  what  have  these  done,  their  far 
Remote  descendants,  who  hare  lived  in  peace. 
The  peace  of  heaven,  and  in  her  sunshine  of 
Piety  ? 

CXSAK. 

And  what  had  they  done  whom  the  old 
Romans  o'ers wept  ?— Hark ! 

AS.5OLD. 

They  are  soldiers 

A  reckless  roundelay,  upon  the  ere 
Of  many  deaths,  it  may  be  of  their  own. 

CUBUB. 

And  why  should  they  not  sing  as  well  as 
They  are  black  ones,  to  be  sure. 


see,  too. 


So,  you  are  learn'd, 


In  my  grammar,  certes.    I 
Waw  educated  for  a  monk  of  all  times, 
And  once  I  was  well  versed  in  the  forgotten 
Etruscan  letters,  and — were  I  so  minded— 
Could  make  their  hieroglyphics  plainer  Uiaa 
Your  alphabet. 

ABVOLD. 
And  wherefore  do  yoa  not? 


C/ESAK. 

It  answers  better  to  resolve  the  alphabet 
Back  into  hieroglyphics.     lake  your 
And  prophet,  pontiff,  doctor,  alchymist, 
Philosopher,  and  what  not,  they  have  built 
More  Babels  without  new  dispersion,  .uan 
The  stammering  young  ones  of  the  flood's  dull  ooze. 
Who  fail'd  and  fled  each  other.    Why  ?  why,  raarrr 
Because  no  man  could  understand  his  neighbour. 
They  are  wiser  now,  and  will  not  separate 
For  nonsense.    Nay,  it  is  their  brotherhood, 
Their  Shibboleth,  their  Koran,  Talmud,  their 
Cabala  ;  their  best  brick-work,  wherewithal 

They  build  more 

AB3OLD  (interrupting  lam). 

Oh !  thou  everlasting  sneerar ' 
Be  silent!  How  the  soldiers' rough  strain  seen* 
Soften'd  by  distance  to  a  hymn-like  cadence ! 
Listen! 

C.KSAB. 

Yes.    I  hare  heard  the  angels  sing. 


And  demon*  howL 


CJUAB, 

And  man  too.    Letushsten. 


I  love  all  i 


Song  of  tiie  toldien  wiOaM. 

The  Black  Bands  came  over 

The  Alps  and  their  snow, 
With  Bourbon,  the  rover, 

They  pass'd  the  broad  Po. 
We  hare  beaten  all  fbemen, 

We  hare  captured  a  king, 
We  have  turn'd  back  oa  BO 

Aad  so  let  us  sing ! 
Here's  the  Bourbon  for  ever! 
id, 


Wei  hare  < 

At  yonder  old  walL 
With  the  Bourbon  we  *U  gather 

At  day-dawn  before 
The  gates,  and  together 

Or  break  or  climb  o'er 
The  wall:  on  the  ladder, 

As  •woDts  each  firm  foot, 
Oar  skoal  shall  grow  gladder. 

And  death  only  be  mute. 
With  the  Bourbon  we  11  mount  c' 

The  waDs  of  old  Rome, 
Aad  who  then  shall  count  o'er 

The  spoils  of  each  dome? 
Up!  up!  with  the  lily! 

And  down  with  the  keys. 
IB  old  Rosftp,  the  Seren-hiHy, 

We  11  revel  at  ease : 
Her  streets  shall  be  gory, 

Her  Tiber  aH  red, 
And  her  temples  so  noaiy 

ShaS  dang  with  our  tread. 
Oh!  the  Bourbon!  the  Bourboa' 

The  Bourbon  for  aye! 
Of  our  song  bear  the  burthen! 

Aad  fire,  fire  away ! 
With  Spain  far  the  r aagoard. 

Our  Yvicd  host  co0M0  « 


4.3b 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


And  next  to  the  Spania-d 

Beat  Germany's  drums ; 
And  Italy's  lances 

Are  couch'd  at  their  mother ; 
But  our  leader  from  France  is, 

Who  warr'd  with  his  brother. 
Oh,  the  Bourbon!  the  Bouibon! 

Sans  country  or  home, 
We  '11  Ibllow  the  Bourbon, 

To  plunder  old  Rome. 

C.KSAR. 

An  indifferent  song 
for  those  within  the  walls,  methinks,  to  hear. 

ARNOLD. 

Yes,  if  they  keep  to  their  chorus.     But  here  comes 
The  general  with  his  chiefs  and  men  of  trust. 
A  goodly  rebel ! 

Enter  the  Constable  BOURBON,  "cumsuts,"  etc.tetc.,  etc. 

PHILIBERT. 

How  now,  noble  prince, 
You  mre  not  cheerful  ? 

BOURBON. 

Why  should  I  be  so? 

PHILIBERT. 

Upon  the  e\e  of  conquest,  such  as  ours, 
Most  men  would  be  so. 

BOURBON. 
If  I  were  secure ! 

PHILIBERT. 

Doubt  not  our  soldiers.    Were  the  walls  of  adamant, 
They  'd  crack  them.     Hunger  is  a  sharp  artillery. 

BOURBON. 

That  they  will  falter,  is  my  least  of  fears. 
That  they  will  be  repulsed,  with  Bourbon  for 
Their  chief,  and  all  their  kindled  appetites 
To  marshal  them  on — were  those  hoary  walls 
Mountains,  and  those  who  guard  them  like  the  gods 
Of  the  old  fables,  I  would  trust  my  Titans ; — 
But  now 

PHILIBERT. 

They  are  but  men  who  war  with  mortals. 

BOjRBON. 

True :  but  those  walls  have  girded  in  great  ages, 
And  sent  forth  mighty  spirits.    The  past  earth 
And  present  phantom  of  imperious  Rome 
Is  peopled  with  those  warriors ;  and  methinks 
They  flit  along  the  eternal  city's  rampart, 
And  stretch  their  glorious,  gory,  shadowy  hands, 
And  beckon  me  away ! 

PHILIBERT. 

So  let  them !  Wilt  thou 
Turn  back  from  shadowy  menaces  of  shadows  7 

BOURBON. 

They  do  not  menace  me.     I  could  have  faced, 
Methinks,  a  Sylia's  menace ;  but  they  clasp 
And  raise,  and  wring  their  dim  and  deathlike  hands, 
And  with  their  thin  aspen  faces  and  fixed  eyes 
Fascinate  mine.     Look  there ! 

PHILIBERT. 

I  look  upon 


\  loftv  battlement. 


BOURBON. 

And  there ! 

PRILIBERT. 

Not  even 


A  guard  in  sight ;  they  wisely  keep  below, 
Shelter'd  by  the  gray  parapet,  from  some 
Stray  bullet  of  our  lansquenets,  who  migiV 
Practise  in  a  cool  twilight. 

BOURBON. 

You  are  blind. 

PHILIBERT. 

If  seeing  nothing  more  than  may  be  seen 
Be  so. 

BOURBON. 

A  thousand  years  have  mann'd  the  walk 
With  all  their  heroes, — the  last  Cato  stands 
And  tears  his  bowels,  rather  than  survive 
The  liberty  of  that  I  would  enslave ; 
And  the  first  Caesar  with  his  triumphs  flits 
From  battlement  to  battlement. 

PHILIBERT. 

Then  conquer 
The  walls  for  which  he  conquer'd,  and  be  greater. 

BOURBON. 

True  :  so  I  will,  or  perish. 

PHILIBERT. 

You  can  not. 

In  such  an  enterprise,  to  die  is  rather 
The  dawn  of  an  eternal  day,  than  death. 

Count  ARNOLD  and  CJESAR  advance. 

C£8AR. 

And  the  mere  men— do  they  too  sweat  beneath 
The  noon  of  this  same  ever-scorching  glory? 
BOURBON. 

Ah; 

Welcome  the  bitter  hunchback !  and  his  master, 
The  beauty  of  our  host,  and  brave  as  beauteous, 
And  generous  as  lovely.    We  shall  find 
Work  for  you  both  ere  morning. 

C.ESAR. 

You  will  find, 
So  please  your  highness,  no  less  for  yourself. 

BOURBON. 

And  if  I  do,  there  will  not  be  a  labourer 
More  forward,  hunchback ! 

CfSAR. 

You  may  well  say  so, 
For  you  have  seen  that  back — as  general, 
Placed  in  the  rear  in  action — but  your  foes 
Have  never  seen  it. 

BOURBON. 
That 's  a  fair  retort, 

For  I  provoked  it : — but  the  Bourbon's  breast 
Has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  far  advanced 
In  danger's  face  as  vours,  were  you  ftie  devil. 

C£SAR. 

And  if  I  were,  I  might  have  saved  myself 
The  toil  of  coming  here. 

PHILIBERT. 

Why  so? 

CJESAR. 

One  half 

Of  your  brave  bands  of  their  own  bold  accord 
Will  go  to  him,  the  other  half  be  sent 
More  swiftly,  not  less  surely. 

BOURBON. 

Arnold    jrou- 

Slight  crooked  friend's  as  snake-like  in  mi  irordr 
AM  his  deeds. 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


437 


C.CSAR. 

Your  highness  much  mistakes  me. 
Fha  first  snake  was  a  flatterer  —  I  am  none  ; 
And  for  my  deeds,  I  only  sting  when  stung. 

BOURBON. 

?i/u  are  brave,  and  that  's  enough  for  me  :  and  quick 
In  speech  as  sharp  in  action  —  and  that  's  more. 
I  am  not  alone  a  soldier,  but  the  soldiers' 
Comrade, 

CJESAR. 

They  are  but  bad  company,  your  highness  ; 
And  worse  even  for  their  friends  than  foes,  as  being 
More  permanent  acquaintance. 

PHILIBERT. 

How  now,  fellow  ! 

Thou  waxest  insolent,  beyond  the  privilege 
Of  a  buffoon. 

C.ESAR. 

You  mean,  I  speak  the  truth. 
I  '11  lie  —  it  is  as  easy  ;  then  you  'U  praise  me 
For  calling  you  a  hero. 

BOURBON. 
Philibert  ! 

Let  mm  alone  ;  he  's  brave,  and  ever  has 
Been  first  with  that  swart  face  and  mountain  shoulder 
In  field  or  storm  ;  and  patient  in  starvation  ; 
And  for  his  tongue,  the  camp  is  ful1  of  license, 
And  the  sharp  stinging  of  a  lively  rogue 
Is,  to  my  mind,  far  preferable  to 
The  gross,  dull,  heavy,  gloomy  execration 
Of  a  mere  famish'd,  sullen,  grumbling  slave, 
Whom  nothing  can  convince  save  a  full  meal, 
And  wine,  and  sleep,  and  a  few  maravedis, 
With  which  he  deems  him  lich. 

C2E8AR. 

It  would  be  well 

It  the  earth's  princes  ask'd  no  more. 
BOURBON. 

Be  sileru! 

CJESAR. 

Ay,  but  not  idle.    Work  yourself  with  w  tda  I 
You  have  few 


Wnat  means  the  audacious  prater? 

C£SAR. 

To  prate,  like  'j'Jier  prophets. 

BOURBON. 

Pnilibert! 

Why  will  yuu  vex  him  ?  Have  we  not  enough 
To  think  on  ?  Arnold!  I  wi)'.  lead  the  attack 
To-morrow. 

ARNOLD. 
I  have  heaid  as  much,  my  lord. 

BOURBON. 
nd  you  will  follow  7 

ARNOLD. 

Since  I  must  not  lead. 

BOURBON. 

Tis  necessary,  for  the  further  daring 
Of  our  too  needy  army,  that  their  chief 
Flan',  the  nist  foot  upon  the  foremost  ladder's 
First  step  . 

C£SAR. 

Upon  its  topmost,  let  us  hope  t 
So  shall  he  have  his  full  deserts. 


BOURBON. 

The  world's 

Great  capital  perchance  is  ours  to-morrow. 
Through  every  change  the  seven-hill'd  city  liath 
Retain'd  her  sway  o'er  nations,  and  the  Caesars 
But  yielded  to  the  Alarics,  the  Alarics 
Unto  the  pontiff's.     Roman,  Goth,  or  priest, 
Still  the  world's  masters !  Civilized,  barbarian, 
Or  saintly,  still  the  walls  of  Romulus 
Have  been  the  circus  of  an  empire.    Well ! 
'T  was  their  turn — now  't  is  ours  ;  and  let  us  hope 
That  we  will  fight  as  well,  and  i  ule  much  better. 

CJESAF  . 

No  doubt,  the  camp  's  the  school  of  civic  rights. 
What  would  you  make  of  Uome  ? 

BOt'RBON. 

That  wnich  it  was, 

C£SAR. 

In  Alaric's  time  ? 

BOURBON. 

No,  slave  !  In  the  first  Caesar's, 
Whose  name  you  bear  like  other  curs. 
C.ESAR. 

And  kings. 

'T  is  a  grea'  name  for  blood-hounds. 
BOURBON. 

There 's  a  demon 

In  that  lierce  rattle-snake  thy  tongue.     Wilt  never 
Be  seaous ? 

CJESAR. 

On  the  eve  of  battle,  no  ; — 
Tnat  were  not  soldier-like.     'T  is  for  the  general 
To  be  more  pensive :  we  adventurers 
Must  be  more  cheerful.     Wherefore  should  we  think? 
Our  tutelar  deity,  in  a  leader's  shape, 
Takes  care  of  us.     Keep  thought  aloof  from  hosts  ! 
If  the  knaves  take  to  thinking,  you  will  have 
To  crack  those  walls  alone. 

BOURBON. 

You  may  sneer,  since 
T  is  lucky  for  you  that  you  fight  no  worse  for  't. 

CJESAR. 

I  thank  you  for  the  freedom ;  't  is  the  only 
Pay  I  have  taken  in  your  highness'  service. 

BOURBON. 

Well,  sir,  to-morrow  you  shall  pay  yourself. 
Look  on  those  towers  ;  they  hold  my  treasury. 
But,  Philibert,  we  '11  in  to  council.     Arnold  ! 
We  would  request  your  presence. 

ARNOLD. 

Prince !  my  set-rice 
Is  yours,  as  in  the  field. 

BOURBON.  . 

In  both,  we  prize  it, 
And  yours  will  be  a  post  of  trust  at  day-break. 

C-ESAR. 
And  mine? 

BOURBON. 

To  follow  glory  with  the  Bourbon. 
Good  night ! 

ARNOLD  (to  C.ESAK). 
Prepare  our  armour  for  the  assault. 
And  wait  within  my  tent. 

[Exeunt  BOURBON,  ARNOLD,  PHILIBEJI  < ,  *u. 

C.ESAR   (solus), 

Within  thv  fent! 


438 


BYRON'S  WOKKS. 


Think'st  thou  that  I  pass  from  thee  with  my  presence? 

Or  that  this  crooked  cofler,  which  contain'd 

Thy  principle  of  life,  is  aught  to  me 

Except  a  mask  ?  And  these  are  men,  forsooth ! 

Heroes  and  chiefs,  the  flower  of  Adam's  bastards  { 

Tliis  is  the  consequence  of  giving  matter 

The  power  of  thought.     It  is  a  stubborn  substance, 

And  thinks  chaotically,  as  it  acts, 

Ever  relapsing  into  its  first  elements. 

Well !  I  must  play  with  these  poor  puppets :  't  is 

The  spirit's  pastime  in  his  idler  hours. 

When  I  grow  weary  of  it,  I  have  business 

Amongst  the  stars,  which  these  poor  creatures  deem 

Were  made  for  them  to  look  at.     T  were  a  jest  now 

To  bring  one  down  amongst  them,  and  set  fire 

Onto  their  ant-hill :  how  the  pismires  then 

Would  scamper  o'er  the  scalding  soil,  and,  ceasing 

From  tearing  down  each  others'  nests,  pipe  forth 

One  universal  orison !  Ha !  ha !  [Exit  CJESAR. 


PART  H. 

SCENE  I. 

Before  the  walls  of  Rome.  The  assault ;  the  army  in 
motion,  with  ladders  to  scale  the  walls;  BOURBON, 
with  a  ichite  scarf  over  his  armour,  foremost. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  in  the  air. 

1. 

'T  is  the  mom,  but  dim  and  dark. 
Whither  flies  the  silent  lark  ? 
Whither  shrinks  the  clouded  sun  ? 
Is  the  day  indeed  begun  ? 
Nature's  eye  is  melancholy 
O'er  the  city  high  and  holy ; 
But  without  there  is  a  din 
Should  arouse  the  saints  within, 
And  revive  the  heroic  ashes 
Round  which  yellow  Tiber  dashes. 
Oh  !  ye  seven  hills  !  awaken, 
Ere  your  very  base  be  shaken ! 

2. 

Hearken  to  the  steady  stamp ! 
Mars  is  in  their  every  tramp  ! 
Not  a  step  is  out  of  lune, 
As  the  tides  obey  the  moon  ! 
On  they  march,  though  to  self-slaughter, 
Regular  as  rolling  water, 
Whose  high  waves  o'ersweep  tho  border 
Of  huge  moles,  but  keep  their  order, 
Breaking  only  rank  by  rank. 
Hearken  to  the  armour's  clank ! 
Look  down  o'er  each  frowning  warrior, 
How  he  glares  upon  the  barrier : 
Ijxjk  on  each  step  of  each  ladder, 
As  the  stripes  that  streak  an  adder. 

3. 

lxK>k  upon  the  bristling  wall, 
Mann'd  without  an  interval! 
Hound  and  round,  and  tier  on  tier, 
Cannon's  black  mouth,  shining  spear, 
)..>!  match,  boll-tnouth'd  musquetoon, 
4>ap>ng  t:  De  murderous  soon. 


All  the  warlike  gear  of  old, 
Mix'd  with  what  we  now  behold, 
In  this  strife  'twixt  old  and  new, 
Gather  like  a  locust's  crew. 
Shade  of  Remus  !  't  is  a  time 
Awful  as  thy  brother's  crime  ! 
Christians  war  against  Christ's  shrine:—- 
Must  its  lot  be  like  to  thine  ? 

4. 

Near — and  near — nearer  still, 
As  the  earthquake  saps  the  hill, 
First  with  trembling,  hollow  motion, 
Like  a  scarce-awaken'd  ocean, 
Then  with  stronger  shock  and  louder, 
Till  the  rocks  are  crush'd  to  powder, — 
Onward  sweeps  the  rolling  host ! 
Heroes  of  the  immortal  boast ! 
Mighty  chiefs  !   Eternal  shadows  ! 
First  flowers  of  the  bloody  meadows 
Which  encompass  Rome,  the  mother 
Of  a  people  without  brother  ! 
Will  you  sleep  when  nations'  quarrels 
Plough  the  root  up  of  your  laurels  ? 
Ye  who  wept  o'er  Carthage  burning, 
Weep  not — strike  !  for  Rome  is  mourning ! 

5. 

Onward  sweep  the  varied  nations  ! 
Famine  long  hath  dealt  their  rations ; 
To  the  wall,  with  hate  and  hunger, 
Numerous  as  wolves,  and  stronger, 
On  they  sweep.     Oh !  glorious  city, 
Must  thou  be  a  theme  for  pity  ? 
Fight,  like  your  first  sire,  each  Roman ! 
Alaric  was  a  gentle  foeman, 
Match'd  with  Bourbon's  black  banditti ! 
Rouse  thee,  thou  eternal  city  ! 
Rouse  thee  !  Rather  give  the  porch 
With  thy  own  hand  to  thy  torch, 
Than  behold  such  hosts  pollute 
Your  worst  dwelling  with  their  foot. 

6. 

Ah  !  behold  yon  bleeding  spectre  ! 
Ilion's  children  find  no  Hector  ; 
Priam's  offspring  loved  their  brother ; 
Roma's  sire  forgot  his  mother, 
When  he  slew  his  gallant  twin, 
With  inexpiable  sin. 
See  the  giant  shadow  stride 
O'er  the  ramparts  high  and  wide  ! 
When  he  first  o'erleapt  thy  wall, 
Its  foundation  mourn'd  thy  fall. 
Now,  though  towering  like  a  Babel, 
Who  to  stop  his  steps  are  able  ? 
Stalking  o'er  thy  highest  dome, 
Remus  claims  his  vengeance,  Rome ! 

7. 

Now  they  reach  thee  in  their  anger: 
Fire,  and  smoke,  and  hellish  clangour 
Are  around  thee,  thou  world's  wonder ! 
Death  is  in  thy  walls  and  under 


1  Scipio,  the  second  Africnnus.  is  said  to  have  repeated 4 
veree  of  Homer,  and  wept  over  the  burning  of  Carthrjo.  B 
had  better  have  granted  it  a  capitulation. 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


Now  the  meeting  steel  first  clashes  ; 
Downward  then  the  ladder  crashes, 
With  its  iron  load  all  gleaming, 
Lying  at  its  foot  blaspheming ! 
Up  again !  for  every  warrior 
Slain,  another  climbs  the  barrier. 
Thicker  grows  the  strife  :  thy  ditches 
Europe's  mingling  gore  enriches. 
Rome !  Although  thy  wall  may  perish, 
Such  manure  thy  fields  will  cherish, 
Making  gay  the  harvest-home  ; 
But  thy  hearths,  alas  !  oh,  Rome  ! — 
Yet  be  Rome  amidst  thine  anguish, 
Fight  as  thou  wast  wont  to  vanquish ! 

8. 

Yet  once  more,  ye  old  Penates ! 
Let  not  your  quench'd  hearths  be  Ate's  ! 
Yet  again,  ye  shadowy  heroes, 
Yield  not  to  these  stranger  Neros ! 
Though  the  son  who  slew  his  mother, 
Shed  Rome's  blood,  he  was  your  brother : 
'T  was  the  Roman  curb'd  the  Roman : — 
Brennus  was  a  baffled  foeman. 
Yet  again,  ye  saints  and  martyrs, 
Rise,  for  yours  are  holier  charters. 
Mighty  gods  of  temples  falling, 
Yet  in  ruin  still  appalling  ! 
Mightier  founders  of  those  altars, 
True  and  Christian — strike  the  assaulters! 
Tiber  !  Tiber  !  let  thy  torrent 
Show  even  nature's  self  abhorrent. 
Let  each  breathing  heart  dilated 
Turn,  as  doth  the  lion  baited ! 
Rome  be  crush'd  to  one  wide  tomb, 
But  be  still  the  Roman's  Rome  ! 

BOURBON,  ARNOLD,  C.«SAR,  and  others,  arrive  at  the 
foot  of  the  wall.  ART* OLD  is  about  to  plant  his  ladder. 

BOURBON. 

Hold,  Arnold !  I  am  first. 

ARNOLD. 

Not  so,  my  lord. 

BOURBON. 

Hold,  sir,  I  charge  you !  Follow !  I  am  proud 
Of  such  a  follower,  but  will  brook  no  leader. 

[BouRBON  plants  his  ladder,  and  begins  to  mount. 
Now,  boys  !  On !  on ! 

[A  shot  strikes  him,  and  BOURBON  falls. 

CJESAR. 
And  off! 

ARNOLD. 

Eternal  powers ! 
Fhc  host  will  be  appall'd. — But  vengeance !  vengeance! 

BOURBON. 
T  is  nothing — lend  me  your  hand. 

[BOURBON  takes  ARNOLD  by  the  hand  and  rises : 
but,  as  he  puts  his  foot  on  the  step,  falls  again. 

Arnold  !  I  am  sped. 

Conceal  my  fall — all  will  go  well — conceal  it ! 
Fling  my  cloak  o'er  what  will  be  dust  anon  ; 
L»;t  not  the  soldiers  see  it. 

ARNOLD. 

You  must  be 
rtrmotea  ;   me  aici  of-. — 


BOURBON. 

No,  my  gallant  boy ; 
Death  is  upon  me.     But  what  is  one  life  ? 
The  Bourbon's  spirit  shall  command  them  still. 
&.eep  them  yet  ignorant  that  1  am  but  clay, 
Till  they  are  conquerors — then  do  as  you  may. 

C^SAR. 

Would  not  your  highness  choose  to  kiss  the  cross  7 
We  have  no  priest  here,  but  tne  hill  of  sword 
May  serve  instead : — it  did  the  same  for  Bayard. 

BOURBON. 

Thou  bitter  slave !  Jo  name  him  at  this  time ! 
But  I  deserve  it. 

ARNOLD  (to  C.KSAR). 
Villain,  hold  your  peace ! 

CJESAR. 

What,  when  a  Christian  dies  ?  Shall  I  not  offer 
A  Christian  "  Vade  in  pace?" 

ARNOLD. 

Silence!  Oh! 
Those  eyes  are  glazing,  which  o'erlook'd  the  world. 
And  saw  no  equal.  . 

BOURBON. 

Arnold,  shouldst  thou  see 
France — but  hark !  hark !  the  assault  grows  warmer— 

Oh! 

For  but  an  hour,  a  minute  more  of  life 
To  die  within  the  wall !  Hence,  Arnold  !  hence  ! 
You  lose  time — they  will  conquer  Rome  without  thee 

ARNOLD. 

And  without  thee  ! 

BOURBON. 

Not  so  ;  I  'U  lead  them  still 
In  spirit.     Cover  up  my  dust,  and  breathe  not 
That  I  have  ceased  to  breathe.     Away  !  and  be 
Victorious ! 

ARNOLD. 

But  I  must  not  leave  thee  thus. 

BOUSBON. 

You  must — farewell — Up !  up !  the  world  is  winning. 

[BOURBON  diet 
CXSA.V.  (to  ARNOLD). 
Come,  count,  to  business. 

.        ARNOLD. 

True.     I  'll  weep  hereafter. 
[ARNOLD  covers  BOURBON'S  body  with  a  mantle,  ana 

mounts  the  ladder,  crying, 
The  Bourbon !  Bourbon !  On,  boys  !  Rome  is  ours ! 

C^:SAR. 

Good  night,  Lord  Constable !  thou  went  a  man. 
[C.SSAR  follows  ARNOLD  ;  they  reach  the  battlement; 

ARNOLD  and  CJESAR  are  struck  down. 
A  precious  somerset !  Is  your  countship  injured  ? 

ARNOLD. 

No.  [Remounts  the  luddei. 

C.3ESAR. 

A  rare  blood-hound,  when  his  own  is  heated  ! 
And  't  is  no  boy's  play.  Now  he  strikes  them  down  ' 
His  hand  is  on  the  battlement — he  grasps  it 
As  though  it  were  an  altar  ;  now  his  foot 

Is  on  it,  and What  have  we  here,  a  Roman7 

[A  ntanfatU 

The  first  bird  of  the  covey  !  he  has  fall'n 
On  the  outside  of  the  nest.  Why,  how  now,  fellow  T 

THE    WOUNDED     JAN. 

A  droo  of  water ! 


440 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


[Dies. 


CJESAR. 

Blood 's  the  only  liquid 
Nca'e*  than  Tiber. 

WOUNDED    MAW. 

I  have  died  for  Rome. 

CfSAR. 

And  so  did  Bourbon,  in  another  sense. 

Oh,  these  immortal  men !  and  their  great  motives  ! 

But  I  must  after  my  young  charge.     He  is 

By  this  time  i'  the  forum.     Charge  !  charge  ! 

[CAESAR  mounts  the  ladder  ;  the  Scene  closes. 


SCENE  II. 

T7ie  City. — Combats  between  the  Besiegers  and  Besieged 
in  the  streets. — Inhabitants  flying  in  confusion. 

Enter  C.ESAR. 

CAESAR. 

I  cannot  find  my  hero ;  he  is  mix'd 
With  the  heroic  crowd  that  now  pursue 
Yhe  fugitives,  or  battle  with  the  desperate. 
What  have  we  here  ?  A  cardinal  or  two, 
Tnat  do  not  seem  in  love  with  martyrdom. 
How  the  old  red-shanks  scamper!  Could  they  doff 
Their  hose  as  they  have  doff'd  their  hats,  't  would  bo 
A  blessing,  as  a  mark  the  less  for  plunder. 
But  let  them  fly,  the  crimson  kennels  now 
Will  not  much  stain  their  stockings,  since  the  mire 
Is  of  the  self-same  purple  hue. 
Enter  a  party  fighting. — ARNOLD  at  the  head  of  the 
Besiegers. 

He  comes, 

fian  1  in  hand  with  the  mild  twins — Gore  and  Glory. 
Holla !  hold,  count ! 

ARNOLD. 

Away !  they  must  not  rally. 

CJESAR. 

1  tell  thee,  be  not  rash ;  a  golden  bridge 
Is  for  a  flying  enemy.    I  gave  thee 
A  form  of  beauty,  and  an 
Exemption  from  some  maladies  of  body, 
But  not  of  mind,  which  is  not  mine  to  give. 
But  though  I  gave  the  form  of  Thetis'  son, 
I  dipt  thee  not  in  Styx  ;  and  'gainst  a  foe 
I  would  not  warrant  thy  chivalric  heart 
More  than  Pelides'  heel ;  why  then,  be  cautious, 
And  know  thyself  a  mortal  still. 
ARNOLD. 

And  who 

With  aught  of  soul  would  combat  if  he  were 
Invulnerable  ?  That  were  pretty  sport. 
Think'st  thou  I  beat  for  hares  when  lions  roar  ? 

[ARNOLD  rushes  into  the  combat. 

CJESAR. 

A  precious  sample  of  humanity ! 
Well,  his  blood 's  up,  and  if  a  little 's  shed, 
'T  will  serve  to  curb  his  fever. 

|  ARNOLD  engages  with  a  Roman,  who  retires  towards 
a  portico. 

ARNOLD. 

Yield  thee,  slare 
I  urumise  quarter. 

ROMAN. 
That 's  soon  said. 


ARNOLD. 

And  done- 
My  word  is  known. 

ROMAN. 

So  shall  be  my  deeds. 
[They  re-engage.     CAESAR  comes forwara, 

CJESAR. 

Why,  Arnold !  Hold  thine  own ;  thou  hast  in  hand 
A  famous  artisan,  a  cunning  sculptor ; 
Also  a  dealer  in  the  sword  and  dagger. 
Not  so,  my  musqueteer  ;  't  was  he  who  slew 
The  Bourbon  from  the  wall. 

,        ARNOLD. 

Ay,  did  he  so? 
Then  he  hath  carved  his  monument. 

ROMAN. 

I  yet 

May  live  to  carve  your  better's. 
C.ESAR. 

Well  said,  my  man  of  marble  !  Benvenuto, 
Thou  hast  some  practice  in  both  ways  ;  and  he 
Who  slays  Cellini,  will  have  work'd  as  hard 
As  e'er  thou  didst  upon  Carrara's  blocks. 
[ARNOLD  disarms  and  wounds  CELLINI,  but  shghtiy  ; 
the  latter  draws  a  pistol,  and  fires  ;  then  retires  and 
disappears  through  the  portico. 

C£SAR. 

How  farest  thou  ?  Thou  hast  a  taste,  methinks, 
Of  red  Bellona's  banquet. 

ARNOLD  (ftaggers). 

'T  is  a  scratch. 
Lend  me  thy  scarf.    He  shall  not  'scape  me  thus. 

CAESAR. 
Where  is  it  ? 

ARNOLD. 

In  the  shoulder,  not  the  sword  arm — 
And  that 's  enough.    I  am  thirsty :  would  I  had 
A  helm  of  water ! 

CJESAR. 

That 's  a  liquid  now 
In  requisition,  but  by  no  means  easiest 
To  come  at. 

ARNOLD. 

And  my  thirst  increases  ; — but 
I  '11  find  a  way  to  quench  it. 

CJESAR. 

Or  be  quench'd 
Thyself? 

ARNOLD. 

The  chance  is  even  ;  we  will  throw 
The  dice  thereon.     But  I  lose  time  prating ; 
Prithee,  be  quick.  [C^SAR  binds  on  the  *usrf. 

And  what  dost  thou  so  >dly  V 
Why  dost  not  strike  ? 

C.XSAR. 

Your  old  philosophers 
Beheld  mankind,  as  mere  spectators  of 
The  Olympic  games.     When  I  behold  a  prize 
Worth  wrestling  for,  I  may  be  found  a  Milo. 

ARNOLD. 
Ay,  'gainst  an  oak. 

CJESAR. 

A  forest,  when  it  suite  me. 
I  combat  with  a  mass,  or  not  at  all. 
Meantime,  pursue  thy  sport,  as  I  do  mine : 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


44' 


Which  is  just  now  to  gaze,  since  all  these  labourers 
Will  reap  my  harvest  gratis. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou  art  still 

A  iiend  ! 

CJESAR. 

And  thou — a  man. 

ARNOLD. 
Whv,  such  I  fain  would  show  me. 

^|          C£SAR. 

True — as  men  are. 
ARWOLD. 

4nd  what  is  that  ? 

CJESAR. 

Thou  feelest  and  thou  see  ?  u 
[Exit  ARNOLD,  joining  in  the  combat  which  »till 
continues  between  detached  parties.    Che  Scene 
clones. 


SCENE  in. 

Si.  Peter's.  The  Interior  of  the  Chur  h.  The  Pope 
it  the  Altar.  Priests,  etc.  crowding  in  confusion, 
md  Citizens  flying  far  refuge,  pursued  by  Soldiery. 

Enter  CfSAR. 

A  SPANISH  SOLDIEU. 

£>«,  «vn  with  them,  comrades  !  seize  upon  those  lamps ! 
Cleave  yon  bald  paled  shaveling  t  <  the  chine  ! 
Ilia  rosary 's  of  gold  ! 

LUTHERAN  SOL 'HER. 

Revenge !  Revenge ! 

Plunder  hereafter,  but  for  veng-  ance  now — 
Yonder  stands  Anti-Christ ! 

CJESAR  (into  posing). 

How  now,  schismatic ! 
What  wouldst  thou  ? 

LUTHERAN   SOLDIER. 

In  th<j  holy  name  of  Christ, 
Destroy  proud  Anti-Christ.     I  am  a  Christian. 

r.CSAR. 

Yea,  a  disciple  that  wo\Jd  make  the  founder 

Of  your  belief  renounce  it,  could  ne  see 

Such  proselytes.     Be^t  stint  thyself  to  plunder. 

LUTI'ERAN  SOLDIER. 

I  say  he  is  the  devil. 

O0AJU 

Hush !  keep  that  secret, 
Lest  he  should  re<  ognise  you  for  his  own. 

I  UTHERAN  SOLDIER. 

Why  would  you  save  him  ?  I  repeat  he  is 
The  devil,  or  tl-o  devil's  vicar  upon  earth. 

CjESAR. 

And  that 's  th<;  reason  ;  would  you  make  a  quarrel 
With  your  b  st  friends  ?  You  had  far  best  be  quiet : 
His  hour  is  not  yet  come. 

LUTHERAN  SOLDIER. 

That  shall  be  seen  ! 

[The  )  utheran  Soldier  rushes  forward :  a  shot  strikes 
liim  from  one  of  the  Pope's  guards,  and  he  fallf  at 
the  foot  of  the  altar. 


I  'old  you  so. 


CJESAR  (to  the  LUTHERAN). 


LUTHERAN  SOLDIER. 

And  will  you  not  avenge  me  ? 

CJCSAR. 

Not  I !  You  know  that  "  vengeance  is  the  Lord's  *n 
You  see  he  loves  no  interlopers. 

LUTHERAN  (dying). 
Oh'! 

Had  I  but  slain  him,  I  had  gone  on  high, 
Crown'd  with  eternal  glory  !     Heaven,  forgive 
My  feebleness  of  arm  that  reach'd  him  not, 
And  take  thy  servant  to  thy  mercy.     'T  is 
A  glorious  triumph  still ;   proud  Babylon 's 
No  more  :  the  Harlot  of  the  Seven  Hills 
Hath  changed  her  scarlet  raiment  for  sackcloth 
And  ashes!  [The  Lutheran  diet. 

C.ESAR. 

Yes,  thine  own  amidst  the  rest. 
Well  done,  old  Babel ! 

[The  Guards  defend  themselves  desperately,  whilt 
the  Pontiff"  escapes,  by  a  private  passage,  to  tin 
Vatican  and  the  Castle  of  St.  Angela. 

CKSAR. 

Ha  !  right  nobly  battled  ! 

Now,  priest !  now,  soldier  !  the  two  great  professions 
Together  by  the  ears  and  hearts !  I  have  not 
Seen  a  more  comic  pantomime  since  Titus 
Took  Jewry.     Bait  the  Romans  had  the  best  then  ; 
Now  they  must  take  their  turn. 
SOLDIER. 

He  hath  escaped ! 
Follow ! 

ANOTHER  SOLDIER. 

They  have  barr'd  the  narrow  passage  up, 
And  it  is  clogg'd  with  dead  even  to  the  door.      - 

,  CJESAR. 

I  am  glad  he  hath  escaped  :  he  may  thank  me  for 't 
In  part.     I  would  not  have  his  bulls  abolish'd — 
'T  were  worth  one  half  our  empire:  his  indulgence* 
Demand  some  in  return ; — no,  no,  he  must  not 
Fall ;  and  besides,  his  now  escape  may  furnish 
A  future  miracle,  in  future  proof 
Of  his  infallibility.  [To  the  Spanish  Soldiery, 

Well,  cut-throats  ! 

What  do  you  pause  for  ?  If  you  make  not  haste, 
There  will  not  be  a  link  of  pious  gold  left, 
And  you,  too,  Catholics  !  Would  ye  return 
From  such  a  pilgrimage  without  a  relic  ? 
The  very  Lutherans  have  more  true  devotion : 
Sec  how  they  strip  the  shrines  ! 
SOLDIERS. 

By  holy  *»eter ! 

He  speaks  the  truth  ;  the  heretics  will  be*. 
The  best  away. 

CJESAR. 

And  that  were  shame  !  Go  to  . 
Assist  in  their  conversion. 

[The  Soldiers  disperse;  many  qwt  the  Cl* 
others  enter. 

CJESATl. 

They  are  gone. 

And  others  come ;  so  flows  the  wave  on  wav« 
Of  what  these  creatures  call  eternity, 
Deeming  themse!«"»*  the  breakers  rf  the  ocean 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


While  they  are  but  its  bubbles,  ignorant 
That  foam  is  their  founaation.     So,  another ! 

Enter  OLIMPIA,  Jiying  from  the  pursuit — She  springs 
upon  the  Altar. 

SOLDIER. 

She 's  mine. 

ANOTHER  SOLDIER  (opposing  the  former). 

You  he,  I  track'd  her  first ;  and,  were  she 
The  pope's  niece,  I  '11  not  yield  her.  [They  fight. 

THIRD  SOLDIER  (advancing  towards  OI.IMPIA). 
You  may  settle 

Your  claims  ;  I  '11  make  mine  good. 
OLIMPIA. 

Infernal  slave ! 
You  touch  me  not  alive. 

THIRD  SOLDIER. 

Alive  or  dead ! 

OLIMPIA  (embracing  a  massive  crucifix). 
Respect  your  God ! 

THIRD  SOLDIER. 

Yes,  when  he  shines  in  gold. 
Girl,  you  but  grasp  your  dowry. 

[As  he  advances,  OLIMPIA,  with  a  strong  and  sudden 
effort,  casts  down  the  crucifix-  it  strikes  the  Soldier, 
who  fall*. 

THIRD  SOLDIER. 

Oh,  great  God ! 

OLIMPIA. 

Ah  !  now  you  recognise  him. 

THIRD  SOLDIER. 

My  brain  's  crush'd ! 
Comrades,  help,  ho  !     All 's  darkness  !  [He  dies. 

OTHER  SOLDIERS  (coming  up). 
Slay  her,  although  she  had  a  thousand  lives : 
She  hath  kill'd  our  comrade. 

OLIMPIA. 

Welcome  such  a  death ! 

You  have  no  life  to  give,  which  the  worst  slave 
Would  take.  Great  God !  through  thy  redeeming  Son, 
And  thy  Son's  Mother,  now  receive  me  as 
I  would  approach  thee,  worthy  her,  and  him,  and  thee ! 

Enter  ARNOLD. 

ARNOLD. 

What  do  I  see  ?     Accursed  jackals  ! 
Forbear ! 

C.KSAR  (aside,  and  laughing). 
Ha  !  ha  !   here 's  equity  !  The  dogs 
Have  as  much  right  as  he.     But  to  the  issue ! 

SOLDIERS. 
Count,  she  hath  slain  our  comrade. 

ARNOLD. 

With  what  weapon  ? 
SOLDIER. 

The  cross,  beneath  which  he  is  crush'd  ;  behold  him 
Lie  there,  more  like  a  worm  than  man  ;  she  cast  it 
l'i>on  his  head. 

ARNOLD. 

Even  so  ;  there  is  a  woman 
Worthy  a  orave  man's  liking.     Were  ye  such, 
Yu  would  have  honour'd  her.     But  get  ye  hence, 
And  thank  your  meanness,  other  God  you  have  none, 
For  yow  existence.     Had  vou  touch' J  a  haur 


Of  those  dishevell'd  locks,  I  would  have  thinn'd 
Your  ranks-  more  than  the  enemy.     Awav ' 
Ye  jackals  !  gnaw  the  bones  the  lion  leaves, 
But  not  even  these  till  he  permits. 

A  SOLDIER  (murmuring). 

The  lion 
Might  conquer  for  himself  then. 

ARNOLD  (cuts  him  datum). 

Mutineer ! 
Rebel  in  hell — you  shall  obey  on  earth  ! 

[The  Soldier&isxault  ARNOLD. 
ARNOLD. 

Come  on  !  I  'm  glad  on 't !  I  will  show  you,  slaves. 
How  you  should  be  commanded,  and  who  led  you 
First  o'er  the  wall  you  were  as  shy  to  scale, 
Until  I  waved  my  banners  from  its  height, 
As  you  are  bold  within  it. ' 

[ARNOLD  mows  down  the  foremost;  the  rest  throw 
down  their  arms. 

SOLDIERS. 

Mercy  !   mercy ! 

ARNOLD. 

Then  leam  to  grant  it.     Have  I  taught  you  who 
Led  you  o'er  Rome's  eternal  battlements  ' 

SOLDIERS. 

We  saw  it,  and  we  know  it ;  yet  forgive 
A  moment's  error  in  the  heat  of  conquest — 
The  conquest  which  you  led  to. 

ARNOLD. 

Get  you  hence ! 

.Hence  to  your  quarters  !  you  will  find  them  ftx'd 
In  the  Colonna  palace. 

OLIMPIA  (aside). 

In  my  father's 
House ! 

ARNOLD  (to  the  soldiers). 
Leave  your  arms  ;  ye  have  no  further  need 
Of  such  :  the  city 's  render'd.     And  mark  well 
You  keep  your  hands  clean,  or  I  '11  find  out  a  stream 
As  red  as  Tiber  now  runs,  for  your  baptism. 

SOLDIERS  (deposing  their  arms  and  departing). 
We  obey. 

ARNOLD  (to  OLIMPIA). 
Lady  !  you  are  safe. 
OLIMPIA. 

I  should  be  so, 

Had  I  a  knife  even  ;  but  it  matters  not — 
Death  hath  a  thousand  gates ;  and  on  the  marble, 
Even  at  the  altar  foot,  whence  I  look  down 
Upon  destruction,  shall  my  head  be  dash'd, 
Ere  thou  ascend  it.     God  forgive  thee,  man  ! 

ARNOLD. 

I  wish  to  merit  his  forgiveness,  and 
Thine  own,  although  I  have  not  injured  thee. 

OLIMPIA. 

Go  !     Thou  hast  only  sack'd  my  native  land — 

No  injury  ! — and  made  my  father's  house 

A  den  of  thievw  —No  injury  ! — this  temple, 

Slippery  with  Roman  and  holy  gore — 

No  injury  !     And  now  thou  wouldst  preserve  me, 

To  be but  that  shall  never  be 

[She  raises  her  eyes  to  heaven,  folds  fit   robe  round  her, 

and  prepares  to  dash  herself  down  on  the  fide  «f  \h» 

Altar,  opposite  to  that  where  AJT«OL 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


443 


ARNOLD. 

Hold!  hold! 
I  swear. 

OLIMPIA. 

Spare  thine  already  forfeit  soul 
A  perjury  for  which  even  hell  would  loathe  thee. 
I  know  thee. 

ARNOLD. 

No,  thou  know'st  me  not ;  I  am  not 

Of  these  men,  though 

OLIMPIA. 

I  judge  thee  by  thy  mates ; 
It  is  for  God  to  judge  thee  as  thou  art. 
I  see  thee  purple  with  the  blood  of  Rome ; 
Take  mine,  't  is  all  thou  e'er  shall  have  of  me  ! 
And  here,  upon  the  marble  of  this  temple, 
Where  the  baptismal  font  baptized  me  God's, 
I  offer  him  a  blood  less  holy 
But  not  less  pure  (pure  as  it  left  me  then, 
A  redeem'd  infant)  than  the  holy  water 
The  saints  have  sanctified  ! 

[OLIMPIA  waves  her  hand  to  ARNOLD  with  disdain,  and 
dashes  herself  on  the  pavement  from  the  Altar. 

ARNOLD. 

Eternal  God ! 

I  feel  thee  now !    Help !  help !  She 's  gone. 
CAESAR  (approaches). 

I  am  here. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou !  but  oh,  save  her ! 

C.ESAR   (assisting  him  to  raise  OLIMPIA). 
She  hath  done  it  well ; 
The  leap  was  serious. 

ARNOLD. 
Oh!  she  is  lifeless ! 

CJESAR. 

If 

She  be  so,  I  have  nought  to  do  with  that : 
The  resurrection  is  beyond  me. 

ARNOLD. 

Slave! 

C.ESAR. 

Ay,  slave  or  master,  't  is  all  one :  methinks 
Good  words  however  are  as  well  at  times. 

ARNOLD. 
Words! — Canst  thou  aid  her? 

C£SAR. 

I  will  try.    A  sprinkling 
Of  that  same  holy  water  may  be  useful. 

[He  brings  some  in  his  helmet  from  the  font. 

ARNOLD. 
T  is  mix' J  with  blood. 


In  Rome. 


C£SAR. 

There  is  no  cleaner  now 


ARNOLD. 

How  pale  !  how  beautiful !  how  lifeless ! 
\live  or  dead,  thou  essence  of  a'l  beauty, 
I  love  but  thee ! 

CJESA  •. 

Even  so  Achilles  loved 
\Vnthesilea;  with  his  form  it  seems 
tfou  have  his  .jcari,  and  vot  it  was  no  soli  one. 


ARNOLD. 

She  breathes !     But  no,  't  was  nothing,  or  tne  last 
Faint  flutter  life  disputes  with  death. 

C£SAR. 

She  breathes. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou  say'st  it  ?    Then  't  is  truth. 

C£SAR. 

You  do  me  right—- 
The devil  speaks  trutn  much  oftener  than  he 's  deem'd : 
He  hath  an  ignorant  audience. 

ARNOLD  (without  attending  to  him). 

Yes !  her  heart  beats. 
Alas !  that  the  first  beat  of  the  only  heart 
I  ever  wish'd  to  beat  with  mine,  should  vibrate 
To  an  assassin's  pulse 

C2ESAR. 

A  sage  reflection, 

But  somewhatlate  i'  the  day.  Where  shall  we  bear  he»  1 
I  say  she  lives. 

ARNOLD. 
And  will  she  live  ? 


As  dust  can. 


As  much 


ARNOLD. 
Then  she  is  dead ! 
C.ESAR. 

Bah !  bah !  You  are  so, 
And  do  not  know  it.    She  will  come  to  life — 
Such  as  you  think  so,  such  as  you  now  are ; 
But  we  must  work  by  human  means. 
ARNOLD. 

We  wiU 

Convey  her  unto  the  Colonna  palace, 
Where  I  have  pitch'd  my  banner. 

CJESAR. 

Come  then  !  raise  her  up ! 

ARNOLD. 
Softly! 

CJESAR. 

As  softly  as  they  bear  the  dead, 
Perhaps  because  they  cannot  feel  the  jolting. 

ARNOLD. 
But  doth  she  live  indeed? 

CJESAR. 

Nay,  never  fear ! 
But  if  you  rue  it  after,  blame  not  me. 

ARNOLD. 
Let  her  but  live ! 

C£SAR. 

The  spirit  of  her  life 
Is  yet  within  her  breast,  and  may  revive. 
Count !  count !  I  am  your  servant  in  all  things, 
And  this  is  a  new  office : — 't  is  not  oft 
I  am  employ'd  in  such  ;  but  you  perceive 
How  staunch  a  friend  is  what  you  call  a  neno 
On  earth  you  have  often  only  fiends  for  friend* , 
Now  /  desert  not  mine.    Soft '  bear  her  hence. 
The  beautiful  half-clay,  and  nearly  spirit ! 
I  am  almost  enamour'd  of  her,  as 
Of  old  the  angels  of  her  earliest  sex. 

ARNOLD. 

Thou! 


444 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CJESAR. 

I.    but  fear  not.    I  '11  not  be  /our  rival. 

ARNOLD. 

Rival! 

C£SAR. 

I  could  be  one  right  form' JaWe ; 
But  since  1  slew  the  seven  husb  utds  of 
Tobia's  future  bride  (and  after  Jl 
'Twas  suck'd  out  but  by  some  incense)  I  have  laid 
Aside  intrigue:  'tis  rarely  wo. ill  the  trouble 
Of  gaining,  or — what  is  moro  difficult- 
Getting  rid  of  your  prize  agriin  ;  for  there  'a 
The  rub  !  at  least  to  mortals. 

ARNOLD. 

Prithee,  peace ! 
Softly  !  methinks  her  lips  move,  her  eyes  open ! 

C  CSAR. 

lake  stars,  no  doubt ;  f  r  that 's  a  metaphor 
For  Lucifer  and  Venus. 

ARNOLD. 

To  the  palace 
Colonna,  as  I  told  y<  .u ! 

CJESAR. 

Oh !  I  know 
My  way  through  Home. 

ARNOLD. 

Now  onward,  onward !  Gently ! 
[Exeunt,  bearing  OLIMPI  A. — The  Scene  closes. 


PART  HI. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Castle  in  the  Apennines,  surrounded  by  a  wild  but 
smiling  country.  Chorus  of  Peasants  singing  before 
the  Gatts. 

Chorus. 

1. 

The  wars  are  over, 

The  spring  is  come ; 
The  bride  and  her  lover 

Have  sought  their  home : 
fhey  arc  happy,  we  rejoice, 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voice ! 

2. 

The  spring  is  come ;  the  violet 's  gone, 
The  first-born  child  of  the  early  sun ; 
With  us  she  is  but  a  winter's  flower, 
The  snow  on  the  hills  cannot  blast  her  bower, 
And  she  lifts  up  her  dewy  eye  of  blue 
To  the  youngest  sky  of  the  self-same  hue. 

S. 

Ar.d  when  the  spring  comes  with  her  host 
Of  flowers,  that  flower  beloved  the  most 
Shrinks  from  the  crowd  that  may  confuse 
Hi-r  heavenly  odour  and  virgin  hues. 


Pluck  the  others,  but  still  remember 
Tli»ir  herald  out  of  dim  December — 


The  morning-star  of  all  the  flowers, 
The  pledge  of  daylight's  lengthen'd  hours ; 
Nor,  'midst  the  roses,  e'er  forget 
The  virgin,  virgin  violet, 

Enter  C.«SAR. 

C£8AR  (singing). 
The  wars  arc  all  over, 

Our  swords  are  all  idle, 

The  steed  bites  the  bridle, 
The  casque  's  on  the  wall. 
There  's  rest  for  the  rover ; 

But  his  armour  is  rusty, 

And  the  veteran  grows  crusty, 
As  he  yawns  in  the  hall. 
He  drinks — but  what 's  drinking  ? 
A  mere  pause  from  thinking ! 
No  bugle  awakes  him  with  life  and  death 

Chorus. 

But  the  hound  baycth  loudly, 

The  boar 's  in  the  wood, 
And  the  falcon  longs  proudly 

To  spring  from  her  hood. 
On  the  wrist  of  the  noble. 

She  sits  like  a  crest, 
And  the  air  is  in  trouble 

With  birds  from  their  nest, 


Oh !  shadow  of  glory ! 

Dim  image  of  war  ! 
But  the  chase  hath  no  story, 

Her  hero  no  star, 
Since  Nimrod,  the  founder 

Of  empire  and  chase, 
Who  made  the  woods  wonder, 

And  quake  for  their  race, 
When  the  lion  was  young, 

In  the  pride  of  his  might, 
Then 't  was  sport  for  the  strong 

To  embrace  him  in  fight ; 
To  go  forth,  with  a  pine 

For  a  spear,  'gainst  the  mammoth, 
Or  strike  through  the  ravine 

At  the  foaming  behemoth ; 
While  man  was  in  stature 

As  towers  in  our  lime, 
The  first-bom  of  Nature, 

And,  like  her,  sublime ! 

Chorus. 

But  the  wars  are  over, 

The  spring  is  come ; 

The  bride  and  her  lover 

Have  sought  their  home  : 
They  are  happy,  and  we  rejoice ; 
Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voice ! 

[Exeunt  the  Peasantry,  singing. 


(     445      ) 


anir  Sartfi; 

A  MYSTERY. 


FOUNDED  ON  THE  FOLLOWING  PASSAGE  IN  GENESIS,  CHAP.  VL 
And  it  came  to  pan.  ...  that  the  ions  of  Got  «aw  the  daughters  of  men  that  the;  were  fair,  and  thtj 

took  them  wiie*  of  aJl  which  they  chow. 
And  woman  wailinr.  ft-r  her  demoo  loTer.— COLERIDGE. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


ANGELS. 
SAMIASA. 
AZAZIEL. 
RAPHAEL,  the  Archangel, 

MEN. 

NOAH,  and  hit  Son*, 
IEAD. 

WOMEN. 
AHAH. 
AHOLIBAMAR. 


vhorus  of  Spirits  of  the  Earth. — Chorus  of  Mortals. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


SCENE   I. 

A.  woody  and  mountainous  district  near  Mount  Ararat, 
TIM  E  —  midnight, 

Enter  AHAH  and  AHOLIBAMAH. 

AMAH. 

OCR  father  sleeps  :  it  is  the  hour  when  they 
Who  love  us  are  accustom'  d  to  descend   - 
Through  the  deep  clouds  o'er  rocky  Ararat  :— 
How  my  heart  beats  ! 

AHOLIBAMAR. 

Let  us  proceed  upon 

Our  invocation. 

ABAH. 

But  the  stars  are  hidden. 


AHOLIEAMAK. 

So  do  I,  but  not  with  fear 
Of  aught  save  their  delay. 

AH  AH. 

My  rister, 

[  love  Azaziel  more  than—  oh,  too  much  ! 
What  was  I  going  to  say  ?  my  heart  grows  impious. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

A  n  *  where  is  the  impiety  of  loving 
Celestial  natures? 

A  ir  AH. 

But,  Aholibarnah, 

I  lo\  «  our  God  less  since  his  angel  loved  me  : 
Phis  cannot  be  of  good  ;  and  though  I  know  not 
That  I  do  wrong,  I  feel  a  thousand  fears 
Which  are  not  ominous  of  right. 
2  o.  a 


AHOLIBAMAH. 

Then  wed  thee 

Unto  some  son  of  clay,  and  toil  and  spin  ! 
There 's  Japhet  bves  thee  well,  hath  loved  thee  term  i 
Marry,  and  bring  forth  dust ! 

AMAH. 

I  should  have  loved 
Azaziel  not  less  were  he  mortal :  yet 
I  am  glad  he  is  not.    I  cannot  outlive  him. 
And  when  I  think  that  his  immortal  wings 
Will  one  day  hover  o'er  the  sepulchre 
Of  the  poor  child  of  clay  which  so  adored  him, 
As  be  adores  the  Highest,  death  becomes 
Less  terrible ;  but  yet  I  pity  him ; 
His  grief  will  be  of  ages,  or  at  least 
Mine  would  be  such  for  him,  were  I  the  seraph. 
And  he  the  perishable. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Rather  say. 

That  he  vriH  single  forth  some  other  daughter 
Of  earth,  and  love  her  as  he  once  loved  Anah. 

AMAH. 

And  if  it  should  be  so,  and  she  so  loved  him. 
Better  thus  than  that  he  should  weep  for  me. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

If  I  thought  thus  of  Samiasa's  love, 

AD  seraph  as  he  is,  I  'd  spurn  him  from  me. 

But  to  our  invocation !  *T  is  the  boor. 

AX  AH. 

Seraph! 

From  thy  sphere! 
Whatever  star  contain  thy  glory ; 
In  the  eternal  depths  of  heaven 
Albeit  thou  watchest  with  "the  seven, " 
Though  through  space  infinite  and  hoary 
Before  thy  bright  wings  worlds  be  driven, 

Yet  hear! 
Oh!  think  of  her  who  holds  thee  dear! 

And  though  she  nothing  is  to  thee, 
Yet  think  that  thou  art  all  to  her. 
Thou  canst  not  tell, — and  never  be 
Such  pangs  decreed  to  aught  save  me, — 
The  bitterness  of  tears. 
Eternity  is  in  thine  years, 
Unborn,  undying  beauty  in  thine  eyes: 
With  me  thou  canst  not  sympathize; 
Except  in  love,  and  there  thou  must 
Acknowledge  that  more  loving  dust 
Ne'er  wept  beneath  the  slue*. 
Thou  walk'st  thy  many  worlds,  thou  see'st 
The  face  of  Him  who  made  thee  great, 


1  The  arefcancefc.  said  to  ke  Mvc*  la 


446 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


As  H<  hath  made  me  of  the  least 
Of  those  cast  out  from  Eden's  gate : 
Yet,  seraph  dear! 

Oh  hear! 

For  thou  hast  loved  me,  and  I  would  not  die 
Until  I  know  what  I  must  die  in  knowing, 
1  hat  thou  forget'st  in  thine  eternity 

Her  whose  heart  death  could  not  keep  from  o'erflowing 
For  thee,  immortal  essence  as  thou  art ! 
Great  is  their  love  who  love  in  sin  and  fear ; 
And  such  I  feel  are  waging  in  my  heart 
A  war  unworthy :  to  an  Adamite 
Forgive,  my  seraph !  that  such  thoughts  appear. 
For  sorrow  is  our  element ; 

Delight 

An  Eden  kept  afar  from  sight, 
Though  sometimes  with  our  visions  blent. 

The  hour  is  near 

Which  tells  me  we  are  not  abandon' d  quite. — 
Appear!  appear! 

Seraph ! 

My  own  Azaziel !  be  but  here, 
And  leave  the  stars  to  Uieir  own  light. 

AHTLIBAMAII. 

Samiasa ' 
VVheresou'er 

Thou  rulest  in  the  upper  air — 
Or  warring  with  the  spirits  who  may  dare 

Dispute  with  Him 

Who  made  all  empires,  empire  ;  or  recalling 
Some  wandering  star  which  shoots  through  the  abyss, 
Whose  tenants,  dying  while  their  world  is  falling, 
Share  the  dim  destiny  of  clay  in  this ; 
Or  joining  with  the  inferior  cherubim, 
Thou  deignest  to  partake  their  hymn — 

Samiasa ! 
i  call  thee,  I  await  thee,  and  I  love  thee. 

Many  worship  thee — that  will  I  not : 
If  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move  thee, 
Descend  and  share  my  lot ! 
Though  I  be  form'd  of  clay, 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 

On  Eden's  streams, 
Thine  immortality  cannot  repay  * 

With  love  more  warm  than  mine 
My  love.     There  is  a  ray 

In  me,  which,  though  forbidden  yet  to  snme, 
I  feel  was  lighted  at  thy  God's  and  thine. 
It  may  he  hidden  long :  death  and  decay 

Our  mother  Eve  bequeath'd  us — but  my  heart 
Defies  it :  though  this  life  must  pass  away, 

Is  that  a  cause  for  thee  and  me  to  part  ? 
Thou  art  immortal — so  am  I :  I  feel, 

I  feel  my  immortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and  peal 

Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep, 
Into  my  ears  this  truth — "  thou  livest  for  ever!" 

But  if  it  be  in  joy, 
1  kiiow  not,  nor  would  know  ; 
1'tiat  secret  rests  with  the  Almighty  giver 
Who  folds  in  clouds  the  fonts  of  bliss  and  woe. 

But  thee  and  me  He  never  can  destroy ; 
lihange  us  He  may,  but  not  o'erwhe'm  ;  we  are 
u  eternal  essence,  and  must  war 


With  Him  if  He  will  war  with  us ;  with  thee 

I  can  share  all  things,  even  immortal  sorrow; 
For  thou  hast  ventured  to  share  life  with  m", 
And  shall  1  shrink  from  thine  eternity  1 

Nb !  though  the  serpent's  sting  should  pierce  m* 

through, 

And  thou  thyself  wert  like  the  serpent,  •  .oil 
Around  me  still !  and  1  will  smile 

And  curse  thee  not ;  but  hold 
Thee  in  as  warm  a  fold 

As but  descend ;  and  prov>: 

A  mortal's  love 

For  an  immortal.     If  the  skies  contain 
More  joy  than  thou  canst  give  and  take,  remain ! 

AMAH. 

Sister  !  sister !  I  view  them  winging 
Their  bright  way  through  the  parted  ni^ht. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

The  clouds  from  off  their  pinions  flinging 
As  though  they  bore  to-morrow's  light. 

ANAH. 

But  if  our  father  see  the  sight ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

He  would  but  deem  it  was  the  moon 
Rising  unto  some  sorcerer's  tune 
An  hour  too  soon. 

ANAH. 

They  come !  he  comes ! — Azaziel ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Haste 

To  meet  them !  Oh  !  for  wings  to  bear 
My  spirit,  while  they  hover  there, 
To  Samiasa's  breast ! 

ANAH. 

Lo !  they  have  kindled  all  the  west, 

Like  a  returning  sunset ; — lo ! 
On  Ararat's  late  secret  crest 

A  mild  and  many-colour'd  bow, 
The  remnant  of  their  flashing  path, 
Now  shines  !  and  now,  behold !  it  hath 
Return'd  to  night,  as  rippling  foam, 

Which  the  leviathan  hath  lash'd 
From  his  unfathomable  home, 
When  sporting  on  the  face  of  the  calm  deep, 

Subsides  soon  after  he  again  hath  dash'd 
Down,  down,  to  where  the  ocean's  fountains  sleep. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

They  have  touch'd  earth  !  Samiasa ! 

ANAH. 

My  Azaziel ! 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  IRAD  and  JAPHET. 

IRAD. 

Despond  not :  wherefore  wilt  thou  wander  thus 
To  add  thy  silence  to  the  silent  night, 
And  lift  thy  tearful  eye  unto  the  stars  ? 
They  cannot  aid  thee. 

JAPHET. 

But  they  soothe  me    au 
Perhaps  she  looks  upon  them  as  I  look. 
Methinks  a  being  that  is  beautif-il 
Becometh  more  so  as  it  looks  on  beauty, 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


44' 


The  eternal  beauty  of  undying  things. 
Oh,  Anah ! 

IRAD. 

But  she  loves  thee  not. 

JAPHET. 

Alas! 

IRAD. 

And  proud  \holibamah  spurns  me  also. 

JAPHET. 

1  feel  for  thee  too. 

IRAD. 

Let  her  keep  her  pride  : 
Mine  hath  enabled  me  to  bear  her  scorn ; 
It  may  be,  time  too  will  avenge  it. 

JAPHET. 

Canst  thou 
Find  joy  in  such  a  thought  ? 

IRAD. 

Nor  joy,  nor  sorrow. 

I  loved  her  well ;  I  would  have  loved  her  better, 
Had  love  been  met  with  love :  as  't  is,  I  leave  her 
To  brighter  destinies,  if  so  she  deems  them. 

JAPHET. 

What  destinies  ? 

IRAD. 

I  have  some  cause  to  think 
She  loves  another. 

JAPHET. 

Anah? 

IRAD. 

No ;  her  sister. 
JAPHET. 
What  other  1 

IRAD. 

That  I  know  not ;  but  her  air, 
If  not  her  words,  tells  tne  she  loves  another. 

JAPHET. 
Ay,  but  not  Anah :  she  but  loves  her  God. 

IRAD. 

Whate'er  she  loveth,  so  she  loves  thee  not, 
What  can  it  profit  thee  ? 

JAPHET. 

Tme,  nothing ;  but 
I  love. 

IRAD. 

And  so  did  I. 

JAPHET. 

And  now  thou  lovest  not, 
Or  think'st  thou  lovest  not,  art  thou  happier  ? 
IRAD. 

Yes. 

JAPHET. 

I  pity  thee. 

IRAD. 
Me!  why? 

JAPHET. 

For  being  happy, 
Deprived  of  that  which  makes  my  misery. 

IRAD. 

i  take  thy  taunt  as  part  of  thy  distemper, 
And  would  not  feel  as  thou  dost,  for  more  shekels 
Than  all  our  father's  herds  would  bring  if  weigh'd 
Against  the  metal  of  the  sons  of  Cain — 
The  yellov  dust  they  try  to  barter  with  us, 
As  if  sucn  useless  and  discolour'd  trash, 
The  refuse  of  the  earth,  could  be  received 


For  milk,  and  wool,  and  flesh,  and  fruits,  and  ail 
Our  flocks  and  wilderness  afford.— Go,  Japiiet, 
Sigh  to  the  stars,  is  wolves  howl  to  the  moon — 
I  must  back  to  my  rest. 

JAPHET. 

And  so  would  1, 
If  I  could  rest. 

IRAD. 

Thou  wilt  not  to  our  tents,  then  1 

JAPHET. 

No,  Irad  ;  I  will  to  the  cavern,  whose 
Mouth,  they  say,  opens  from  the  internal  world, 
To  let  the  inner  spirits  of  the  earth 
Forth,  when  they  walk  its  surface. 

IRAD. 

Wherefore  10  ? 
What  wouldst  thou  there  ? 

JAPHET. 

Soothe  further  my  sad  spi/if 
With  gloom  as  sad :  it  is  a  hopeless  spot, 
And  I  am  hopeless. 

IRAD. 

But 't  is  dangerous  ; 

Strange  sounds  and  sights  have  peopled  it  wiub  terror* 
I  must  go  with  thee. 

JAPHET. 

Irad,  no  ;  believe  me 
I  feel  no  evil  thought,  and  fear  no  evil. 

IRAD. 

But  evil  things  will  be  thy  foe  the  more 

As  not  being  of  them :  turn  thy  steps  aside, 

Or  let  mine  be  with  thine. 

JAPHET. 

No ;  neithei ,  fra J  : 
I  must  proceed  alone. 

IRAD. 
Then  peace  be  with  thee ! 

[Exit  In  AD 

JAPHET   (snlu*). 

Peace !  I  have  sought  it  where  it  should  be  found, 

In  love — with  love  loo,  which  perhaps  deserved  it : 

And,  in  its  stead,  a  heaviness  of  heart — 

A  weakness  of  the  spirit — listless  days, 

And  nights  inexorable  to  sweet  sleep — 

Have  come  upon  me.  Peace !  what  peace  ?  the  calnr 

Of  desolation,  and  the  stillness  of 

The  untrodden  forest,  only  broken  by 

The  sweeping  tempest  through  its  groaning  boughs ; 

Such  is  the  sullen  or  the  fitful  state 

Of  my  mind  overworn.     The  earth  's  grown  wicked, 

And  many  signs  and  portents  have  proclaim'd 

A  change  at  hand,  and  an  o'erwhelming  doom 

To  perishable  beings.     Oh,  my  Anah ! 

When  the  dread  hour  denounced  shal!  open  wide 

The  fountains  of  the  deep,  how  mightest  thou 

Have  lam  within  this  bosom,  folded  from 

The  ekments ;  this  bosom,  which  in  vain 

Hath  beat  for  thee,  and  then  will  beat  more  vaim\ 

While  thine Oh,  God  !  at  least  remit  to  her 

Thy  wrath !  for  she  is  pure  amidst  the  failing, 
As  a  star  in  the  clouds,  which  cannot  quench, 
Although  tney  obscure  it  for  an  hour.     My  Ana>  • 
How  would  I  have  adored  ihee,  but  thou  wouldst  n«« 
And  still  would  I  redeem  thee — see  thee  Hve 
When  ocean  is  earth's  grave,  and,  unopposed 
By  rock  or  shallow,  the  leviathan. 


448 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Lord  of  the  shoreless  sea  and^watery  world, 
Shall  wonder  at  his  boundlessness  of  realm. 

[Exit  JAPHET. 

Enter  NOAH  and  SHEM. 

NOAH. 

VT  bero  w  thy  brother  Japhet  ? 

8HEM. 

He  went  forth, 

According  to  his  wont,  to  meet  with  Irad, 
He  said  ;  but,  as  I  fear,  to  bend  his  steps 
Towards  Anah's  tents,  round  which  he  hovers  nightly, 
Like  a  dove  round  and  round  its  pillaged  nest ; 
Or  else  he  walks  the  wild  up  to  the  cavern 
Which  opens  to  the  heart  of  Ararat. 

NOAH. 

What  doth  he  there  ?  It  is  an  evil  spot 
[Tpon  an  earth  all  evil ;  for  things  worse 
Than  even  wicked  men  resort  there :  he 
Still  loves  this  daughter  of  a  fated  race, 
Although  he  could  not  wed  her-  if  she  loved  him, 
And  that  she  doth  not.     Oh,  the  unhappy  hearts 
Of  men !  that  one  of  my  blood,  knowing  well 
The  destiny  and  evil  of  these  days, 
And  that  the  hour  approacheth,  should  indulge 
In  such  forbidden  yearnings !  Lead  the  way ; 
He  must  be  sought  for ! 

SHEM. 

Go  not  forward,  father : 
I  will  seek  Japhet. 

NOAH. 

Do  not  fear  for  me : 

AH  evil  things  are  powerless  on  the  man 
Selected  by  Jehovah — let  us  on. 

SHEM. 

To  Ihe  tents  of  the  father  of  the  sisters  ? 

NOAH. 

No ;  to  the  cavern  of  the  Caucasus. 

[Exeunt  NOAH  and  SHEM. 


SCENE  III. 
The  mountains. — A  cavern,  and  the  rocks  of  Caucasus. 

JAPHET  (solus). 

Ye  wilds,  that  look  eternal ;  and  thou  cave, 
Which  seem'st  unfathomable  ;  and  ye  mountains, 
So  varied  and  so  terrible  in  beauty ; 
Here,  in  your  rugged  majesty  of  rocks 
And  topling  trees  that  twine  their  roots  with  stone 
In  perpendicular  places,  where  the  foot 
Of  man  would  tremble,  could  he  reach  them — yes, 
Ye  looV  eternal !  Yet,  in  a  few  days, 
Perhaps  even  hours,  ye  will  be  changed,  rent,  hurl'd 
Before  the  mass  of  waters :  and  yon  cave, 
Which  seems  to  lead  into  a  lower  world, 
Shall  have  its  depths  search'd  by  the  sweeping  wave, 
And  dolphins  gambol  in  the  lion's  den  ! 

And  man Oh.  men  !  my  fellow-beings  !  Who 

Shall  weep  above  your  universal  grave, 

Save  I  ?  Who  shall  be  left  to  weep  ?  My  kinsmen, 

Aias !  what  am  I  better  than  ye  are, 

That  I  must  "live  beyond  ye?  Where  shall  be 

The  pleasant  places  where  I  thought  of  Anah 

While  I  had  hope?  or  the  more  savage  haunts, 

Sraro«  less  beloved,  where  I  despair'd  for  her  ? 


And  can  it  be  ? — Shall  yon  exulting  peak, 

Whose  glittering  top  is  like  a  distant  star, 

Lie  low  beneath  the  boiling  of  the  deep  ? 

No  more  to  have  the  morning  sun  break  forth, 

And  scatter  back  the  mists  in  floating  folds 

From  its  tremendous  brow  ?  no  more  to  have 

Day's  broad  orb  drop  behind  its  head  at  even, 

Leaving  it  with  a  crown  of  many  hues  ? 

No  more  to  be  the  beacon  of  the  world, 

For  angels  to  alight  on,  as  the  spot 

Nearest  the  stars?  and  can  those  words  "no  more" 

Be  meant  for  thee,  for  all  things,  save  for  us, 

And  the  predestined  creeping  things  reserved 

By  my  sire  to  Jehovah's  bidding  ?  May 

He  preserve  them,  and  /  not  have  the  power 

To  snatch  the  loveliest  of  earth's  daughters  from 

A  doom  which  even  some  serpent,  with  his  mate, 

Shall  'scape  to  save  his  kind  to  be  prolong'd, 

To  kiss  and  sting  through  some  emerging  world, 

Reeking  and  dank  from  out  the  slime,  whose  ooze 

Shall  slumber  o'er  the  wreck  of  this,  until 

The  salt  morass  subside  into  a  sphere 

Beneath  the  sun,  and  be  the  monument, 

The  sole  and  undistinguish'd  sepulchre, 

Of  yet  quick  myriads  of  all  life  ?  How  much 

Breath  will  be  still'd  at  once !  All-beauteous  wr  tld ! 

So  young,  so  mark'd  out  for  destruction,  I 

With  a  cleft  heart  look  on  thee  day  by  day, 

And  night  by  night,  thy  number'd  days  and  nights. 

I  cannot  save  thee,  cannot  save  even  her 

Whose  love  had  made  me  love  thee  more ;  but  as 

A  portion  of  thy  dust,  I  cannot  think 

Upon  thy  coming  doom,  without  a  feeling 

Such  as — Oh  God !  and  canst  thou 

[He  pauttt, 

[A  rushing  sound  from  the  cavern  is  heard,  and  shout* 

of  laughter — afterwards  a  Spirit  passes. 

JAPHET. 

In  the  name 

Of  the  Most  High,  what  art  thou  ? 
SPIRIT  (laughs). 

Ha!  ha!  ha« 

JAPHET. 

By  all  that  earth  holds  holiest,  speak ! 
SPIRIT  (laughs). 

Ha!  ha' 

JAPHET. 

By  the  approaching  deluge  !  by  the  earth 
Which  will  be  strangled  by  the  ocean !   by 
The  deep  which  will  lay  open  all  her  fountains  I 
The  heaven  which  will  convert  her  clouds  to  soas, 
And  the  Omnipotent  who  makes  and  crushes ! 
Thou,  unknown,  terrible,  and  indistinct, 
Yet  awful  thing  of  shadows,  speak  to  me  ! 
Why  dost  thou  laugh  that  horrid  laugh  ? 

SPIRIT. 

Why  weep'st  iho«  * 
JAPHET. 

For  earth,  and  all  her  children. 
SPIRIT. 
Ha !  ha  !  ha  !       [Spirit  vanish*!, 

JAPHET. 

How  the  fiend  mocks  the  tortures  of  a  world, 
The  coming  desolation  of  an  orb, 
On  which  the  sun  shall  rise  and, warm  no  life 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


445* 


How  the  eurth  sleeps !  and  all  that  in  it  is 
Sleep  too  upon  the  very  eve  of  death  ! 
Why  should  they  wake  to  meet  it  ?  What  is  here, 
Which  look  like  death  in  life,  and  speak  like  things 
Born  ere  this  dying  world  '/  They  come  like  clouds  ! 

[  Various  Spirits  pass  from  the  cavern. 

SPIRIT. 

Rejoice ! 

The  abhorred  race 
Which  could  not  keep  in  Eden  their  high  place, 

But  listen'd  to  the  voice 
Of  knowledge  without  power, 
Are  nigh  the  hour 

Of  death ! 
Not  slow,  not  single,  not  by  sword,  nor  sorrow, 

Nor  years,  nor  heart-break,  nor  time's  sapping 

motion, 

Shall  they  drop  off.     Behold  their  last  to-morrow ! 
Earth  shall  be  ocean  ! 

And  no  breath, 

Save  of  the  winds,  be  on  the  unbounded  wave ! 
Angels  shall  tire  their  wings,  but  find  no  spot : 
Not  even  a  rock  from  out  the  liquid  grave 

Shall  lift  its  point  to  save, 

Or  show  the  place  where  strong  Despair  hath  died, 
After  long  looking  o'er  the  ocean  wide 
For  the  expected  ebb  which  cometh  not : 
All  shall  be  void, 

Destroy'd  ! 
Another  element  shall  be  the  lord 

Of  life,  and  the  abhorr'd 

Children  of  dust  be  quench'd ;  ariti  of  each  hue 
Of  earth  nought  left  but  the  unbroken  blue ; 
And  of  the  variegated  mountain 
Shall  nought  remain 
Unchanged,  or  of  the  level  plain  ; 
Cedar  and  pine  shall  lift  their  tops  in  vain  : 
Ail  merged  within  the  universal  fountain, 
Man,  earth,  and  fire,  shall  die, 

And  sea  and  sky 
Look  vast  and  lifeless  in  the  eternal  eye. 

Upon  the  foam 
Who  shall  erect  a  home  ? 

JTAPHET  (coming  forward). 

My  sire ! 
Earth's  seed  shall  not  expire  ; 

Only  the  evil  shall  be  put  away 

From  day. 

Avaunt !  ye  exulting  demons  of  the  waste ! 
Who  howl  your  hideous  joy 
When  God  destroys  whom  you  dare  not  destroy  ; 

Hence !  haste  ! 
Back  to  your  inn«r  caves  ! 
Until  the  waves 
Shall  search  you  in  yout  secret  place, 

And  drive  your  sullen  race 
Forth,  to  be  roll'd  upon  the  tossing  winds 
In  restless  wretchedness  along  all  space ! 

SPIRIT 

Son  of  the  saved  ! 
When  thou  and  tnme  have  braved 
The  wide  and  warring  element ; 
When  the  great  barrier  of  the  deep  is  rent, 
Bhall  thou  and  thine  be  good  or  happy? — No! 
Thy  new  world  and  new  race  shall  be  of 
62 


Less  goodly  in  their  aspect,  in  their  years 
Less  than  the  glorious  giants,  who 
Yet  walk  the  world  in  pride, 
The  sons  of  Heaven  by  many  a  mortal  bride. 
Thine  shall  be  nothing  of  the  past,  save  lean. 
And  art  thou  not  ashamed 

Thus  to  survive, 
And  eat,  and  drink,  and  wive  1 
With  a  base  heart  so  far  subdued  and  tamed, 
As  even  to  hear  this  wide  destruction  named, 
Without  such  grief  and  courage,  as  should  rather 

Bid  thee  await  the  world-dissolving  wave. 
Than  seek  a  shelter  with  thy  favour'd  father, 
And  build  thy  city  o'er  the  drown'd  earth'*  gi   rel 
Who  would  outlive  their  kind, 
Except  the  base  and  blind  ? 

Mine 

Hateth  thine, 
As  of  a  different  order  in  the  sphere, 

But  not  our  own. 
There  is  not  one  who  hath  not  left  a  throne 

Vacant  in  heaven  to  dwell  in  darkness  here, 
Rather  than  see  his  mates  endure  alone. 

Go,  wretch  !  and  give 
A  life  like  thine  to  other  wretches — live ! 
And  when  the  annihilating  waters  roar 
Above  what  they  !>ave  done, 
Envy  the  giant  patriarchs  then  no  more, 
And  scorn  thy  sire  as  the  surviving  one ! 

Thyself  for  being  his  son  ! 
Chorus  of  Spirits  issuing  from  the  cavern. 

Rejoice ! 

No  more  the  human  voice 
Shall  vex  our  joys  in  middle  air 

With  prayer  j 
No  more 

Shall  they  adore ; 
And  we,  who  ne'er  for  ages  have  adored 

The  prayer-exacting  Lord, 
To  whom  the  omission  of  a  sacrifice 

Is  vice ; 

We,  we  shall  view  the  deep's  salt  sources  pour'u 
Until  one  element  shall  do  the  work 

Of  all  in  chaos  ;  until  they, 
The  creatures  proud  of  their  poor  clay, 
Shall  perish,  and  their  bleached  bones  shall  lurii 
In  caves,  in  dens,  in  clefts  of  mountains,  where 
The  deep  shall  follow  to  their  latest  lair ; 

Where  even  the  brutes,  in  their  despair, 
Shall  cease  to  prey  on  man  and  on  each  other. 

And  the  striped  tiger  shall  lie  down  to  die 
Beside  the  lamb,  as  though  he  were  his  brother  • 

Till  all  things  shall  be  as  they  were. 
Silent  and  uncreated,  save  the  sky : 

While  a  brief  truce 
Is  made  with  Death,  who  shall  forbear 
The  little  remnant  of  the  past  creation, 
To  generate  new  nations  for  his  use  ; 

This  remnant,  floating  o'er  the  undulation 
Of  the  subsiding  deluge,  from  its  slime, 
When  the  hot  sun  hath  baked  the  reeking  soil  - 

Into  a  world,  shall  give  again  to  time 
New  beings — years — diseases — sorrow— crime- 
With  all  companionship  of  hate  and  toil. 
Until 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


JAPHET  (interrupting  them). 

The  eternal  will 

Shall  deign  to  expound  this  dream 
Of  good  and  evil ;  and  redeem 

Unto  himself  all  times,  and  things ; 
Ajid,  gather'd  under  his  almighty  wings, 

Abolish  hell ! 
And  to  the  expiated  earth 
Restore  the  beauty  of  her  birth, 

Her  Eden  in  an  endless  paradise, 
Where  man  no  more  can  fall  as  once  he  fell, 
And  even  the  very  demons  shall  do  well ! 

SPIRITS. 
And  when  shall  take  effect  this  wondrous  spell  ? 

JAPHET. 

When  the  Redeemer  cometh ;  first  in  pain, 
And  then  in  glory. 

SPIRIT. 
Meantime  still  struggle  in  the  mortal  chain, 

Till  earth  wax  hoary ; 
War  with  yourselves,  and  hell,  and  heaven,  in  vain, 

Until  the  clouds  look  gory 
With  the  blood  reeking  from  each  battle  plain  ; 
New  times,  new  climes,  new  arts,  new  men ;  but  still 
The  same  old  tears,  old  crimes,  and  oldest  ill, 
Shall  be  amongst  your  race  in  different  forms ; 

But  the  same  moral  storms 
Shall  oversweep  the  future,  as  the  waves 
Ii  a  few  hours  the  glorious  giants'  graves. ' 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 
Brethren,  rejoice ! 
Mortal,  farewell ! 

flark  !  hark  !  already  we  can  hear  the  voice 
Of  growing  ocean's  gloomy  swell ; 

The  winds,  too,  plume  their  piercing  wings ! 
The  clouds  have  nearly  fill'd  their  springs  ! 
The  fountains  of  the  great  deep  shall  be  broken, 

And  heaven  set  wide  her  windows  ;  while  mankind 
View,  unacknowledged,  each  tremendous  token — 
Still,  as  they  were  from  the  beginning,  blind. 

We  hear  the  sound  they  cannot  hear, 
The  mustering  thunders  of  tiwt  threatening  sphere ; 
Yet  a  few  hours  their  coming  is  delay'd  ; 
Their  flashing  banners,  folded  still  on  high. 
Yet  undisplay'd, 
Save  to  the  spirits'  all-pervading  eye. 

Howl !  howl !  oh  earth  ! 
Thy  death  is  nearer  than  thy  recent  birth : 
Tremble,  ye  mountains,  soon  to-  shrink  below 

The  ocean's  overflow ! 
The  wave  shall  break  upon  your  cliffs  ;  and  shells, 

The  little  shells  of  ocean's  least  things,  be 
Deposed  where  now  the  eagle's  offspring  dwells—- 
How shall  he  shriek  o'er  the  remorseless  sea  ! 
And  call  his  nestlings  up  with  fruitless  yell, 
Unanswer'd  save  by  the  encroaching  swell: — 
While  man  shall  long  in  vain  for  his  broad  wings, 

The  wings  which  could  not  save: — 
Where  could  he  rest  them,  while  the  whole  space  brings 
Nought  to  his  eye  beyond  the  deep,  his  grave  ? 

Brethren,  rejoice  ! 

And  luudiy  lift  each  superhuman  voice — 
All  die. 


Save  the  slight  remnant  of  Seth's  seed — 

The  seed  of  Scth, 

Exempt  for  future  sorrow's  sake  from  death 
But  of  the  sons  of  Cain 

None  shall  remain ; 
And  all  his  goodly  daughters 
Must  "ic  beneath  the  desolating  waters  , 
Or,  floating  upward  with  their  long  hair  laid 
Along  the  wave,  the  cruel  Heaven  upbraid, 

Which  would  not  spare 
Beings  even  in  death  so  fair. 

It  is  decreed, 

All  die  1 

And  to  the  universal  h.unan  ciy 
The  universal  silence  shall  succeed ! 

Fly,  brethren,  fly .' 

But  still  rejoice ! 
We  fell ! 
They  fall! 
So  perish  all 
These  petty  foes  of  Heaven  who  shrink  from  Hell ! 

[The  Spirits  disappear,  soaring  upwards, 

JAPHET  (solus). 

God  hath  proclaim'd  the  destiny  of  earth  ; 
My  father's  ark  of  safety  hath  announced  it ; 
The  very  demons  shriek  it  from  their  caves ; 
The  scroll '  of  Enoch  prophesied  it  long 
In  silent  books,  which,  in  their  silence,  say 
More  to  the  mind  than  thunder  to  the  ear  : 
And  yet  men  listen'd  not,  nor  listen  :  but 
Walk  darkling  to  th^ir  doom  ;  which,  though  so  nigh, 
Shakes  them  no  more  in  their  dim  disbelief, 
Than  their  last  cries  shall  shake  the  Almighty  purpose, 
Or  deaf  obedient  ocean,  which  fulfils  it. 
No  sign  yet  hangs  its  banner  in  the  air ; 
The  clouds  are  few,  and  of  their  wonted  texture ; 
The  sun  will  rise  upon  the  earth's  last  day 
As  on  the  fourth  day  of  creation,  when 
God  said  unto  him,  "  Shine  !"  and  he  broke  forth 
Into  the  dawn,  which  lighted  not  the  yet 
Unform'd  forefather  of  mankind — but  roused 
Before  the  human  orison  the  earlier 
Made  and  far  sweeter  voices  of  the  birds, 
Which  in  the  open  firmament  of  heaven 
Have  wings  like  angels,  and  like  them  salute 
Heaven  first  each  day  before  the  Adamites ! 
Their  matins  now  draw  nigh — the  east  is  kindling 
And  they  will  sing  !  and  clay  will  break  !     Both  near, 
So  near  the  awful  close  !  For  these  must  drop 
Their  outworn  pinions  on  the  deep :  and  day, 
After  the  bright  course  of  a  few  brief  morrows, — 
Ay,  day  will  rise  ;  but  upon  what  ?  A  chaos, 
Which  was  ere  day ;  and  which,  renew'd,  makes  time 
Nothing !  for,  without  life,  what  are  the  hours  ? 
No  more  to  dust  than  is  eternity 
Unto  Jehovah,  who  created  both. 
Without  him,  even  eternity  would  be 
A  void :   without  man,  time,  as  made  for  man, 
Dies  with  man,  and  is  swallow'd  in  that  deep 
Which  has  no  fountain  ;   as  his  race  will  be 
Devour'd  by  that  which  drowns  his  infant  world. — 
What  have  we  here  ?  Shapes  of  both  earth  and  ai:  1 
No — all  of  heaven,  they  are  so  beautiful. 


1     And  there  were  giants  in  those  Jays,  ami  after;  mighty 
men,  wtjicn  were  o'  old  men  of  reeown."— Genesis 


1  The  Book  of  Enoch,  preserved  by  the  Ethiopians,  is  taid 
by  them  to  be  anterior  to  the  flood 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


I  cannot  tra  e  their  features  ;  but  their  forms, 
How  lovelily  they  move  along  the  side 
Of  the  gray  mountain,  scattering  its  mist ! 
And  after  the  swart  savage  spirits,  whose 
Infernal  immortality  pour'd  forth 
Their  impious  hymn  of  triumph,  they  shall  be 
Welcome  as  Eden.     It  may  be  they  come 
To  tell  me  the  reprieve  of  our  young  world, 
For  which  I  have  so  often  pray'd — They  come ! 
Anah  !  oh  God !  and  with  her 

E'nJfT  SAMIASA,  AZAZIEL,  ANAH,  <Z7ul  AHOLIBAMAH. 
ANAH. 

Japhet ! 

SAMIASA. 

Lo! 

A  son  of  Adam ! 

AZAZIEL. 

What  doth  the  earth-bom  here, 
While  all  his  race  are  slumbering  ? 

JAPHET. 

Angel!  what 
Dost  thou  on  earth  when  them  shouldst  be  on  high  ? 

AZAZIEL. 

Know'st  thou  not,  or  forget'st  thou,  that  a  part 
Of  our  great  function  is  to  guard  thine  earth  ? 

JAPHET. 

But  all  good  angels  have  forsaken  earth, 
Which  is  condemn'd :  nay,  even  the  evil  fly 
The  approaching  chaos.    Anah  !  Anah  !  my 
In  vain,  and  long,  and  still  to  be  beloved ! 
Why  walk'st  thou  with  this  spirit,  in  those  hoars 
When  no  good  spirit  longer  lights  below  ? 

ANAH. 

Japhet,  I  cannot  answer  thee  ;  yet,  yet 
Forgive  me 

JAPHET. 

May  the  Heaven,  which  soon  no  more 
Will  pardon,  do  so !  for  thou  art  greatly  tempted. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Back  to  thy  tents,  insulting  son  of  Noah ! 
We  know  thee  not. 

JAPHET. 

The  hour  may  come  when  thou 
May'st  know  me  better ;  and  thy  sister  know 
Me  still  the  same  which  I  have  ever  been. 

SAMIASA. 

Son  of  the  patriarch,  who  hath  ever  been 
Upright  before  his  God,  whate'er  thy  griefs, 
And  thy  words  seem  of  sorrow,  mix'd  with  wrath, 
How  have  Azaziel,  or  myself,  brought  on  thee 
,  Wrong? 

JAPHET. 

Wrong !  the  greatest  of  all  wrongs :  but  thou 
Say'st  well,  though  she  be  dust,  I  did  not,  could  not, 
Deserve  her.     Farewell,  Anah  !  I  have  said 
That  word  so  often !  but  now  say  it,  ne'er 
To  be  repeated.    Angel !  or  whate'er 
Thou  art,  or  must  be  soon,  hast  thou  the  power 
To  save  this  beautiful — these  beautiful 
Children  of  Cain? 

AZAZIEL. 

From  what  ? 
JAPHET. 

And  is  it  so 
That  ye  too  know  not  7    Angels !  angels !  ye 


Save  shared  man's  sin,  and,  it  may  b<»,  nor/  must 
Partake  his  punishment:  or  at  the  least 
My  sorrow. 

SAMIASA. 

Sorrow  !  I  ne'er  thought  till  now 
To  hear  an  Adamite  speak  riddles  to  me. 

JAPHET. 

And  hath  not  the  Most  High  expounded  them  ? 
Then  ye  are  lost,  as  they  are  lost. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

So  be  it ! 

If  they  love  as  they  are  loved,  they  will  not  shrink 
More  to  be  mortal,  than  I  would  to  dare 
An  immortality  of  agonies 
With  Samiasa ! 

ANAH. 

Sister !  sister !  speak  not 
Thus. 

AZAZIEL. 
Fearest  thou,  my  Anah  ? 

ANAH. 

Yes,  for  thee ; 
[  would  resign  this  greater  remnant  of 
This  little  life  of  mine,  before  one  hour 
Of  thine  eternity  should  know  a  pang. 

JAPHET. 

It  is  for  him,  then  !  for  the  seraph,  thou 
Hast  left  me !  That  is  nothing,  if  thou  hast  not 
Left  thy  God  too!  for  unions  like  to  these, 
Between  a  mortal  and  immortal,  cannot 
Be  happy  or  be  hallow'd.    We  are  sent 
Upon  the  earth  to  toil  and  die ;  and  they 
Are  made  to  minister  on  high  unto 
The  Highest ;  but  if  he  can  save  thee,  soon 
The  hour  will  come  in  which  celestial  aid    " 
Alone  can  do  so. 

ANAR. 

Ah  1  he  speaks  of  death. 

SAMIASA. 

Of  death  to  us  /  and  those  who  are  with  us ! 
But  that  the  man  seems  full  of  sorrow,  I 
Could  smile. 

JAPHET. 

I  grieve  not  for  myself,  nor  fear ; 
I  am  safe,  not  for  my  own  deserts,  but  those 
Of  a  well-doing  sire,  who  halh"been  found 
Righteous  enough  to  save  his  children.    Would 
His  power  were  greater  of  redemption !  or 
That  by  exchanging  my  own  life  for  hers, 
Who  could  alone  have  made  mine  happy,  she, 
The  last  and  loveliest  of  Cain's  race,  could  share 
The  ark  which  shall  receive  a  remnant  of 
The  seed  of  Seth ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

And  dost  thou  think  that  we, 
With  Cain's,  the  eldest  born  of  Adam's  blood 
Warm  in  our  veins, — strong  Cain,  who  was  begotte» 
In  Paradise, — would  mingle  with  Seth's  children  ? 
Seth,  the  last  offspring  of  old  Adam's  dotage  ? 
No,  not  to  save  all  earth,  were  earth  in  peril ! 
Our  race  hath  always  dwelt  apart  from  thine 
From  the  beginning,  and  shall  do  so  ever. 

JAPHET. 

I  did  not  speak  to  thue,  Aholibamah  ! 

Too  much  of  the  forefather,  wnom  thou  vaumcst 

Has  come  down  in  that  haughty  blood  which  spring* 


452 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


From  him  who  shed  the  first,  and  that  a  brother's  ! 
But  thou,  my  Anah !  let  me  call  thee  mine, 
Albeit  thou  art  not ;  't  is  a  word  I  cannot 
Part  with,  although  I  must  from  thee.     My  Anah ! 
Thou  who  dost  rather  make  me  dream  that  Abel 
Had  left  a  daughter,  whose  pure  pious  race 
Survived  in  thee,  so  much  unlike  thou  art 
The  rest  of  the  stern  Cainites,  save  in  beauty, 

For  all  of  them  are  fairest  in  their  favour 

AHOLIBAMAH  (interrupting  him). 
And  wouidst  thou  have  her  like  our  father's  foe 
In  mind,  and  soul?  If  /partook  thy  thought, 
And  dream'd  that  aught  of  Abel  was  in  her  ! — 
Get  thee  hence,  son  of  Noah  ;  thou  mak'st  strife. 

JAPHET. 

Offspring  of  Cain,  thy  father  did  so  ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

But 

He  slew  not  Seth  ;  and  what  hast  thou  to  do 
With  other  deeds  between  his  God  and  him  7 

JAPHET. 

Thou  spcakcst  well:  his  God  hath  judged  him,  and 
I  had  not  named  his  deed,  but  that  thyself 
Didst  seem  to  glory  in  him,  nor  to  shrink 
From  what  he  had  done. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

He  was  our  father's  father : 
The  ek'est  born  of  man,  the  strongest,  bravest, 
And  mos.  enduring: — Shall  I  blush  for  him, 
From  whom  we  had  our  being  ?  Look  upon 
Our  race ;  behold  their  stature  and  their  beauty, 
Their  courage,  strength,  and  length  of  days 

JAPHET. 

They  are  number'd. 
AIOLIBAMAH. 

Be  it  so !  but  while  yev  their  hours  endure, 
I  glory  in  my  brethren  an \  our  fathers ! 

JAPKET. 

My  sire  and  race  but  glory  if.  their  God, 
Anah !  and  thou  ? 

ANAH. 

Whate'er  our  God  decrees. 
The  God  of  Seth  as  Cain,  I  must  ob<*v, 
And  will  endeavour  patiently  to  obey  ; 
But  could  I  dare  to  pray  in  this  dread  ho~t 
Of  universal  vengeance  (if  such  should  be,. 
It  would  not  be  to  live,  alone  exempt 
Ol  all  my  house.     My  sister!  Oh,  my  sister! 
What  were  the  world,  or  other  worlds,  or  all 
The  brightest  future  without  the  sweet  past — 
Thy  love — my  father's — all  the  life,  and  all 
The  thingj  which  sprung  up  with  me,  like  the  stars, 
Making  my  dim  existence  radiant  with 
Soft  lights  which  were  not  miife?  Aholibamah ! 
Oh !  if  there  should  be  mercy — seek  it,  find  it: 
I  abhor  death,  because  that  thou  must  die. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

What !  hatn  this  dreamer,  with  his  father's  ark, 
The  bugbear  he  hath  built  to  scare  the  world, 
Shaken  my  sister  ?  Are  we  not  the  loved 
Ol  -seraphs  ?  and  if  we  were  not,  must  we 
Cling  to  a  son  of  Noah  for  our  lives  ? 

Rather  than  thus But  the  enthusiast  dreams 

The  wore,  of  dreams,  the  phantasies  engender'd 

Btr  hopeless  love  and  heated  vigils.    Who 

Shall  snake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm  earth, 


And  bid  those  clouds  and  w  'Jiers  take  a  shape 
Distinct  from  that  which  we  and  all  our  sires 
Have  seen  them  wear  on  their  eternal  way  ? 
Who  shall  do  this? 

JAPHET. 

He  whose  one  word  produced  them 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Who  heard  that  word  ? 

JAPHET. 

The  universe,  which  leap'd 
To  life  before  it.    Ah !  smilest  thou  still  in  scorn  7 
Turn  to  thy  seraphs  j  if  they  attest  it  not, 
They  are  none. 

SAMIASA. 

Aholibamah,  own  thy  God  ! 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

I  have  ever  hail'd  our  Maker,  Samiasa, 

As  thine,  and  mine  ;  a  God  of  love,  not  sorrow. 

JAPHET. 

Alas  !  what  else  is  love  but  sorrow  ?    Even 
He  who  made  earth  in  love,  had  soon  to  grieve 
Above  its  first  and  best  inhabitants. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

'T  is  said  so. 

JAPHET. 

It  is  even  so. 

Enter  NOAH  and  SHEM. 

NOAH. 

Japhet!  What 

Dost  thou  here  with  these  children  of  the  wicked  ? 
Dread'st  thou  not  to  partake  their  coming  dorm  7 

JAPHET. 

Father,  it  cannot  be  a  sin  to  seek 
To  save  an  earth-born  being ;  and  behold, 
Thes»  are  not  of  the  sinful,  since  they  have 
The  fellowship  of  angels. 

NOAH. 

These  are  they,  then, 

Who  leave  the  throne  of  God,  to  take  them  wives 
From  out  the  race  of  Cain :  the  sons  of  Heaven, 
Who  seek  earth's  daughters  for  their  beauty ! 

AZAZIEL. 

Patriarch ' 
Thou  hast  said  it. 

NOAH. 

Woe,  woe,  woe  to  such  communion  f 
Has  not  God  made  a  barrier  between  earth 
And  heaven,  and  limited  each,  kind  to  kind  ? 

SAMIASA. 

Was  not  man  made  in  high  Jehovah's  image  ? 
Did  God  not  love  what  he  had  made  ?  And  what 
i\>  we  but  imitate  and  emulate 
Hi-  love  unto  created  love  ? 

NOAH. 

I  am 

But  man,  and  was  not  made  to  judge  mankind, 
Far  less  tho  sons  of  .God ;  but  as  our  God 
Has  deign'd  u*  commune  with  me,  and  reveal 
Hit  judgments,  I  reply,  that  the  descent 
Of  seraphs  from  heir  everlasting  sen* 
Unto  a  perishable  and  perishing, 
Even  on  the  very  ew  of  perishing,  world, 
Cannot  be  good. 

AZ-tZIEl.. 

What !  uiough  it  were  to  saw  ' 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


453 


JtOAH. 

Not  ye  in  all  your  felory  can  redeem 

What  He  who  mado  you  glorious  hath  condemn'd. 

Were  your  immortal  mission  safety,  't  would 

Be  general,  not  for  two,  though  beautiful, 

And  beautiful  they  are,  but  not  the  less 

Condemn'd. 

JAPHET. 
Oh  father !  say  it  not. 

NOAH. 

Son !  son ! 

If  that  thou  wouldst  avoid  their  doom,  forget 
That  they  exist ;  they  soon  shall  cease  to  be, 
While  thou  shall  be  the  sire  of  a  new  world, 
And  better. 

JAPHET. 

Let  me  die  with  this,  and  them  ! 

NOAH. 

Thou  shouldst  for  such  a  thought,  but  shall  not ;  He 
Who  can,  redeems  thee. 

SAMIASA. 

And  why  him  and  thee, 
More  than  what  he,  thy  son,  prefers  to  both  ? 

NOAH. 

Ask  Him  who  made  thee  greater  than  myself 
And  mine,  but  not  less  subject  to  his  own 
Almightiness.    And  lo !  his  mildest  and 
Least  to  be  tempted  messenger  appears ! 

Enter  RAPHAEL  the  Archangel. 

RAPHAEL. 

Spirits ! 
Whose  seat  is  near  the  throne, 

What  do  ye  here  ? 
Is  thus  a  seraph's  duty  to  be  shown 

Now  that  the  hour  is  near 
When  earth  must  be  alone? 

Return ! 
And  burn 

In  glorious  homage  with  the  elected  "  seven." 
Your  place  is  heaven. 

SAMIASA. 
Raphael ! 
The  first  and  fairest  of  the  sons  of  God, 

How  long  hath  this  been  law, 
That  earth  by  angels  must  be  left  untrod  ? 

Earth  !  which  oft  saw 
Jehovah's  footsteps  not  disdain  her  sod ! 

The  world  He  loved,  and  made 
For  love  ;  and  oft  have  we  obey'd 
His  frequent  mission  with  delighted  pinions ; 

Adoring  Him  in  his  least  works  display'd ; 
Watching  this  youngest  star  of  his  dominions : 
And  as  the  latest  birth  of  His  great  word, 
Eager  to  keep  it  worthy  of  our  Lord. 

Why  is  thy  brow  severe  ? 
And  wherefore  speak'st  thou  of  destruction  near? 

RAPHAEL. 

Had  Samiasa  and  Azaziel  been 
In  their  true  place,  with  the  angelic  choir, 

Written  in  fire 
They  would  have  seen 

Jehovah's  late  decree, 

And  not  inquired  their  Maker's  breath  of  me. 
But  ignorance  must  ever  be 
A  part  of  sin  ; 
2R 


And  even  the  spirits'  knowledge  shall  grow  less 

As  they  wax  proud  within  ; 
For  blindness  is  tlie  first-born  of  excess. 

When  all  good  angels  left  the  world,  ye  stay  d 
Stung  with  strange  passions,  and  debased 

By  mortal  feelings  for  a  mortal  maid  ; 
But  ye  are  pardon'd  thus  far,  and  replaced 
With  your  pure  equals  :  Hence  !  away !  awa.v ' 
Or  stay, 

And  lose  eternity  by  that  delay ! 

AZAZIEL. 

And  thou !  if  earth  be  thus  forbidden 

In  the  decree 
To  us  until  this  moment  hidden, 

Dost  thou  not  err  as  we 
In  being  here  ? 

RAPHAEL. 

I  came  to  call  ye  back  to  your  fit  sphere, 

In  the  great  name  and  at  the  word  of  Go<? ! 
Dear,  dearest  in  themselves,  and  scarce  less  dear 

That  which  I  came  to  do :  till  now  we  trod 
Together  the  eternal  space — together 

Let  us  still  walk  the  stars.  True,  earth  must  die  < 
Her  race,  return'd  into  her  womb,  must  wither, 

And  much  which  she  inherits ;  but  oh !  why 
Cannot  this  earth  be  made,  or  be  destroy'd, 
Without  involving  ever  some  vast  void 
In  the  immortal  ranks  ?  immortal  still 

In  their  immeasurable  forfeiture. 
Our  brother  Satan  fell,  his  burning  will 

Rather  than  longer  worship  dared  endure ! 

But  ye  who  still  are  pure ! 
Seraphs  !  less  mighty  than  that  mightiest  one, 

Think  how  he  was  undone  ! 
And  think  if  tempting  man  can  compensate 

For  heaven  desired  too  late  ? 
Long  have  I  warr'd, 
Long  must  I  war 

With  him  who  deem'd  it  hard 

To  be  created,  and  to  acknowledge  Him 

Who  'midst  the  cherubim 
Made  him  as  sun  to  a  dependent  star, 
Leaving  the  archangels  at  his  right  hand  dim. 

I  loved  him — beautiful  he  was :  oh  Heaven ! 
Save  His  who  made,  what  beauty  and  what  powef 
Was  ever  like  to  Satan's !    Would  the  hour 

In  which  he  fell  could  ever  be  forgiven ! 
The  wish  is  impious  :  but  oh  ye ! 
Yet  undestroy'd,  be  warn'd !  Eternity 

With  him,  or  with  his  God,  is  in  your  choice : 
He  hath  not  tempted  you,  he  cannot  tempt 
The  angels,  from  his  further  snares  exempt ; 

But  man  hath  listen'd  to  his  voice, 
And  ye  to  woman's — beautiful  she  is, 
The  serpent's  voice  less  subtle  than  her  kiss. 
The  snake  but  vanquish'd  dust ;  but  she  will  drat* 
A  second  host  from  heaven,  to  break  Heaven's  law. 
Yet,  yet,  <3h  fly ! 
Ye  cannot  die, 
But  they 
Shall  pass  away, 
While  ye  shall  fill  with  shrieks  the  upper  Sky 

,     For  perishable  clay, 
Whose  memory  in  your  immortality 

Shall  tong  outlast  the  sun  whim  gave  mem  atf 
Think  how  your  essence  differeth  from  theirs 


454 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


In  all  but  suffering !  Why  partake 

The  agony  to  which  they  must  be  heirs — 

Bom  to  be  plough'd  with  tears,  and  sown  with  cares, 

And  reap'd  by  Death,  lord  of  the  human  soil? 

Even  had  their  days  been  left  to  toil  their  path 

Through  time  to  dust,  unshorten'd  by  God's  wrath, 

Still  they  are  evil's  prey  and  sorrow's  spoil. 

AIIOLIBAMAH. 

Let  them  fly ! 

I  hear  the  voice  which  says  that  all  must  die, 
Sooner  than  our  white-bearded  patriarchs  died ; 

And  that  on  high 
An  ocean  is  prepared, 

While  from  below 
The  deep  shall  rise  to  meet  heaven's  overflow. 

Few  shall  be  spared, 

It  seems  ;  and,  of  that  few,  the  race  of  Cain 
Must  lift  their  eyes  to  Adam's  God  in  vain. 

Sister !  since  it  is  so, 
And  the  eternal  Lord 
In  vain  would  be  implored 
For  the  remission  of  one  hour  of  woe, 
Let  us  resign  even  what  we  have  adored, 
And  meet  the  wave,  as  we  would  meet  the  sword, 

If  not  unmoved,  yet  undismay'd, 
And  wailing  less  for  us  than  those  who  shall 
Survive  in  mortal  or  immortal  thrall, 

And,  when  the  fatal  waters  are  allay'd, 
Weep  for  the  myriads  who  can  weep  no  more. 
Fly,  seraphs !  to  your  own  eternal  shore, 
Where  winds  nor  howl  nor  waters  roar. 

Our  portion  is  to  die, 
And  yours  to  live  for  ever : 
But  which  is  best,  a  dead  eternity, 
Or  living,  is  but  known  to  the  great  Giver : 

Obey  him,  as  we  shall  obey ; 
I  would  not  keep  this  life  of  mine  in  clay 

An  hour  beyond  His  will ; 
Nor  see  ye  lose  a  portion  of  His  grace, 
For  all  the  mercy  which  Seth's  race 
Find  still. 

Fly! 

And  as  your  pinions  bear  ye  back  to  heaven, 
Think  that  my  love  still  mounts  with  thee  on  high, 

Samiasa! 

And  if  I  look  up  with  a  tearless  eye, 
'T  is  that  an  angel's  bride  disdains  to  weep — 
Farewell !  Now  rise,  inexorable  deep ! 

ANAH. 

And  must  we  die  ? 
And  must  I  lose  thee  too, 

Azaziel  ? 
Oh,  my  heart !  my  heart ! 

Thy  prophecies  were  true, 
And  yet  thou  wert  so  happy  too ! 
Fhe  blow,  though  not  unlook'd  for,  falls  as  new ; 
But  yet  depart ! 

Ah,  why  ?  I 

V  et  let  me  not  retain  thee — fly ! 
My  pangs  can  be  but  brief:  but  thine  would  be 
Eternal,  if  repulsed  from  heaven  for  me. 
Too  much  already  hast  thou  deign'd 

Tc  one  of  Adam's  race  ! 
Ou.  doom  is  sorrow !  not  to  us  alone, 
But  to  the  spirits  who  have  not  disdain'd 
To  love  us,  cometh  anguish  witli  disgrace. 


The  first  who  taught  us  knowledge  hath  been  htirlM 
From  his  once  archangelic  throne 
Into  some  unknown  world  t 
And  thou,  Azaziel !  No— 
Thou  shall  not  suffer  woe 
For  me.    Away  !  nor  weep ! 

Thou  canst  not  weep ;  but  yet 
t         Mav'st  suffer  more,  not  weeping :  then  forget 
Her  whom  the  surges  of  the  all-strangling  de«p 

Can  bring  no  pang  like  this.    Fly !  fly ! 
Being  gone,  'twill  be  less  difficult  to  die. 

JAPHET. 

Gh  say  not  so  ! 

Father !  and  thou,  archangel,  thou ! 
Surely  celestial  mercy  lurks  below 
That  pure  severe  serenity  of  brow : 

Let  them  not  meet  this  sea  without  a  shore, 
Save  in  our  ark,  or  let  me  be  no  more ! 

NOAH. 

Peace,  child  of  passion,  peace  ! 
If  not  within  thy  heart  yet  with  thy  tongue 

Do  God  no  wrong  ! 

Live  as  he  wills  it — die,  when  he  ordains, 
A  righteous  death,  unlike  the  seed  of  Cain's. 

Cease,  or  be  sorrowful  in  silence  ;  cease 
To  weary  Heaven's  ear  with  thy  selfish  plaint. 
Wouldst  thou  have  God  commit  a  sin  for  thee  T 

Such  would  it  be 
To  alter  his  intent 

For  a  mere  mortal  sorrow.    Be  a  man ! 
And  bear  what  Adam's  race  must  bear,  and  can. 

JAPHET. 

Ay,  father !  but  when  they  are  gone, 

And  we  are  all  alone, 
Floating  upon  the  azure  desert,  and 

The  depth  beneath  us  hides  our  own  dear  land, 
And  dearer,  silent  friends  and  brethren,  all 
Buried  in  its  immeasurable  breast, 
Who,  who,  our  tears,  our  shrieks,  shall  then  command* 
Can  we  in  desolation's  peace  have  rest? 
Oh,  God  !  be  thou  a  god,  and  spare 

Yet  while  't  is  time  ! 
Renew  not  Adam's  fall : 

Mankind  were  then  but  twain, 
But  they  are  numerous  now  as  are  the  waves 

And  the  tremendous  rain, 

Whose  drops  shall  be  less  thick  than  would  their  gravo-  • 
Were  graves  permitted  to  the  seed  of  Cam. 

NOAH. 

Silence,  vain  boy  !  each  word  of  thine 's  a  crime  ' 
Angel !  forgive  this  stripling's  fond  despair. 

RAPHAEL. 

Seraphs !  these  mortals  speak  in  passion :  Ye, 
Who  are,  or  should  be,  passionless  and  pure, 
May  now  return  with  me. 

SAMIASA. 

It  may  not  be  • 
We  have  chosen,  and  will  endure. 

RAPHAEL. 

Say'stthou? 

AZAZIEL. 

He  hath  said  it,  and  I  sav,  A  taea  > 

RAPHAEL. 

Again ! 

Then  from  this  hour, 
Shorn  as  ye  are  of  all  celestial  power. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


456 


And  aliens  from  your  God, 

Farewell ! 

JAPHET. 

Alas !  where  shall  they  dwell  ? 
Hark  !  hark  '.     Deep  sounds,  and  deeper  still, 

Are  howling  from  the  mountain's  bosom : 
There  Js  not  a  breath  of  wind  upon  the  hill, 

Yet  quivers  every  leaf,  and  drops  each  blossom : 
Earth  groans  as  if  beneath  a  heavy  load. 

NOAH. 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  sea-birds  cry  ! 
In  clouds  they  overspread  the  lurid  sky, 
And  hover  round  the  mountain,  where  before 
Never  a  white  wing,  wetted  by  the  w*ve, 

Yet  dared  to  soar, 

Even  when  the  waters  wax'd  too  fierce  to  brave. 
Soon  it  shall  be  their  only  shore, 
And  then,  no  more  ! 

JAPHET. 

The  sun  !  the  sun  ! 
lis  riseth,  but  his  better  light  is  gone  ; 
And  a  black  circle,  bound 

His  glaring  disk  around, 

Proclaims  earth's  last  of  summer  days  hath  shone  ! 
The  clouds  return  into  the  hues  of  night, 
Save  where  their  brazen-colour'd  edges  streak 
The  verge  where  brighter  morns  were  wont  to  break. 

NOAH. 

And  lo  !  yon  flash  of  light, 
Phe  distant  thunder's  harbinger,  appears  ! 

It  cometh !  hence,  away  ! 
Leave  to  the  elements  their  evil  prey ! 
Hence  to  where  our  all-hallow'd  ark  uprears 
Its  safe  and  wreckless  sides. 

JAPHET. 

Oh,  father,  stay ! 
Leave  not  my  Anah  to  the  swallowing  tides ! 

NOAH. 
Must  we  not  leave  all  life  to  such  ?     Begone  ! 

JAPHET. 
Not  I. 

NOAH. 

Then  die 
With  them! 

How  darest  thou  look  on  that  prophetic  sky, 
And  seek  to  save  what  all  things  now  condemn, 
In  overwhelming  unison 

With  just  Jehovah's  wrath  ? 

JAPHET. 

Can  rage  and  justice  join  in  the  same  path  ? 

NOAH. 
Blasphemer !  darest  thou  murmur  even  now  ? 

RAPHAEL. 
Patriarch,  be  still  a  father !  smooth  thy  brow : 

Thy  son,  despite  his  folly,  shall  not  sink  ; 
fle  knows  not  what  he  says,  yet  shall  not  drink 

With  sobs  the  salt  foam  of  the  swelling  waters  ; 
But  be,  when  passion  passeth,  good  as  thou, 
Nor  perish  like  Heaven's  children  with  man's  daugh- 
ters. 

AHOLIBAMAH. 

Hie  tempest  cometh  ;  heaven  and  earth  unite 

For  lh»>  annihilation  of  all  life. 

Unequal  is  tne  strife 
Bel  ween  our  strength  and  the  eternal  might  ! 


SAMIASA. 

But  ours  is  with  thee  :  we  will  bear  ye  far 

To  some  untroubled  star, 
Where  thou  and  Anah  shall  partake  pur  lot : 

And  if  thou  dost  not  weep  for  thy  lost  earth, 
Our  forfeit  heaven  shall  also  be  forgot. 

ANAH. 

Oh,  my  dear  father's  tents,  my  place  of  birth  ! 
And  mountains,  land,  and  woods,  when  ye  are  notg 
Who  shall  dry  up  my  tears  ? 

AZAZIEL. 

Thy  spirit-lord. 

Fear  not,  though  we  are  shut  from  heaven, 
Yet  much  is  ours,  whence  we  cannot  be  driven. 

RAPHAEL. 

Rebel !  thy  words  are  wicked,  as  thy  deeds 
Shall  henceforth  be  but  weak :  the  flaming  sword, 
Which  chased  the  first-born  out  of  paradise, 
Still  flashes  in  the  angelic  hands. 

AZAZIEL. 

It  cannot  slay  us :  threaten  dust  with  death, 
And  talk  of  weapons  unto  that  which  bleeds ! 
What  are  thy  swords  in  our  immortal  eyes? 

RAPHAEL. 

The  moment  cometh  to  approve  thy  strength : 
And  learn  at  length 

How  vain  to  war  with  what  thy  God  commands : 
Thy  former  force  was  in  thy  faith. 

Enter  Mortals,  flying  for  refuge. 
Chorus  of  Mortals. 

The  heavens  and  earth  are  mingling — God  !  oh  God ! 

What  have  we  done  ?     Yet  spare  ! 

Hark  !  even  the  forest  beasts  howl  forth  their  prayei ' 
The  dragon  crawls  from  out  his  den, 
To  herd  in  terror  innocent  with  men  ;  % 

And  the  birds  scream  their  agony  through  air. 

Yet,  yet,  Jehovah  !  yet  withdraw  thy  rod 

Of  wrath,  and  pity  thine  own  world's  despair ! 

Hear  not  man  only  but.  all  nature  plead  ! 

RAPHAEL. 

Farewell,  thou  earth !  ye  wretched  sons  of  clay, 
I  cannot,  must  not  aid  you.     'T  is  decreed  ! 

[Exit  RAPHAEL. 

JAPHET. 

Some  clouds  sweep  on,  as  vultures  for  their  prey, 
While  others,  fix'd  as  rocks,  await  the  word 
At  which  their  wrathful  vials  shall  be  pour'd. 
No  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament, 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious :  death  hath  risen  . 
In  the  sun's  place  a  pale  and  ghastly  glare 
Hath  wound  itself  around  the  dying  air. 

AZAZIEL. 

Come,  Anah !  quit  this  chaos-founded  prison, 

To  which  the  elements  again  repair, 

To  turn  it  into  what  it  was :  beneath 

The  shelter  of  these  wings  thou  shall  be  safe, 

As  was  the  eagle's  nestling  once  within 

Its  mother's. — Let  the  coming  chaos  chafe 

With  all  its  elements  !     Heed  not  their  din  ! 

A  brighter  world  than  this,  where  thou  shalt  breatnt, 

Ethereal  life,  will  we  explore  : 

These  darken'd  clouds  are  not  the  only  skies. 

[AZAZIEL  and  SAMIASA  fly  off",  and  disappt* 
with  ANAH  and  AHOLIBAMAH, 


456 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


JAPHET. 

They  are  gone  '  They  have  disappear'd  amidst  the  roar 
Of  tho  forsaken  world  ;  and  never  more, 
WheUier  they  live,  or  die  with  all  earth's  life, 
Now  near  its  last,  can  aught  restore 
Anah  unto  these  eyes. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

Oh  son  of  Noah !  mercy  on  thy  kind  ! 
What,  will  ihou  leave  us  all — all — all  behind  ? 
While  safe  amidst  the  elemental  strife, 
Thou  sit'st  within  !hy  guarded  ark? 

A  MOTHER  (offering  her  infant  to  JAPHET). 
Oh  let  this  child  embark  ! 
I  brought  him  forth  in  woe, 

But  thought  it  joy 

To  see  him  to  my  bosom  clinging  so. 
Why  was  he  born  ? 
What  hath  he  done — 
My  unwean'd  son — 
To  move  Jehovah's  wrath  or  scorn  ? 
What  is  there  in  this  milk  of  mine,  that  death 
Should  stir  all  heaven  and  earth  up  to  destroy 

My  boy, 

And  roll  the  waters  o'er  his  placid  breath  ? 
Save  him,  thou  seed  of  Seth ! 
Or  cursed  be — with  Him  who  made 
Thee  and  thy  race,  for  which  we  are  betray'd ! 

JAPBET. 

Peace !  'tis  no  hour  for  curses,  but  for  prayer ! 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 
For  prayer ! ! ! 
And  where 
Shall  prayer  ascend, 
WTien  the  swoln  clouds  unto  the  mountains  bend 

And  burst, 
And  gushing  oceans  every  barrier  rend, 

Until  the  very  deserts  know  no  thirst  ? 

Accursed 

Be  He,  who  made  thee  and  thy  sire ! 
We  deem  our  curses  vain ;  we  must  expire ; 

But,  as  we  know  the  worst, 

Whv  should  our  hymns  be  raised,  our  knees  be  bent 
Betore  the  implacable  Omnipotent, 
Since  we  must  fall  the  same  ? 
If  He  hath  made  earth,  let  it  be  His  shame, 

To  make  a  world  for  torture  : — Lo !  they  come, 

The  loathsome  waters  in  their  rage  ! 
And  with  their  roar  make  wholesome  nature  dumb  ! 

The  forest's  trees  (coeval  with  the  hour 
When  paradise  upsprung, 

Ere  Eve  gave  Adam  knowledge  for  her  dower, 
Or  Adam  his  first  hymn  of  slavery  sung), 

So  massy,  vast,  yet  green  in  their  old  age, 
Are  overtopp'd, 

Their  summer  blossoms  by  the  surges  lopp'd, 
Which  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise. 
Vainly  we  look  up  to  the  louring  skk,»— 

They  meet  the  seas, 
5  nd  shut  out  God  from  our  beseeching  eyes. 

fly,  son  of  Noah,  fly,  and  take  thine  ease 
In  thine  allotted  ocean-tent; 
\nd  view  all  floating  o'er  the  element, 


The  corpses  of  the  world  of  thy  young  dtys : 
Then  to  Jehovah  raise 
Thy  song  of  praise  ! 

A  WOMAN. 
Blessed  are  the  dead 
Who  die  in  the  Lord  ! 

And  though  the  waters  be  o'er  earth  outspread, 
Yet,  as  His  word, 
Be  the  decree  adored  ! 
He  gave  me  life — He  taketh  but 
The  breath  which  is  His  own : 
And  though  these  eyes  should  he  for  ever  shut, 
Nor  longer  this  weak  voice  before  His  throne 
Be  heard  in  supplicating  tone, 
Still  blessed  be  the  Lord, 
For  what  is  past, 
For  that  which  is: 
For  all  are  His, 
From  first  to  last — 
Time — space — eternity — life — death— 

The  vast  known  and  immeasurable  unknown. 
He  made,  and  can  unmake ; 

And  shall  /,  for  a  little  gasp  of  breath, 
Blaspheme  and  groan  ? 

No ;  let  me  die,  as  I  have  lived,  in  faith, 
Nor  quiver,  though  the  universe  may  quake  ! 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 
Where  shall  we  fly  ? 
Not  to  the  mountains  high  ; 
For  now  their  torrents  rush  with  double  roar, 
To  meet  the  ocean,  which,  advancing  still, 
Already  grasps  each  drowning  hill, 
Nor  leaves  an  unsearch'd  cave. 

Enter  a  Woman. 

WOMAN. 

Oh,  save  me,  save ! 
Our  valley  is  no  more  : 
My  father  and  my  father's  tent, 
My  brethren  and  my  brethren's  herds, 
The  pleasant  trees  that  o'er  our  noon-day  bent, 
And  sent  forth  evening  songs  from  sweetest  birds, 
The  little  rivulet  which  freshen'd  alj 
Our  pastures  green, 
No  more  are  to  be  seen. 
When  to  the  mountain  cliff"  I  climb'd  this  mom. 

I  turn'd  to  bless  the  spot, 
And  not  a  leaf  appear'd  abo,ut  to  fall ; — 

And  now  they  are  not ! — 
Why  was  I  born  ? 

JAPHET. 

To  die  !  in  youth  to  die ; 
And  happier  in  that  doom, 
Than  to  behold  the  universal  tomb 
Which  I 

Am  thus  condemn'd  to  weep  above  in  vain. 
Why,  when  all  perish,  why  must  I  remain  ? 

[The  Waters  rise  :  Men  fly  in  every  dv  ecban , 
many  are  overtaken  by  the  waves  ;  the  Choru* 
of  Mortals  disperses  in  search  of  safety  up  the 
Mountains;  JAPHET  remains  upon  «  *oefc, 
while  the  Ark  floats  towards  him  tn  tJte  dis- 
tance. 


(     457     ) 


})rojfflm>  of 


'T  is  the  sunset  of  life  gjves  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

CAMPBELL. 


DEDICATION. 

I  A  r>v  !  if  for  the  cold  and  cloudy  clime 

Where  I  was  born,  but  where  I  would  not  die, 

Of  the  great  poet-sire  of  Italy 
I  dare  to  build  the  imitative  rhyme, 
Harsh  Runic  copy  of  the  South's  sublime, 

THOU  art  the  cause  ;  and,  howsoe'er  I 

Fall  short  of  his  immortal  harmony, 
Thy  gentle  heart  will  pardon  me  the  crime. 
Thou,  in  the  pride  of  beauty  and  of  youth, 

Spakest ;  and  for  thee  to  speak  and  be  obey'd 
Are  one  ;  but  only  in  the  sunny  South 

Such  sounds  are  utter'd,  and  such  charms  display'd, 
So  sweet  a  language  from  so  fair  a  mouth — 

Ah  !  to  what  effort  would  it  not  persuade  ? 
Ravenna,  June  21,  1819. 


PREFACE. 


IN  the  course  of  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Ravenna,  in 
ihe  summer  of  1819,  it  was  suggested  to  the  author 
that,  having  composed  something  on  the  subject  of 
Tasso's  confinement,  he  should  do  the  same  on  Dante's 
exile — the  tomb  of  the  poet  forming  one  of  the  princi- 
pal objects  of  interest  in  that  city,  both  to  the  native 
and  to  the  stranger. 

"  On  this  hint  I  spake,"  and  the  result  has  been  the 
following  four  cantos,  in  terza  rima,  now  offered  to  the 
reader.  If  they  are  understood  and  approved,  it  is  my 
purpose  to  continue  the  poem  in  various  other  cantos 
to  its  natural  conclusion  in  the  present  age.  The  reader 
is  requested  to  suppose  that  Dante  addresses  him  in 
the  interval  between  the  conclusion  of  the  Divina  Corn- 
media  and  his  death,  and  shortly  before  the  latter  event, 
foretelling  the  fortunes  of  Italy  in  general  in  the  ensu- 
ing centuries.  In  adopting  this  plan,  I  have  had  in  my 
mind  the  Cassandra  of  Lycophron,  and  the  Prophecy 
of  Nereus  by  Horace,  as  well  as  the  Prophecies  of 
Holy  Writ.  The  measure  adopted  is  the  terza  rima  of 
Dante,  which  I  am  not  aware  to  have  seen  hitherto 
tried  in  our  language,  except  it  may  be  by  Mr.  Hayley, 
of  whose  translation  I  never  saw  but  one  extract, 
quoted  in  the  notes  of  Caliph  Vathek ;  so  that — if  I 
do  not  err — this  poem  may  be  considered  as  a  metrical 
experiment.  The  cantos  are  short,  and  about  the  same 
length  of  those  of  the  poet  whose  name  I  have  bor- 
rowed, and  most  probably  taken  in  vain. 

Amongst  the  inconveniences  of  authors  in  the  pres- 
ent day,  it  is  difficul*  for  any  who  have  a  name,  good 
"r  bad,  to  escape  translation.  I  have  had  the  fortune 
ID  see  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  HaroW  irans'atcd 
2  n2  63 


into  Italian  versi  sciolti — that  is,  a  poem  written  in  the 
Spengerean  stanza  into  blank  verse,  without  regard  \n 
the  natural  divisions  of  the  stanza,  or  of  the  sense.  If 
the  present  poem,  being  on  a  national  topic,  should 
chance  to  undergo  the  same  fate,  I  would  request  the 
Italian  reader  to  remember,  that  when  I  have  failed  in 
the  imitation  of  his  great  "  Padre  Alighier,"  I  have 
failed  in  imitating  that  which  all  study  and  few  under- 
stand, since  to  this  very  day  it  is  not  yet  settled  what 
was  the  meaning  of  the  allegory  in  the  first  canto  of 
the  Inferno,  unless  Count  Marchetti's  ingenious  and 
probable  conjecture  may  be  considered  as  having  de- 
cided the  question. 

He  may  also  pardon  my  failure  the  more,  as  I  am 
not  quite  sure  that  he  would  be  pleased  with  my  suc- 
cess, since  the  Italians,  with  a  pardonable  nationality, 
are  particularly  jealous  of  all  that  is  left  them  as  a  na- 
tion— their  literature  j  and,  in  the  present  bitterness  of 
the  classic  and  romantic  war,  are  but  ill  disposed  to 
permit  a  foreigner  even  to  approve  or  imitate  them,  with- 
out finding  some  fault  with  his  ultramontane  presump- 
tion. I  can  easily  enter  into  all  this,  knowing  what 
would  be  thought  in  England  of  an  Italian  imitator  of 
Milton,  or  if  a  translation  of  J'tonti,  or  Pindemonte,  or 
Arici,  should  be  held  up  to  th»  rising  generation,  as  a 
model  for  their  future  poetical  ••ssays.  But  I  perceive 
that  I  am  deviating  into  an  addr  ss  to  the  Italian  readei, 
when  my  business  is  with  the  E  iglish  one,  and,  be  the* 
few  or  many,  I  must  take  my  leave  of  both. 


PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


CANTO  I. 

ONCE  more  in  man's  frail  world  !  which  I  had  left 
So  long  that 't  was  forgotten  ;  and  I  feel 
The  weight  of  clay  again, — too  soon  bereft 

Of  the  immortal  vision  which  could  heal 
My  earthly  sorrows,  and  to  God's  own  skies 
Lift  me  from  that  deep  gulf  without  repeal, 

Where  late  my  ears  rung  with  the  damned  cries 
Of  souls  in  hopeless  bale  ;   and  from  that  place 
Of  lesser  torment,  whence  men  may  arise 

Pure  from  the  fire  to  join  the  angelic  race  ; 
'Midst  whom  my  own  bright  Beatrce  uless'd 
My  spirit  with  her  light ;   and  to  the  base 

Of  the  Eternal  Triad !  first,  last,  best, 

Mysterious,  three,  sole,  infinite,  great  God ! 
Soul  universal !  led  the  mortal  guest, 

Unblasted  by  the  glory,  though  he  trod 

From  star  to  star  to  reach  the  almighty  throu« 
Oh  Beatrice  !  whose  sweet  limbs  the  sod 


453 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


So  long  hath  p;ess'd,  and  the  cold  marble  stone, 
Thou  sole  pure  seraph  of  my  earliest  love, 
Love  so  ineffable,  and  so  alone, 

That,  nought  on  earth  could  more  my  bosom  move, 
And  meeting  thee  in  heaven  was  but  to  meet 
That  without  which  my  soul,  like  the  arkless  dove, 

!  fad  wander'd  still  in  search  of,  nor  her  feet 
Relieved  her  wing  till.found  ;  without  thy  -ight 
My  paradise  had  still  been  incomplete.2 

Since  my  tenth  sun  gave  summer  to  my  sight 
Thou  wert  my  life,  the  essence  of  my  thought, 
Loved  ere  I  knew  the  name  of  love,  and  bright 

Still  in  these  dim  old  eyes,  now  overwrought 

With  the  world's  war,  and  years,  and  banishment, 
And  tears  for  thee,  by  other  woes  untaught; 

For  mine  is  not  a  nature  to  be  bent 

By  tyrannous  faction,  and  the  brawling  crowd ; 
And  though  the  long,  long  conflict  hath  been  spent 

In  vain,  and  never  more,  save  when  the  cloud 
Which  overhangs  the  Apennine,  my  mind's  eye 
Pierces  to  fancy  Florence,  once  so  proud 

Of  me,  can  I  return,  though  but  to  die, 
Unto  my  native  soil,  they  have  not  yet 
Quench'd  the  old  exile's  spirit,  stern  and  high. 

Hut  tho  sun,  though  not  overcast,  must  set, 
And  the  night  cometh  ;  I  am  old  in  days, 
And  deeds,  and  contemplation,  and  have  met 

I  Jestruction  face  to  face  in  all  his  ways. 
The  world  hath  left  me,  what  it  found  me — pure, 
And  if  I  have  not  gather'd  yet  its  praise, 

I  sought  it  not  by  any  baser  lure  ; 
Man  wrongs,  and  Time  avenges,  and  my  name 
May  form  a  monument  not  all  obscure, 

Though  such  was  not  my  ambition's  end  or  aim, 
To  add  to  the  vain-glorious  list  of  those 
Who  dabble  in  the  pettiness  of  fame, 

And  make  men's  fickle  b-eath  the  wind  that  blows 
Their  sail,  and  deem  it  glory  to  be  class'd 
With  conquerors,  and  virtue's  other  foes, 

In  bloody  chronicles  of  ages  past. 
I  would  have  had  my  Florence  great  and  free  :3 
Oh  Florence  !   Florence !   unto  me  thou  wast 

Like  that  Jerusalem  which  the  Almighty  He 
Wept  over :  "  but  thou  wouldst  not ;"  as  the  bird 
Gathers  its  young,  I  would  have  gather'd  thee 

Beneath  a  parent  pinion,  hadst  thou  heard 
My  voice ;  but  as  the  adder,  deaf  and  fierce, 
Against  the  breast  that  cherish'd  thee  was  stirr'd 

Thy  venom,  and  my  state  thou  didst  amerce, 
\nd  doom  this  body  forfeit  to  the  fire. 
Alas !   how  bitter  is  his  country's  curse 

\  <j  him  who  for  that  country  would  expire, 
But  did  not  merit  to  expire  by  her, 
And  loves  her,  loves  her  even  in  her  ire. 

The  day  may  come  when  she  will  cease  to  err, 
The  day  may  come  she  would  be  proud  to  hare 
The  dust  she  dooms  to  scatter,4  and  transfer 

Of  him,  whom  she  denied  a  home,  the  grave. 
But  this  shall  not  be  granted ;  let  my  dust 
L'.e  where  it  falls ;  nor  shall  the  soil  which  gave 

Me  bicath,  but  in  her  sudden  fury  thrust 
Mo  forth  to  breathe  elsewhere,  so  reassume 
My  indignant  bones,  because  her  angry  gust 

Forstx>lh  is  over,  and  repeal'd  her  doom. 

No,--Khe  deni«"*  me  what  was  mine — my  roof^ 
A.n«l  «liau  not  have  what  is  not  hers — my  tomb. 


Too  long  her  armed  wrath  hath  k<-pt  aloof 

The  breast  which  would  huvo  b'sd  for  her,  the  heart 
That  beat,  the  mind  that  wao  te:,iptation-pro»jf. 

The  man  who  fought,  toil'd,  Ira-,  ell' J,  and  each  p.M 
Of  a  true  citizen  fulfill'd,  and  saw 
For  his  reward  the  GueiPs  ascendant  art 

Pass  his  destruction  even  into  a  law. 

These  things  are  not  made  for  forgetfulness — 
Florence  shall  be  forgotten  first ;  too  raw 

The  wound,  too  deep  the  wrong,  and  t'.ie  distrw 
Of  such  endurance  too  prolong'd,  to  make 
My  pardon  greater,  her  injustice  less, 

Though  late  repented  ;  yet — yet  for  her  sake 
I  feel  some  fonder  yearnings,  and  for  thine, 
My  own  Beatrice,  I  would  hardly  take 

Vengeance  upon  the  land  which  once  was  min^, 
And  still  is  hallowed  by  thy  dust's  return, 
Which  would  protect  the  murderess  like  a  shrine, 

And  save  ten  thousand  foes  by  thy  sole  urn. 

Though,  like  old  Marius  from  Minturnae's  marsh 
And  Carthage'  ruins,  my  lone  breast  may  burn 

At  times  with  evil  feelings  hot  and  harsh, 
And  sometimes  the  last  pangs  of  a  vile  foe 
Writhe  in  a  dream  before  me,  and  o'er-arch 

My  brow  with  hopes  of  triumph, — let  them  go ! 
Such  are  the  last  infirmities  of  those 
Who  long  have  sufir'd  more  than  mortal  woe, 

And  yet,  being  morta   still,  have  no  repose 
But  on  the  pillow  of'  Revenge — Revenge, 
Who  sleeps  to  dream  of  blood,  and  waking  glows 

With  the  oft-baffled,  slakeless  thirst  of  change, 
When  we  shall  mount  again,  and  they  that  trod 
Be  trampled  on,  while  Death  and  Ate  range 

O'er  humbled  heads  and  sevsr'd  necks — Great  God 
Take  these  thoughts  from  me — to  thy  hands  I  yield 
My  many  wrongs,  and  thine  almighty  rod 

Will  fall  on  those  who  smote  me, — be  my  shield ' 
As  thou  hast  been  in  peril,  and  in  pain, 
In  turbulent  cities,  and  the  tented  field — 

In  toil,  and  many  troubles  borne  in  vain 
For  Florence. — I  appeal  from  her  to  Thee  ' 
Thee,  whom  I  late  saw  in  thy  loftiest  reign, 

Even  in  that  glorious  vision,  which  to  see 
And  'ive  was  never  granted  until  now, 
And  yet  thou  hast  permitted  this  to  me. 

Alas!   with  what  a  weight  upon  my  brow 

The  sense  of  earth  and  earthly  things  comes  back. 
Corrosive  passions,  feelings  dull  and  low. 

The  heart's  quick  throb  upon  the  mental  rack, 
Long  day,  and  dr'eary  night ;  the  retrospect 
Of  half  a  century  bloody  and  black, 

And  the  frail  few  years  I  may  yet  expect 
Hoary  and  hopeless,  but  less  hard  to  bear ; 
For  I  have  been  too  long  and  deeply  wrcck'd 

On  the  lone  rock  of  desolate  despair 
To  lift  my  eyes  more  to  the  passing  sail 
Which  shuns  that  reef  so  horrible  and  bare ; 

Nor  raise  my  voice — for  who  would  heed  my  wail  7 
I  am  not  of  this  people,  nor  this  age, 
And  yet  my  harpings  will  unfold  a  tale 

Which  shall  preserve  these  times,  when  not  a  pago 
Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract 
An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage, 

Did  not  my  verse  embalm  full  many  an  act 
Worthless  as  they  who  wrought  it :  't  is  Uie  doouj 
Of  spirits  cf  my  order  to  be  rarVil 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


459 


in  iifc,  to  wear  iheir  hearts  out,  and  consume 
Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone ; 
Then  future  thousands  crowd  around  their  tomb, 

And  pilgrims  come  from  climes  where  they  have  known 
The  name  of  him — who  now  is  but  a  name. 
And  wasting  homage  o'er  the  sullen  stone 

Spread  his  —by  him  unheard,  unheeded — fame ; 
And  mine  at  least  hath  cost  me  dear :  to  die 
Is  nothing  ;  but  to  wither  thus — to  tame 

My  mind  down  from  its  own  infinity — 
To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men, 
A  common  sight  to  every  common  eye, 

A  wanderer,  while  even  wolves  can  find  a  den, 
Ripp'd  from  all  kindred,  from  all  home,  all  things 
That  make  communion  sweet,  and  soften  pain — 

To  feel  me  in  the  solitude  of  kings, 
Without  the  power  that  makes  them  bear  a  crown — 
To  envy  every  dove  his  nest  and  wings 

Which  waft  him  where  the  Apennine  looks  down 
On  Arno,  till  he  perches,  it  may  be, 
Within  my  all-inexorable  town, 

Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she,' 

Their  mother,  the  cold  partner  who  hath  brought 
Destruction  for  a  dowry — this  to  see 

And  feel,  and  know  without  repair,  hath  taught 
A  bitter  lesson ;  but  it  leaves  me  free : 
I  hi-.ve  not  vilely  found,  nor  basely  sought, — 

They  made  an  exile — not  a  slave  of  me. 


CANTO  II. 

THE  spirit  of  the  fervent  days  of  old, 

When  words  were  things  that  came  to  pass,  and 
thouglu 

Fiasn'd  o'er  the  future,  bidding  men  behold 
Their  children's  children's  doom  already  brought 

Forth  from  the  abyss  of  lime  which  is  to  be, 

The  chaos  of  events,  where  lie  half-wrought 
Shapes  that  must  undergo  mortality; 

What  the  great  seers  of  Israel  wore  within, 

That  spirit  was  on  them,  and  is  on  me, 
And  if,  Cassandra-like,  amidst  the  din 

Of  conflict  none  will  hear,  or  hearing  heed, 

This  voice  from  out  the  wilderness,  the  sin 
Be  theirs,  and  my  own  feelings  be  my  meed, 

The  only  guerdon  I  have  ever  known. 

Hast  thou  not  bled  ?  and  hast  thou  still  to  bleed, 
Italia  ?  Ah !  to  me  such  things,  foreshown 

With  dim  sepulchral  light,  bid  me  fbrg>  I 

In  thine  irreparable  wrongs  my  own ; 
We  can  have  but  one  country,  and  even  Tet 

Thou  'rt  mine — my  bones  shall  be  wit  in  thy  breast, 

My  soul  within  thy  language,  which  cace  set 
W  ith  our  old  Roman  sway  in  the  wide  west ; 

But  I  will  make  another  tongue  arise 

As  lofty  and  more  sweet,  in  which  exprest 

lie  here's  ardour,  or  the  lover's  sighs, 

Shall  find  alike  such  sounds  for  every  theme 

That  every  word,  as  brilliant  as  thy  skTes, 
Shall  realize  a  poet's  proudest  dream, 

And  make  thee  Europe's  nightingale  of  song  ; 

So  that  all  present  speech  to  thine  shall  seem 
Flip  note  "f  meaner  birds,  and  everv  tongue 

coniess  us  barUa'isin  when  comuared  with  thine. 


This  shall  thou  owe  to  him  thou  didst  so  wrong, 

Thy  Tuscan  bard,  the  banish'd  Ghibelline. 
Woe  !   woe !   the  veil  of  coming  centuries 
Is  rent, — a  thousand  years,  which  yet  supine 

Lie  like  the  ocean  waves  ere  winds  arise, 
Heaving  in  dark  and  sullen  undulation, 
Float  from  eternity  into  these  eyes  ; 

The  storms  yet  sleep,  the  clouds  still  keep  their  station 
The  unborn  earthquake  yet  is  in  the  womb, 
The  bloody  chaos  yet  expects  creation, 

But  all  things  are  disposing  for  thy  doom ; 
The  elements  await  but  for  the  word, 
"  Let  there  be  darkness !"  and  thou  grow'st  a  tomD ! 

Yes !  thou,  so  beautiful,  shall  feel  the  sword, 
Thou,  Italy !   so  fair  that  paradise, 
Revived  in  thee,  blooms  forth  to  man  restored  : 

Ah !  must  the  sons  of  Adam  lose  it  twice  ? 
Thou,  Italy  !   whose  ever-golden  fields, 
Plough'd  by  the  sunbeams  solely,  would  suffice 

For  the  world's  granary ;   thou  whose  sky  heaven  gild* 
With  brighter  stars,  and  robes  with  deeper  blue  ; 
Thou,  in  whose  pleasant  places  summer  builds 

Her  palace,  in  whose  cradle  empire  grew, 
And  form'd  the  eternal  city's  ornamenls 
From  spoils  of  kings  whom  freemen  overthrew ; 

Birth-place  of  heroes,  sanctuary  of  saints, 
Where  earthly  first,  then  heavenly  glory  made 
Her  home ;  thou,  all  which  fondest  fancy  paint?, 

And  finds  her  prior  vision  but  portray'd 
In  feeble  colours,  when  Ihe  eye — from  ihe  Alp 
Of  horrid  show,  and  rock  and  shaggy  shade 

Of  desert-loving  pine,  whose  emerald  scalp 
Nods  to  the  storm — dilates  and  dotes  o'er  thee, 
And  wistfully  implores,  as  't  were,  for  help 

To  see  thy  sunny  fields,  my  Italy, 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet,  and  dearer  still 
The  more  approach'd,  and  dearest  were  they  free, 

Thou — thou  must  wilher  to  each  tyrant's  will : 

The  Goth  hath  been, — the  German,  Frank,  and  Hm-, 
Are  yet  to  come, — and  on  ihe  Imperial  hill 

Ruin,  already  proud  of  the  deeds  done 

By  the  old  barbarians,  there  awaits  the  new, 
Throned  on  the  Palatine,  while,  lost  and  won, 

Rome  at  her  feet  lies  bleeding ;  and  the  hue 
Of  human  sacrifice  and  Roman  slaughter 
Troubles  the  clotted  air,  of  late  so  blue, 

And  deepens  into  red  the  saffron  water 
Of  Tiber,  thick  with  dead  ;  the  helpless  priest, 
And  still  more  helpless  nor  less  holy  daughter, 

Vow'd  to  their  god,  have  shrieking  fled,  and  ceased 
Their  minislry :  the  nations  takn  their  prey, 
Iberian,  Almain,  Lombard,  and  the  beast 

And  bird,  wolf,  vulture,  more  humane  than  they 
Are  ;   these  but  gorge  tlie  flor;h  and  lap  the  gore 
Of  the  departed,  and  then  go  their  way  ; 

But  those,  the  human  savages,  explore 
All  paths  of  torture,  and  insatiate  yet 
With  Ugolino  hunger  prowl  for  more. 

Nine  moons  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  like  this  a.iJ  set;' 
The  chiefless  army  of  the  dead,  which  late 
Beneath  the  traitor  prince's  banner  met, 

Hath  left  its  leader's  ashes  at  the  gate ; 
Had  but  the  royal  rebel  liveo,  perchance 
Thou  hadst  been  spared,  but  his  involvod  thy  iau> 

Oh  !  Rome,  the  spoiler  of  the  spoil  of  France, 
fr'rom  Brennus  to  the  Bourbon,  never  nevtr 


4CO 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Shall  foreign  sUndard  to  thy  walls  advance, 
But  Tiber  shall  bocome  a  mournful  river. 

Oh !  when  the  strangers  pass  the  Alps  and  Po, 

Crush  them,  ye  rocks !  floods,  whelm  them,  and  for 

ever! 
Why  slee\>  the  idle  avalanches  so, 

To  topple  on  the  lonely  pilgrim's  head  ? 

Why  doth  Eridanus  but  overflow 
The  peasant's  harvest  from  his  turbid  bed  ? 

Were  not  each  barbarous  horde  a  nobler  prey  ? 

Over  Cambyses'  host  the  desert  spread 
Her  sandy  ocean,  and  the  sea-waves'  sway 

Roll'd  o'er  Pharaoh  and  his  thousands, — why, 

Mountains  and  waters,  do  ye  not  as  they  ? 
And  yov,  ye  men  !  Romans,  who  dare  not  die, 

Sons  of  the  conquerors  who  overthrew 

Those  who  o'erthrew  proud  Xerxes,  where  yet  lie 
The  dead  whose  tomb  oblivion  never  knew, 

Are  the  Alps  weaker  than  Thermopylae  ? 

Their  passes  more  alluring  to  the  view 
Of  an  invader?  is  it  they,  or  ye 

That  to  each  host  the  mountain-gate  unbar, 

And  leave  the  march  in  peace,  the  passage  free  ? 
Why,  Nature's  self  detains  the  victor's  car, 

And  makes  your  land  impregnable,  if  aarth 

Could  be  so :  but  alone  she  will  not  war, 
Yet  aids  the  warrior  worthy  of  his  birth, 

In  a  soil  where  the  mothers  bring  forth  men ! 

Not  so  with  those  whose  souls  are  little  worth  : 
For  them  no  fortress  can  avail, — the  den 

Of  the  poor  reptile  which  preserves  its  sting 

Is  more  secure  than  walls  of  adamant,  when 
The  hearts  of  those  within  are  quivering. 

Are  ye  not  brave  ?  Yes,  yet  the  Ausonian  soil 

Hath  hearts,  and  hands,  and  arms,  and  hosts  to  bring 
Against  oppression  ;  but  how  vain  the  toil, 

While  still  division  sows  the  seeds  of  woe 

And  weakness,  till  the  stranger  reaps  the  spoil. 
On '  my  own  beauteous  land !  so  long  laid  low, 

So  long  tne  grave  of  thy  own  children's  hopes, 

When  there  is  but  required  a  single  blow 
To  break  the  chain,  yet — yet  the  avenger  stops, 

And  doubt  and  discord  step  'twixt  thine  and  thee, 

And  join  their  strength  to  that  which  with  thee  copes : 
What  is  there  wanting  then  to  set  thee  free, 

And  show  thy  beauty  in  its  fullest  light  ? 

To  make  the  Alps  impassable  ;  and  we, 
Her  sons,  may  do  this  with  one  deed Unite ! 


CANTO  HI. 


F  ROM  out  the  mass  of  never-dying  ill, 
The  plague,  the  prince,  the,  stranger,  and  the  sword, 
Vials  of  wrath  but  emptied  to  refill 

And  flow  again,  I  cannot  all  record 
That  crowds  on  my  prophetic  eye  :  the  earth 
And  ocean  written  o'er  would  not  afford 

Space  for  the  annal,  yet  it  shall  go  forth  ; 

Yes,  all.  though  not  by  human  pen,  is  graven, 
There  wnere  the  farthest  suns  an-1  stars  have  birth. 

Spread  like  a  banner  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
The  blnody  scroll  of  our  millennial  wrongs 
Waves,  and  the  echo  of  our  groans  is  driven 

Airwart  the  sound  of  archangelic  songs, 


And  Italy,  the  martyr'd  nation's  gore, 

Will  not  in  vain  arise  to  where  belongs 
Omnipotence  and  mercy  evermore  ; 

Like  to  a  harp-string  stricken  by  the  wind. 

The  sound  of  her  lament  shall,  rising  o'er 
The  seraph  voices,  touch  the  Almighty  Mind. 

Meantime  I,  humblest  of  thy  sons,  and  of 

Earth's  dust  by  immortality  refined 
To  sense  and  suffering,  though  the  vain  may  scofl 

And  tyrants  threat,  and  meeker  victims  bow 

Before  the  storm  because  its  breath  is  rough, 
To  thee,  my  country  !   whom  before,  as  now, 

I  lovfid  and  love,  devote  the  mournful  lyre 

And  melancholy  gift  high  powers  allow 
To  read  the  future  ;   and  if  now  rny  fire 

Is  not  as  once  it  shone  o'er  thee,  forgive ' 

I  but  foretell  thy  fortunes — then  expire ; 
Think  not  that  I  would  look  on  them  and  live. 

A  spirit  forces  me  to  see  and  speak, 

And  for  my  guerdon  grants  not  to  survive  ; 
My  heart  shall  be  pour'd  over  thee  and  break 

Yet  for  a  moment,  ere  I  must  resume 

Thy  sable  web  of  sorrow,  let  me  take, 
Over  the  gleams  that  flash  athwart  thy  gloom, 

A  softer  glimpse ;  some  stars  shine  through  thy  nigh. 

And  many  meteors,  and  above  thy  tomb 
Leans  sculptured  beauty,  which  death  cannot  bHgni : 

And  from  thine  ashes  boundless  spirits  rise 

To  give  thee  honour  and  the  earth  delight ; 
Thy  soil  shall  still  be  pregnant  with  the  wise, 

The  gay,  the  learn'd,  the  generous,  and  the  brave, 

Native  to  thee  as  summer  to  thy  skies, 
Conquerors  on  foreign  shores  and  the  far  wave,7 

Discoverers  of  new  worlds,  .vhich  take  their  name :% 

For  thee  alone  they  have  no  arm  to  save, 
And  all  thy  recompense  is  in  their  fame, 

A  noble  one  to  them,  but  not  to  thee — 

Shall  they  be  glorious,  and  thou  still  the  same  7 
Oh !  more  than  these  illustrious  far  shall  be 

The  being — and  even  yet  he  may  be  born — 

The  mortal  saviour  who  shall  set  thee  free, 
And  see  thy  diadem,  so  changed  and  worn 

By  fresh  barbarians,  on  thy  brow  replaced ; 

And  the  sweet  sun  replenishing  thy  morn, 
Thy  moral  morn,  too  long  with  clouds  defaced 

And  noxious  vapours  from  Avernus  risen, 

Such  as  all  they  must  breathe  who  are  debased 
By  servitude,  and  have  the  mind  in  prison. 

Yet  through  this  cenluried  eclipse  of  woe 

Some  voices  shall  be  heard,  and  earth  shall  listen , 
Poets  shall  follow  in  the  path  I  show, 

And  make  it  broader ;   the  same  brilliant  sky 

Which  cheers  the  birds  to  song  shall  bid  them  glow 
And  raise  their  notes  as  natural  and  high ; 

Tuneful  shall  be  their  numbers  :   they  shall  sing 

Many  of  love,  and  some  of  liberty ; 
But  few  shall  soar  upon  that  eagle's  wing, 

And  look  in  the  sun's  facs  with  eagle's  gaze 

All  free  and  fearless  as  the  feathered  king, 
But  fly  more  n«ar  the  earth  :   how  many  a  phrase 

Sublime  shall  lavish'd  be  on  some  small  prmcu 

In  all  the  prodigality  of  praise ! 
And  language,  eloquently  false,  evince 

The  harlotry  of  genius,  which,  like  beauty. 

Too  oft  forgets  its  own  self-reverence, 
And  looks  on  prostitution  as  a  dutv. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


\ 


He  who  once  enters  in  u  tyrant's  hall9 

As  guest  is  slave,  his  thoughts  become  a  booty, 

A.nd  the  first  day  which  sees  the  chain  enthral 
A  captive  sees  his  half  of  manhood  gone — 10 
The  souPs  emasculation  saddens  all 

His  spirit ;  thus  the  bard  too  near  the  throne 
Quails  from  his  inspiration,  bound  to  please,— 
How  servile  is  the  task  to  please  alone  ! 

To  smooth  the  verse  to  suit  the  sovereign's  ease 
And  royal  leisure,  nor  too  much  prolong 
Aught  save  his  eulogy,  and  find,  and  seize, 

Or  force  or  forge  fit  argument  of  song  ! 

Thus  trammell'd,  thus  condemn'd  to  flattery's  trebles, 
He  toils  through  all,  still  trembling  to  be  wrong : 

For  fear  some  noble  thoughts,  like  heavenly  rebels, 
Should  rise  up  in  high  treason  to  his  brain, 
He  sings,  as  the  Athenian  spoke,  with  pebbles 

In 's  mouth,  lest  truth  should  stammer  through  his  strain. 
But  out  of  the  long  file  of  sonnetteers 
There  shall  be  some  who  will  not  sing  in  vain, 

And  he,  their  prince,  shall  rank  among  my  peers," 
.  And  love  shall  be  his  torment ;  but  his  grief 
Shall  make  an  immortality  of  tears, 

And  Italy  shall  hail  him  as  the  chief 
Of  poet  lovers,  and  his  higher  song 
Of  freedom  wreathe  him  with  as  green  a  leaf. 

But  in  a  further  age  shall  rise  along 
The  banks  of  Po  two  greater  still  than  he  ; 
The  world  which  smiled  on  him  shall  do  them  wrong 

Till  they  arc  ashes  and  repose  with  me. 
The  first  will  make  an  epoch  with  his  lyre, 
And  fill  the  earth  with  feats  of  chivalry : 

His  fancy  like  a  rainbow,  and  his  fire 

Like  that  of  heaven,  immortal,  and  his  thought 
Borne  onward  with  a  wing  that  cannot  tire ; 

Pleasure  shall,  like  a  butterfly  new  caught, 
Flutter  her  lovely  pinions  o'er  his  theme, 
And  art  itself  seem  into  nature  wrought 

By  the  transparency  of  his  bright  dream. — 
The  second,  of  a  tenderer,  sadder  mood, 
Shall  pour  his  soul  out  o'er  Jerusalem ; 

He,  too,  shall  sing  of  arms,  and  Christian  blood 
Shed  where  Christ  bled  for  man  ;   and  his  high  harp 
Shall,  by  the  willow  over  Jordan's  flood, 

Revive  a  song  of  Sion,  and  the  sharp 
Conflict,  and  final  triumph  of  the  brave 
And  pious,  and  the  strife  of  hell  to  warp 

Their  hearts  from  their  great  purpose,  until  wave 
The  red-cross  banners  where  the  first  red  cross 
Was  crimson'd  from  his  veins  who  died  to  save, 

Shall  be  his  sacred  argument ;  the  loss 

Of  years,  of  favour,  freedom,  even  of  fame 
Contested  for  a  time,  while  the  smooth  gloss 

Of  courts  would  slide  o'er  his  forgotten  name. 
And  call  captivity  a  kindness,  meant 
To  shield  him  from  insanity  or  shame : 

(Such  shall  be  his  meet  guerdon  !  who  was  sent 
To  be  Christ's  laureate — they  reward  him  well ! 
Florence  doomt  me  but  death  or  banishment, 

••Yrrara  him  a  pi"*nce  and  a  cell, 
Harder  to  be»-  and  less  deserved,  for  I 
Had  ctun^  tl»»  factions  which  I  strove  to  quell ; 

But  thif  n^e't  ^»tn,  who  with  a  lover's  eye 
Will  '.jo*  >"A  t  »rth  and  heaven,  and  who  will  deign 
1o  e>.iP-d>j  H.ih  his  celestial  flattery 


As  poor  a  thing  as  e'er  was  spawn'd  to  reign, 
What  will  he  do  to  merit  such  a  doom  ? 
Perhaps  he  'U  love, — and  is  not  love  in  rain 

Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb  ? 
Yet  it  will  be  so — he  and  his  compeer, 
The  Bard  of  Chivalry,  will  both  consume 

In  penury  and  pain  too  many  a  year, 
And,  dying  in  despondency,  bequeath 
To  the  kind  world,  which  scarce  will  yield  a  tear, 

A  heritage  enriching  all  who  breathe 

With  the  wealth  of  a  genuine  poet's  soul, 
And  to  their  country  a  redoubled  wreath, 

Unmatch'd  by  time  ;   not  Hellas  can  unroll 

Through  her  olympiads  two  such  names,  though  on* 
Of  hers  be  mighty  ; — and  is  this  the  whole 

Of  such  men's  destiny  beneath  the  sun  ? 

Must  all  the  finer  thoughts,  the  thrilling  sense, 
The  electric  blood  with  which  their  arteries  run, 

Their  body's  self-turn'd  soul  with  the  intense 
Feeling  of  that  which  is,  and  fancy  of 
That  which  should  be,  to  such  a  recompense 

Conduct  ?  shall  their  bright  plumage  on  the  rough 
Storm  be  still  scatter'd?  Yes,  and  it  must  be. 
For,  form'd  of  far  too  penetrable  stuff, 

These  birds  of  paradise  but  long  to  flee 
Back  to  their  native  mansion,  soon  they  find 
Earth's  mist  with  their  pure  pinions  not  agree, 

And  die,  or  are  degraded,  for  the  mind 
Succumbs  to  long  infection,  and  despair, 
And  vulture  passions,  flying  close  behind, 

Await  the  moment  to  assail  and  tear ; 

And  when  at  length  the  winged  wanderers  stoop. 
Then  is  the  prey-birds'  triumph,  then  they  share 

The  spoil,  o'crpower'd  ai  length  by  one  fell  swoop. 
Yet  some  have  been  untouch'd,  who  learn'd  to  boai , 
Some  whom  no  power  could  ever  force  to  droop, 

Who  could  resist  themselves  even,  hardest  care  ! 
And  task  most  hopeless  ;  but  some  such  have  been. 
And  if  my  name  amongst  the  number  were, 

That  destiny  austere,  and  yet  serene, 

Were  prouder  than  more  dazzling  fame  unblest ; 
The  Alp's  snow  summit  nearer  heaven  is  seen 

Than  the  volcano's  fierce  eruptive  crest, 

Whose  splendour  from  the  black  abyss  is  flung, 
While  the  scorch'd  mountain,  from  whose  burning 
breast 

A  temporary  torturing  flame  is  wrung, 
Shines  for  a  night  of  terror,  then  repels 
Its  fire  back  to  the  hell  from  whence  it  sprung, 

The  hell  which  in  its  entrails  ever  dwells. 


CANTO  IV. 


MANY  are  poets  who  have  never  penn'd 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance  the  best . 
They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  would  «ov  iwi 

Their  thoughts  to  meaner  beings;  tley  compress' 
The  god  within  them,  and  rejoin'd  the  stars 
Unlaurell'd  upon  earth,  but  far  more  blest 

Than  those  who  arc  degraded  by  the  jars 
Of  passion,  and  their  frailties  link'd  to  lame. 
Conquerors  of  high  renown,  but  full  of  scats 

Many  are  poets,  but  without  the  name ; 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 


462 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


From  overfeeli.ig  good  or  ill ;  and  aim 
At  an  exten  i1  life  beyond  our  fate, 

And  be  tl  e  new  Prometheus  of  new  men, 

Bestowing  fire  from  heaven,  and  then,  too  late, 
Finding  the  pleasure  given  repaid  with  pain, 

Ana  vultures  to  the  heart  of  the  bestower. 

Who,  having  lavish'd  his  high  gift  in  vain, 
Lies  chain'd  to  his  lone  rock  by  the  sea-shore  ! 

So  be  it ;  we  can  bear.— But  thus  all  they, 

Whose  intellect  is  an  o'ermastering  power, 
Whicn  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  clay, 

Or  lightens  it  to  spirit,  whatsoe'er 

The  form  which  their  creations  may  essay, 
Are  bards ;  the  kindled  marble's  bust  may  wear 

More  poesy  upon  its  speaking  brow 

Than  aught  less  than  the  Homeric  page  may  bear ; 
One  noble  stroke  with  a  whole  life  may  glow, 

Or  deify  the  canvas  till  it  shine 

With  beauty  so  surpassing  all  below, 
That  theyAvho  kneel  to  idols  so  divine 

Break  no  commandment,  for  high  heaven  is  there 

Transfused,  transfiguraled :  and  the  line 
Of  poesy  which  peoples  but  the  air 

With  thought  and  beings  of  our  thought  reflected, 

C  an  do  no  more :   then  let  the  artist  share 
The  palm,  he  shares  the  peril,  and  dejected 

Faints  o'er  the  labour  unapproved — Alas ! 

Despair  and  genius  are  too  oft  connected. 
Within  the  ages  which  before  me  pass, 

Art  shall  resume  and  equal  even  the  sway 

Which  with  Apelles  and  old  Phidias 
She  held  in  Hellas'  unforgotten  day. 

Ye  shall  be  taught  by  ruin  to  revive 

The  Grecian  forms  at  least  from  their  decay, 
And  Roman  souls  at  last  again  shall  live 

In  Roman  works  wrought  by  Italian  hands, 

And  temples  loftier  than  the  old  temples,  give 
New  wonders  to  the  world ;  and  while  still  stands 

The  austere  Pantheon,  into  heaven  shall  soar 

A  dome,12  its  image,  while  the  base  expands 
Into  a  fane  surpassing  all  before, 

Such  as  all  flesh  shall  flock  to  kneel  in :   nt  'or 

Such  sight  hath  been  unfolded  by  a  door 
As  this,  to  which  all  nations  shall  repair, 

And  lay  their  sins  at.  this  huge  gate  of  heaven. 

And  the  bold  architect  unto  whose  care 
The  daring  charge  to  raise  it  shall  be  given, 

Whom  all  arts  shall  acknowledge  as  their  lord, 

Whether  into  the  marble  chaos  driven 
His  chisel  bid  the  Hebrew,11  at  whose  word 

Israel  lei't  Egypt,  stop  the  waves  in  stone, 

Or  hues  of  hell  be  by  his  pencil  pour'd 
O/er  the  damn'd  before  the  Judgment  throne,1* 

Such  as  I  saw  them,  such  as  a!!  shall  see, 

Or  fanes  be  built  of  grandeur  yet  unknown, 
The  stream  of  his  great  thoughts  shall  spring  from  me,1  * 

The  Ghibelline,  who  traversed  the  three  realms 

Which  form  the  empire  of  eternity. 
Imidst  the  clash  of  swords  and  clang  of  helms, 

The  age  which  I  anticipate,  no  less 

Shall  be  the  age  of  beauty,  and  while  whelms 
Calamity  the  nations  with  distress, 

The  genius  of  my  country  shall  arise, 

A  c»-dar  towering  o'er  the  wilderness, 
Ijtnely  ui  all  its  branches  to  all  eyes, 

Fra^rant  as  fair,  and  recognised  afar, 


Wafting  its  native  incense  through  the  skies. 

Sovereigns  shall  pause  amid  their  sport  of  war, 
Wean'd  for  an  hour  from  blood,  to  turn  and  gaze 
On  canvas  or  on  stone ;   and  they  who  mar 

All  beauty  upon  earth,  compell'd  to  praise, 

Shall  feel  the  power  of  that  which  they  destroy , 
And  art's  mistaken  gratitude  shall  raise 

To  tyrants  who  but  take  her  for  a  toy 

Emblems  and  monuments,  and  prostitute 

Her  charms  to  pontiffs  proud,16  who  but  employ 

The  man  of  genius  as  the  meanest  brute 
To  bear  a  burthen,  and  to  serve  a  need, 
To  sell  his  labours,  and  his  soul  to  boot  : 

Who  toils  for  nations  may  be  poor  indeed, 

But  free  ;   who  sweats  for  monarchs  is  no  more 
Than  the  gilt  chamberlain,  who,  clothed  and  fee'd. 

Stands  sleek  and  slavish  bowing  at  his  door. 
Oh,  Power  that  rulest  ?.nd  inspirest !  how 
Is  it  that  they  on  earth,  whose  earthly  power 

Is  likest  thine  in  heaven  in  outward  show, 
Least  like  to  thee  in  attributes  divine, 
Tread  on  the  universal  necks  that  bow, 

And  then  assure  us  that  their  rights  are  thine  ? 
And  how  is  it  that  they,  the  sons  of  fame, 
Whose  inspiration  seems  to  them  to  shine 

From  high,  they  whom  the  nations  oftest  name, 
Must  pass  their  days  in  penury  or  pain, 
Or  step  to  grandeur  through  the  paths  of  shame, 

And  wear  a  deeper  brand  and  gaudier  chain  ? 
Or  if  their  destiny  be  borne  aloof 
From  lowliness,  or  tempted  thence  in  vain, 

In  their  own  souls  sustain  a  harder  proof, 
The  inner  war  of  passions  deep  and  fierce  ? 
Florence !  when  thy  harsh  sentence  razed  my  roolj 

I  loved  thee,  but  the  vengeance  of  my  verse, 
The  hate  of  injuries,  which  every  year 
Makes  greater  and  accumulates  my  curse, 

Shall  live,  outliving  all  ihou  boldest  dear, 

Thy  pride,  thy  wealth,  thy  freedom,  and  even  thai, 
The  most  infernal  of  all  evils  here, 

The  sway  of  petty  tyrants  in  a  state  ; 
For  such  sway  is  not  limited  to  kings, 
And  demagogues  yield  to  them  but  in  date 

As  swept  off  sooner  ;  in  all  deadly  things 
Which  make  men  hate  themselves  and  one  anolhct 
In  discord,  cowardice,  cruelty,  all  that  springs 

From  Death,  the  Sin-born's  incest  with  his  mother, 
In  rank  oppression  in  its  rudest  shape, 
The  faction  chief  is  but  the  sultan's  brother, 

And  the  worst  despot's  far  less  human  ape  : 
Florence  !   when  this  lone  spirit  which  so  long 
Yearn'd  as  the  captive  toiling  at  escape, 

To  fly  back  to  thee  in  despite  of  wrong, 
An  exile,  saddest  of  all  prisoners, 
Who  has  the  whole  world  for  a  dungeon  strong, 

Seas,  mountains,  and  the  horizon's  verge  for  bars, 
Which  shut  him  from  the  sole  small  spot  of  earth 
Where,  whatsoe'er  his  fate — he  still  were  hers, 

His  country's,  and  might  die  where  he  had  birth — 
Florence!   when  this  lone  spirit  shall  return 
To  kindred  spirits,  thou  wilt  feel  my  worth, 

And  seek  to  honour  with  an  empty  urn 
The  ashes  thou  shall  ne'er  obtain. — Alas  ! 
"What  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  people  ?"'*  Stem 

Are  all  thy  dealings,  but  in  this  they  pass 
The. limits  of  man's  common  malice,  for 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


402 


AH  hat  a  citizen  could  be  I  was  ; 
Raised  by  thy  will,  all  thine  in  peace  or  war, 

And  for  this  thou  hast  warr'd  with  me. — 'Tis  done : 

I  may  not  overleap  the  eternal  bar 
Built  up  between  us,  and  will  die  alone, 

Beholding,  with  the  dark  eye  of  a  seer, 

The  evil  days  to  gifted  souls  foreshown, 
Foretelling  them  to  those  who  will  not  hear, 

As  in  the  old  time,  till  the  hour  be  come 

When  truth  shall  strike  their  eyes  through  man/  a  tear, 
Aj)  i  make  them  own  the  prophet  in  his  tomb. 


NOTES. 


Note  1.     Page  457,  line  11. 
'Midst  whom  my  own  bright  Beatrice  bless'd. 
The  reader  is  requested  to  adopt  the  Italian  pronun- 
c'ation  of  Beatrice,  sounding  all  the  syllables. 

Note  2.     Page  458,  line  9. 
My  paradise  had  still  been  incomplete. 
'  Che  sol  per  le  belle  opre 
Che  fanno  in  Cielo  il  sole  e  1'  altre  stclle 
Dontro  di  lui'  si  erede  il  Paradise, 
Ccsi  ee  Kuardi  fiso 

Pensar  ben  del  ch'ogni  terren"  piacerc." 
Canzone,  in  which  Dante  describes  the  person  of  Bea- 
trice, strophe  third. 

Note  3.     Page  458,  line  41. 
I  would  have  had  my  Florence  great  and  free. 
"L"  esilioche  m'  e  dato  onor  mi  tegno. 

"Cader  tra'  buoni  e  pur  di  lode  degno." 

Sonnet  of  Dante, 

in  which  he  represents  Right,  Generosity,  and  Tem- 
perance, as  banished  from  among  rm.i,  and  seeking 
refuge  from  Love,  who  inhabits  his  boson* 

Note  4.     Page  458,  line  57. 
The  dust  she  dooms  to  scatter. 

"  Ut  si  quis  pra?dictorum  ul'.o  tempore  in  fortiam 
dicti  communis  pervenerit,  tails  perveniens  igne  com- 
buratur,  sic  quod  morialur." 

Second  sentence  of  Florence  against  Dante  and  the 
fourteen  accused  with  him. — The  Latin  is  worthy  of 
the  sentence. 

Note  5.  Page  459,  line  22. 
Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she. 
This  lady,  whose  name  was  Gemma,  sprung  from  one 
of  the  most  powerful  Guelf  families,  named  Donati. 
Corso  Donati  was  the  principal  adversary  of  the  Ghibel- 
lines.  She  is  described  as  being  "  Admodum  morosa, 
ut  de  Xantippe  Socratis  philosophi  conjuge  saiptum 
esse  legimus,"  according  to  Giannozzo  Manetti.  But 
Lionardo  Aretino  is  scandalized  with  Boccace,  in  his 
life  of  Dante,  for  saying  that  literary  men  should  not 
marry.  "  Qui  il  Boccaccio  non  ha  pazienza,  e  dice,  le 
mogli  esser  contrarie  agli  studj  ;  e  non  si  ricorda  che 
Socrate  il  piu  nobile  filosofo  chc  mai  fosse,  ebbe  moglie 
e  figliuoli  e  ufficj  della  Repubblica  nella  sua  Citth  ;  e 
Aristotele  che,  etc.,  etc.  ebbe  due  mogli  in  varj  tempi, 
ed  ebbe  figliuoli,  e  ricchezze  assai. — E  Marco  Tullio — 
e  Cafme — c  Van-one — e  Seneca — ebbero  moghe,"  etc., 
etc.  L  ,»  odd  that  honest  Lionardo's  examples,  with 
the  exceotio"  of  Seneca,  and,  for  any  thing  I  know,  of 


Aristotle,  are  not  the  most  felicitous.  Tully's  Terent'a. 
and  Socrates'  Xantippe,  by  no  means  contributed  t» 
their  husbands'  happiness,  whatever  they  might  Ho  to 
their  philosophy — Cato  gave  away  his  wife — of  Varro's 
we  know  nothing — and  of  Seneca's,  only  that  she  was 
disposed  to  die  with  him,  but  recovered,  and  lived  sev 
eral  years  afterwards.  But,  says  Lionardo,  "  L'uomr 
6  animale  civile,  secondo  place  a  tutti  i  filosofi."  Ana 
thence  concludes  that  the  greatest  proof  of  the  animal1 
civism  is  "  la  prima  congiunzione,  dalla  quale  multipli- 
cata  nasce  la  Citta." 

Note  6.     Page  459,  line  11 9. 
Nine  moons  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  like  this  and  set. 
'    See  "  Sacco  di  Roma,"  generally  attributed  to  Guic- 
ciardini.   There  is  another  written  by  a  Jacopo  Buona- 
parte, Gentiluomo  Samminiatese  che  vi  si  trovo  pre- 
sente. 

Note  7.     Page  460,  line  93. . 
Conquerors  on  foreign  shores  and  the  far  wave. 
Alexander  of  Parma,  Spinola,  Pescara,  Eugene  of 
Savoy,  Montecucco. 

Note  8.     Page  460,  line  94. 

Discoverers  of  new  worlds,  which  take  their  name. 

Columbus,  Americus  Vespusius,  Sebastian  Caboi. 

Note  9.     Page  461,  line  1. 

He  who  once  enters  in  a  tyrant's  hall,  etc. 

A  verse  from  the  Greek  tragedians,  with  which  Pom 

pey  took  leave  of  Cornelia  on  entering  the  boat  in 

which  he  was  slain. 

Note  10.     Page  461,  line  4. 

And  the  first  day  which  sees  the  chain  enthral,  etc. 

The  verse  and  sentiment  are  taken  from  Homer. 

Note  11.     Page  46!,  line  21. 
And  he  their  prince  shall  rank  among  my  peers. 
Pstrarch. 

Note  12.     Page  462,  line  40. 

A  dome,  its  image. 
The  cupola  of  St.  Peter's. 

Note  13.     Page  462,  line  50. 

Hi*  chisel  hid  the  Hebrew. 
The  statue  of  Moses  on  the  monument  01"  Julius  II, 

SONETO. 
Di  Giovanni  Battista.  Zappi. 

Chi  e  eostui,  che  in  dura  pietra  scolto, 
Siede  gigante;  e  lepiu  illustri.e  conte 
Prove  dell"  arte  avanza.  e  ha  vive,  e  (.route 
Le  lubbia  si,  che  le  parole  ascolto  1 

Quest,  e  Mose :  ben  me  *)  dicera  il  folto 
Onor  del  mento,  e  'I  doppio  raggio  in  fronte. 
Quest'  e  Moso,  quando  scendea  del  monte 
E  gran  parte  del  Nume  avea  nel  vol,o, 

Tal  era  allor  che  le  sonanti.  e  vaste 
Acque  ei  sospesc  a  se  d'intorno,  e  tale 
Quando  il  mar  chiusc ,  e  ne  fc  tomba  altrui 

E  voi  sue  turbe  un  rio  vitello  alzate '.' 
Alzata  avcste  imago  a  queste  ecuale! 
Ch'  era  men  fallo  )'  adorar  eostui. 

Note  14.     Page  462.  line  53. 
Over  the  damn'd  before  ihe  Judgment  throne 
The  Last  Judgment,  in  the  Sistine  chapel. 

Note  15.     Pa^e  i62,  line  56. 
The  stream  of  his  great  thoughts  elmll  spring  from  mn 
1  have  read  somewhere  (if  .  do  not  err,  fur  1  caim.n 
recollect  where)  that  Dante  was  so  great  a  favourite  o« 


4G4 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Michel  Angvolo's,  that  he  had  designed  the  whole  of 
live  Diviia  Commedia ;  but  that  the  volume  containing 
these  studies  was  lost  by  sea. 

Note  16.     Page  462,  line  76. 
Her  charms  to  pontiffs  proud,  who  but  employ,  etc. 
See  the  treatment  of  Michel  Angiolo  by  Julius  II., 
and  his  neglect  by  Leo  X. 


Note  17.     Pago  462,  line  130. 
"What  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  people?" 
"  E  scrisse  piu  volte  non  solamente  a  particolari  cit 
tadini  del  reggimento,  ma  ancora  al  popolo,  e  intra  r 
altre  una  epistola  assai  lunga  che  comiucia : — '  Populi 
mi,  quid  fed  tibi  T  " 

Vita  Ji  Dante  scrilta  da  Leonardo  Aretina. 


Ctic  Eslautr; 

OR, 

CHRISTIAN  AND  HIS  COMRADES. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  foundation  of  the  following  story  will  be  found 
partly  in  the  account  of  the  Mutiny  of  the  Bounty,  in 
the  South  Sea,  in  1789,  and  partly  in  Mariner's  "Ac- 
count of  the  Tonga  Islands." 


THE  ISLAND. 


i. 

THE  morning  watch  was  come :  the  vessel  lay 
Her  course,  and  gently  made  her  liquid  way ; 
The  cloven  billow  flash'd  from  off  her  prow 
In  furrows  form'd  by  that  majestic  plough ; 
The  waters  with  their  world  were  all  before ; 
Behind,  the  South  Sea's  many  an  islet  shore. 
The  quiet  night,  now  dappling,  'gan  to  wane, 
Dividing  darkness  from  the  dawning  main ; 
The  dolphins,  not  unconscious  of  the  day, 
Swam  high,  as  eager  of  the  coming  ray ; 
The  stars  from  broader  beams  began  to  creep, 
And  lift  their  shining  eyelids  from  the  deep ; 
The  sail  resumed  its  lately-shadow'd  white, 
And  the  wind  flutter'd  with  a  freshening  flight ; 
The  purpling  ocean  owns  the  coming  sun — 
ilut,  ere  he  break,  a  deed  is  to  be  done. 

II. 

The  gallant  chief  within  his  cabin  slept, 
Secure  in  those  by  whoir.  the  watch  was  kept: 
His  dreams  were  of  Old  England's  welcome  shore, 
Of  toils  rewarded,  and  of  dangers  o'a  , 
II's  name  was  added  to  the  glorious  roll 
Ofti.'ose  who  search  the  storm-surrounded  pole. 
The  worst  was  o'»r,  and  the  rest  seem'd  sure, 
And  why  should  not  his  slumber  be  secure  ? 
Alas  !  his  deck  was  trod  by  unwilling  feet, 
And  wilder  hands  would  hold  the  vessel's  sheet ; 
Young  hearts,  which  languish'd  for  some  sunny  isle, 
Where  summer  years  and  summer  women  smile ; 
Men  without  country,  who,  too  long  estranged, 
Had  found  no  native  home,  or  found  it  changed, 
Ann,  helf-uiiciviiized,  preferr'd  the  cave 
'  K  nnmf  soft  savage  to  the  uncertain  wave ; 


The  gushing  fruits  that  nature  gave  untill'd  ; 

The  wood  without  a  path  but  where  they  will'd  j 

The  field  o'er  which  promiscuous  plenty  pour'd 

Her  horn  ;  the  equal  land  without  a  lord  ; 

The  wish — which  age's  have  not  yet  subdued 

In  man — to  have  no  master  save  his  mood ; 

The  earth,  whose  mine  was  on  its  face,  unsold, 

The  glowing  sun  and  produce  all  its  gold  ; 

The  freedom  which  can  call  each  grot  a  home ; 

The  general  garden,  where  all  steps  may  roam, 

Where  Nature  owns  a  nation  as  her  child, 

Exulting  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  wild ; 

Their  shells,  their  fruits,  the  only  wealth  they  know ; 

Their  unexploring  navy,  the  canoe ; 

Their  sport,  the  dashing  breakers  and  the  chase ; 

Their  strangest  sight,  an  European  face : — 

Such  was  the  country  which  these  strangers  yeara'd 

To  see  again — a  sight  they  dearly  earn'd. 

HI. 

Awake,  bold  Bligh !  the  foe  is  at  the  gate  ! 

Awake  !  awake ! Alas  !  it  is  too  late  ! 

Fiercely  beside  t!iy  cot  the  mutineer 
Stands,  and  proclaims  the  reign  of  rage  and  fear. 
Thy  limbs  are  bound,  the  bayonet  at  thy  breast, 
The  hands,  which  trembled  at  thy  voice,  arrest : 
Dragg'd  o'er  the  deck,  no  more  at  thy  command 
The  obedient  helm  shall  veer,  the  sail  expand  ; 
That  savage  spirit,  which  would  lull  by  wrath 
Its  desperate  escape  from  duty's  path, 
Glares  round  thee,  in  the  scarce-believing  eyes 
Of  those  who  fear  the  chief  they  sacrifice ; 
For  ne'er  can  man  his  conscience  all  assuage, 
Unless  he  drain  the  wine  of  passion — rage. 

IV. 

In  vain,  not  silenced  by  the  eye  of  death, 

Thou  call'st  the  loyal  with  thy  menaced  breath  :— 

They  come  not ;  they  are  few,  and,  overawed, 

Must  acquiesce  while  sterner  hearts  applaud. 

In  vain  thou  dost  demand  the  cause  ;  a  curse 

Is  all  the  answer,  with  the  threat  of  worse. 

Full  in  thine  eyes  is  waved  the  glittering  blacl  t, 

Close  to  thy  throat  the  pointed  bayonet  laid, 

The  lerell'd  muskets  circle  round  thy  breast 

In  hands  as  stcel'd  to  do  the  deadly  rest. 

Thou  darest  them  to  their  worst,  exclaiming    '  F'-re  I 

But  they  who  pitied  not  could  yet  admiru  • 


THE  ISLAND. 


Some  lurking  remnant  of  their  former  awe 
Restrain'd  them  longer  than  their  broken  law ; 
They  would  not  dip  their  souls  at  once  in  blood, 
But  left  thee  to  the  mercies  of  the  flood. 

V. 

'Hoist  out  the  boat!"  was  now  the  leader's  cry : 
And  who  dare  answer  "  No"  to  mutiny, 
In  the  first  dawning  of  the  drunken  hour, 
The  Saturnalia  of  unhoped-for  power  ? 
The  boat  is  lower'd  with  all  the  haste  of  hate, 
With  its  slight  plank  between  thee  and  thy  fate  ; 
Her  only  cargo  such  a  scant  supply 
As  promises  the  death  their  hands  deny ; 
And  just  enough  of  water  and  of  bread 
To  keep,  some  days,  the  dying  from  the  dead : 
Some  cordage,  canvas,  sails,  and  lines,  and  twine, 
But  treasures  all  to  hermits  of  the  brine, 
Were  added  after,  to  the  earnest  prayer 
Of  those  who  saw  no  hope  save  sea  and  air; 
And  last,  that  trembling  vassal  of  the  pole, 
The  feeling  compass,  navigation's  soul. 

VI. 

And  now  the  self-elected  chief  finds  time 

To  stun  the  first  sensation  of  his  crime, 

And  raise  it  in  his  followers — "Ho  !  the  bowl!" 

Lest  passion  should  return  to  reason's  shoal. 

"  Brandy  for  heroes  !"  Burke  could  once  exclaim, — 

No  doubt  a  liquid  path  to  epic  fame  ; 

And  such  the  new-born  heroes  (bund  it  here, 

And  drain'd  the  draught  with  an  applauding  cheer. 

u  Huzza !  for  Otaheite  ! "  was  the  cry  ; 

How  strange  such  shouts  from  sons  of  mutiny ! 

The  gentle  island,  and  the  genial  soil, 

The  friendly  hearts,  the  feast  without  a  toil, 

The  courteous  manners  but  from  nature  caught, 

The  wealth  unhoarded,  and  the  love  unbought ; 

Could  these  have  charms  for  rudest  sea-boys,  driven 

Before  the  mast  by  every  wind  of  heaven  ? 

And  now,  even  now,  prepared  with  others'  woes 

To  earn  mild  virtue's  vain  desire — repose  ? 

Alas  !  such  is  our  nature  !  all  but  aim 

At  the  same  end,  by  pathways  not  the  same ; 

Our  means,  our  birth,  our  nation,  and  our  name, 

Our  fortune,  temper,  even  our  outward  frame, 

Are  far  more  potent  over  yielding  clay 

Than  aught  we  know  beyond  our  little  day. 

Yet  still  there  whispers  the  small  voice  within, 

Heard  through  gain's  silence,  and  o'er  glory's  din  : 

Whatever  creed  be  taught  or  land  be  trod, 

Man's  conscience  is  the  oracle  of  GOD  ! 

VII. 

The  launch  is  crowded  with  the  faithful  few 
Who  wait  their  chief,  a  melancholy  crew: 
But  some  remain'd  reluctant  on  the  deck 
Of  that  proud  vessel — now  a  moral  wreck — 
And  view'd  their  captain's  fate  with  piteous  eyes  ; 
While  others  scofT'd  his  augur'd  miseries, 
Sneer'd  at  the  prospect  of  his  pigmy  sail, 
And  the  slight  bark,  so  laden  and  so  frail. 
The  tender  nautilus  who  steers  his  prow, 
!'!»«  sta-born  sailor  of  his  shell  canoe, 
Tnt  >cean  Mab,  the  fairy  of  the  sea, 
Seems  far  less  fragile,  and,  alas!  more  free! 
2  S  14 


He,  when  the  lightning-wing'd  tornadoes  sweep 
The  surge,  is  safe — his  port  is  in  the  deep — 
And  triumphs  o'er  the  armadas  of  mankind, 
Which  shake  the  world,  yet  crumble  in  the  wind 

VIII. 

When  all  was  now  prepared,  the  vessel  clear 
Which  hail'd  her  master  in  the  mutineer — 
A  seaman,  less  obdurate  than  his  mates, 
Show'd  the  vain  pity  which  but  irritates  ; 
Watch'd  his  late  chieftain  with  exploring  eye, 
And  told  in  signs  repentant  sympathy  ; 
Held  the  moist  shaddock  to  his  parched  nouth, 
Which  felt  exhaustion's  deep  and  bitter  drouth. 
But,  soon  observed,  this  guardian  was  withdrawn. 
Nor  further  mercy  clouds  rebellion's  dawn. 
Then  forward  stepp'd  the  bold  and  froward  boy 
His  chief  had  cherish'd  only  to  destroy , 
And,  pointing  to  the  hopeless  prow  beneath, 
Exclaim'd,  "  Depart  at  once  !  delay  is  death !" 
Yet  then,  even  then,  his  feelings  ceased  not  all: 
In  that  last  moment  could  a  word  recall 
Remorse  for  the  black  deed,  as  yet  half-done, 
And,  what  he  hid  from  many,  show'd  to  one  : 
When  Bligh,  in  stern  reproach,  demanded  where 
Was  now  his  grateful  sense  of  former  care  ? — 
Where  all  his  hopes  to  see  his  name  aspire, 
And  blazon  Britain's  thousand  glories  higher? 
His  feverish  lips  thus  broke  their  gloomy  spell, 
"  'T  is  that !  't  is  that !  I  am  in  hell !  in  hell  "' 
No  more  he  said ;  but,  urging  to  the  bark 
His  chief,  commits  him  to  his  fragile  ark  : 
These  the  sole  accents  from  his  tongue  that  fell, 
But  volumes  lurk'd  below  his  fierce  farewell. 

IX. 

The  arctic  sun  rose  broad  above  the  wave ; 

The  -breeze  now  sunk,  now  whisper'd  from  his  cave 

As  on  the  .iEolian  harp,  his  fitful  wings 

Now  swell'd,  now  flutter'd  o'er  his  ocean  strings. 

With  slow  despairing  oar,  the  abandon'd  skiff 

Ploughs  its  drear  progress  to  the  scarce-seen  cliff, 

Which  lifts  its  peak  a  cloud  above  the  main : 

That  boat  and  ship  shall  never  meet  again  ! 

But 't  is  not  mine  to  tell  their  tale  of  grief, 

Their  constant  peril,  and  their  scant  relief; 

Their  days  of  danger,  and  their  nights  of  pain  ; 

Their  manly  courage,  even  when  deem'd  in  vain : 

The  sapping  famine,  rendering  scarce  a  son 

Known  to  his  mother  in  the  skeleton  ; 

The  ills  that  lessen'd  still  their  little  store, 

And  starved  even  hunger  till  he  wring  no  more  ; 

The  varying  frowns  and  favours  of  the  deep, 

That  now  almost  engulfs,  then  loaves  to  creep 

With  crazy  oar  and  shatter'd  strength  along 

The  tide,  that  yields  reluctant  to  the  strong ; 

The  incessant  fever  of  that  arid  thirst 

Which  welcomes,  as  a  well,  the  cloiuls  thai  hurst 

Above  their  naked  bones,  and  feels  delight 

In  the  cold  drenching  of  the  stormy  night, 

And  from  the  outspread  canvas  gladly  wrings 

A  drop  to  moisten  life's  all-gasping  springs  ; 

The  savage  foe  escaped,  to  seek  again 

More  hospitable  shelter  from  the  main ; 

The  ghastly  spectres  which  were  doom'd  at  ,«•• 

To  tell  as  tru<8  a  tale  of  dangers  past. 


FVRONS  WORKS, 


•js  "-^n.-cr  k  .L» 
-_•-  |    i  dj|  «.v  | 


CAKTO  O. 

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46? 


BYRON'S  WORKS, 


An  tumbler  state  and  discipline  of  heart 
Had  formed  his  glorious  namesake's  counterpart :  * 
But  grant  his  vices,  grant  them  all  his  own, 
How  small  their  theatre  without  a  throne ! 

IX. 

Thou  smilest, — these  comparisons  seem  high 
To  those  who  scan  all  things  with  dazzled  eye ; 
Link'ii  with  the  unknown  name  of  one  whose  doom 
Has  nought  to  do  with  glory  or  with  Rome, 
With  Chili,  Helias,  or  with  Araby. 
Thou  smilest ! — smile  ;  't  is  better  thus  than  sigh ; 
Yet  such  he  might  have  been  ;  he  was  a  man, 
A  soaring  spirit  ever  in  the  van, 
A  patriot  hero  or  despotic  chief, 
To  form  a  nation's  glory  or  its  grief, 
Born  undei  auspices  which  make  us  more 
Or  less  than  we  delight  to  ponder  o'er. 
But  these  are  visions  ;  say,  what  was  he  here? 
A  blooming  boy,  a  truant  mutineer, 
The  fair-hair'd  Torquil,  free  as  ocean's  spray, 
The  husband  of  the  bride  of  Toobonai. 

X. 

By  Neuha's  side  he  sate,  and  watch'd  the  waters, — 
Neuha,  the  sun-flower  of  the  Island  daughters, 
High-born  (a  birth  at  which  the  herald  smiles, 
Without  a  'scutcheon  for  these  secret  isles) 
Of  a  long  race,  the  valiant  and  the  free, 
The  naked  knights  of  savage  chivalry, 
Whose  grassy  cairns  ascend  along  the  shore, 
And  thine, — I  've  seen, — Achilles  !  do  no  more. 
She,  when  the  thunder-bearing  strangers  came 
In  vast  canoes,  begirt  with  bolts  qf  flame, 
Topp'd  with  tall  trees,  which,  loftier  than  the  palm, 
Seem'd  rooted  in  the  deep  amidst  its  calm  ; 
But,  when  the  winds  awaken'd  shot  forth  wings 
Broad  as  the  cloud  along  the  horizon  flings, 
And  sway'd  the  waves,  like  cities  of  the  sea, 
Making  the  very  billows  look  less  free  ; — 
She,  with  her  paddling  oar  and  dancing  prow, 
Shot  through  the  surf,  like  reindeer  through  the  snow, 
Swift  gliding  o'er  the  breaker's  whitening  edge, 
Light  as  a  Nereid  in  her  ocean-sledge, 
And  gazed  and  wonder'd  at  the  giant  hulk 
Which  heaved  from  wave  to  wave  its  trampling  bulk : 
The  anchor  dropp'J,  it  lay  along  the  deep, 
Like  a  huge  lion  in  the  sun  asleep, 
While  round  it  swarm'd  the  proas'  flitting  chain, 
Like  summer-bees  that  hum  around  his  mane. 

XI. 

The  white  man  landed  ; — need  the  rest  be  told? 
The  New  World  stretch'd  its  dusk  hand  to  the  old  ; 
Each  was  to  each  a  marvel,  and  the  tie 
Of  wonder  warm'd  to  better  sympathy. 
Kind  was  the  welcome  of  the  sun-born  sires, 
And  kinder  still  their  daughters'  gentler  fires. 


Their  union  grew :  the  children  of  the  storm 

Found  beauty  link'd  with  many  a  dusky  form ; 

While  these  in  tur.i  admired  the  paler  glow, 

Which  seem'd  so  white  in  climes  that  knew  no  in*  ', 

The  chase,  the  race,  the  liberty  to  roam, 

The  soil  where  every  cottage  show'd  a  home  ; 

The  sea-spread  net,  the  lightly-launch'd  canoe, 

Which  stemm'd  the  studded  Archipelago, 

O'er  whose  blue  bosom  r"se  the  starry  isles ; 

The  healthy  slumber,  earn'd  by  sportive  toils ; 

The  palm,  the  loftiest  Dryad  of  the  woods, 

Within  whose  bosom  infant  Bacchus  broods, 

While  eagles  scarce  build  higher  than  the  crest 

Which  shadows  o'er  the  vineyard  in  her  breast ; 

The  cava  feast,  the  yam,  the  cocoa's  root, 

Which  bears  at  once  the  cup,  and  milk,  and  frai'. ; 

The  bread-tree,  which,  without  the  ploughshare,  yie»u 

The  unreap'd  harvest  of  unfurrow'd  fields, 

And  bakes  its  unadulterated  loaves 

Without  a  furnace  in  unpurchased  groves, 

And  flings  off"  famine  from  its  fertile  breast, 

A  priceless  market  for  the  gathering  guest  ; — 

These,  with  the  luxuries  of  seas  and  woods, 

The  airy  joys  of  social  solitudes, 

Tamed  each  rude  wanderer  to  the  sympathies 

Of  those  who  were  more  happy  if  less  wise, 

Did  more  than  Europe's  dicipline  had  done, 

And  civilized  civilization's  son ! 

XII. 

Of  these,  and  there  was  many  a  willing  pair, 

Neuha  and  Torquil  were  not  the  least  fair  : 

Both  children  of  the  isles,  though  distant  far ; 

Both  born  beneath  a  sea-presiding  star; 

Both  nourish'd  amidst  nature's  native  scenes, 

Loved  to  the  last,  whatever  intervenes 

Between  us  and  our  childhood's  sympathy, 

Which  still  reverts  to  what  first  caught  the  eye. 

He  who  first  met  the  Highlands'  swelling  blue, 

Will  love  each  peak  that  shows  a  kindred  hue, 

Hail  in  each  crag  a  friend's  familiar  face, 

And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind's  embrace. 

Long  have  I  roam'd  through  lands  which  are  not  mine, 

Adored  the  Alp  and  loved  the  Apennine, 

Revered  Parnassus,  and  beheld  the  steep 

Jove's  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  deep . 

But 't  was  not  all  long  ages'  lore,  nor  all 

Their  nature  held  me  in  their  thrilling  thrall ; 

The  infant  rapture  still  survived  the  boy, 

And  Loch-na-gar  with  Ida  look'd  o'er  Trey,1 

Mix'd  Celtic  memories  with  the  Phrygian  mount, 

And  Highland  linns  with  Castalie's  clear  fount. 

Forgive  me,  Homer's  universal  shade  ! 

Forgive  me,  Phoebus !  that  my  fancy  stray'd  ; 

The  North  and  Nature  taught  me  to  adore 

Your  scenes  sublime  from  those  beloved  before. 


•  1  The  Consul  Nero,  who  made  the  unequalled  march  which 
Icceived  Hannibal,  and  defeated  Asdrubal:  thereby  accom- 
uiishing  an  achievement  almost  unrivalled  in  military  annals. 
Flip  first  intelligence  of  his  return,  to  Hannibal,  was  the  sight 
•f  AsdrubaPs  head  thrown  into  his  camp.  When  Hannibal 
taw  this,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sigh,  that  "  Rome  would  now 
be  the  mistress  of  the  world."  And  yetto  this  victory  of  Nero's 
it  might  be  owing  that  hie  imperial  namesake  reigned  at  all! 
Hut  trie  i.ifamy  of  one  has  eclipsed  the  glory  of  the  other. 
Wli.'ii  the  name  of  "  Nero  "  is  Heard,  who  thinks  of  the  Con- 
mi  1  Uut  tutu  are  human  thine* 


1  When  very  young,  about  eight  years  ofage,  after  an  attack 
of  the  scarlet  fever  at  Aberdeen.  I  was  removed  by  medical 
advice  into  the  Highlands.  Here  I  passed  occasionally  suma 
summers,  and  from  this  period  1  date  my  love  of  mountainous 
countries.  I  can  never  forget  the  effect  a  few  years  afterwards 
in  England,  of  the  only  thing  I  had  long  seen,  even  in  min- 
iature, of  a  mountain,  in  the  Malvern  Hills.  After  I  returned 
to  Cheltenham,  I  used  to  watch  them  every  afternoon  at  sun- 
set, with  a  sensation  which  I  cannot  describe.  I  his  wis  boyish 
enough:  but  I  wan  then  only  thirteen  *enr  of  ago  and  it  wu 
in  the  holidays 


THE  ISLAND. 


409 


xm. 

The  love,  which  m^»  ."h  all  things  fond  and  fair, 
The  youth,  which  mak,.    'sie  rainbow  of  the  air, 
The  dangers  past,  that  mix.     «sven  man  enjoy 
The  pause  in  which  he  ceases  .o  destroy, 
T'IC  mutual  beauty,  which  the  sternest  feel 
Strike  to  their  hearts  like  lightning  to  the  steel, 
United  the  half  savage  and  the  whole, 
The  maid  and  boy,  in  one  absorbing  soul. 
No  more  the  thundering  memory  of  the  fight 
Wrapp'd  his  wean'd  bosom  in  its  Bark  delight ; 
No  more  the  irksome  restlessness  of  rest 
Disturb'd  him  like  the  eagle  in  her  nest, 
Whose  whetted  beak  and  far-pervading  eye 
Darts  for  a  victim  over  all  the  sky  ; 
His  heart  was  tamed  to  that  voluptuous  state, 
At  once  elysian  and  effeminate, 
Which  leaves  no  laurels  o'er  the  hero's  urn  ; — 
These  wither  when  fot  aught  save  blood  they  burn  ; 
Yet,  when  their  ashes  in  their  nook  are  laid, 
Doth  not  the  myrtle  leave  as  sweet  a  shade  ? 
Had  Cffisar  known  but  Cleopatra's  kiss, 
Rome  had  been  free,  the  world  had  not  been  his. 
And  what  have  Caesar's  deeds  and  Caesar's  fame 
Done  for  the  earth  ?  We  feel  them  in  our  shame  : 
The  gory  sanction  of  his  glory  stains 
The  rust  which  tyrants  cherish  on  our  chains. 
Though  glory,  nature,  reason,  freedom,  bid 
Roused  millions  do  what  single  Brutus  did, — 
Sweep  these  mere  mock-birds  of  the  despot's  song 
From  the  tall  bough  where  they  have  perch'd  so  long,- 
Still  arc  we  hawk'd  at  by  such  mousing  owls, 
And  take  for  falcons  those  ignoble  fowls, 
When  but  a  word  of  freedom  would  dispel 
These  bugbears,  as  their  terrors  show  too  well. 

XIV. 

Rapt  in  the  fond  forgetfulness  of  life, 
Neuha,  the  South  Sea  girl,  was  all  a  wife, 
With  no  distracting  world  to  call  her  off 
From  love  ;  with  no  society  to  scoff 
At  the  new  transient  flame ;  no  babbling  crowd 
Of  coxcombry  in  admiration  load, 
Or  with  adulterous  whisper  to  alloy 
Her  duty,  and  her  glory,  and  her  joy  ; 
With  faith  and  feelings  naked  as  her  form, 
She  stood  as  stands  a  rainbow  in  a  storm, 
Changing  its  hues  with  bright  variety, 
But  still  expanding  lovelier  o'er  the  sky, 
Howe'er  its  arch  may  swell,  its  colours  move, 
The  cloud-compelling  harbinger  of  love. 

XV. 

Here,  in  this  grotto  of  the  wave-worn  shore, 
They  pass'd  the  tropic's  red  meridian  o'er  ; 
Nor  long  the  hours — they  never  paused  o'er  time, 
(Tnnroken  by  the  clock's  funereal  chime, 
Which  deals  the  daily  pittance  of  our  span, 
And  points  and  mocks  with  iron  laugh  at  man. 
What  deem'd  they  of  the  future  or  the  past  ? 
The  present,  like  a  tyrant,  held  them  fast ; 
Their  hour-glass  was  the  sea-sand,  and  the  (Me, 
Li'ce  her  smooth  billow,  saw  their  moments  glide ; 
Their  clock  the  sun  in  his  unbounded  tower  ; 
They  reckon'd  not,  whcse  day  was  but  an  hour; 


The  nightingale,  then1  only  vesper-bell, 
Sung  sweetly  to  the  rose  the  day's  farewell ; ' 
The  broad  sun  set,  but  not  with  lingering  sweep, 
As  in  the  north  he  mellows  o'er  the  deep, 
But  fiery,  full,  and  fierce,  as  if  he  left 
The  world  for  ever,  earth  of  light  bereft, 
Plunged  with  red  forehead  down  along  the  wave, 
As  dives  a  hero  headlong  to  his  grave. 
Then  rose  they,  looking  first  along  the  skies, 
And  then,  for  light,  into  each  other's  eyes,  . 
Wondering  that  summer  show'd  so  brief  a  sun, 
And  asking  if  indeed  the  day  were  done  7 

XVI. 

And  let  not  this  seem  strange  ;  the  devotee 

Lives  not  in  earth,  but  hi  his  ecstasy ; 

Around  him  days  and  worlds  are  heedless  driven,— 

His  soul  is  gone  before  his  dust  to  heaven. 

Is  love  less  potent  ?  No — his  path  is  trod, 

Alike  uplifted  gloriously  to  God ; 

Or  link'd  to  all  we  know  of  heaven  below, 

The  other  better  self,  whose  joy  or  woe 

Is  more  than  ours  ;  the  all-absorbing  flame 

Which,  kindled  by  another,  grows  the  same, 

Wrapt  in  one  blaze  ;  the  pure,  yet  funeral  pile, 

Where  gentle  hearts,  like  Bramins,  sit  and  smile. 

How  often  we  forget  all  time,  when  lone, 

Admiring  nature's  universal  throne, 

Her  woods,  her  wilds,  her  waters,  the  intense 

Reply  of  htrs  to  our  intelligence ! 

Live  not  the  stars  and  mountains  ?  Are  the  wave* 

Without  a  spirit  ?  Are  the  dropping  caves 

Without  a  feeling  in  their  silent  tears  ? 

No,  no : — they  woo  and  clasp  us  to  their  spheres, 

Dissolve  this  clog  and  clod  of  clay  before 

Its  hour,  and  merge  our  soul  in  the  great  shore. 

Strip  off  this  fond  and  false  identity ! — 

Who  thinks  of  self,  when  gazing  on  the  sky  ? 

And  who,  though  gazing  lower,  ever  thought, 

In  the  young  moments  ere  the  heart  is  taught 

Time's  lesson,  of  man's  baseness  or  his  own  ? 

All  nature  is  his  realm,  and  love  his  throne. 

XVII. 

Neuha  arose,  and  Torquil :  twilight's  hour 
Came  sad  and  softly  to  their  rocky  bower, 
Which,  kindling  by  degrees  its  dewy  spars, 
Echo'd  their  dim  light  to  the  mustering  stars. 
Slowly  the  pair,  partaking  nature's  calm, 
Sought  out  their  cottage,  built  beneath  the  palm ; 
Now  smiling  and  now  silent,  as  the  scene ; 
Lovely  as  love — the  spirit !   when  serene. 
The  Ocean  scarce  spoke  louder  with  his  swell 
Than  breathes  his  mimic  murmurer  in  the  shell,* 


1  The  now  well-known  story  of  the  loves  of  the  nightingale 
and  rose,  need  not  be  more  than  alluded  to,  being  sufficiently 
familiar  to  the  Western  as  to  the  Eastern  reader. 

2  If  the  reader  will  apply  to  his  ear  the  sea-shell  on  hit 
chimney-piece,  he  will  be  aware  of  what  is  alluded  to.  If  the 
text  should  appear  obscure,  he  will  find  in  '  Gebir  "  the  name 
idea  better  expressed  in  two  lines. — The  poem  I  never  rerd, 
but  have  heard  the  lines  quoted  by  a  more  recondite  readm- 
who  seems  to  be  of  a  different  opinion  from  -he  Editor  of  the 
Quarterly  Review,  who  qualified  it,  in  his  answer  to  the 
Critical  Reviewer  of  his  Journal,  as  hcsh  of  the  worst  and 
most  insane  description.     It  is  to  Mr.  Landor,  the  authoi 
of  Gebir,  so  qualified,  and  of  some  Latin  poem?,  which  VM 
with  Martial  or  Catullus  in  obscenity,  that  the  immaculti* 
Mr.  Southey  addresses  his  declamation  against  impurity  ( 


470 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


As,,  far  divided  from  his  parent  deep, 
The  sea-born  infant  cries,  and  will  not  sleep, 
Raising  his  little  plaint  in  vain,  to  rave 
For  the  broad  bosom  of  his  nursing  wave : 
The  woods  droop'd  darkly,  as  inclined  to  rest, 
The  tropic-bird  wheel'd  rock-ward  to  his  nest. 
And  the  blue  sky  spread  round  them  like  a  lake 
Of  peace,  where  piety  her  thirst  might  slake. 

XVIII. 

But  through  the  palm  and  plantain,  hark,  a  voice ! 

Not  such  as  would  have  been  a  lover's  choice 

In  such  an  hour  to  break  the  air  so  still ! 

No  dying  night-breeze,  harping  o'er  the  hill, 

Striking  the  strings  of  nature,  rock  and  tree, 

Those  best  and  earliest  lyres  of  harmony, 

With  echo  for  their  chorus  ;  nor  the  alarm 

Of  the  loud  war-whoop  to  dispel  the  charm ; 

Nor  the  soliloquy  of  the  hermit  owl, 

Exhaling  all  his  solitary  soul, 

The  dim  though  large-eyed  winged  anchorite, 

Who  peals  his  dreary  paean  o'er  the  night ; — 

But  a  loud,  long,  and  naval  whistle,  shrill 

As  ever  startled  through  a  sea-bird's  bill ; 

And  then  a  pause,  and  then  a  hoarse  "  Hillo ! 

Torquil !  my  boy!  what  cheer?  Ho,  brother,  ho  !" 

"Who  hails?"  cried  Torquil^  following  with  his  eye 

The  sound.     "  Here 's  one !"  was  all  the  brief  reply. 

XIX. 

But  here  the  herald  of  the  self-same  mouth 

Came  breathing  o'er  the  aromatic  south, 

No*,  like  a  "  bed  of  violets  "  on  the  gale, 

But  such  as  wafts  its  cloud  o'er  grog  or  ale, 

Borne  from  a  short  frail  pipe,  which  yet  had  blown 

Its  gentle  odours  over  either  zone, 

And,  puff  d  where'er  winds  rise  or  waters  roll, 

Had  wafted  smoke  from  Portsmouth  to  the  Pole, 

Opposed  its  vapour  as  the  lightning  flash'd, 

And  reek'd,  'midst  mountain  billows  unabash'd, 

To  .iEolus  a  constant  sacrifice, 

Through  every  change  of  all  the  varying  skies. 

And  what  was  he  who  bore  it  ? — I  may  err, 

But  deem  him  sailor  or  philosopher. ' 

Sublime  tobacco !  which  from  east  to  west 

Cheers  the  tar's  labour  or  the  Turkman's  rest; 

Which  on  the  Moslem's  ottoman  divides 

His  hours,  and  rivals  opium  and  his  brides  ; 

Magnificent  in  Stamboul,  but  less  grand, 

Though  not  less  loved,  in  Wapping  or  the  Strand  , 

Divine  in  hookas,  glorious  in  a  pipe, 

When  tipp'd  with  amber,  yellow,  rich,  ard  ripe ; 

Like  other  charmers,  wooing  the  caress 

More  dazzlingly  when  daring  in  full  dress  ; 

Yet  thy  true  lovers  more  admire  by  far 

Thy  naked  beauties — J3  ive  me  a  cigar ! 

XX. 

Through  the  approaching  darkness  of  the  wood 
A  human  figure  broke  the  solitude, 
Fantastically,  it  may  be,  array'd, 
A  seaman  in  a  savage  masquerade ; 
5*i.ch  as  appears  to  rise  from  out  the  deep, 
When  o'er  the  Line  the  merry  vessels  sweep, 


1  Huhlics,  the  father  ot  Locke's  and  other  philosophy,  wai 
»•)  inveterate  smukT  — even  to  pipes  beyond  computation. 


And  the  rough  Saturnalia  of  the  tar 
Flock  o'er  the  deck,  in  Neptune's  borrow'd  car ; 
And,  pleased,  the  god  of  ocean  sees>  his  name 
Revive  once  more,  though  but  in  mimic  game 
Of  his  true  sons,  who  riot  in  a  breeze 
Undreamt  of  in  his  native  Cyclades. 
Still  the  old  god  delights,  from  out  the  main, 
To  snatch  some  glimpses  of  his  ancient  reign. 
Our  sailor's  jacket,  though  in  ragged  trim, 
His  constant  pipe,  which  never  yet  burn'd  d:m. 
His  foremast  air,  and  somewhat  rolling  gait, 
Like  his  dear  vessel,  spoke  his  formei  state  ; 
But  then  a  sort  of  kerchief  round  his  head, 
Not  over  tightly  bound,  or  nicely  spread  ; 
And,  stead  of  trowsers  (ah  !  too  early  torn  ! 
For  even  the  mildest  woods  will  have  their  thorn) 
A  curious  sort  of  somewhat  scanty  mat 
Now  served  for  inexpressibles  and  hat ; 
His  naked  feet  and  neck,  and  sunburnt  face, 
Perchance  might  suit  alike  with  either  race. 
His  arms  were  all  his  own,  our  Europe's  growth, 
Which  two  worlds  bless  for  civilizing  both  ; 
The  musket  swung  behind  his  shoulders,  broad 
And  somewhat  stoop'd  by  his  marine  abode, 
But  brawny  as  the  boar's  ;  and,  hung  beneath, 
His  cutlass  droop'd,  unconscious  of  a  sheath, 
Or  lost  or  worn  away  ;  his  pistols  were 
Link'd  to  his  belt,  a  matrimonial  pair — 
(Let  not  this  metaphor  appear  a  scoff, 
Though  one  miss'd  fire,  the  other  would  go  off); 
These,  with  a  bayonet,  not  so  free  from  rust 
As  when  the  arm-chest  held  its  brighter  trust, 
Completed  his  accoutrements,  as  night 
Siirvey'd  him  in  his  garb  heieroclite. 

XXI. 

"What  cheer,  Ben  Bunting  ?"  cried  (when  in  full  viev* 

Our  new  acquaintance)  Torquil ;   "  Aught  of  new  V" 

"  Ey,  ey,"  quoth  Ben,  "  not  new,  but  news  enow  ; 

A  strange  sail  in  the  offing." — "  Sail !  and  how  ? 

What !  could  you  make  her  out  ?  It  cannot  be  ; 

I  've  seen  no  rag  of  canvas  on  the  sea." 

"  Belike,"  said  Ben,  "  you  might  not  from  the  bay 

But  from  the  bluff-head,  where  I  watch'd  to-day, 

I  saw  her  in  the  doldrums  ;  for  the  wind 

Was  light  and  baffling." — "  When  the  sun  declined 

Where  lay  she?  had  she  anchor'd?" — "  No,  but  stiil 

She  bore  down  on  us,  till  the  wind  grew  still." 

"  Her  flag  ?" — "  I  had  no  glass  ;  but,  fore  and  ait 

Egad,  she  seem'd  a  wicked-looking  craft." 

"  Arm'd  ?" — "  I  expect  so— sent  on  the  look-out  ;•  - 

'T  is  time,  belike,  to  put  our  helm  about." 

"  About? — Whate'er  may  have  us  now  in  chase, 

We  '11  make  no  running  fight,  for  that  were  base ; 

We  will  die  at  our  quarters,  like  true  men." 

"  Ey,  ey  ;  for  that,  't  is  all  the  same  to  Ben." 

"  Does  Christian  know  this  ?" — "Ay  ;  he  's  piped  L) 

hands 

To  quarters.    They  are  furbishing  the  stands 
Of  arms  ;   and  we  have  got  some  guns  to  bear, 
And  scaled  them.  You  are  wanted." — "  That 's  but  fair; 
And  if  it  were  not,  mine  is  not  the  soul 
To  leave  my  comrades  helpless  on  the  shoal. 


1  This  rough  but  joviai  ceremony,  used  in  crossing  th« 
Line,  has  been  BO  often  and  so  well  described  that  it  ne<*  no 
be  more  than  alluded  to. 


THE  ISLAND. 


471 


My  Neuha !  ah !  and  must  my  fate  pursue 

Not  me  alone,  but  one  so  sweet  and  true  ? 

But  whatsoe'er  betide,  ah !  Neuha,  now 

Unman  me  not ;  the  hour  will  not  allow 

A  lear  ;  I'm  thine,  whatever  intervenes!" 

H Right,"  quoth  Ben,  "that  will  do  for  the  marines."1 


CANTO  III. 


i. 

THE  fignt  was  o'er :  the  flashing  through  the  gloom, 

Which  robes  the  cannon  as  he  wings  a  tomb, 

Had  ceased ;  and  sulphury  vapours  upwards  driven 

Had  left  the  earth,  and  but  polluted  heaven : 

The  rattling  roar  which  rung  in  every  volley 

Had  left  the  valleys  to  their  melancholy ; 

No  more  they  shriek'd  their  horror,  boom  for  boom ; 

The  strife  was  done,  the  vanquish'd  had  their  doom ; 

The  mutineers  were  crush'd,  dispersed,  or  ta'en, 

Or  lived  to  deem  the  happiest  were  the  slain. 

Few,  few,  escaped,  and  these  were  hunted  o'er 

The  isle  they  loved  beyond  their  native  shore. 

No  further  home  was  theirs,  it  seem'd,  on  earth, 

Once  renegades  to  that  which  gave  them  birth  ; 

Track'd  like  wild  beasts,  like  them  they  sought  the  wild, 

As  to  a  mother's  bosom  flies  the  child  ; 

But  vainly  wolves  and  lions  seek  their  den, 

And  still  more  vainly  men  escape  from  men. 

II. 

Beneath  a  rock  whose  jutting  base  protrudes 

Far  over  ocean  in  his  fiercest  moods, 

When  scaling  his  enormous  crag,  the  wave 

Is  hurl'd  down  headlong  like  the  foremost  brave, 

And  falls  back  on  the  foaming  crowd  behind, 

Which  fight  beneath  the  banners  of  the  wind, 

But  now  at  rest,  a  little  remnant  drew 

Together,  bleeding,  thirsty,  faint,  and  few  ; 

But  still  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  and  still 

W  ith  something  of  the  pride  of  former  will, 

As  men  not  all  unused  to  meditate, 

And  strive  much  more  than  wonder  at  their  fate. 

Their  present  lot  was  what  they  had  foreseen, 

And  dared  as  what  was  likely  to  have  been  ; 

Yet  still  the  lingering  hope,  which  deem'd  their  lot 

Not  pardon'd,  but  unsought-for  or  forgot, 

Or  trusted  that,  if  sought,  their  distant  caves 

Might  still  be  miss'd  amidst  that  world  of  waves, 

Had  wean'd  their  thoughts  in  part  from  what  they  saw 

And  felt — the  vengeance  of  their  country's  law. 

Their  sea-green  isle,  their  guilt-won  paradise, 

No  more  could  shield  their  virtue  or  I  heir  vice : 

Their  be'.ter  feelings,  if  such  were,  were  thrown 

Back  on  themselves, — their  sins  remain'd  alone. 

Proscribed  even  in  their  second  country,  they 

Were  lost ;   in  vain  the  world  before  them  lay ; 

All  outlets  seem'd  secured.     Their  new  allies 

Had  fought  and  bled  in  mutual  sacrifice  ; 

But  what  avail'd  the  club  and  spear  and  arm 

3f  Hercules,  against  the  sulphury  charm, 


1  "T'"it  will  do  for  the  marines,  hut  the  sailors  won't  be- 
(p.vc  it.."  is  an  old  saying,  and  one  of  the  lew  fragment*  of 
•ormer  joalousirs  which  sllll  survive  (in  jest  only)  between 
•«ese  gallant  services. 


The  magic  of  the  thunder,  which  destroy'd 
The  warrior  ere  his  strength  could  be  employ 'd  ? 
Dug,  like  a  spreading  pestilence,  the  grave 
No  less  of  human  bravery  than  the  brave ! ' 
Their  own  scant  numbers  acted  all  the  few 
Against  the  many  oft  will  dare  and  do ; 
But  though  the  choice  seems  native  to  die  free, 
Even  Greece  can  boast  but  one  Th^rnaopyke, 
Till  now,  when  she  has  forged  her  broken  chain 
Back  to  a  sword,  and  dies  and  lives  again ! 

III. 

Beside  the  jutting  rock  the  few  appear'd, 

Like  the  last  remnant  of  the  red-deer's  herd  ; 

Their  eyes  were  feverish,  and  their  aspect  worn, 

But  still  the  hunter's  blood  was  on  their  horn. 

A  little  stream  came  tumbling  from  the  height, 

And  straggling  into  ocean  as  it  might, 

Its  bounding  crystal  frolick'd  in  the  ray, 

And  gush'd  from  cleft  to  crag  with  saltless  spray ; 

Close  on  the  wild  wide  ocean,  yet  as  pure 

And  fresh  as  innocence,  and  more  secure, 

Its  silver  torrent  glitter'd  o'er  the  deep, 

As  the  shy  chamois'  eye  o'erlooks  the  steep, 

While  far  below  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 

Of  ocean's  Alpine  azure  rose  and  fell. 

To  this  young  spring  they  rushM,— -all  feelings  first 

Absorb'd  in  passion's  and  in  nature's  thirst, — 

Drank  as  they  do  who  drink  their  last,  and  tnrew 

Their  arms  aside  to  revel  in  its  dew ; 

Cool'd  their  scorch'd  throats,  and  wash'd  the  gory  stai*> 

From  wounds  whose  only  bandage  might  be  chains  ; 

Then,  when  their  drought  was  quench'd,  look'd  saiS^ 

round, 

As  wondering  how  so  many  still  were  found 
Alive  and  fetterless : — but  silent  all, 
Each  sought  his  fellow's  eyes,  as  if  to  call 
On  him  for  language  which  his  lips  denied, 
As  though  their  voices  with  their  cause  had  died. 

IV. 

Stern,  and  aloof  a  little  from  the  rest, 
Stood  Christian,  with  his  arms  across  his  chest. 
The  ruddy,  reckless,  dauntless  hue,  once  spread 
Along  his  cheek,  was  livid  now  as  lead  ; 
His  light-brown  locks,  so  graceful  in  their  flow, 
Now  rose  like  startled  vipers  o'er  his  brow. 
Still  as  a  statue,  with  his  lips  compress'd 
To  stifle  even  the  breath  within  his  breast, 
Fast  by  the  rock,  all  menacing  but  mute, 
He  stood  ;   and,  save  a  slight  beat  of  his  foot, 
Which  decpen'd  now  and  then  the  sandy  dint 
Beneath  his  heel,  his  form  seem'd  turn'd  to  flinU 
Some  paces  further,  Torquil  lean'd  his  head 
Against  a  bank,  ana  spoke  not,  but  he  bled, — 
Not  mortally — his  worst  wound  was  within  : 
His  brr.w  was  pale,  his  blue  eyes  sunken  in, 
And  blood-drops,  sprinkled  o'er  his  yellow  hair 
Show'd  that  his  faintness  came  not  from  despi.1, 
But  nature's  ebb.     Beside  him  was  another, 
Rough  as  a  bear,  but  willing  as  a  brother, — 


1  Architlamus,  King  of  Sparta,  and  son  of  Agosilaus.  wn*n 
ho  saw  a  machine  invented  for  the  casting  of  stones  and  dari» 
exclaimed  that  it  was  "the  grave  of  valour."  The  same  »t<xt 
has  been  told  of  some  knighU.  on  the  first  application  of  fin 
powder;  but  the  original  anecdote  U  in  P'utarca 


472 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Ben  Bunting,  who  essay' d  to  wash,  and  wipe, 
And  hind  his  wound — then  calmly  lit  his  pipe — 
A  trophy  which  survived  a  hundred  fights, 
A  beacon  which  had  cheer'd  ten  thousand  nights. 
The  fourth  and  last  of  this  deserted  group 
Walk'd  up  and  down — at  times  would  stand,  then  stoop 
To  pick  a  pebble  up — then  let  it  drop — 
Then  nurrv  as  in  haste — then  quickly  stop- 
Then  cast  his  eyes  on  his  companions — then 
Half  whistle  half  a  tune,  and  pause  again — 
And  then  his  former  movements  would  redouble, 
With  something  between  carelessness  and  trouble. 
This  is  a  long  description,  but  applies 
To  scarce  five  minutes  past  before  the  eyes ; 
But  yet  what  minutes  !    Moments  like  to  these 
Rend  men's  lives  into  immortalities. 

V. 

At  length  Jack  Skyscrape,  a  mercurial  man, 

Who  flutter'd  over  all  things  like  a  fan, 

More  brave  than  firm,  and  more  disposed  to  dare 

And  die  at  once  than  wrestle  with  despair, 

Exclaim'd  "  God  damn  !"  Those  syllables  intense, — 

Nucleus  of  England's  native  eloquence, 

As  the  Turk's  "Allah!"  or  the  Roman's  more 

Pagar  '•  Proh  Jupiter !"  was  wont  of  yore 

To  give  their  first  impressions  such  a  vent, 

By  way  of  echo  to  embarrassment. 

Jack  was  embarrass'd, — never  hero  more, 

And  as  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  he  swore ; 

Nor  swore  in  vain :  the  long  congenial  sound 

Revived  Ben  Bunting  from  his  pipe  profound  ; 

He  drew  it  from  his  mouth,  and  look'd  full  wise, 

But  merely  added  to  the  oath  his  eyes  ; 

Thus  rendering  the  imperfect  phrase  complete— 

A  peroration  I  need  not  repeat. 

VI. 

But  Christian,  of  a  higher  order,  stood 

Like  an  extinct  volcano  in  his  mood ; 

Silent,  and  sad,  and  savage, — with  the  trace 

Of  passion  reeking  from  his  clouded  face ; 

Till  lifting  up  again  his  sombre  eye, 

It  glanced  on  Torquil  who  lean'd  faintly  by. 

"  And  is  it  thus  ?"  he  cried,  "  unhappy  boy ! 

And  thee,  too,  thee  my  madness  must  destroy." 

He  said,  and  strode  to  where  young  Torquil  stood, 

Vet  dabbled  with  his  lately-flowing  blood  ; 

Seized  his  hand  wistfully,  but  did  not  press, 

And  shrunk  as  fearful  of  his  own  caress ; 

Inquired  into  his  state,  and,  when  he  heard 

The  wound  was  slighter  than  he  deem'd  or  fear'd, 

A  moment's  brightness  pass'd  along  his  brow, 

As  much  as  such  a  moment  would  allow. 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaim'd,  "  we  are  taken  in  the  toil, 

But  not  a  coward  or  a  common  spoil ; 

Dearly  they  have  bought  us — dearly  still  may  buy, — 

And  I  must  fall ;  but  have  you  strength  to  fly  ? 

'T  would  be  some  comfort  still,  could  you  survive ; 

Our  dwindled  band  is  now  too  few  to  strive. 

Oh !  for  a  sole  canoe !  though  but  a  shell, 

To  bear  you  hence  to  where  a  hope  may  dwell ! 

Foi  mo,  my  lot  is  what  »  sought ;  to  be, 

.  p  lifu  or  dfuth,  »he  fearless  and  the  free." 


VII. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  around  the  promontory, 
Which  nodded  o'er  the  billows  high  and  hoary, 
A  dark  speck  dotted  ocean,:   on  it  flew, 
Like  to  the  shadow  of  a  roused  sea-mew  : 
Onward  it  came — and,  lo !   a  second  follow'd — 
Now  SQen — now  hid — where  ocean's  vale  was  hollow  V 
And  near,  and  nearer,  till  their  dusky  crew 
Presented  well-known  aspects  to  the  view,  . 

Till  on  the  surf  their  skimming  paddles  play, 
Buoyant  as  wings,  and  flitting  through  the  spray ; 
Now  perching  on  the  wave's  high  curl,  and  now 
Dash'd  downward  in  the  thundering  foam  below, 
Which  flings  it  broad  and  boiling,  sheet  on  sheet, 
And  slings  its  high  flakes,  shiver'd  into  sleet : 
But  floating  still  through  surf  and  swell,  drew  nigh 
The  barks,  like  small  birds  through  a  louring  sky. 
Their  art  seem'd  nature — such  the  skill  to  sweep 
The  wave,  of  these  born  playmates  of  the  deep. 

VIII. 

And  who  the  first  that,  springing  on  the  strand, 
Leap'd  like  a  Nereid  from  her  shell  to  land, 
With  dark  but  brilliant  skin,  and  dewy  eye 
Shining  with  love,  and  hope,  and  constancy  ? 
Neuha, — the  fond,  the  faithful,  the  adored, 
Her  heart  on  Torquil's  like  a  torrent  pour'd ; 
And  smiled,  and  wept,  and  near  and  nearer  clasp'd, 
As  if  to  be  assured  't  was  him  she  grasp'd  ; 
Shudder'd  to  see  his  yet  warm  wound,  and  then. 
To  find  it  trivial,  smiled  and  wept  again. 
She  was  a  warrior's  daughter,  and  could  bear 
Such  sights,  and  feel,  and  mourn,  but  not  despa-'. 
Her  lover  lived, — nor  foes  nor  fears  could  blight 
That  full-blown  moment  in  its  all  delight : 
Joy  trickled  in  her  tears,  joy  fill'd  the  sob 
That  rock'd  her  heart  till  almost  HEARD  to  thn 
And  paradise  was  breathing  in  the  sigh 
Of  nature's  child  and  nature's  ecstacy. 

IX. 

The  sterner  spirits  who  beheld  that  meeting 

Were  not  unmoved ;  who  are  when  hearts  are  gf      *{%1 

Even  Christian  gazed  upon  the  maid  and  boy 

With  tearless  eye,  but  yet  a  gloomy  joy 

Mix'd  with  those  bitter  thoughts  the  soul  arrays 

In  hopeless  visions  of  our  better  days, 

When  all 's  gone — to  the  rainbow's  latest  ray. 

"  And  but  for  me  !"  he  said,  and  turn'd  away ; 

Then  gazed  upon  the  pair,  as  in  his  den 

A  lion  looks  upon  his  cubs  again  ; 

And  then  relapsed  into  his  sullen  guise, 

As  heedless  of  his  further  destinies. 

X. 

But  brief  their  time  for  good  or  evil  thought ; 

The  billows  round  the  promontory  brought 

The  plash  of  hostile  oars — Alas  !  who  made 

That  sound  a  dread  ?  All  round  them  seem'd  array'd 

Against  them  save  the  bride  of  Toobonai : 

She,  as  she  caught,  the  first  glimpse  o'er  the  bay, 

Of  the  arm'd  boats  which  hurried  to  complete 

The  remnant's  ruin  with  their  flying  feet, 

Beckon'd  the  natives  round  her  to  their  prows, 

Embark'd  their  guests,  and  launch'd  their  light  canoes, 


THE  ISLAND. 


A7S 


In  one  placed  Christian  and  his  comrades  twain ; 
But  she  and  Torquil  must  not  part  again. 
She  fix'd  him  in  her  own — Away !  away ! 
They  clear  the  breakers,  dart  along  the  bay, 
And  towards  a  group  of  islets,  such  as  bear 
The  sea-bird's  nest  and  seal's  surf-hollow'd  lair, 
They  skim  the  blue  tops  of  the  billows;  fast 
They  flew,  and  fast  their  fierce  pursuers  chased. 
They  gain  upon  them — now  they  lose  again, — 
Again  make  way  and  menace  o'er  the  main: 
And  now  the  two  canoes  in  chase  divide, 
And  follow  different  courses  o'er  the  tide, 
To  baffle  the  pursuit — Away  !  away  ! 
As  life  is  on  each  paddle's  flight  to-day, 
And  more  than  life  or  lives  to  Neuha :  love 
Freights  the  frail  bark,  and  urges  to  the  cove — 
And  now  the  refuge  and  the  foe  are  nigh — 
Yet.  yet  a  moment ! — Fly,  thou  light  ark,  fly  ! 


CANTO  IV 


WHITE  as  a  white  sail  on  a  dusky  sea, 
When  half  the  horizon  's  clouded  and  half  free, 
Fluttering  between  the  dun  wave  and  the  sky, 
Is  hope's  last  gleam  in  man's  extremity. 
Her  anchor  parts  ;  but  still  her  snowy  sail 
Attracts  our  eye  amidst  the  rudest  gale : 
Though  every  wave  she  climbs  divides  us  more, 
The  heart  still  follows  from  the  loneliest  shore. 

II. 

Not  distant  from  the  isle  of  Toobonai, 
A  black  rock  rears  its  bosom  o'er  (he  spray, 
The  haunt  of  birds,  a  desert  to  mankind, 
Where  the  rough  seal  reposes  from  the  wind, 
And  sleeps  unwieldy  in  his  cavern  dun, 
Or  gambols  with  huge  frolic  in  the  sun  ; 
There  shrilly  to  the  passing  oar  is  heard 
The  startled  echo  of  the  ocean  bird, 
Who  rears  on  its  bare  breast  her  callow  brood, 
The  feather'd  fishes  of  the  solitude. 
A  narrow  segment  of  the  yellow  sand 
On  one  side  forms  the  outline  of  a  strand  ; 
Here  the  young  turtle,  crawling  from  his  shell 
Steals  to  the  deep  wherein  his  parents  dwell  ; 
Chipp'd  by  the  beam,  a  nursling  of  the  day, 
But  hatch'd  for  ocean  by  the  fostering  ray ; 
Tlie  rest  was  one  bleak  precipice,  as  e'er 
Gave  mariners  a  shelter  and  despair, 
A  spot  to  make  the  saved  regret  the  deck 
Which  late  went  down,  and  envy  the  lost  wreck. 
Such  was  the  stem  asylum  Neuha  chose 
To  shield  her  lover  from  his  following  foes  ; 
But  all  its  secret  was  not  told  ;  she  knew 
In  this  a  treasure  hidden  from  the  view. 

III. 

Eie  the  canoes  divided,  near  the  spot, 
Th  s  men  that  mann'd  what  held  her  Torquil's  lot, 
By  her  command  removed,  to  strengthen  more 
The  skiff  which  wafted  Christian  from  the  shore. 
This  he  would  have  opposed :  but  with  a  smile 
Bhe  pointed  calmly  to  the  craggy  isle, 
65 


And  bade  him  "  speed  ant.  prosper."     She  would  tain 

The  rest  upon  herself  for  Torquil's  sake. 

They  parted  with  this  added  aid  ;   afar 

The  proa  darted  like  a  shooting  star, 

And  gain'd  on  the  pursuers,  who  now  steer'd 

Right  on  the  rock  which  she  and  Torquil  near'd. 

They  pull'd ;  her  arm,  though  delicate,  was  free 

And  firm  as  ever  grappled  with  the  sea, 

And  yielded  scarce  to  Torquil's  manlier  strength. 

The  prow  now  almost  lay  within  its  length 

Of  the  crag's  steep,  inexorable  face, 

With  nought  but  soundless  waters  for  its  base  ; 

Within  a  hundred  boats'  length  was  the  foe, 

And  now  what  refuge  but  their  frail  canoe  ? 

This  Torquil  ask'd  with  half-upbraiding  eye, 

Which  said — "  Has  Neuha  brought  me  here  to  die  ' 

Is  this  a  place  of  safety,  or  a  grave, 

And  yon  huge  rock  the  tombstone  of  the  wave  ?" 

IV. 

They  rested  on  their  paddles,  and  uprose 

Neuha,  and,  pointing  to  the  approaching  foes, 

Cried,  "  Torquil,  follow  me,  and  fearless  follow  !" 

Then  plunged  at  once  into  the  ocean's  hollow. 

There  was  no  time  to  pause — the  foes  were  near — 

Chains  in  his  eye  and  menace  in  his  ear : 

With  vigour  they  pull'd  on,  and  as  they  came, 

Hail'd  him  to  yield,  and  by  his  forfeit  name. 

Headlong  he  leap'd — to  him  the  swimmer's  skill 

Was  native,  and  now  all  his  hope  from  ill ; 

But  how  or  where  ?  He  dived,  and  rose  n<  more  ; 

The  boat's  crew  look'd  amazed  o'er  sea  a  id  shore 

There  was  no  landing  on  that  precipice, 

Steep,  harsh,  and  slippery  as  a  berg  of  ice. 

They  watch'd  awhile  to  see  him  float  again, 

But  not  a  trace  rebubbled  from  the  main  : 

The  wave  roll'd  on,  no  ripple  en  its  face, 

Since  their  first  plunge,  recall'd  a  single  trace ; 

The  little  whirl  which  eddied,  and  slight  foam, 

That  whiten'd  o'er  what  seem'd  their  latest  home, 

White  as  a  sepulchre  above  the  pair, 

Who  left  no  marble  (mournfu!  as  an  heir), 

The  quiet  proa,  wavering  o'er  the  tide, 

Was  all  that  told  of  Torquil  and  his  bride  ; 

And  but  for  this  alone,  the  whole  might  seem 

The  vanish'd  phantom  of  a  seaman's  dream. 

They  paused  and  search'd  in  vain,  then  pull'd  aw»j 

Even  superstition  now  forbade  their  stay. 

Some  said  he  had  not  plunged  into  the  wave, 

But  vanish'd  like  a  corpse-light  from  a  grave  , 

Others,  that  something  supernatural 

Glared  in  his  figure,  more  than  mortal  tall : 

While  all  agreed,  that  in  his  cheek  and  eye 

There  was  the  dead  hue  of  eternity. 

Still  as  their  oars  receded  from  the  crag, 

Round  every  weed  a  moment  would  they  lag, 

Expectant  of  some  token  of  their  prey  ; 

But  no — he  'd  melted  from  them  like  the  spray. 

V. 

And  where  was  he,  the  pilgrim  of  the  deep. 
Following  the  Nereid  ?     Had  they  ceased  to  weep 
For  ever  ?  or,  received  in  coral  caves, 
Wrung  life  and  pity  from  the  softening  waves  * 
Did  they  with  ocean's  hidden  sovereigns  dwell. 
And  sound  with  mermen  the  fantastic  shell  1 


474 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Did  Neuha  with  the  mermaids  comb  her  hair, 
Flowing  o'er  ocean  as  it  stream'd  in  air? 
Or  had  they  perish'd,  and  in  silence  slept 
Beneath  the  gulf  wherein  they  boldly  ieap'd  ? 

VI. 

Young  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep,  and  he 

Follow'd :   her  track  beneath  her  native  sea 

Was  as  a  native's  of  the  element, 

So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she  went, 

Leaving  a  streak  of  light  behind  her  heel, 

Which  struck  and  flash'd  like  an  amphibious  steel. 

Closely,  and  scarcely  less  expert  to  trace 

The  depths  where  divers  hold  the  pearl  in  chase, 

Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  northern  seas, 

Pursued  her  liquid  steps  with  art  and  ease. 

Deep — deeper  for  an  instant  Neuha  led 

The  way — then  upward  soar'd — and,  as  she  spread 

Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from  off  her  locks, 

Laugh'd,  and  the  sound  was  answer' d  by  the  rocks. 

They  had  gain'd  a  central  realm  of  earth  again, 

But  look'd  for  tree,  and  field,  and  sky,  in  vain. 

Around  she  pointed  to  a  spacious  cave, 

Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless  wave,1 

(A  hollow  archway  by  the  sun  unseen, 

Save  through  the  billows'  glassy  veil  of  green, 

In  some  transparent  ocean  holiday, 

When  all  the  finny  people  are  at  play), 

Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from  Torquil's  eyes, 

And  clapp'd  her  hands  with  joy  at  his  surprise ; 

Led  'lim  to  where  the  rock  appear'd  to  jut 

And  firm  a  something  like  a  Triton's  hut, 

For  al  was  darkness  for  a  space,  till  day 

Through  clefts  above  let  in  a  sober'd  ray  ; 

As  in  some  old  cathedral's  glimmering  aisle 

The  dusty  monuments  from  light  recoil, 

Thus  sadly  in  their  refuge  submarine 

The  vault  drew  half  her  shadow  from  the  scene. 

VII. 

Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young  savage  drew 

A  pine  torch,  strongly  girded  with  gnatoo  ; 

A  plantain  leaf  o'er  all,  the  more  to  keep 

Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping  deep. 

This  mantle  kept  it  dry ;   then  from  a  nook 

Of  the  same  plantain  leaf,  a  flint  she  took, 

A  few  shrunk  wither'd  twigs,  and  from  the  blade 

Of  Torquil's  knife  struck  fire,  and  thus  array'd 

The  grot  with  torchlight.     Wide  it  was  and  high, 

And  sliow'd  a  self-born  Gothic  canopy; 

Th<;  arch  uprear'd  by  nature's  architect, 

The  architrave  some  earthquake  might  erect ; 

The.  buttress  from  some  mountain's  bosom  hurl'd, 

When  the  poles  crash'd  and  water  was  the  world  ; 

Or  harilen'd  from  some  earth-absorbing  fire, 

While  yet  the  globe  reek'd  from  its  funeral  pyre ; 

The  fretted  pinnacle,  thf  aisle,  the  nave,2 

Wore  there,  all  scoop'd  by  darkness  from  her  cave. 


1  Uf  this  Crtve  (which  is  no  fiction)  the  original  will  be  found, 
kn  inn  !)th  chapter  of  Mariner's  .account  of  the  Tonga  Islands. 
\  have  taken  the  poetical  lilwrty  to  transplant  it  to  Toobonai, 
i  he  last  island  where  any  distinct  account  is  left  of  Christian 
anil  his  comrades. 

2  This  may  seem  too  minute  for  the  general  outline  (in 
Mariner's  Account)  from  which  it  is  taken.  But  Tew  men  have 
travelled  without  seeing  something  of  the  kind — on  land,  tlint 
I*   U  itlwiut  adverting  to  Elora,  in  Mungo  Park's  last  'ournal 


There,  with  a  little  tinge  of  phantasy, 
Fantastic  faces  moped  and  mow'd  on  high. 
And  then  a  mitre  or  a  shrine  would  fix 
The  eye  upon  its  seeming  crucifix. 
Thus  Nature  play'd  with  the.  stalactites, 
And  built  herself  a  chapel  of  the  seas 

VIII. 

And  Neuha  took  her  Torquil  by  the  hand, 
And  waved  along  the  vault  her  kindled  brand, 
And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and  show'd 
The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode. 
Nor  these  alone,  for  all  had  been  prepared 
Before,  to  soothe  the  lover's  lot  she  shared  ; 
The  mat  for  rest ;  for  dress  the  fresh  gnatoo, 
And  sandal-oil  to  fence  against  the  dew; 
For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam,  the  bread 
Born  of  the  fruit ;  for  board  the  plantain  spread 
With  its  broad  leaf,  or  turtie-shell  which  bore 
A  banquet  in  (he  flesh  if  cover'd  o'er; 
The  gourd  with  water  recent  from  the  rill, 
The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow  hill ; 
A  pine-torch  pile  to  keep  undying  light, 
And  she  herself,  as  beautiful  as  night, 
To  fling  her  shadowy  spirit  o'er  the  scene 
And  make  their  subterranean  world  serene. 
She  had  foreseen,  since  first  the  stranger's  sail 
Drew  to  their  isle,  that  force  or  flight  might  fail, 
And  form'd  a  refuge  of  the  rocky  den 
For  Torquil's  safety  from  his  countrymen. 
Each  dawn  had  wafted  there  her  light  canoe, 
Laden  with  all  the  golden  fruits  that  grew ; 
Each  eve  had  seen  her  gliding  through  the  hour 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  their  sparry  bower. 
And  now  she  spread  her  little  store  with  smiles, 
The  happiest  daughter  of  the  loving  isles. 

IX. 

She,  as  he  gazed  with  grateful  wonder,  press'd 
Her  shelter'd  love  to  her  impassion'd  breast ; 
And,  suited  to  her  soft  caresses,  told 
An  elden  tale  of  love, — for  love  is  old, 
Old  as  eternity,  but  not  outworn 
With  each  new  being  born  or  to  be  bom : ' 
How  a  young  Chief,  a  thousand  moons  ago, 
Diving  for  turtle  in  the  depths  below, 
Had  risen,  in  tracking  fast  his  ocean  prey, 
Into  the  cave  which  round  and  o'er  them  lay  ; 
How,  in  some  desperate  feud  of  after  time, 
He  shelter'd  there  a  daughter  of  the  clime, 
A  foe  beloved,  and  offspring  of  a  foe, 
Saved  by  his  tribe  but  for  a  captive's  woe  ; 
How,  when  the  storm  of  war  was  still,  he  led 
His  island  clan  to  where  the  waters  spread 
Their  deep  green  shadow  o'er  the  rocky  door, 
Then  dived — it  seem'd  as  if  to  rise  no  more : 
His  wondering  mates,  amazed  within  their  bark 
Or  deem'd  him  mad,  or  prey  to  the  blue  shark  ; 


(if  my  memory  do  not  err,  for  there  are  eight  years  since  I  reii 
the  book)  ho  mentions  having  met  with  a  rock  or  mountain 
so  exactly  resembling  a  Gothic  cathedral,  that  only  minute 
inspection  could  convince  him  that  it  was  a  work  of  nature. 
1  The  reader  will  recollect  the  epigram  of  the  Greek  Anthol 
ogy,  or  its  translation  in'>  most  of  the  modern  Ipiguages 

"  Whoe'er  thon    rt,  thy  master  vtw 

He  was,  or  is.  or  is  to  be." 


THE  ISLAND. 


47/> 


Row'd  round  in  sorrow  the  sea-girded  rock, 

Then  paused  upon  their  paddles  from  the  shock, 

When,  fresh  and  springing  from  the  deep,  they  saw 

A  goddess  r  se — so  deem'd  they  in  their  awe  ; 

And  their  companion,  glorious  by  her  side, 

Proud  and  exulting  in  his  mermaid  bride : 

And  how,  when  undeceived,  the  pair  they  bore, 

With  sounding  conchs  and  joyous  shouts  to  shore ; 

How  they  had  gladly  lived  and  calmly  died, 

And  why  not  also  Torquil  and  his  bride  ? 

Not  mine  to  tell  the  rapturous  caress 

Which  follow'd  wildly  in  that  wild  recess 

This  tale  ;  enough  that  all  within  that  cave 

Was  love,  though  buried  strong  as  in  the  grave 

Where  Abelard,  through  twenty  years  of  death, 

When  Eloisa's  form  was  lower'd  beneath 

Their  nuptial  vault,  his  arms  outstretch'd,  and  press'd 

The  kindling  ashes  to  his  kindled  breast. ' 

The  waves  without  sang  round  their  couch,  their  roar 

As  much  unheeded  as  if  life  were  o'er ; 

Within,  their  hearts  made  all  their  harmony, 

Love's  broken  murmur  and  more  broken  sigh. 

X. 

And  they,  the  cause  and  sharers  of  the  shock 
Which  left  them  exiles  of  the  hollow  rock, 
Where  were  they  ?  O'er  the  sea  for  life  they  plied, 
To  seek  from  heaven  the  shelter  men  denied. 
Another  course  had  been  their  choice — but  where? 
The  wave  which  bore  them  still,  their  foes  would  bear, 
Who,  disappointed  of  their  former  chase, 
In  search  of  Christian  now  renew'd  their  race. 
Eager  with  anger,  their  strong  arms  made  way, 
Like  vultures  battled  of  their  previous  prey. 
They  gaiu'd  upon  them,  all  whose  safety  lay 
In  some  bleak  crag  or  deeply-hidden  bay : 
No  further  chance  or  choice  remain'd  ;  and  right 
For  the  first  further  rock  which  met  their  sight 
They  steer'd,  to  take  their  latest  view  of  land, 
And  yield  as  victims,  or  die  sword  in  hand  ; 
Disrniss'd  the  natives  and  their  shallop,  who 
Would  still  have  battled  for  that  scanty  crew  ; 
But  Christian  bade  them  seek  their  shore  again, 
Nor  add  a  sacrifice  which  were  in  vain  ; 
For  what  were  simple  bow  and  savage  spear 
Against  the  arms  which  must  be  wielded  here? 

XI. 

fhey  landed  on  a  wild  but  narrow  scene, 
Where  few  but  Nature's  footsteps  yet  had  been  ; 
Prepared  their  arms,  and  with  that  gloomy  eye, 
Stern  and  sustain'd,  of  man's  extremity, 
When  hope  is  gone,  nor  glory's  self  remains 
To  cheer  resistance  against  death  or  chains, — 
They  stood,  the  three,  as  the  three  hundred  stood 
Who  dyed  Thermopylae  with  holy  blood. 
But,  ah !   how  different !   't  is  the  cause  makes  all, 
Degrades  or  hallows  courage  in  its  fall. 
O'er  them  no  fame,  eternal  and  intense, 
Blazed  through  the  clouds  of  death  and  beckon'd  hence; 
Vo  grateful  country,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
Begun  the  praises  of  a  thousand  years  ; 
No  nation's  eyes  would  on  their  tomb  be  bent, 
No  heroes  envy  them  their  monument; 


1  1  lie  tradition  is  attached  to  the  gtorjr  of  Eloisa.  that  when 
nrr  body  w:is  lowered  inio  the  prnve  of  Abelarii  (who  had 
l/een  burie-l  twenty  years,1  he  opened  his  arm*  ;o  receive  her. 


However  boldly  their  warm  blood  was  spilt. 
Their  life  was  shame,  their  epitaph  was  guilt 
And  this  they  knew  and  felt,  at  least  the  one, 
The  leader  of  the  band  he  had  undone  ; 
Who,  born  perchance  for  better  things,  had  set 
His  life  upon  a  cast  which  linger'd  yet : 
But  now  the  die  was  to  be  thrown,  and  all 
The  chances  were  in  favour  of  his  fall : 
And  such  a  fall !   But  still  he  faced  the  shock, 
Obdurate  as  a  portion  of  the  rock 
Whereon  he  stood,  and  fix'd  his  levell'd  gun, 
Dark  as  a  sullen  cloud  before  the  sun. 

XII. 

The  boat  drew  nigh,  well  arm'd,  and  firm  the  ere* 

To  act  whatever  duty  bade  them  do  ; 

Careless  of  danger,  as  the  onward  wind 

Is  of  the  leaves  it  strews,  nor  looks  behind  : 

And  yet  perhaps  they  rather  wish'd  to  go 

Against  a  nation's  than  a  native  foe, 

And  felt  that  this  poor  victim  of  self-will, 

Briton  no  more,  had  once  been  Britain's  still. 

They  hail'd  him  to  surrender — no  reply  ; 

Their  arms  were  poised,  and  glitter'd  in  the  sky. 

They  hail'd  again — no  answer ;  yet  once  more 

They  offer'd  quarter  louder  than  before. 

The  echoes  only,  from  the  rocks  rebound, 

Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  dying  sound. 

Then  flash'd  the  flint,  and  blazed  the  vo'leying  flame 

And  the  smoke  rose  between  them  and  their  aim, 

While  the  rocks  rattled  with  the  bullets'  knell, 

Which  peal'd  in  vain,  and  flatten'd  as  they  fell ; 

Then  flew  the  only  answer  to  be  given 

By  those  who  had  lost  all  hope  in  earth  or  heaven. 

After  the  first  fierce  peal,  as  they  pullTd  nigher, 

They  heard  the  voice  of  Christian  shout,  "  Now  fire !  •' 

And,  ere  the  word  upon  the  echo  died, 

Two  fell ;   the  rest  assail'd  the  rock's  rough  side, 

And,  furious  at  the  madness  of  their  foes, 

Disdain'd  all  further  efforts,  save  to  close. 

But  steep  the  crag,  and  all  without  a  path, 

Each  step  opposed  a  bastion  to  their  wrath  ; 

While  placed  'midst  clefts  the  least  accessible, 

Which  Christian's  eye  was  train'd  to  mark  full  well, 

The  three  maintain'd  a  strife  which  must  not  yield, 

In  spots  where  eagles  might  have  chosen  to  build. 

Their  every  shot  told  ;  while  the  assailant  fell, 

Dash'd  on  the  shingles  like  the  limpid  shell ; 

But  still  enough  survived,  and  mounted  stili, 

Scattering  their  numbers  here  and  there,  until 

Surrounded  and  commanded,  though  not  nigh 

Enough  for  seizure,  near  enough  to  die, 

The  desperate  trio  held  aloof  their  fate 

But  by  a  thread,  like  sharks  who  have  gorged  the  bail, 

Yet  to  the  very  last  they  battled  well, 

And  not  a  groan  inform'd  their  foes  who  fell. 

Christian  died  last — twice  wounded  ;  and  once  moir 

Mercy  was  offer'd  when  they  saw  his  gore ; 

Too  late  for  life,  but  not  too  late  to  die, 

With  though  a  hostile  hand  to  close  his  eye. 

A  limb  was  broken,  and  he  droop'd  along 

The  crag,  as  doth  a  falcon  reft  of  young. 

The  sound  revived  him,  or  appear'd  to  wane 

Some  passion  which  a  weakly  gesture  span,-  f 

He  beckon'd  to  the  foremost  who  drew  nigh, 

But,  as  they  near'd.  he  rear'd  his  weapon  hi«oi- 


47-5 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


His  las.',  o.ift  had  been  aim'd,  but  from  his  breast 

He  aorf  tie  topmost  button  of  his  vest,' 

Down  1'ie  tube  dash'd  it,  levell'd,  fired,  and  smiled 

As  his  foe  fell ;  then,  like  a  serpent,  coil'd 

His  wounded,  weary  form,  to  where  the  steep 

Look'd  desperate  as  himself  along  the  deep  j 

Oast  one  glance  back,  and  clench'd  his  hand,  and  shook 

EIi.i  last  rage  'gainst  the  earth  which  he  forsook ; 

Then  plunged  :  the  rock  below  received  like  glass 

His  body  crush'd  into  one  gory  mass, 

With  scarce  a  shred  to  tell  of  human  form, 

Or  fragment  for  the  sea-bird  or  the  worm ; 

A  fair-hair'd  scalp,  besmear'd  with  blood  and  weeds, 

Yet  reek'd,  the  remnant  of  himself  and  deeds ; 

Some  splinters  of  his  weapons  (to  the  last, 

As  long  as  hand  could  hold,  he  held  them  fast) 

Yet  glitter'd,  but  at  distance — hurl'd  away 

To  rust  beneath  the  dew  and  dashing  spray. 

The  rest  was  nothing — save  a  life  mispent, 

And  soul — but  who  shall  answer  where  it  went  ? 

'T  is  ours  to  bear,  not  jtidge  the  dead  ;  and  they 

Who  doom  to  heil,  themselves  are  on  the  way, 

Unless  these  bullies  of  eternal  pains 

Are  pardon'd  their  bad  hearts  for  their  worse  brains. 

XIII. 

The  deed  was  over !  All  were  gone  or  ta'en, 

The  fugitive,  the  captive,  or  the  slain. 

Chain' d  on  the  deck,  where  once,  a  gallant  crew, 

They  stood  with  honour,  were  the  wretched  few 

Survivors  of  the  skirmish  on  the  isle ; 

Hut  the  last  rock  left  no  surviving  spoil. 

Cold  lay  they  where  they  fell,  and  weltering, 

While  o'er  them  fiapp'd  the  sea-birds'  dewy  wing, 

Now  wheeling  nearer  from  the  neighbouring  surge, 

Anil  screaming  high  their  harsh  and  hungry  dirge : 

But  ca.m  and  careless  heaved  the  wave  below, 

Eternal  with  unsympathetic  flow  ; 

Far  o'er  its  face  the  dolphins  sported  on, 

And  sprung  the  flying-fish  against  the  sun, 

Till  its  dried  wing  relapsed  from  its  brief  height, 

To  gather  moisture  for  another  flight. 

XIV. 

'T  was  morn  ;  and  Neuha,  who  by  dawn  of  day 
Swam  smoothly  forth  to  catch  the  rising  ray, 
And  watch  if  aught  approach'd  the  amphibious  lair 
Where  lay  her  lover,  saw  a  sail  in  air : 
It  flapp'd,  it  filled,  and  to  the  growing  gale 
Bent  its  broad  arch :  her  breath  began  to  fail 
Wi'.'n  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beat  thick  and  high, 
While  yet  a  doubt  sprung  where  its  course  might  lie 
But  no  !  it  came  not ;  fast  and  far  away 
The  shadow  lessen'd  as  it  clear'd  the  bay. 


1  In  '/'Aibaitlt's  Account  of  Frederick  If.  of  Prussia,  there 
Is  a  singular  relation  of  a  young  Frenchman,  who,  with  his 
mistress,  appeared  to  be  of  some  rank.  He  enlisted,  and  de- 
mrted  at  Scweidnitz ;  and,  after  a  desperate  resistance,  was 
i ctakcn,  having  killed  an  officer,  who  attempted  to  seize  him 
after  he  was  wounded,  by  the  discharge  of  his  musket  loaded 
with  a  button  of  his  uniform.  Some  circumstances  on  his 
eo  nt-martiai  raised  a  great  interest  amongst  his  judges,  who 
wished  to  discover  his  real  situation  in  life,  which  he  offered 
fo  disclose,  but  tc  the  King  only,  to  whom  he  requested  per- 
mission to  write.  This  was  refused,  and  Frederick  was  filled 
with  the  greatest  indignation,  from  baffled  curiosity,  or  some 
ttlier  inotivp,  when  he  understood  that  his  request  had  been  de- 
»ic<;  -•*•)«  Thibault's  work,  vol.  ii. — (I  quote  from  memory). 


She  gazed,  and  flung  the  sea-foam  from  her  eyes. 
To  watch  as  for  a  rainbow  in  the  skies. 
On  the  horizon  verged  the  distant  deck, 
Diminish'd,  dwindled  to  a  very  speck — 
Then  vanish'd.     All  was  ocean,  all  was  joy  ! 
Down  plunged  she  through  the  cave  to  rouse  her  boy 
Told  all  she  had  seen,  and  all  she  hoped,  and  all 
That  happy  love  could  augur  or  recall ; 
Sprung  forth  again,  with  Torquil  following  free 
His  bounding  Nereid  over  the  broad  sea  ; 
Swam  round  the  rock,  to  where  a  shallow  cleft 
Hid  the  canoe  that  Neuha  there  had  left 
Drifting  along  the  tide,  without  an  oar, 
That  eve  the  strangers  chased  them  from  the  shore  , 
Cut  when  these  vanish'd,  she  pursued  her  prow, 
Regain'd,  and  urged  to  where  they  found  it  now  : 
Nor  ever  did  more  love  and  joy  embark, 
Than  now  was  wafted  in  that  slender  ark. 

XV. 

Again  their  own  shore  rises  on  the  view, 
No  more  polluted  with  a  hostile  hue  ; 
No  sullen  ship  lay  bristling  o'er  the  foam, 
A  floating  dungeon : — all  was  hope  and  home  ! 
A  thousand  proas  darted  o'er  the  bay, 
With  sounding  bells,  and  heralded  their  way  ; 
The  chiefs  came  down,  around  the  people  pour'd, 
And  welcomed  Torquil  as  a  son  restored  ; 
The  women  throhg'd,  embracing  and  embraced 
By  Neuha,  asking  where  they  had  been  chased, 
And  how  escaped?  The  tale  was  told ;  and  then 
One  acclamation  rent  the  sky  again  ; 
And  from  that  hour  a  new  tradition  gave 
Their  sanctuary  the  name  of  "  Neuha's  cave." 
A  hundred  fires,  far  flickering  from  the  height, 
Blazed  o'er  the  general  revel  of  the  night, 
The  feast  in  honour  of  the  guest,  return'd 
To  peace  and  pleasure,  perilously  eam'd  ; 
A  night  succeeded  by  such  happy  days 
As  only  the  yet  infant  world  displays. 


APPENDIX. 


EXTRACT   FROM   THE    VOYAGE 
BY  CAPTAIN  BLIGH. 

ON  the  27th  of  December,  it  blew  a  severe  storm  *l" 
wind  from  the  eastward,  in  the  course  of  which  we  suf 
fered  greatly.  One  sea  broke  away  the  spare  yards 
and  spars  out  of  the  starboard  main-chains  ;  another 
broke  into  the  ship,  and  stove  all  the  boats.  Several 
casks  of  beer  that  had  been  lashed  on  deck,  broke  loose, 
and  were  washed  overboard ;  and  it  was  not  without 
great  risk  and  difficulty  that  we  were  able  to  secure  the 
boats  from  being  washed  away  entirely.  A  great  quan- 
tity of  our  bread  was  also  damaged,  and  rendered  use- 
less, for  the  sea  had  stove  in  our  stern,  and  filled  tho 
cabin  with  water. 

On  the  5th  of  January,  1788,  we  saw  the  island  of 
TenerifFe  about  twelve  leagues  distant,  and  next  day, 
being  Sunday,  came  to  an  anchor  in  the  road  of  Santa 
Cruz.  There  we  took  in  the  necessary  supplies,  and, 
having  finished  our  business,  sailed  on  the  10th. 

I  now  divided  the  people  into  three  watches,  and  gave 
j  the  charge  of  the  third  watch  to  Mr.  Fletcner  Christian 


THE  ISLAND. 


471 


*ne  of  the  mates,  I  have  always  considered  this  a  de- 
sirable regulation  wnen  circumstances  will  admit  of 
it,  and  I  am  persuaded  that  unbroken  rest  not  only  con- 
tributes much  towards  the  health  of  the  ship's  company, 
out  enables  them  more  readily  to  exert  themselves  in 
cases  of  sudden  emergency. 

As  I  wished  to  proceed  to  Otaheite  without  stopping, 
I  reduced  the  allowance  of  bread  to  two-thirds,  and 
caused  the  water  for  drinking  to  be  filtered  through 
drip-stones,  bought  at  TeneriflTe  for  that  purpose.  I 
now  acquainted  the  ship's  company  of  the  object  of  the 
troyage,  and  gave  assurances  of  certain  promotion  to 
every  one  whose  endeavours  should  merit  it. 

On  Tuesday  the  26th  of  February,  being  in  south 
latitude  29°  38',  and  44°  44'  west  longitude,  we  bent 
new  sails,  and  made  other  necessary  preparations  for 
encountering  the  weather  that  was  to  be  expected  in  a 
nigh  latitude.  Our  distance  from  the  coast  of  Brazil 
was  about  100  leagues. 

On  the  forenoon  of  Sunday,  the  2d  of  March,  after 
seeing  that  every  person  was  clean,  divine  service  was 
performed,  according  to  my  usual  custom  on  this  day : 
I  gave  to  Mr.  Fletcher  Christian,  whom  I  had  before 
directed  to  take  charge  of  the  third  watch,  a  written 
order  to  act  as  lieutenant. 

The  change  of  temperature  soon  began  to  be  sensi- 
bly felt ;  and,  that  the  people  might  not  suffer  from  their 
own  negligence,  I  supplied  them  with  thicker  clothing, 
as  better  suited  to  the  climate.  A  great  number  of 
whales  of  an  immense  size,  with  two  spout-holes  on 
the  back  of  the  head,  were  seen  on  the  llth. 

On  a  complaint  made  to  me  by  the  master,  I  found  it 
necessary  to  punish  Matthew  Quintal,  one  of  the  sea- 
men, with  two  dozen  of  lashes,  for  insolence  and  muti- 
nous behaviour,  which  was  the  first  time  that  there  was 
any  occasion  for  punishment  on  board. 

We  were  off  Cape  St.  Diego,  the  eastern  part  of  the 
Terre  de  Fuego,  and  the  wind  being  unfavourable,  I 
thought  it  more  advisable  to  go  round  to  the  eastward 
of  Staten-land  than  to  attempt  passing  through  Straits 
leMaire.  We  passed  New  Year's  Harbour  and  Cape  St. 
John,  and  on  Monday  the  31st  were  in  latitude  60°  1' 
south.  But  the  wind  became  variable,  and  we  had  bad 
weather. 

Storms,  attended  with  a  great  sea,  prevailed  until  the 
12th  of  April.  The  ship  began  to  leak,  and  required 
pumping  every  hour,  which  was  no  more  than  we  had 
reason  to  expect  from  such  a  continuance  of  gales  of 
wind  and  high  seas.  The  decks  also  became  so  leaky 
that  it  was  necessary  to  allot  the  great  cabin,  of  which 
I  made  little  use  except  in  fine  weather,  to  those  people 
who  had  not  births  to  hang  their  hammocks  in,  and  by 
this  means  the  space  between  decks  was  less  cro%vded. 
With  all  this  bad  weather,  we  had  the  additional  mor- 
tification to  find,  at  the  end  of  every  day,  that  we  were 
osing  ground ;  for,  notwithstanding  our  utmost  exer- 
tions, and  keeping  on  the  most  advantageous  tacks,  we 
Jid  little  better  than  drift  before  the  wind.  On  Tuesday 
Jhe  22d  of  April,  we  had  eight  down  on  the  sick  list, 
and  the  rest  of  the  people,  though  in  good  health,  were 
greatly  fatigued  ;  but  I  saw,  with  much  concern,  that  it 
was  impossible  to  make  apassage  this  way  to  the  Society 


the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  to  the  great  joy  of  every  oni 
on  board. 

We  came  to  an  anchor  on  Friday  the  23d  of  May,  in 
Simon's  Bay,  at  the  Cape,  after  a  tolerable  run.  The 
ship  required  complete  caulking,  for  she  had  become  s» 
leaky,  that  we  were  obliged  to  pump  hourly  in  our  pas- 
sage from  Cape  Horn.  The  sails  and  rigging  also  re- 
quired repair,  and,  on  examining  the  provisions,  a  con- 
siderable quantity  was  found  damaged. 

Having  remained  thirty-eight  days  at  this  place,  and 
my  people  having  received  all  the  advantage  that  could 
be  derived  from  refreshments  of  every  kind  that  could 
be  met  with,  we  sailed  on  the  1st  of  July. 

A  gale  of  wind  blew  on  the  20th,  with  a  high  sea ; 
it  increased  after  noon  with  such  violence,  that  the  ship 
was  driven  almost  forecastle  under  before  we  could  get 
the  sails  clewed  up.  The  lower  yards  were  lowered, 
and  the  top- gallant-mast  got  down  upon  deck,  whi^h  re- 
lieved her  much.  We  lay-to  all  night,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing bore  away  under  a  reefed  foresail.  The  sea  still 
running  high,  in  the  afternoon  it  became  very  unsafe 
to  stand  on  ;  we  therefore  lay-to  all  night,  without  any 
accident,  excepting  that  a  man  at  the  steerage  was  thrown 
over  the  wheel  and  much  bruised.  Towards  noon  the 
violence  of  the  storm  abated,  and  we  again  bore  away 
under  the  reefed  foresail. 

In  a  few  days  we  passed  the  island  of  St.  Paul,  where 
there  is  good  fresh  water,  as  I  was  informed  by  a  Dutch 
captain,  and  also  a  hot  spring,  which  boils  fish  as  com- 
pletely as  if  done  by  a  fire.  Approaching  to  Van  Die- 
men's  land,  we  had  much  bad  weather,  with  snow  and 
hail,  but  nothing  was  seen  to  indicate  our  vicinity,  on 
the  13th  of  August,  except  a  seal,  which  appeared  at 
the  distance  of  twenty  leagues  from  it.  We  anchored 
in  Adventure  Bay  on  Wednesday  the  20th. 

In  our  passage  hither  from  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
the  winds  were  chiefly  from  the  westward,  with  very 
boisterous  weather.  The  approach  of  strong  southerly 
winds  is  announced  by  many  birds  of  the  albatross  or 
peterel  tribe  ;  and  the  abatement  of  the  gale,  or  a  shift 
of  wind  to  the  northward,  by  their  keeping  away.  The 
thermometer  also  varies  five  or  six  degrees  in  its  height, 
when  a  change  of  these  winds  may  be  expected. 

In  the  land  surrounding  Adventure  Bay  are  many 
forest  trees  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high ;  we  saw 
one  which  measured  above  thirty-three  feet  in  girth. 
We  observed  several  eagles,  some  beautiful  blue-plu- 
maged  herons,  and  parroquets  in  great  variety. 

The  natives  not  appearing,  we  went  in  search  of  them 
towards  Cape  Frederic-Henry.  Soon  after,  coming  to 
a  grapnel,  close  to  the  shore,  for  it  was  impossible  to 
land,  we  heard  their  voices,  like  the  cackling  of  geese, 
and  twenty  persons  came  out  of  the  woods.  We  threw 
trinkets  ashore  tied  up  in  parcels,  which  they  would  not 
open  out  until  I  made  an  appearance  of  leaving  them : 
they  then  did  so,  and,  taking  the  articles  cut,  put  them  on 
their  heads.  On  first  coming  in  sight,  they  made  a. 
prodigious  clattering  in  th-;r  speech,  and  held  their  arms 
over  their  heads.  They  spoke  so  quick,  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  catch  one  single  word  they  uttercJ.  Then 
colour  is  of  a  dull  black ;  their  skin  scarifieu  anout  the 
breast  and  shoulders.  One  was  distinguished  by  hi* 


/stands,  for  we  had  now  been  thirty  days  in  a  tempes-  |  body  being  coloured  with  red  ochre,  but  all  th 
uous  ocean.    Thus  the  season  was  too  far  advanced  for  '  were  painted  black,  with  a  kind  of  soot,  so  thi 


he  othbia 

painted  black,  with  a  kind  ot  soot,  so  thickly  hud 

us  to  expect  better  weather  to  enable  us  to  double  Cape  |  over  their  faces  and  shoulders,  that  it  was  difficult  10 
Horn  ;   and,  from  these  and  other  considerations,  I  or-   ascertain  what  they  were  like. 


tiered  the  helm  to  be  put  a-weather,  and  bore  awav  for 

a  T 


On  Thursday  the  4th  of  September,  we  sailed  out  o1 


478 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Adventu.o  B<»,  steering  first  towards  the  east-south- 
east and  tliei  to  the  northward  of  east,  when,  on  the 
19th,  wo  camr  in  sight  of  a  cluster  of  small  rocky  Isl- 
ands, which  I  -named  Bounty  Isles.  Soon  afterwards 
we  frequently  observed  the  sea,  in  the  night  time,  to  be 
covere-1  by  luminous  spots,  caused  by  amazing  quanti- 
ties of  small  blubbers,  or  medusae,  which  emit  a  light, 
like  the  blaze  of  a  candle,  from  the  strings  or  filaments 
extending  from  them,  while  the  rest  of  the  body  con- 
tinues perfectly  dark. 

We  discovered  the  island  of  Otaheite  on  the  25th, 
and,  before  casting  anchor  next  morning  in  Matavai 
Bay,  such  numbers  of  canoes  had  come  off,  that,  after 
the  natives  ascertained  we  were  friends,  they  came  on 
board,  and  crowded  the  deck  so  much,  that  in  ten  min- 
utes I  could  scarce  find  my  own  people.  The  whole 
distance  which  the  ship  had  run,  in  direct  and  contrary 
courses,  from  the  time  of  leaving  England  until  reach- 
ing Otaheite,  was  twenty-seven  thousand  arid  eighty- 
six  miles,  which,  on  an  average,  was  one  hundred  and 
eight  miles  each  twenty-four  hours. 

Here  we  lost  our  surgeon  on  the  9th  of  December. 
Of  late  he  had  scarcely  ever  stirred  out  of  the  cabin, 
though  not  apprehended  to  be  in  a  dangerous  state. 
Nevertheless,  appearing  worse  than  usual  in  the  even- 
ing, he  was  removed  where  he  could  obtain  more  air,  but 
without  any  benefit,  for  he  died  in  an  hour  afterwards. 
This  unfortunate  man  drank  very  hard,  and  was  so 
averse  to  exercise,  that  lie  would  never  be  prevailed  on 
to  take  half  a  dozen  turns  on  deck  at  a  time,  during  all 
the  course  of  the  voyage.  He  was  buried  on  shore. 

On  Monday,  the  fifth  of  January,  the  small  cutter  was 
missed,  of  which  I  was  immediately  apprized.  The 
ship's  company  being  mustered,  we  found  three  men 
absent,  who  had  carried  it  off.  They  had  taken  with 
them  eight  stand  of  arms  and  ammunition  ;  but  with 
regard  to  their  plan,  every  one  on  board  seemed  to  be 
quite  ignorant.  I  therefore  went  on  shore,  and  engaged 
all  the  chiefs  to  assist  in  recovering  both  the  boat  and 
the  deserters.  Accordingly,  the  former  was  brought 
back  in  the  course  of  the  day,  by  five  of  the  natives  ; 
but  the  men  were  not  taken  uniil  nearly  three  weeks 
afterwards.  Learning  the  place  where  they  were,  in  a 
different  quarter  of  the  island  of  Otaheite,  I  went  thither 
in  the  cutter,  thinking  there  would  be  no  great  difficulty 
in  securing  them  with  the  assistance  of  the  natives. 
However,  they  heard  of  my  arrival ;  and  when  I  was 
Sear  a  house  in  which  they  were,  they  came  out  want- 
ing their  fire-arms,  and  delivered  themselves  up.  Some 
of  the  chiefs  had  formerly  seized  and  bound  these  de- 
serters ;  but  had  been  prevailed  on,  by  fair  promises  of 
returning  peaceably  to  the  ship,  to  release  them.  But 
finding  an  opportunity  again  to  get  possession  of  their 
arms,  they  set  the  natives  at  defiance. 

The  object  of  the  voyage  being  now  completed,  all 
vne  bread-fruit  plants,  to  the  number  of  one  thousand 
and  fifteen,  were  got  on  board  on  Tuesday,  the  31st  of 
March.  Besides  these,  we  iiad  collected  many  other 
p'dnts,  some  of  them  bearing  the  finest  fruits  in  the 
world ;  and  valuable,  from  affording  brilliant  dyes,  and 
for  various  properties  besides.  At  sunset  of  the  4th  o) 
April,  we  made  sail  from  Otaheite,  bidding  farewell  to 
an  isi'and  where  for  twenty-three  weeks  we  had  been 
treated  with  ^ne  utmost  affection  and  regard,  and  which 
nccmeil  to  increase  in  proportion  to  our  stay.  That  to  the  ship,  but  in  this  we  were  disappointed.  The 
we.  were  not  insensible  to  their  kindness,  the  succeeding]  wind  being  northerly,  wo  steered  to  the  westward  w  thi 


circumstances  sufficiently  proved ;  for  to  the  friendly 
and  endearing  behaviour  of  these  peopb  may  be  as- 
cribed the  motives  inciting  an  event  that  effected  the 
ruin  of  our  expedition,  which  there  was  every  reason  to 
believe  would  have  been  attended  with  the  most  favour- 
able issue. 

Next  morning  we  got  sight  of  the  island  Huaheme ; 
and  a  double  canoe  soon  coming  alongside,  containing 
ten  natives,  I  saw  among  them  a  young  man  who  re- 
collected me,  and  called  me  by  my  name.  I  had  been 
here  in  the  year  1780,  with  Captain  Cook,  in  the  Res- 
olution. A  few  days  after  sailing  from  this  island,  the 
weather  became  squally,  and  a  thick  body  of  black 
clouds  collected  in  the  east.  A  water-spout  was  in  a  short 
time  seen  at  no  great  distance  from  us,  which  appeared 
to  great  advantage  from  the  darkness  of  the  clouds  be- 
hind it.  As  nearly  as  I  could  judge,  the  upper  part  wag 
about  two  feet  in  diameter,  and  the  lower  about  eigh. 
inches.  Scarcely  had  I  made  these  remarks,  when  I  ob- 
served that  it  was  rapidly  advancing  towards  the  ship. 
We  immediately  altered  our  course,  and  took  in  all  the 
sails  except  the  foresail  ;  soon  after  which  it  passed 
within  ten  yards  of  the  stern,  with  a  rustling  noise,  but 
without  our  feeling  the  least  effect  from  its  being  so 
near.  It  seemed  to  be  travelling  at  the  rate  of  about 
ten  miles  an  hour,  in  the  direction  of  the  wind,  and  it 
dispersed  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  passing  us.  It 
is  impossible  to  say  what  injury  we  should  have  re- 
ceived had  it  passed  directly  over  us.  Masts,  I  imagine, 
might  have  been  carried  away,  but  I  do  not  apprehend 
that  it  would  have  endangered  the  loss  of  the  ship. 

Passing  several  islands  on  the  way,  we  anchored  at 
Annamooka,  on  the  23d  of  April ;  and  an  old  lame 
man  called  Tepa,  whom  I  had  known  here  in  1777,  and 
immediately  recollected,  came  on  board,  along  with 
others,  from  different  islands  in  the  vicinity.  They 
were  desirous  to  see  the  ship,  and,  on  being  taken 
below,  where  the  bread-fruit  plants  were  arranged, 
they  testified  great  surprise.  A  few  of  these  being 
decayed,  we  went  on  shore  to  procure  some  in  their 
place. 

The  natives  exhibited  numerous  marks  of  the  pecu- 
liar mourning  which  they  express  on  losing  their  rela- 
tives ;  such  as  bloody  temples,  their  heads  being  de- 
prived of  most  of  the  hair,  and,  what  was  worse,  air 
most  the  whole  of  them  had  lost  some  of  their  fingers 
Several  fine  boys,  not  above  six  years  old,  had  lost  bolf> 
their  little  fingers ;  and  several  of  the  men,  besides 
these,  had  parted  with  the  middle  finger  of  the  right 
hand. 

The  chiefs  went  off  with  me  to  dinner,  and  we  car 
ried  on  a  brisk  trade  for  yams  ;  we  also  got  plantains 
and  bread-fruit.  But  the  yams  were  in  great  abundance, 
and  very  fine  and  large.  One  of  them  weighed  above 
forty-five  pounds.  Sailing  canoes  came,  some  of  which 
contained  not  less  than  ninety  passengers.  Such  a  num- 
ber of  them  gradually  arrived  from  different  islands, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  get  any  ihing  done,  the  mul- 
titude became  so  great,  and  there  was  no  chief  of  suf- 
ficient authority  to  command  the  whole.  I  therrfore 
ordered  a  watering  party,  then  employed,  to  come  on 
board,  and  sailed  on  Sunday,  the  26th  of  April. 

We  kept  near  the  island  of  Koloo  all  the  afternoon 
of  Monday,  in  hopes  that  some  canoes  would  come  off 


THE  ISLAND. 


479 


evening,  to  pass  south  of  Tofoa  ;  and  I  gave  directions 
for  this  course  to  be  continued  during  the  night.  The 
master  had  the  first  watch,  the  gunner  the  middle 
watch,  and  Mr.  Christian  'he  morning  watch.  This 
was  the  turn  of  duty  for  the  night. 

Hitherto  the  voyage  had  advanced  in  a  course  of 
uninterrupted  prosperity,  and  had  been  attended  with 
circumstances  equally  pleasing  and  satisfactory.  But 
a  very  different  scene  was  now  to  be  disclosed :  a  con- 
spiracy had  been  formed,  which  was  to  render  all  our 
past  labour  productive  only  of  misery  and  distress ; 
and  it  had  been  concerted  with  so  much  secrecy  and 
circumspection,  that  no  one  circumstance  escaped  to 
betray  the  impending  calamity. 

On  the  night  of  Monday,  the  watch  was  set  as  I  have 
described.  Just  before  sunrise,  on  Tuesday  morning, 
while  I  was  yet  asleep,  Mr.  Christian,  with  the  master- 
at-arms,  gunner's  mate,  and  Thomas  Burkitt,  seaman, 
came  into  my  cabin,  and,  seizing  me,  tied  my  hands 
with  a  cord  behind  my  back ;  threatening  me  with 
instant  death  if  I  spoke  or  made  the  least  noise.  I 
nevertheless  called  out  as  loud  as  I  could,  in  hopes  of 
assistance ;  but  the  officers  not  of  their  party  were 
already  secured  by  sentinels  at  their  doors.  At  my 
own  cabin-door  were  three  men,  besides  the  four  within: 
all  except  Christian  had  muskets  and  bayonets  ;  he  had 
only  a  cutlass.  I  was  dragged  out  of  bed,  and  forced 
on  deck  in  my  shirt,  suffering  great  pain  in  the  mean 
time  from  the  tightness  with  which  my  hands  were 
tied.  On  demanding  the  reason  of  such  violence,  the 
only  answer  was  abuse  for  not  holding  my  tongue.  The 
master,  the  gunner,  surgeon,  master's  mate,  and  Nelson 
the  gardener,  were  kept  confined  below,  and  the  fore- 
hatchway  was  guarded  by  sentinels.  The  boatswain 
and  carpenter,  and  also  the  clerk,  were  allowed  to 
come  on  deck,  where  they  saw  me  standing  abaft  the 
mizen-mast,  with  my  hands  tied  behind  my  back,  unaer 
a  guard,  with  Christian  at  their  head.  The  boatswain 
was  then  ordered  to  hoist  out  the  launch,  accompanied 
by  a  threat,  if  he  did  not  do  it  instantly,  TO  TAKE  CARE 

OF  HIMSELF. 

The  boat  being  hoisted  out,  Mr.  Hayward  and  Mr. 
Hallett,  two  of  the  midshipmen,  and  Mr.  Samuel,  the 
clerk,  were  ordered  into  it.  I  demanded  the  intention 
of  giving  this  order,  and  endeavoured  to  persuade  the 
people  near  me  not  to  persist  in  such  acts  of  violence ; 
but  it  was  to  no  effect ;  for  the  constant  answer  was, 
"Hold  your  tongue,  sir,  or  you  are  dead  this  moment." 

The  master  had  by  this  time  sent,  requesting  that  he 
might  come  on  deck,  which  was  permitted  ;  but  he  was 
soon  ordered  back  again  to  his  cabin.  My  exertions 
to  turn  the  tide  of  affairs  were  continued  ;  when  Chris- 
tian, changing  the  cutlass  he  held  for  a  bayonet,  and, 
holding  me  by  the  cord  about  my  hands  with  a  strong 
gripe,  threatened  me  with  immediate  death  if  I  would 
not  be  quiet;  and  the  villains  around  me  had  their 
nieces  cocked  and  bayonets  fixed. 

Certain  individuals  were  called  on  to  get  into  the 
boat,  and  were  hurried  jver  the  ship's  side  ;  whence  1 
concluded,  that  along  with  them  I  was  to  be  set  adrift. 
Another  effort  to  bring  about  a  change  produced  noth- 
ing but  menaces  of  having  my  brains  blown  out. 

The  boatswain  and  those  seamen  who  were  to 
be  put  into  the  boat,  were  allowed  to  collect  twine, 
jam  as.  liucs,  sails,  cordage,  an  eight-and-twenty  gal- 


lon cask  of  water  ;  and  Mr.  Samuel  got  150  pounds  o{ 
bread,  with  a  small  quantity  of  rurn  and  wine  ;  als\.  a 
quadrant  and  compass  ;  but  he  was  prohibited,  on  pair, 
of  death,  to  touch  any  map  or  astronomical  book,  and 
any  instrument,  or  any  of  my  surveys  and  drawings. 

The  mutineers  having  thus  forced  those  of  the  sea 
men  whom  they  wished  to  get  rid  of  into  the  boat, 
Christian  directed  a  dram  to  be  served  to  each  of  his 
crew.  I  then  unhappily  saw  that  nothing  could  be 
done  to  recover  the  ship.  The  officers  were  next  called 
on  deck,  and  forced  over  the  ship's  side  into  the  boat, 
while  I  was  kept  apart  from  every  one  abaft  the  mizen- 
mast.  Christian,  armed  with  a  bayonet,  held  the  cord 
fastening  my  hands,  and  the  guard  around  me  stood 
with  their  pieces  cocked ;  but  on  my  daring  the  un- 
grateful wretches  to  fire,  they  uncocked  them.  Isaa< 
Martin,  one  of  them,  I  saw,  had  an  inclination  to  asste'. 
me ;  and  as  he  fed  me  with  shaddock,  my  lips  being 
quite  parched,  we  explained  each  other's  sentiments  by 
looks.  But  this  was  observed,  and  he  was  removed. 
He  then  got  into  the  boat,  attempting  to  leave  the  ship- 
however,  he  was  compelled  to  return.  Some  others 
were  also  kept  contrary  to  their  inclination. 

It  appeared  to  me,  that  Christian  was  some  time  in 
doubt  whether  he  should  keep  the  carpenter  or  his 
mates.  At  length  he  determined  for  the  latter,  and  IIIP 
carpenter  was  ordered  into  the  boat.  He  was  permitted, 
though  not  without  opposition,  to  take  his  tool-chest. 

Mr.  Samuel  secured  my  journals  and  commission,  with 
some  important  ship-papers;  this  he  did  with  great  reso- 
lution, though  strictly  watched.  He  attempted  to  sav; 
the  time-keeper,  and  a  box  with  my  surveys,  drawings, 
and  remarks  for  fifteen  years  past,  which  were  very 
numerous,  when  he  was  hurried  away  with — "  Damn 
your  eyes,  you  are  well  off  to  get  what  you  have." 

Much  altercation  took  place  among  the  mutinous  crew 
during  the  transaction  of  this  whole  affair.  Some  swore, 
"  I  '11  be  damned  if  he  does  not  find  his  way  home,  if  he 
gets  any  thing  with  him,"  meaning  me  ;  and  when  the 
carpenter's  chest  was  carrying  away,  "  Damn  my  eyes, 
he  will  have  a  vessel  built  in  a  month;"  while  others  ridi- 
culed the  helpless  situation  of  the  boat,  which  was  very 
deep  in  the  water,  and  had  so  little  room  for  those  who 
were  in  her.  As  for  Christian,  he  seemed  as  if  medi- 
tating destruction  on  himself  and  every  one  else. 

I  asked  for  arms,  but  the  mutineers  laughed  at  me, 
and  said  I  was  well  acquainted  with  the  people  among 
whom  I  was  going;  four  cutlasses,  however,  were  thrown 
into  the  boat,  after  we  were  veered  astern. 

The  officers  and  men  being  in  the  boat,  they  only 
waited  for  me,  of  which  the  master-at-arms  informed 
Christian,  who  then  said,  "Come,  Captain  Bligh,  your 
officers  and  men  are  now  in  the  boat,  and  you  must  go 
with  them;  if  you  attempt  to  make  the  least  resistance, 
you  will  instantly  be  put  to  death;"  and  without  further 
ceremony,  I  was  forced  over  the  side  by  a  tribe  of  armed 
ruffians,  where  they  untied  my  hands.  Being  in  the 
boat,  we  were  veered  astern  by  a  rope.  A  few  p.cces 
of  pork  were  thrown  to  us,  also  the  fonr  cutlasses.  The 
armorer  and  carpenter  then  called  out  to  me  to  remeni 
ber  that  they  had  no  hand  in  the  transaction.  Afiui 
having  been  kept  some  time  to  make  sport  for  these 
unfeeling  wretches,  and  having  undergone  much  riili 
cule,  we  were  at  length  cast  adrift  in  the  open  ocean. 

Eighteen  persons  were  with  me  in  the  boat,— the 


480 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


master,  acting  surgeon,  botanist,  gunner,  boatswain, 
carpenter,  mas>er,  and  quarter-master's  mate,  two  quar- 
ter-masters, the  sail-maker,  two  cooks,  my  clerk,  the 
butcher,  and  a  boy.  There  remained  on  board,  Fletcher 
Christian,  the  master's  mate  ;  Peter  Haywood,  Edward 
Young,  George  Stewart,  midshipmen  ;  the  master-al- 
arms, gunner's  mate,  boatswain's  mate,  gardener,  ar- 
morer, carpenter's  mate,  carpenter's  crew,  and  four- 
teen seamen,  being  altogether  the  most  able  men  of  the 
ship's  company. 

Having  little  or  no  wind,  we  rowed  pretty  fast  towards 
the  island  of  Tofoa,  which  bore  north-east  about  ten 
leagues  distant.  The  ship  while  in  sight  steered  west- 
north-west,  but  this  I  considered  only  as  a  feint,  for 
when  we  were  sent  away,  "Huzza  for  Otaheite !"  was 
frequently  heard  among  the  mutineers. 
*  Christian,  the  chief  of  them,  was  of  a  respectable 
family  in  the  north  of  England.  This  was  the  third 
voyage  he  had  made  with  me.  Notwithstanding  the 
roughness  with  which  I  was  treated,  the  remembrance  of 
past  kindness  produced  some  remorse  in  him.  While 
they  were  forcing  me  out  of  the  ship,  I  asked  him  whether 
this  was  a  proper  return  for  the  many  instances  he  had 
experienced  of  my  friendship  ?  He  appeared  disturbed 
at  the  question,  and  answered,  with  much  emotion, 
"That — Captain  Bligh — that  is  the  thing — I  am  in 
hell — I  am  in  hell."  His  abilities  to  take  charge  of  the 
third  watch,  as  I  had  so  divided  the  ship's  company, 
were  fully  equal  to  the  task. 

Haywood  was  also  of  a  respectable  family  in  the 
north  of  England,  and  a  young  man  of  abilities,  as  well 
as  Christian.  These  two  had  been  objects  of  my  partic- 
ular regard  and  attention,  and  I  had  taken  great  pains 
to  instruct  them,  having  entertained  hopes  that,  as  pro- 
fessional men,  they  would  have  become  a  credit  to  their 
country.  Young  was  well  recommended;  and  Stewart 
of  creditable  parents  in  the  Orkneys,  at  which  place,  on 
the  return  of  the  Resolution  from  the  South  Seas  in  1 780, 
we  received  so  many  civilities,  that  in  consideration  of 
these  alone  I  should  gladly  have  taken  him  with  me. 
But  he  had  always  borne  a  good  character. 

When  I  had  time  to  reflect,  an  inward  satisfaction 
prevented  the  depression  of  my  spirits.  Yet,  a  few 
hours  before,  my  situation  had  been  peculiarly  flatter- 
ing ;  I  had  a  ship  in  the  most  perfect  order,  stored  with 
every  necessary,  both  for  health  and  service ;  the  object 
•f  the  voyage  was  attained,  and  two-thirds  of  it  now 


completed.  The  remaining  part  had  every  prospet*  at 
success. 

It  will  naturally  be  asked,  what  could  be  the  cause  of 
such  a  revolt  ?  In  answer,  I  can  only  conjecture  that  the 
mutineers  had  flattered  themselves  with  the  hope  of  a 
happier  life  among  the  Otaheitans  than  they  could  pos- 
sibly enjoy  in  England ;  which,  joined  to  some  female 
connexions,  most  probably  occasioned  the  whole  trans- 
action. 

The  women  of  Otaheite  are  handsome,  mild,  and 
cheerful  in  manners  and  conversation ;  possessed  of 
great  sensibility,  and  have  sufficient  delicacy  to  make 
them  be  admired  and  beloved.  The  chiefs  were  so  much 
attached  to  our  people,  that  they  rather  encouraged 
their  stay  among  them  than  otherwise,  and  even  made 
them  promises  of  large  possessions.  Under  these,  and 
many  other  concomitant  circumstances,  it  ought  hardly 
to  be  the  subject  of  surprise  that  a  set  of  sailors,  most 
of  them  void  of  connexions,  should  be  led  away,  where 
they  had  the  power  of  fixing  themselves  in  the  midst 
of  plenty,  in  one  of  the  finest  islands  in  the  world,  where 
there  was  no  necessity  to  labour,  and  where  the  allure- 
ments of  dissipation  are  beyonJ  any  conception  that 
can  be  formed  of  it.  The  utmost,  however,  that  a  com- 
mander could  have  expected,  was  desertions,  such  as 
have  already  happened  more  or  less  in  the  South  Seas, 
and  not  an  act  of  open  mutiny. 

But  the  secrecy  of  this  mutiny  surpasses  belief.  Thir- 
teen of  the  party  who  were  now  with  me  had  always 
lived  forward  among  the  seamen  ;  yet  neither  they,  nor 
the  messmates  of  Christian,  Stewart,  Haywood,  and 
Young,  had  ever  observed  any  circumstance  to  excite 
suspicion  of  what  was  plotting ;  and  it  is  not  wonderful 
if  I  fell  a  sacrifice  to  it,  my  mind  being  entirely  free 
from  suspicion.  Perhaps,  had  marines  been  on  board 
a  sentinel  at  my  cabin-door  might  have  prevented  it ; 
for  I  constantly  slept  with  the  door  open,  that  the  officer 
of  the  watch  might  have  access  to  me  on  all  occasions. 
If  the  mutiny  had  been  occasioned  by  any  grievances, 
either  real  or  imaginary,  I  must  have  discovered  symp- 
toms of  discontent,  which  would  have  put  me  on  my 
guard;  but  it  was  far  otherwise.  With  Christian,  in 
particular,  I  was  on  the  most  friendly  terms  ;  that  very 
day  he  was  engaged  to  have  dined  with  me ;  and  the 
preceding  night  he  excused  himself  from  supping  with 
me  on  pretence  of  indisposition,  for  which  I  fell  con  • 
cerned,  having  no  suspicions  of  his  honour  or  integrity . 


antic 


of 

OR, 


CARMEN  SECULARE  ET  ANNUS  HAUD  MIRABILIS. 


"Impar  Congressus  Achilli.' 


I. 

THE  "  good  <  Id  times" — all  times,  when  old,  ar*  good- 
Are  gone  ;  tl.e  present  might  be,  if  they  would ; 
Great  things  have  been,  and  are,  and  greater  still 
Want  huie  of  mere  mortals  but  their  will : 
A  wider  space,  a  greener  field  is  given 
lo  those  who  olay  their  "tricks  before  high  Heaven." 


I  know  not  if  the  angels  weep,  but  men 
Have  wept  enough — for  what  ? — to  weep  af 

II. 

All  is  exploded — be  it  good  or  bad. 
Reader !   remember  when  thou  wert  a  lad. 
Then  Pitt  was  all ;   or,  if  not  all,  so  muca, 
His  very  rival  almost  deem'd  him  such 


THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE. 


481 


We,  we  have  seen  the  intellectual  race 
Of  giants  stand,  like  Titans,  face  to  face — 
Athos  and  Ida,  with  a  dashing  sea 
Of  eloquence  between,  which  flow'd  all  free, 
As  the  deep  billows  of  the  ^Egean  roar 
Betwixt  the  Hellenic  and  Phrygian  shore. 
But  where  are  they — the  rivals  ? — a  few  feet 
Of  sullen  earth  divide  each  winding-sheet. 
How  peaceful  and  how  powerful  is  the  grave, 
Which  hushes  all !   a  calm,  unstormy  wave 
Which  oversweeps  the  world.    The  theme  is  old 
Of  "  dust  to  dust,"  but  half  its  tale  untold. 
Time  tempers  not  its  terrors — still  the  worm 
Winds  its  cold  folds,  the  tomb  preserves  its  form — 
Varied  above,  but  still  alike  below  ; 
The  urn  may  shine,  the  ashes  will  not  glow. 
Though  Cleopatra's  mummy  cross  the  sea, 
O'er  which  from  empire  she  lured  Antony  ; 
Though  Alexander's  urn  a  show  be  grown 
On  shores  he  wept  to  conquer,  though  unknown— 
How  vain,  how  worse  than  vain,  at  leng'h  appear 
The  madman's  wish,  the  Macedonian's  tear. 
He  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer — half  the  earth 
Knows  not  his  name,  or  but  his  death  and  birth 
And  desolation  ;  while  his  native  Greece 
Hath  all  of  desolation,  save  its  peace. 
He  "  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer!"  he  who  ne'er 
Conceived  the  globe  he  panted  not  to  spare! 
With  even  the  busy  Northern  Isle  unknown, 
Which  holds  his  urn,  and  never  knew  his  throne. 

III. 

But  where  is  he,  the  modern,  mightier  far, 

Who,  born  no  king,  made  monarchs  draw  his  car ; 

The  new  Sesostris,  whose  unharness'd  kings, 

Freed  from  the  bit,  believe  themselves  with  wings 

And  spurn  the  dust  o'er  which  they  crawl'd  of  late, 

Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  the  chieftain's  state? 

Yes  !   where  is  he,  the  champion  and  the  child 

Of  all  that 's  great  or  little,  wise  or  wild  ? 

Whose  game  was  empires,  and  whose  stakes  were 

thrones  ; 

Whose  table,  earth — whose  dice  were  humau  bones  ? 
Behold  the  grand  result  in  yon  lone  isle, 
And,  as  thy  nature  urges,  weep  or  smile. 
Sigh  to  behold  the  eagle's  lofty  rage 
Reduced  to  nibble  at  his  narrow  cage ; 
Smile  to  survey  the  Queller  of  the  Nations 
Now  daily  squabbling  o'er  disputed  rations  ; 
Weep  to  perceive  him  mourning,  as  he  dines, 
O'er  curtail'd  dishes  and  o'er  stinted  wines ; 
O'er  petty  quarrels  upon  petty  things — 
Is  this  the  man  who  scourged  or  feasted  kings  ? 
Behold  the  scales  in  which  his  fortune  hangs, 
A  surgeon's  statement  and  an  earl's  harangues  ! 
A  bust  delay'd,  a  book  refused,  can  shake 
The  sleep  of  him  who  kept  the  world  awake. 
Is  this  indeed  the  Tamer  of  the  Great, 
Now  slave  of  all  could  teaze  or  irritate— 
The  paltry  jailor  and  the  prying  spy, 
The  staring  stranger  with  his  note-book  nigh? 
Plunged  in  a  dungeon,  he  had  still  been  great ; 
How  low,  how  little,  was  this  middle  state, 
Between  a  prison  and  a  palace,  where 
How  >>.,v  could  feel  for  what  he  had  to  bear! 
T  2  t>6 


Vain  his  complaint — my  lord  presents  his  bill. 
His  food  and  wine  were  doled  out  duly  still 
Vain  was  his  sickness, — never  was  a  crime 
So  free  from  homicide — to  doubt's  a  crime  ; 
And  the  stiff  surgeon,  who  maintain'd  his  cause, 
Hath  lost  his  place,  and  gain'd  the  world's  applause. 
But  smile — though  ah  the  pangs  of  brain  and  heart 
Disdain,  defy,  the  tardy  aid  of  art ; 
Though,  save  the  few  fond  friends,  and  imaged  face 
Of  that  fair  boy  his  sire  shall  ne'er  embrace, 
None  stand  by  his  low  bed — though  even  the  mind 
Be  wavering,  which  long  awed  and  awes  mankind.— 
Smile — for  the  felt  er'd  eagle  breaks  his  chain, 
And  higher  worlds  than  this  are  his  again 

IV. 

How,  if  that  soaring  spirit  still  retain 
A  conscious  twilight  of  his  blazing  reign, 
How  must  he  smile,  on  looking  down,  to  see 
The  little  that  he  was  and  sought  to  be ! 
What  though  his  name  a  wider  empire  found 
Than  his  ambition,  though  with  scarce  a  bound ; 
Though  first  in  glory,  deepest  in  reverse, 
He  tasted  empire's  blessings,  and  its  curse  ; 
Though  kings,  rejoicing  in  their  late  escape 
From  chains,  would  gladly  be  their  tyrant's  ape  : 
How  must  he  smile,  and  turn  to  yon  lone  grave, 
The  proudest  sea-mark  that  o'ertops  the  wave ! 
What  though  his  jailor,  duteous  to  the  last, 
Scarce  deem'd  the  coffin's  lead  could  keep  him  fact, 
Refusing  one  poor  line  along  the  lid 
To  date  the  birth  and  death  of  all  it  hid, 
That  name  shall  hallow  the  ignoble  shore, 
A  talisman  to  all  save  him  who  bore : 
The  fleets  that  sweep  before  the  eastern  blast 
Shall  hear  their  sea-boys  hail  it  from  the  mast ; 
When  Victory's  Gallic  column  shall  but  rise, 
Like  Pompey's  pillar,  in  a  desert's  skies, 
The  rocky  isle  that  holds  or  held  his  dust 
Shall  crown  the  Atlantic  like  the  hero's  bust, 
And  mighty  Nature  o'er  his  obsequies 
Do  more  than  niggard  Envy  still  denies. 
But  what  are  these  to  him?    Can  glory's  lust 
Touch  the  freed  spirit  of  the  fetter'd  dust? 
Small  care  hath  he  of  what  his  tomb  consists, 
Nought  if  he  sleeps — nor  more  if  he  exists  • 
Alike  the  better-seeing  shade  will  smile 
On  the  rude  cavern  of  the  rocky  isle, 
As  if  his  ashes  found  their  latest  home 
In  Rome's  Pantheon,  or  Gaul's  mimic  dome. 
He  wants  not  this ;  but  France  shall  feel  the  warn 
Of  this  last  consolation,  though  so  scant ; 
Her  honour,  fame,  and  faith,  demand  his  bones, 
To  rear  amid  a  pyramid  of  thrones  ; 
Or  carried  onward,  in  the  battle's  van, 
To  form,  like  Guesclin's1  dust,  her  talisman. 
But  be  as  it  is,  the  time  may  come 
His  name  shall  beat  the  alarm  like  Ziska's  drum. 

V. 

Oh,  Heaven  !  of  which  he  was  in  power  a  feature  , 
Oh,  earth!  of  which  he  was  a  noble  creature ; 
Thou  isle !  to  be  remember'd  long  and  well, 
That  saw'st  the  unfledged  eaglet  chip  his  shell ! 


1  Guesclin  died  durin?  the  siege  of  a  city-  it  surrr.nderea. 
and  the  keys  were  brought  and  'aid  upon  hu  bic;,  *>  "wi  t** 
place  might  appear  rendered  to  nu  ashes 


402 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Ye  Al  is  which  view'd  him  in  his  dawning  flights 

Hm  er  the  victor  of  a  hundred  fights  ! 

Thou  Rome,  who  saw'st  thy  Caesar's  deeds  outdone  ! 

Alas !   why  pass'd  he  too  the  Rubicon  ? 

The  Rubicon  of  man's  awaken'd  rights, 

To  herd  with  vulgar  kings  and  parasites? 

Egypt !  from  whose  all  dateless  tombs  arose 

Forgotten  Pharaohs  from  their  long  repose, 

And  shook  within  her  pyramids  to  hear 

A  new  Cambyses  thundering  in  their  ear  ; 

While  the  dark  shades  of  forty  ages  stood 

Like  startled  giants  by  Nile's  famous  flood ; 

Or  from  the  pyramid's  tall  pinnacle 

Beheld  the  desert  peopled,  as  from  hell, 

With  clashing  hosts,  who  strew'd  the  barren  sand 

To  re-manure  the  uncultivated  land ! 

Spain  !   which,  a  moment  mindless  of  the  Cid, 

Beheld  his  banner  flouting  thy  Madrid ! 

Austria  !   which  saw  thy  twiee-ta'en  capital 

Twice  spared,  to  be  the  traitress  of  his  fall ! 

Ye  race  of  Frederic! — Frederics  but  in  name 

And  falsehood — heirs  to  all  except  his  fame  ; 

Who,  crush'd  at  Jena,  crouch'd  at  Berlin,  fell, 

First,  and  but  rose  to  follow  ;  ye  who  dwell 

Where  Kosciusko  dwelt,  remembering  yet 

The  unpaid  amount  of  Catherine's  bloody  debt! 

Poland  !  o'er  which  the  avenging  angel  pass'd, 

But  left  thee  as  he  found  thee,  still  a  waste : 

Forgetting  all  thy  still  enduring  claim, 

Thy  lotted  people  and  extinguish'd  name  ; 

Thy  sigh  for  freedom,  thy  long-flowing  tear 

That  sound  that  crashes  in  the  tyrant's  ear: 

Kosciusko !  on— on — on — the  thirst  of  war 

Gasps  for  the  gore  of  serfs  and  of  their  czar ; 

The  half-barbaric  Moscow's  minarets 

Gleam  in  the  sun,  but  't  is  a  sun  that  sets ! 

Moscow  !   thou  limit  of  his  long  career, 

For  which  rude  Charles  had  wept  his  frozen  tear 

To  see  in  vain — he  saw  thee — how !  with  spire 

And  palace  fuel  to  one  common  fire. 

To  this  the  soldier  lent  his  kindling  match, 

To  this  the  peasant  gave  his  cottage  thatch, 

To  this  the  merchant  flung  his  hoarded  store, 

The  prince  his  hall — and  Moscow  was  no  more  ! 

Sublimest  of  volcanos  !  Etna's  flame 

Pales  before  thine,  and  quenchless  Hecla's  tame ; 

Vesuvius  shows  his  blaze,  an  usual  sight 

For  gasping  tourists,  from  his  hackney'd  height : 

Thou  stand's!  alone  unrivall'd,  till  the  fire 

To  come,  in  which  ail  empires  shall  expire. 

Thou  other  element !  as  strong  and  stern 

To  teach  a  lesson  conquerors  will  not  learn, 

Whose  icy  wing  flapp'd  o'er  the  faltering  foe, 

Till  fell  a  hero  with  each  flake  of  snow ; 

How  did  thy  numbing  beak  and  silent  fang 

Pierce,  till  hosts  perish'd  with  a  single  pang ! 

Ir.  vain  shall  Seine  look  up  along  his  banks 

For  the  eav  thousands  of  his  dashing  ranks  ; 

In  vain  shall  France  recall  beneath  her  vines 

Her  youth — their  blood  flows  faster  than  her  wines, 

«»r  stagnant  in  their  human  ice  remains 

In  frozen  mummies  on  the  polar  plains. 

In  vain  will  Italy's  broad  sun  awaken 

ITet  offspring  chill'd — its  beams  are  now  forsaken. 

Of  all  the  trophies  gather'd  from  the  war, 

What  shall  return  ?    The  conqueror's  broken  car ! 


The  conqueror's  yet  unbroken  heart !     Again 

The  horn  of  Roland  sounds,  and  not  in  vain. 

Lutzen,  where  fell  the  Swede  of  victory, 

Beholds  him  conquer,  but,  alas  !   not  die  : 

Dresden  surveys  three  despots  fly  once  more 

Before  their  sovereign, — sovereign,  as  be.ore  ; 

But  there  exhausted  Fortune  quits  their  field, 

And  Leipsic's  treason  bids  the  unvanquish'd  yield ; 

The  Saxon  jackal  leaves  the  lion's  side 

To  turn  the  bear's,  and  wolf's,  and  fox's  guide  ; 

And  backward  to  the  den  of  his  despair 

The  forest  monarch  shrinks,  but  finds  no  lair  ! 

Oh  ye !   and  each,  and  all !   oh,  France  !  who  found 

Thy  long  fair  fields  plough'd  up  as  hostile  ground, 

Disputed  foot  by  foot,  til!  treason,  still 

His  only  victor,  from  Montrnarlre's  hill 

Look'd  down  o'er  trampled  Paris,  and  thou,  isle, 

Which  see'st  Etruria  from  thy  ramparts  smile, 

The  momentary  shelter  of  his  pride, 

Till,  woo'd  by  danger,  his  yet  weeping  bride  ; 

Oh,  France  !   rcfaken  by  a  single  march, 

Whose  path  was  through  one  long  triumphal  arch  ! 

Oh,  bloody  and  most  bootless  Waterloo, 

Which  prove  how  fools  may  have  their  fortune  toe, 

Won,  half  by  blunder,  half  by  treachery ; 

Oh,  dull  Saint  Helen!   with  thy  jailor  nigh — 

Hear!  hear!  Prometheus1  from  his  rock  appeal 

To  earth,  air,  ocean,  all  that  felt  or  feel 

His  power  and  glory,  all  who  yet  shall  hear 

A  name  eternal  as  the  rolling  year  ; 

He  teaches  them  the  lesson  taught  so  long, 

So  oft,  so  vainly — learn  to  do  no  wrong ! 

A  single  step  into  the  right  had  made 

This  man  the  Washington  of  worlds  betray'd  ; 

A  single  step  into  the  wrong  has  given 

His  name  a  doubt  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven , 

The  reed  of  fortune  and  of  thrones  the  rod, 

Of  fame  the  Moloch  or  the  demi-god  ; 

His  country's  Caesar,  Europe's  Hannibal, 

Without  their  decent  dignity  of  fall. 

Yet  vanity  herself  had  better  taught 

A  surer  path  even  to  the  fame  he  sought, 

By  pointing  out  on  history's  fruitless  page, 

Ten  thousand  conquerors  for  a  single  sage. 

While  Franklin's  quiet  memory  climbs  to  heaven, 

Calming  the  lightning  which  he  thence  hath  riven, 

Or  drawing  from  the  no  less  kindled  earth 

Freedom  and  peace  to  that  whicl.  boasts  his  birth 

While  Washington 's  a  watch-worn.  «uch  as  ne'ei 

Shall  sink  while  there 's  an  echo  left  to  air : 

While  even  the  Spaniard's  thirst  of  gold  and  war 

Forgets  Pizarro  to  shout  Bolivar  ! 

Alas  !   why  must  the  same  Atlantic  wave 

Wrhich  wafted  freedom  gird  a  tyrant's  grave, — 

The  king  of  kings,  and  yet  of  slaves  the  slave, 

Who  burst  the  chains  of  millions  to  renew 

The  very  fetters  which  his  arm  broke  through, 

And  crush'd  the  rights  of  Europe  and  his  own 

To  flit  between  a  dungeon  and  a  throne? 

VI. 

But 't  will  not  be — the  spark 's  awaken'd—  lo  ! 
The  swarthy  Spaniard  feels  his  former  glow ; 


1  I  refer  the  reader  to  the  first  address  of  Prometheus  it 
^.schylus,  when  he  is  left  alone  by  his  attejdanU,  and  befo.' 
the  arrival  of  the  Chorus  of  Sea-nymphs. 


THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE. 


483 


The  same  high  spirit  which  beat  back  the  Moor 

Through  eight  long  ages  of  alternate  gore, 

Revives — and  where  ?  in  that  avenging  clime 

Where  Spain  was  once  synonymous  with  crime, 

Where  Cortes'  and  Pizarro's  banner  flew, 

The  infant  world  redeems  her  name  of  "  New." 

'T  is  the  old  aspiration  breathed  afresh, 

To  kindle  souls  within  degraded  flesh, 

Such  as  repulsed  the  Persian  from  the  shore 

Where  Greece  was — No !  she  still  is  Greece  once  more. 

One  common  cause  makes  myriads  of  one  breast ! 

Slaves  of  the  east,  or  Helots  of  the  west ; 

On  Andes'  and  on  Athos'  peaks  unfurl'd, 

The  self-same  standard  streams  o'er  either  world : 

The  Athenian  wears  again  Harmodius'  sword  ; 

The  Chili  chief  abjures  his  foreign  lord  ; 

The  Spartan  knows  himself  once  more  a  Greek ; 

Young  Freedom  plumes  the  crest  of  each  Cacique; 

Debating  despots,  hemm'd  on  either  shore, 

Shrink  vainly  from  the  roused  Atlantic's  roar : 

Through  Calpe's  strait  the  rolling  tides  advance, 

Sweep  lightly  by  the  half-tamed  land  of  France, 

Dash  o'er  the  old  Spaniard's  cradle,  and  would  fain 

Unite  Ausonia  to  the  mighty  main  : 

But  driven  from  thence  awhile,  yet  not  for  aye, 

Break  o'er  the  .iEgean,  mindful  of  the  day 

Of  Salamis — there,  there  the  waves  arise, 

Not  to  be  lull'd  by  tyrant  victories. 

Lone,  lost,  abandon'd  in  their  utmost  need 

By  Christians  unto  whom  they  gave  their  creed, 

The  desolated  lands,  the  ravaged  isle, 

The  foster'd  feud  encouraged  to  beguile, 

The  aid  evaded,  and  the  cold  delay, 

Prolong' d  but  in  the  hope  to  make  a  prey ; — 

1'hcse,  these  shall  tell  the  tale,  and  Greece  can  show 

The  false  friend  worse  than  the  infuriate  foe. 

But  this  is  well :  Greeks  only  should  free  Greece, 

Not  the  barbarian,  with  his  mask  of  peace. 

How  should  the  autocrat  of  bondage  be 

The  king  of  serfs,  and  set  the  nations  free  ? 

Better  still  serve  the  haughty  Mussulman, 

Than  swell  the  Cossaque's  prowling  caravan; 

Better  still  toil  for  masters,  than  await, 

The  slave  of  Slaves,  before  a  Russian  gate, — 

Number'd  by  hordes,  a  human  capital, 

A  live  estate,  existing  but  for  thrall, 

Lotted  by  thousands  as  a  meet  reward 

For  the  first  courtier  in  the  czar's  regard ; 

While  their  immediate  owner  never  tastes 

His  sleep,  sans  dreaming  of  Siberia's  wastes; 

Better  succumb  even  to  their  own  despair, 

And  drive  the  camel  than  purvey  the  bear. 

VII. 

But  not  alone  within  the  hoariest  clime, 

Where  freedom  dates  her  birth  with  that  of  time  ; 

And  not  alone  where  plunged  in  night,  a  crowd 

Of  Incas  darken  to  a  dubious  cloud, 

The  dawn  revives  ;  renown'd,  romantic  Spain 

Holds  hack  the  invader  from  her  soil  again. 

Not  now  the  Roman  tribe  nor  Punic  horde, 

Demand  her  fields  as  lists  to  prove  the  sworo; 

Not  now  the  Vandal  or  the  Visigoth 

Pollute  the  plains,  alike  abhorring  both  ; 

Nor  old  Pelayo  on  his  mountain  rears 

The  warlike  fathers  o."  a  thousand  years. 


That  se«d  is  sown  and  reap'd,  as  oft  the  Moor 

Sighs  to  remember  on  his  dusky  shore. 

Long  in  the  peasant's  song  or  poet's  page 

Has  dwelt  the  memory  of  Abencerage, 

The  Zegri,  and  the  captive  victors,  flun» 

Back  to  the  barbarous  realm  from  whence  they  sprung 

But  these  are  gone — their  faith,  their  swords,  tneir  swaj 

Yet  left  more  anti-christian  foes  than  they  : 

The  bigot  monarch  and  the  butcher  priest, 

The  inquisition,  with  her  burning  feast, 

The  faith's  red  "  auto,"  fed  with  human  fuel, 

While  sat  the  Catholic  Moloch,  calmly  cruel, 

Enjoying,  with  inexorable  eye, 

That  fiery  festival  of  agony  ! 

The  stern  or  feeble  sovereign,  one  or  both 

By  turns;  the  haughtiness  whose  pride  was  sloth; 

The  long-degenerate  noble  ;  the  debased 

Hidalgo,  and  the  peasant  less  disgraced 

But  more  degraded  ;  the  unpeopled  realm  ; 

The  once  proud  navy  which  forgot  the  helm  ; 

The  once  impervious  phalanx  disarray'd ; 

The  idle  forge  that  form'd  Toledo's  blade  ; 

The  foreign  wealth  that  flow'd  on  every  shore, 

Save  hers  who  earn'd  it  with  the  natives'  gore ; 

The  very  language,  which  might  vie  with  Rome's, 

And  once  was  known  to  nations  like  their  homes, 

Neglected  or  forgotten  : — such  was  Spain ; 

But  such  she  is  not,  nor  shall  be  again. 

These  worst,  these  home  invaders,  felt  and  feel 

The  new  Numantine  soul  of  old  Castile. 

Up !  up  again  !  undaunted  Tauridor ! 

The  bull  of  Phalaris  renews  his  roar ; 

Mount,  chivalrous  Hidalgo  !  not  in  vain 

Revive  the  cry — "  lago  !  and  close  Spain  !"' 

Yes,  close  her  with  your  armed  bosoms  round, 

And  form  the  barrier  which  Napoleon  found, — 

The  exterminating  war ;  the  desert  plain  ; 

The  streets  without  a  tenant,  save  the  slain  ; 

The  wild  Sierra,  with  its  wilder  troop 

Of  vulture-plumed  guerillas,  on  the  stoop 

For  their  incessant  prey  ;  the  desperate  wall 

Of  Saragossa,  mightiest  in  her  fall ; 

The  man  nerved  to  a  spirit,  and  the  maid 

Waving  her  more  than  Amazonian  blade  ; 

The  knife  of  Arragon,2  Toledo's  steel ; 

The  famous  lance  of  chivalrous  Castile; 

The  unerring  rifle  of  the  Catalan  ; 

The  Andalusian  courser  in  the  van  ; 

The  torch  to  make  a  Moscow  of  Madrid  j 

And  in  each  heart  the  spirit  of  the  Cid  : — 

Such  have  been,  such  shall  be,  such  are.     Advance, 

And  win — not  Spain,  but  thine  own  freedom,  France 

VIII. 

But  lo  !   a  congress  !   What,  that  hallow'd  name 
Which  freed  the  Atlantic  ?  May  we  hope  the  saraa 
For  outworn  Europe  ?  With  the  sound  arise, 
Like  Samuel's  shade  to  Saul's  monarchic  eyes, 
The  prophets  of  young  freedom,  summon'd  far 
From  climes  of  Washington  and  Bolivai ; 
Henry,  the  forest-born  Demosthenes, 
Whose  thunder  shook  the  Philip  of  the  seas ; 

1  "  SL  lago  !  and  close  Spain  !"  the  old  Spanish  war  cry 

2  The  Arragonians  are  peculiarly  dexterous  in  tho  use 
this  weapon,  and  displayed  it  particularly  in  ior 

wan. 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


\nd  stoic  Franklin's  energetic  shade, 

llobed  in  the  lightnings  which  his  hand  allay'd ; 

And  Washington,  the  tyrant-tamer,  wake, 

To  b'd  in  blush  for  these  old  chains,  or  break. 

But  who  compose  this  senate  of  the  few 

That  sh  mid  redeem  the  many  ?    Who  renew 

This  consecrated  name,  till  now  assign'd 

To  councils  held  to  benefit  mankind  ? 

Who  now  assemble  at  the  holy  call  ? — 

The  bless'd  alliance  which  says  three  are  all ! 

An  earthly  trinity !  which  wears  the  shape 

Of  Heaven's,  as  man  is  mimick'd  by  the  ape. 

A  pious  unity !  in  purpose  one, 

To  melt  three  fools  to  a  Napoleon. 

Why,  Egypt's  gods  were  rational  to  these  ; 

Their  dogs  and  oxen  knew  their  own  degrees, 

And,  quiet  in  their  kennel  or  their  shed, 

Cared  little,  so  that  they  were  duly  fed : 

But  these,  more  hungry,  must  have  something  more — 

The  power  to  bark  and  bite,  to  toss  and  gore. 

Ah,  how  much  happier  were  good  ^Ksop's  frogs 

Than  we !  for  ours  are  animated  logs, 

With  ponderous  malice  sVaying  to  and  fro, 

And  crushing  nations  with  a  stupid  blow, 

All  dully  anxious  to  leave  little  work 

Unto  the  revolutionary  stork. 

IX. 

Thrice  bless'd  Verona  !  since  the  holy  three 
With  their  imperial  presence  shine  on  thee ; 
Honour'd  by  them,  thy  treacherous  site  forgets 
The  vaunted  tomb  of  "  all  the  Capulets  ;" 
Thy  Scaligers — for  what  was  "  Dog  the  Great," 
a  Can'  Grande"  (which  I  venture  to  translate) 
To  these  sublimer  pugs  ?  Thy  poet  too, 
Catullus,  whose  old  laurels  yield  to  new  ; 
Thine  amphitheatre,  where  Romans  sate  ; 
And  Dante's  exile,  shelter'd  by  thy  gate  ; 
Thy  good  old  man,1  whose  world  was  all  within 
Thy  wall,  nor  knew  the  country  held  him  in : 
Would  that  the  royal  guests  it  girds  about 
Were  so  far  like,  as  never  to  get  out ! 
Ay,  shout !  inscribe  !  rear  monuments  of  shame, 
To  tell  oppression  that  the  world  is  tame  ! 
Crowd  to  the  theatre  with  loyal  rage — 
The  comedy  is  not  upon  the  stage  ; 
The  show  is  rich  in  ribbonry  and  stars — 
Then  gaze  upon  it  through  thy  dungeon  bars  ; 
Clasp  thy  permitted  palms,  kind  Italy, 
For  thus  much  still  thy  fetter'd  hands  are  free ! 

X. 

Resplendent  sight !  behold  the  coxcomb  czar, 

The  autocrat  of  waltzes  and  of  war ! 

As  eager  for  a  plaudit  as  a  realm, 

And  just  as  fit  for  flirting  as  the  helm ; 

A  Calmuck  beauty  with  a  Cossack  wit, 

And  generous  spirit  when  'tis  not  frost-bit; 

Now  half-dissolving  to  a  liberal  thaw, 

Hut  harden' d  back  whene'er  the  morning's  raw; 

'Vitli  no  objection  to  true  liberty, 

Rxccpt  tnat  it  would  make  the  nations  free. 

llcw  well  the  imperial  dandy  prates  of  peace, 

How  fait.,  if  Greeks  would  be  his  slaves,  free  Greece! 


I  The  famous  old  man  of  Verona. 


How  nobly  gave  he  back  the  Poles  their  Diet, 

Then  told  pugnacious  Poland  to  be  quiet ! 

How  kindly  would  he  send  the  mild  Ukraine, 

With  all  her  pleasant  pulks,  to  lecture  Spain , 

How  royally  show  off  in  proud  Madrid 

His  goodly  person,  from  the  south  long  hid, — 

A  Messing  cheaply  purchased,  the  world  knowy, 

By  having  Muscovites  for  friends  or  foes. 

Proceed,  thou  namesake  of  great  Philip's  son ! 

La  Harpe,  thine  Aristotle,  beckons  on  ; 

And  that  which  Scythia  was  to  him  of  yore, 

Find  with  thy  Scythians  on  Iberia's  shore. 

Yet  think  upon,  thou  somewhat  aged  youth, 

Thy  predecessor  on  the  banks  of  Pruth  : 

Thou  hast  to  aid  thee,  should  his  lot  be  thine, 

Many  an  old  woman,  but  no  Catherine.1 

Spain  too  hath  rocks,  and  rivers,  and  denies — 

The  bear  may  rush  into  the  lion's  toils. 

Fatal  to  Goths  are  Xeres'  sunny  fields  ; 

Think'st  thou  to  thee  Napoleon's  victor  yields  ? 

Better  reclaim  thy  deserts,  turn  thy  swords 

To  ploughshares,  shave  and  wash  thy  Bashkir  hordn 

Redeem  thy  realms  from  slavery  and  the  knout, 

Than  follow  headlong  in  the  fatal  route, 

To  infest  the  clime,  whose  skies  and  laws  are  pure, 

With  thy  foul  legions.     Spain  wants  no  manure  ; 

Her  soil  is  fertile,  but  she  feeds  no  foe  ; 

Her  vultures,  too,  were  gorged  not  long  ago : 

And  wouldst  thou  furnish  them  with  fresher  prey  ? 

Alas  !  thou  wilt  not  conquer,  but  purvey. 

I  am  Diogenes,  though  Russ  and  Hun 

Stand  between  mine  and  many  a  myriad's  sun ; 

But  were  I  not  Diogenes,  I  'd  wander 

Rather  a  worm  than  such  an  Alexander  ! 

Be  slaves  who  will,  the  Cynic  shall  be  free ; 

His  tub  hath  tougher  walls  than  Sinope : 

Still  will  he  hold  his  lantern  up  to  scan 

The  face  of  monarchs  for  an  "  honest  man." 


And  what  doth  Gaul,  the  all-prolific  land 
Of  ne  plus  ultra  Ultras  and  their  band 
Of  mercenaries?  and  her  noisy  Chambers, 
And  tribune  which  each  orator  first  clambers, 
Before  he  finds  a  voice,  and,  when  't  is  found, 
Hears  "  the  lie  "  echo  for  his  answer  round  ? 
Our  British  Commons  sometimes  deign  to  hear  ; 
A  Gallic  senate  hath  more  tongue  than  ear  ; 
Even  Constant,  their  sole  master  of  debate, 
Must  fight  next  day,  his  speech  to  vindicate. 
But  this  costs  little  to  true  Franks,  who  had  rather 
Combat  than  listen,  were  it  to  their  father. 
What  is  the  simple  standing  of  a  shot, 
To  listening  long  and  interrupting  not  ? 
Though  this  was  not  the  method  of  old  Rome, 
When  Tully  fulmined  o'er  each  vocal  dome, 
Demosthenes  has  sanction'd  the  transaction. 
In  saying  eloquence  meant  "  Action,  action  '" 

XII. 

But  where  's  the  monarch?  hath  he  dined  .'  or  -fct 
Groans  beneath  indigestion's  heavy  debt  ? 


1  The  dexterity  of  Ca'herine  extricated  Peter  (cnlleil  ttu> 
Great  by  courtesy)  when  surrounded  by  th«  Muss  iW  an  or 
the  banks  of  the  river  Pruth. 


THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE. 


Have  revolutionary  pates  risen, 

And  turn'cl  the  royal  entrails  to  a  prison  ? 

Have  discontented  movements  stirr'd  the  troops  ? 

Or  have  no  movements  follow'd  traitorous  soups? 

Have  Carbonaro  cooks  not  carbonadoed 

Each  course  enough  ?  or  doctors  dire  dissuaded 

Repletion  ?    Ah  !  in  thy  dejected  looks 

I  read  all 's  treason  in  her  cooks  ! 

Good  classic !  is  it,  canst  thou  say, 

Desirable  to  be  the  " ?" 

Why  wouldst  thou  leave  calm 's  green  abode, 

Apician  table  and  Horatian  ode, 
To  rule  a  people  who  will  not  be  ruled, 
And  love  much  rather  to  be  scourged  than  school'd  ? 
Ah !  thine  was  not  the  temper  or  the  taste 
For  thrones — the  table  sees  thee  better  placed : 
A  mild  Epicurean,  fbrm'd,  at  best. 
To  be  a  kind  host  and  as  good  a  guest. 
To  talk  of  letters,  and  to  know  by  heart 
One  half  the  poet's,  all  the  gourmand's  art ; 
A  scholar  always,  now  and  then  a  wit, 
And  gentle  when  digestion  may  permit- 
But  not  to  govern  lands  enslaved  or  free  ; 
The  gout  was  martyrdom  enough  for  thee  ! 

XIII. 

Shall  noble  Albion  pass  without  a  phrase 

From  a  hold  Briton  in  her  wonted  praise  ? 

"Arts — arms — and  George — and  glory  and  the  isles — 

And  happy  Britain — wealth  and  freedom's  smiles — 

White  cliffs,  that  held  invasion  far  aloof— 

Contended  subjects,  all  alike  tax-proof— 

Proud  Wellington,  with  eagle  beak  so  curl'd, 

That  nose,  the  hook  where  he  suspends  the  world  !' 

And  Waterloo — and  trade — and (hush!  not  yet 

A  syllable  of  imposts  or  of  debt) 

And  ne'er  (enough)  lamented  Castlereagh, 
Whose  pen-knife  slit  a  goose-quill  't  other  day — 
And  "  pilots  who  have  weather'd  every  storm, — 
(But  no,  not  even  for  rhyme's  sake,  name  reform)." 
These  are  the  themes  thus  sung  so  oft  before, 
Methinks  we  need  not  sing  them  any  more  ; 
Found  in  so  many  volumes  far  and  near, 
There 's  no  occasion  you  should  find  them  here. 
Yet  something  may  remain,  perchance,  to  chime 
With  reason,  and,  what 's  stranger  still,  with  rhyme ; 
Even  this  thy  genius,  Canning!  may  permit, 
Who,  bred  a  statesman,  still  was  born  a  wit, 
And  never,  even  in  that  dull  house,  couldst  tame 
To  unleaven'd  prose  thine  own  poetic  flame ; 
Our  last,  our  best,  our  only  orator, 
Even  I  can  praise  thee — Tories  do  no  more, 
Nay,  not  so  much  ; — they  hate  thee,  man,  because 
Thy  spirit  less  upholds  them  than  it  awes. — 
The  hounds  will  gather  to  their  huntsman's  hollo, 
And,  where  he  leads,  the  duteous  pack  will  follow: 
But  not  for  love  mistake  their  yelling  cry, 
Their  yelp  for  game  is  not  an  eulogy ; 
Less  faithful  far  than  the  four-footed  pack, 
A  dubious  scent  would  lure  the  bipeds  back. 
Thy  saddle-girths  are  not  yet  quite  secure, 
Noi  F  >ya!  stallion's  feet  extremely  sure  ; 


1  "  Naso  suspendit  adunco." — Horace. 
The  Roman  app  iea  it  to  one  who  merely  was  iniperion  to 
nil  acquaintanrn 


The  unwieldy  old  white  horse  is  apt  at  last 
To  stumble,  kick,  and  now  and  then  stick  fast 
With  his  great  self  and  rider  in  the  mud ; 
But  what  of  that  ?  the  animal  shows  blood. 

XIV. 

Alas !  the  country  ! — how  shall  tongue  or  pen 

Bewail  her  now  uncountry  gentlemen  ? 

The  last,  to  bid  the  cry  of  warfare  cease, 

The  first  to  make  a  malady  of  peace. 

For  what  were  all  these  country  patriots  born  ? 

To  hunt  and  vote,  and  raise  the  price  of  corn  ? 

But  corn,  like  every  mortal  thing,  must  fall — 

Kin^s,  conquerors,  and  markets  most  of  all. 

A..-I  must  ye  fall  with  every  ear  of  grain  ? 

\\  ny  would  you  trouble  Buonaparte's  reign  ? 

He  was  your  great  Triptolemus  ;  his  vices 

Destroy'd  but  realms,  and  still  maintain'd  your  pnc<-» 

He  amplified,  to  every  lord's  content, 

The  grand  agrarian  alchymy — high  rent. 

Why  did  the  Tyrant  stumble  on  the  Tartars, 

And  lower  wheat  to  such  desponding  quarters  ? 

Why  did  you  chain  him  on  yon  isle  so  lone  ? 

The  man  was  worth  much  more  upon  his  throne. 

True,  blood  and  treasure  boundlessly  were  spilt, 

But  what  of  that  ?  the  Gaul  may  bear  the  guilt ; 

But  bread  was  high,  the  farmer  paid  his  way, 

And  acres  told  upon  the  appointed  day. 

But  where  is  now  the  goodly  audit  ale  ? 

The  purse-proud  tenant  never  known  to  fail  ? 

The  farm  which  never  yet  was  left  on  hand  ? 

The  marsh  reclaimed  to  most  improving  land  ? 

The  impatient  hope  of  the  expiring  lease  ? 

The  doubling  rental  ?  What  an  evil 's  peace ! 

In  vain  the  prize  excites  the  ploughman's  skill, 

In  vain  the  commons  pass  their  patriot  bill ; 

The  landed  interest — (you  may  understand 

The  phrase  much  better  leaving  out  the  land) 

The  land's  self-interest  groans  from  shore  to  shore 

For  fear  that  plenty  should  attain  the  poor. 

Up  !  up  again  :  ye  rents,  exalt  your  notes, 

Or  else  the  ministry  will  lose  their  votes, 

And  patriotism,  so  delicately  nice, 

Her  loaves  will  lower  to  the  market  price  ; 

For  ah !  "  the  loaves  and  fishes,"  once  so  high, 

Are  gone — their  oven  closed,  their  ocean  dry ; 

And  nought  remains  of  all  the  millions  sper.t, 

Excepting  to  grow  moderate  and  content. 

They  who  are  not  so  had  their  turn — and  turn 

About  still  flows  from  fortune's  equal  urn  ; 

Now  let  their  virtue  be  its  own  reward, 

And  share  the  blessings  which  themselves  prvj   ,ed. 

See  these  inglorious  Cincinnati  swarm, 

Farmers  of  war,  dictators  of  the  farm ! 

Their  ploughshare  was  the  sword  in  hirelirg  binds, 

Their  fields  manured  by  gore  of  othfr  lands  ; 

Safe  in  their  barns,  these  Sabine  tillers  sent 

Their  brethren  out  to  battle — why  ?  for  rent ! 

Year  after  year  they  voted  cent,  per  cent. 

Blood,  sweat, and  tear- wrung  millions — why?  for  rent1 

They  roar'd,  they  dined,  they  drank,  they  swore  the* 

meant 

To  die  for  England — why  then  live  ?  for  rent ! 
The  peace  has  made  one  general  malcontent 
Of  these  high-market  patriots  ;  war  was  rent ! 
Their  love  of  country,  millions  all  mispenu 


486 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


How  reconcile  •' — by  recc-jciling  rent. 

And  will  they  not  repay  the  treasures  lent  ? 

No :   down  with  every  thing,  and  up  with  rent ! 

Their  good,  ill,  health,  wealth,  joy,  or  discontent, 

Being,  end,  aim,  religion — Rent,  rent,  rent ! 

Thou  sold'st  thy  birthright,  Esau  !  for  a  mess : 

Thou  shouldst  have  gotten  more  or.  eaten  less  : 

Now  thou  hast  swill'd  thy  pottage,  thy  demands 

Are  idle ;  Israel  says  the  bargain  stands. 

Such,  landlords,  was  your  appetite  for  war, 

And,  gorged  with  blood,  you  grumble  at  a  scar ! 

What,  would  they  spread  their  earthquake  even  o'er  cash? 

And  when  land  crumbles,  bid  firm  paper  crash? 

So  rent  may  rise,  bid  bank  and  nation  fall, 

And  found  on  'Change  a  foundling  hospital! 

Lo,  mother  church,  while  ail  religion  writhes, 

Like  Niobe,  weeps  o'er  her  offspring,  tithes  ; 

The  prelates  go  to— where  the  saints  have  gone, 

And  proud  pluralities  subside  to  one  ; 

Church,  state,  and  faction,  wrestle  in  the  dark, 

Toss'd  by  the  deluge  in  their  common  ark. 

Shorn  of  her  bishops,  banks,  and  dividends, 

Another  Babel  soars — but  Britain  ends. 

And  whv  ?  to  pamper  the  self-seeking  wants, 

And  prop  the  hill  of  these  agrarian  ants. 

"  Go  to  these  ants,  thou  sluggard,  and  be  wise ;" 

Admire  their  patience  through  each  sacrifice, 

Till  taught  to  feel  the  lesson  of  their  pride, 

The  price  of  taxes  and  of  homicide ; 

Admire  their  justice,  which  would  fain  deny 

The  debt  of  nations :  pray,  u-ho  made  it  high  ? 

XV. 

Or  turn  to  sail  between  those  shifting  rocks, 

The  new  Symplegades — the  crushing  Stocks, 

Where  Midas  might  again  his  wish  behold 

In  real  paper  or  imagined  gold. 

That  magic  pa'ace  of  Alcina  shows 

More  wealth  than  Britain  ever  had  to  lose, 

Were  all  her  atoms  of  unleavened  ore, 

And  all  her  pebbles  from  Pactolus'  shore. 

There  Fortune  plays,  while  Rumour  holds  the  stake, 

And  the  world  trembles  to  bid  brokers  break. 

How  rich  is  Britain  !  not  indeed  in  mines, 

Or  peace,  or  plenty,  corn,  or  oil,  or  wines  ; 

No  land  of  Canaan,  full  of  milk  and  honey, 

Nor  (save  in  paper  shekels)  ready  money: 

But  let  us  not  to  own  the  truth  refuse, 

^Vas  ever  Christian  land  so  rich  in  Jews  ? 

Those  parted  with  their  teeth  to  good  King  John, 

And  now,  ye  kings  !  they  kindly  draw  your  own ; 

All  states,  all  things,  all  sovereigns,  they  control, 

And  waft  a  loan  "from  Indus  to  the  Pole." 

The  banker — broker — baron — brethren,  speed 

To  aid  these  bankrupt  tyrants  in  their  need. 

Nor  tnese  alone  ;  Columbia  feels  no  less 

Fresh  speculations  follow  each  success  ; 

And  philanthropic  Israel  deigns  to  drain 

Her  mild  per  centage  from  exhausted  Spain. 

Not  without  Abraham's  seed  can  Russia  march — 

'T  •..>  cold,  not  stee'.,  that  rears  the  conqueror's  arch. 

Two  Jews,  a  chosen  people,  can  command 

In  every  realm  their  scripture-promised  land  : 

Two  Jews  keep  down  the  Romans,  and  uphold 

The  accursed  Hun.  more  brutal  tnan  of  old  : 


Two  Jews — but  not  Samaritans — direct 
The  world,  with  all  the  spirit  of  their  sect. 
What  is  the  happiness  of  earth  to  them  ? 
A  congress  forms  their  "  Now  Jerusalem," 
Where  baronies  and  orders  both  invite — 
Oh,  holy  Abraham !  dost  thou  see  the  sight  ? 
Thy  followers  mingling  with  these  royal  swine, 
Who  spit  not  "on  their  Jewish  gaberdine," 
But  honour  them  as  portion  of  the  show — 
(Where  now,  oh,  Pope !  is  thy  forsaken  to*"  ? 
Could  it  not  favour  Judah  with  some  kicks  ? 
Or  has  it  ceased  to   "kick  against  the  pricks?") 
On  Shylock's  shore  behold  them  stand  afresh, 
To  cut  from  nations'  hearts  their  "  pound  of  flesh." 

XVI. 

Strange  sight  this  congress !  destined  to  unite 
All  that 's  incongruous,  all  that 's  opposite. 
I  speak  not  of  the  sovereigns — they  're  alike, 
A  common  coin  as  ever  mint  could  strike  : 
But  those  who  sway  the  puppets,  pull  the  strings. 
Have  more  of  motley  than  their  heavy  kings. 
Jews,  authors,  generals,  charlatans,  combine, 
While  Europe  wonders  at  the  vast  design : 
There  Metternich,  power's  foremost  parasite, 
Cajoles  ;  there  Wellington  forgets  to  fight ; 
There  Chateaubriand  forms  new  books  of  martyrs ;' 
And  subtle  Greeks  intrigue  for  stupid  Tartars  ; 
There  Montmorency,  the  sworn  foe  to  charters, 
Turns  a  diplomatist  of  great  eclat, 
To  furnish  articles  for  the  "Debats  ;" 
Of  war  so  certain — yet  not  quitfi  so  sure 
As  his  dismissal  in  the  "Moniteur." 
Alas  !  how  could  his  cabinet  thus  eir  ( 
Can  peace  be  worth  an  ultra-minister  ? 
He  falls  indeed, — perhaps  to  rise  again, 
Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer'd  Spain." 

XVII. 

Enough  of  this — a  sight  more  mournful  woos 

The  averted  eye  of  the  reluctant  muse. 

The  imperial  daughter,  the  imperial  bride, 

The  imperial  victim — sacrifice  to  pride  ; 

The  mother  of  the  hero's  hope,  the  boy, 

The  young  Astyanax  of  modern  Troy ; 

The  still  pale  shadow  of  the  loftiest  queen 

That  earth  has  yet  to  see,  or  e'er  hath  seen : 

She  flits  amidst  the  phantoms  of  the  hour, 

The  theme  of  pity,  an\d  the  wreck  of  power. 

Oh,  cruel  mockery  !  could  not  Austria  s]-?re 

A  daughter  ?  What  did  France's  widow  there  ? 

Her  fitter  place  was  by  St.  Helen's  wave-- 

Her  only  throne  is  in  Napoleon's  grave. 

But,  no, — she  still  must  hold  a  petty  reign 

Flank'd  by  her  formidable  chamberlain  ; 

The  martial  Argus,  whose  not  hundred  eye» 

Must  watch  her  through  these  paltry  pagonntrics. 

What  though  she  share  no  more,  and  shand  in  vain, 

A  sway  surpassing  that  of  Charlemagne, 

Which  swept  from  Moscow  to  the  Southern  seas, 

Yet  still  she  rules  the  pastoral  realm  of  cheese. 


1  Monsieur  Chateaubriand,  who  has  not  forgotten  thr  authw 
n  the  minister,  received  a  handsome  compliment  at  Verona 

from  a  literary  sovereign :  "  Ah  !  Monsieur  (' ,  a  -e  you 

related  to  that  Chateaubriand  who — who— who  has  wriiuui 
something  (ecrit  quelquc  chasf)?"  It  is  st.id  thai  the  Auth-n 
of  Atala  repented  him  for  a  moment  of  hi*  legitimacy 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


487 


Where  Parma  views  the  traveller  resort 

To  note  the  trappings  of  her  mimic  court. 

Hut  she  appears !    Verona  sees  her  shorn 

Of  all  her  beams — while  nations  gaze  and  mourn — 

Ere  yet  her  husband's  ashes  have  had  time 

To  chill  in  their  inhospitable  clime, 

(If  e'er  those  awful  ashes  can  grow  cold — 

But  no, — their  embers  soon  will  burst  the  mould)  ; 

She  cornes  ! — the  Andromache  (but  not  Racine's, 

Nor  Homer's) ;  lo!   on  Pyrrhus'  arm  she  leans! 

Yes  !  the  right  arm,  yet  red  from  Waterloo, 

Which  cut  her  lord's  half-shatter'd  sceptre  through, 

Is  offer'd  and  accepted !  Could  a  slave 

Do  more  ?  or  less  ? — and  he  in  his  new  grave ! 

Her  eye,  her  cheek,  betray  no  inward  strife, 

And  the  .Ex-empress  grows  as  Ex  a  wife ! 

So  much  for  human  ties  in  royal  breasts  ! 

Why  spare  men's  feelings,  when  their  own  are  jests  ? 


XVIII. 

But,  tired  of  foreign  follies,  I  turn  home, 

And  sketch  the  group — the  picture  's  yet  to  come. 

My  Muse  'gan  weep,  but,  ere  a  tear  was  sput, 

She  caught  Sir  William  Curtis  in  a  kilt! 

While  throng'd  the  Chiefs  of  every  Highland  clan 

To  hail  their  brother,  Vich  Ian  Alderman  ! 

Guildhall  grows  Gael,  and  echoes  with  Erse  roar, 

While  all  the  Common  Council  cry,  "  Claymore !" 

To  see  proud  Albyn's  tartans  as  u  belt 

Gird  the  gross  sirloin  of  a  City  Cell, 

She  burst  into  a  laughter  so  extreme, 

That  I  awoke — and  lo !  it  was  no  dream  ! 


Here,  reader,  will  we  pause : — if  there  's  no  harm  in 
This  first — you'll  have,  perhaps,  a  second  "  Carmen. 


Vision  of 


BY  Q.UEVEDO  REDIVIVUS. 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  COMPOSITION  SO  ENTITLED  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  WAT  TYLER. 


A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  yea,  a  Daniel ! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 


I. 

SAINT  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 
His  keys  were  rusty,  and  the  lock  was  dull, 

So  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late ; 
Not  that  the  place  by  any  means  was  full, 

But  since  the  Gallic  era  "  eighty-eight," 
The  devils  had  taken  a  longer,  stronger  pull, 

And  "  a  pull  altogether,"  as  they  say 

At  sea — which  drew  most  souls  another  way. 

II. 

The  angels  all  were  singing  out  of  tune, 
And  hoarse  with  having  little  else  to  do, 

Excepting  to  wind  up  the  sun  and  moon, 
Or  curb  a  runaway  young  star  or  two, 

Or  wild  colt  of  a  comet,  which  too  soon 
Broke  out  of  bounds  o'er  the  ethereal  blue, 

Splitting  some  planet  with  its  playful  tail, 

As  boats  are  sometimes  by  a  wanton  whale. 

III. 

The  guardian  seraphs  had  retired  on  high, 
Finding  their  charges  past  all  care  below ; 

Terrestrial  business  fill'd  nought  in  the  sky 
Save  the  recording  angel's  black  bureau ; 

Who  found,  indeed,  the  facts  to  multiply 
With  such  rapidity  of  vice  and  woe, 

That  he  had  stripp'd  off  both  his  wings  in  quills, 

And  vet  was  in  arrear  of  human  ills. 


TV. 

His  business  so  augmented  of  late  years, 

That  he  was  forced,  against  his  will,  no  doubt, 

(Just  like  those  cherubs,  earthly  ministers), 
For  some  resource  to  turn  himself  about, 

And  claim  the  help  cf  his  celestial  peers, 
To  aid  him  ere  he  should  be  quite  worn  out 

By  the  increased  demand  for  his  remarks  : 

Six  angels  and  twelve  saints  were  named  his  clerks, 

V. 

This  was  a  handsome  board — at  least  for  heaven ; 

And  yet  they  had  even  then  enough  to  do, 
So  many  conquetors'  cars  were  daily  driven, 

So  many  kingdoms  fitted  up  anew  ; 
Each  day,  too,  slew  its  thousands  six  or  seven, 

Till  at  the  crowning  carnage,  Waterloo, 
They  threw  their  pens  down  in  divine  disgust — 
The  page  was  so  besmear'd  with  blood  and  dus» 

VI. 

This  by  the  way  ;  't  is  not  mine  to  record 

What  angels  shrink  from :  even  me  very  i!e«»f 

On  this  occasion  his  own  work  abhorr'd, 
So  surfeited  with  the  infernal  reve1 : 

Though  he  himself  had  sharpen'd  every  swonl 
It  almost  quench'd  his  innate  thirst  of  evil. 

(Here  Satan's  sole  good  work  deserves  insertion 

'Tis,  that  he  has  both  generals  in  reversion). 


488 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


VII. 

Lei  's  skip  a  few  short  years  of  hollow  peace, 
Which  peopled  earth  no  better,  hell  as  wont, 

And  heaven  none — they  form  the  tyrant's  lease, 
With  nothing  but  new  names  inscribed  upon't; 

T  wi..  one  day  finish  :   meantime  they  increase, 

"  With  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,"  and  all  in  front, 

Line  Saint  John's  foretold  beasts  ;  but  ours  are  born 

Less  formidable  in  the  head  than  horn. 

VIII. 

In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn 
Died  George  the  Third ;  although  no  tyrant,  one 

Who  shielded  tyrants,  till  each  sense  withdrawn 
Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun : 

A  better  farmer  ne'er  brush'd  dew  from  lawn, 
A  worse  king  never  left  a  realm  undone ! 

He  died — but  left  his  subjects  still  behind, 

One  half  as  mad — and  t'  other  no  less  blind. 

IX. 

He  died  ! — his  death  made  no  great  stir  on  earth ; 

His  burial  made  some  pomp  ;  there  was  profusion 
Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,  and  no  great  dearth 

Of  aught  but  tears — save  those  shed  by  collusion  ; 
For  these  things  may  be  bought  at  their  true  worth : 

Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion — 
Bought  also  ;  and  the  torches,  cloaks,  and  banners, 
Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  manners, 

X. 

Form'd  a  sepulchral  melo-drame.     Of  all 
The  fools  who  flock'd  to  swell  or  see  the  show, 

Who  cared  about  the  corpse  ?     The  funeral 
Made  the  attraction,  and  the  black  the  woe. 

There  throbb'd  not  there  a  thought  which  pierced  the  pall; 
And  when  the  gorgeous  coffin  was  laid  low 

It  seem'd  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 

The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

XI. 

So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust !     It  might 
Return  to  what  it  must  far  sooner,  were 

The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  fight 
Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  fire,  and  air ; 

Bui  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 
What  nature  made  him  at  his  birth,  as  bare 

As  the  mere  million's  base  unmummied  clay — 

i'et  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay. 

xn. 

He  'u  dead — and  upper  earth  with  him  has  done : 
Ho 's  buried  ;  save  the  undertaker's  bill, 

Or  lapidary  scrawl,  the  world  is  gone 
For  him,  unless  he  left  a  German  will ; 

But  where  's  the  proctor  who  will  ask  his  son  ? 
In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  still, 

Except  that  household  virtue,  most  uncommon, 

Of  constancy  to  a  bad  ugly  woman. 

XIII. 

*  Gf  d  gave  the  king !"    It  is  a  large  economy 
In  God  to  save  the  like ;  but  if  he  will 

Be  saving,  all  the  better  ;  for  not  one  am  I 
Ot  those  who  think  damnation  better  still: 

I  hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 
In  tins  small  nope  of  hettering  future  ill 

B.y  i.-irnimscribing,  with  some  slight  restriction, 

I'lie  B<rrmtv  of  hell's  hot  jurisdiction. 


XIV. 

I  know  this  is  unpopular  ;   I  know 

'T  is  blasphemous  ;  I  know  ont  may  be  damn'd 
For  hoping  no  one  else  may  e'er  be  so ; 

I  know  my  catechism  ;  I  know  we  are  cramm'd 
With  the  best  doctrines  till  we  quite  o'erflow  ; 

I  know  that  all  save  Engfand's  church  have  shamm'i 
And  that  the  other  twice  two  nundred  churches 
And  synagogues  have  made  a  damn'd  bad  purchase. 

XV. 
God  help  us  all !   God  help  me,  too !   I  am, 

God  knows,  as  helpless  as  the  devil  can  wish, 
And  not  a  whit  more  difficult  to  damn 

Than  is  to  bring  to  land  a  late-hook'd  fish, 
Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  lamb ; 

Not  that  I  'm  fit  for  such  a  noble  dish 
As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  fry 
Of  almost  every  body  born  to  die. 

XVI. 
Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 

And  nodded  o'er  his  keys :  when  lo  !  there  came 
A  wondrous  noise  he  had  not  heard  of  late — 

A  rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream,  and  flame  ; 
In  short,  a  roar  of  things  extremely  great, 

Which  would  have  made  aught  save  a  saint  exclaim  | 
But  he,  with  first  a  start  and  then  a  wink, 
Said,  "  There 's  another  star  gone  out,  I  think  '" 

XVII. 
But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 

A  cherub  flapp'd  his  right  wing  o'er  his  eyes — 
At  which  Saint  Peter  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  nose ; 

u  Saint  porter,"  said  the  angel,  "  prithee  rise  !" 
Waving  a  goodly  wing,  which  glow'd,  as  glows 

An  earthly  peacock's  tail,  with  heavenly  dyes : 
To  which  the  saint  replied,  "  Well,  what 's  the  matter? 
Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  all  this  clatter  ?" 

XVIII. 
"  No,"  quoth  the  cherub  ;  "  George  the  Third  is  dead." 

"  And  who  is  George  the  Third  ?"  replied  the  apostle: 
"  What  George  ?  what  Third  ?"  "  The  King  of  Eng- 
land," said 

The  angel.     "  Well !  he  won't  find  kings  to  jostle 
Him  on  his  way ;  but  does  he  wear  his  head  ? 

Because  the  last  we  saw  here  had  a  tussle, 
And  ne'er  would  have  got  into  Heaven's  good  graces, 
Had  he  not  flung  his  head  in  all  our  faces. 

XIX. 
"  He  was,  if  I  remember,  king  of : 

That  head  of  his,  which  could  not  keep  a  crown 
On  earth,  yet  ventured  in  my  face  to  advance 

A  claim  to  those  of  martyrs — like  my  own : 
If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  I  had  once 

When  I  cut  ears  off,  I  had  cut  him  down ; 
But  having  but  my  keys,  and  not  my  brand, 
I  only  knock'd  his  head  from  out  his  hand. 

XX. 
u  And  then  he  set  up  such  a  headless  howl, 

That  all  the  saints  came  out  and  took  him  in  ; 
And  there  he  sits  by  Saint  Paul,  cheek  by  jowl , 

That  fellow,  Paul — the  parvenu !     The  skin 
Of  Saint  Bartholomew,  which  makes  his  cowl 

In  heaven,  and  upon  earth  redeem'd  his  sin 
So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 
Better  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  head 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


XXI. 

"  But  had  it  come  up  here  uoon  its  shoulders, 
There  would  have  been  a  different  tale  to  tell : 

The  fellow-feeling  in  the  saints  beholders 
Seems  to  have  acted  on  them  like  a  spell, 

And  so  this  very  foolish  head  Heaven  solders 
Back  on  its  trunk  :   it  may  be  very  well, 

And  seems  the  custom  here  to  overthrow 

Whatever  has  been  wisely  done  below." 

XXII. 

The  angel  answer'd,  "  Peter  !  do  not  pout ; 

The  king  who  comes  has  head  and  all  entire, 
And  never  knew  much  what  it  was  about — 

He  did  as  doth  the  puppet — by  its  wire, 
And  will  be  judged  like  all  the  rest,  no  doubt : 

My  business  and  your  own  is  not  to  inquire 
Into  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  cue — 
Which  is  to  act  as  we  are  bid  to  do." 

XXIII. 
While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan, 

Arriving  like  a  rush  of  mighty  wind, 
Cleaving  the  fields  of  space,  as  doth  the  swan 

Some  silver  stream  (say  Ganges,  Nile,  or  Inde, 
Or  Thames,  or  Tweed),  and  'midst  them  an  old  man 

With  an  old  soul,  and  both  extremely  blind, 
Halted  before  the  gate,  and  in  his  shroud 
Seated  their  fellow-traveller  on  a  cloud. 

XXIV. 
But,  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  bright  host, 

A  spirit  of  a  different  aspect  waved 
His  wings,  like  thunder-clouds  above  some  coast 

Whose  barren  beach  witn  frequent  wrecks  is  paved  • 
ILs  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  tempest-tost  ; 

Fierce  and  unfathomable  thoughts  engraved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face, 
And  where  he  gazed  a  gloom  pervaded  space. 

XXV. 
As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate, 

Ne'er  to  be  enter'd  more  by  him  or  sin, 
With  such  a  glance  of  supernatural  hate, 

As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  himself  within  ; 
He  potter'd  with  his  keys  at  a  great  rate, 
.    And  sweated  through  his  apostolic  skin : 
Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor, 
Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 

XXVI. 

The  very  cherubs  huddled  altogether, 

Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon ;  and  they  felt 

A  tingling  to  the  tip  of  every  feather, 
And  form'd  a  circle,  like  Orion's  belt, 

Around  their  poor  old  charge,  who  scarce  knew  whither 
His  guards  had  led  him,  though  they  gently  dealt 

With  royal  manes  (for,  by  many  stories, 

And  true,  we  learn  the  angels  all  are  Tories). 

XXVII. 

As  «.hin2S  were  in  this  posture,  the  gate  flew 
Asunder,  and  tne  flashing  of  its  hinges 

Flung  over  s>|  ace  an  universal  hue 

Of  many-colour'd  flame,  until  its  tinges 

Reach'd  even  our  speck  of  earth,  and  made  a  new 
Auro-a  borealis  spread  its  fringes 

O'er  this  North  Pole;  the  same  seen,  when  ice-bound, 

By  Captain  Parry's  crews,  in  "Melville's  Sound." 
2U  67 


XXVIII. 

And  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued  beaming 

A  beautiful  and  mighty  thing  of  light, 
Radiant  with  glory,  like  a  banner  streaming 

Victorious  from  some  world-o'crthrowing  fight : 
My  poor  comparison  must  needs  be  teeming 

With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the  night 
Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions,  saving 
Johanna  Southcote,  or  Bob  Southey  raving. 

XXIX. 
'T  was  the  archangel  Michael :  all  men  know 

The  make  of  angels  and  archangels,  since 
There 's  scarce  a  scribbler  has  not  one  to  show, 

From  the  fiends'  leader  to  the  angels'  prince. 
There  also  are  some  altar-pieces,  though 

I  really  can't  say  that  they  much  evince 
One's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits  ; 
But  let  the  connoisseurs  explain  their  merits. 

XXX. 

Michael  flew  forth  in  glory  and  in  good  ; 

A  goodly  work  of  him  from  whom  all  glory 
And  good  arise  ;  the  portal  pass'd — he  stood  ; 

Before  him  the  young  cherubs  and  saint  hoary 
(I  say  young,  begging  to  be  understood 

By  looks,  not  years ;  and  should  be  very  sorry 
To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  Saint  Peter, 
But  merely  that  they  seem'd  a  little  sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The  cherubs  and  the  saint  bow'd  down  before 

That  arch-angelic  hierarch,  the  first 
Of  essences  angelical,  who  wore 

The  aspect  of  a  god  ;  but  this  ne'er  nursed 
Pride  in  his  heavenly  bosom,  in  whose  core 

No  thought,  save  for  his  Maker's  service,  dur»; 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high  ; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  pf  the  sky. 

XXXII. 

He  and  the  sombre  silent  spirit  met — 

They  knew  each  other  both  for  good  and  ill ; 

Such  was  their  power,  that  neither  could  forget 
His  former  friend  and  future  foe ;  but  still 

There  was  a  high,  immortal,  proud  regret 
In  cither's  eye,  as  if  'twere  less  their  wih 

Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 

Their  date  of  war,  and  their  "C  hamp  Clos"  the  sphei « 

XXXIII. 

But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space :  we  know 

From  Job,  that  Sathan  hath  the  power  to  pay 
A  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so  ; 

And  that  "  the  sons  of  God,"  like  those  of  clay, 
Must  keep  him  company  ;  and  we  might  show, 

From  the  same  book,  in  how  polite  a  way 
The  dialogue  is  held  between  the  powers 
Of  good  and  evil — but 't  would  take  up  hours. 

XXXIV. 
And  this  is  not  a  theologic  tr?"*, 

To  prove  with  Hebrew  and  with  Arabii, 
If  Job  be  allegory  or  a  fact, 

But  a  true  narrative  ;  and  thus  1  pick 
From  out  the  whole  but  such  and  such  an  act 

As  sets  aside  the  slightest  thought  of  trirk. 
'T  is  every  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion, 
And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 


4'JC 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XXXV. 

The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 
The  gate  of  heaven  ;  like  eastern  thresholds  is 

The  place  where  death's  grand  cause  is  argued  o'er, 
And  souls  despatch'd  to  that  world  or  to  this  ; 

And  therefore  Michael  and  the  other  wore 
A  civil  aspect :  though  they  did  not  kiss, 

Yet  still  between  his  Darkness  and  his  Brightness 

There  pass'd  a  mutual  glance  of  great  politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The  archangel  bow'd,  not  like  a  modern  beau, 

But  with  a  graceful  oriental  bend, 
Pressing  one  radiant  arm  just  where  below 

The  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to  tend, 
He  turn'd  as  to  an  equal,  not  too  low, 

But  kindly ;  Sathan  met  his  ancient  friend^ 
With  more  hauteur,  as  might  an  old  Castilian 
Poor  noble  meet  a  mushroom  rich  civilian. 

XXXVII. 

He  merely  ber         diabolic  brow 

An  instant ;   and  then,  raising  it,  he  stood 

In  act  to  assert  his  right  or  wrong,  and  show 

Cause  why  King  George  by  no  means  could  or  should 

Make  out  a  case  to  be  exempt  from  woe 
Eternal,  more  than  other  kings  endued 

With  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  history  mentions, 

Who  long  have  "  paved  hell  with  their  good  intentions." 

XXXVIII. 

Michaei  began  :  "  What  wouldst  thou  with  this  man, 
Now  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord  ?  What  ill 

Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race  began, 
That  thou  canst  claim  him  ?  Speak  !  and  do  thy  will, 

If  it  be  just:  if  in  this  earthly  span 
He  hath  been  greatly  failing  to  fulfil 

His  duties  as  a  king  and  mortal,  say, 

And  he  is  thine  ;  if  notj  let  him  have  way." 

XXXIX. 

"Michael!"  replied  the  prince  of  air,  "  even  here, 

Before  the  gate  of  Him  thou  servest,  must 
I  ciaim  my  subject ;  and  will  make  appear 

That  as  he  was  my  worshipper  in  dust, 
So  shall  he  be  in  spirit,  although  dear 

To  thee  and  thine,  because  nor  wine  nor  lust 
Were  of  his  weaknesses  !  yet  on  the  throne 
Hfc  reign'd  o'er  millions  to  serve  me  alone. 

XL. 
**  Look  to  our  earth,  or  rather  mine;  it  was 

Once,  more  thy  Master's  :   but  I  triumph  not 
In  this  poor  planet's  conquest,  nor,  alas  ! 

Need  he  thou  servest  envy  me  my  lot : 
With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds  which  pass 

In  worship  round  him,  he  may  have  forgot 
Yon  weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things  ; 
I  think  few  worth  damnation  save  their  kings, 
XLI. 

And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit-rent,  to 

Assert  my  right  as  lord  ;  and  even  had 
I  such  an  inclination,  't  were  (as  you 

Well  know)  superfluous  ;  they  are  grown  so  bad, 
That  hell  has  nothing  better  left  to  do 

Than  leave  them  to  themselves :  so  much  more  mad 
Ami  evi!  be  their  own  internal  curse, 
Hraveo  <  aiinol  make  them  better,  nor  I  worse. 


XLII. 

"  Look  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  again : 

When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak,  poor  woim 

Began  in  youth's  first  bloom  and  flush  to  reign, 
The  world  and  he  both  wore  a  different  form, 

And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 

Of  ocean  call'd  him  king:  through  many  a  storm 

His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time  ; 

For  the  rough  virtues  chose  them  for  their  clime. 

XLIII. 

u  He  came  to  his  sceptre,  young  ;  he  leaves  it,  oii 
Look  to  the  state  in  which  he  found  his  realm, 

And  left  it ;  and  his  annals,  too,  behold, 
How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm ; 

How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gold, 
The  beggar's  vice,  which  can  but  overwhelm 

The  meanest  hearts  ;   and,  for  the  rest,  but  glaniy 

Thine  eye  along  America  and  France ! 

XLIV. 
"  'T  is  true,  he  was  a  tool  from  first  to  \ast 

(I  have  the  workmen  safe)  ;  but  as  a  tool 
So  let  him  be  consumed  !  From  out  the  past 

Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  the  rule 
Of  monarchs — from  the  bloody  rolls  amasa'd 

Of  sin  and  slaughter — from  the  Caecur's  school, 
Take  the  worst  pupil,  and  produce  a  reign 
More  drench'd  with  yore,  more  cumber'd  with  the  slain. 

XLV. 

"  He  ever  warr'd  with  freedom  and  the  free  : 

Nations  as  men,  home  subjects,  foreign  foes, 
So  that  they  utter'd  the  word  •  Liberty  !' 

Found  George  the  Third  their  first  opponent.  Whos« 
History  was  ever  stain'd  as  his  will  be 

With  national  and  individual  woes  ? 
I  grant  his  household  abstinence ;   I  grant 
His  neutral  virtues,  which  most  monarchs  want ; 

XL  VI. 
"  I  know  he  was  a  constant  consort ;  own 

He  was  a  decent  sire,  and  middling  lord. 
All  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a  throne ; 

As  temperance,  if  at  Apicius'  board, 
Is  more  than  at  an  anchorite's  supper  shown. 

I  grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord  ; 
And  this  was  well  for  him,  but  not  for  those 
Millions  who  found  him  what  oppression  chose. 

XLVII. 
The  new  world  shook  him  off;  the  old  yet  groans 

Beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared,  if  not 
Completed :  he  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones 

To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot 
Compassion  for  him — his  tame  virtues ;  drones 

Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now  forgot 
A  lesson  which  shall  be  re-taught  them,  wake 
Upon  the  throne  of  earth  ;  but  let  them  quake ! 

XLVIII. 
"  Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 

The  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on  eartn,  implored 
Apart  of  that  vast  all  they  held  of  old, — 

Freedom  to  worship — not  alone  your  J-ord, 
Michael,  but  you,  and  you,  Saint  Peter  !  Cold 

Must  be  your  souls,  if  you  have  not  abhorr'd 
The  foe  to  Catholic  participation 
In  all  the  license  of  a  Christi.-""  carton. 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


XL1X. 
1  True !  he  allow'd  them  to  pray  God ;  but,  as 

A  consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the  law 
Which  would  have  placed  them  upon  the  same  base 

With  those  who  did  not  hold  the  saints  in  awe." 
But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place, 

And  cried,  "  You  may  the  prisoner  withdraw  : 
Ere  Heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guelf, 
While  I  am  guard,  may  1  be  damn'd  myself! 

L. 

"  Sooner  will  I  with  Cerberus  exchange 

My  office   (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 
Than  see  this  royal  Bedlam  bigot  range 

The  azure  fields  of  heaven,  of  that  be  sure !" 
"  Saint !"  replied  Sathan,  "you  do  well  to  avenge 

The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites  endure ; 
And  if  to  this  exchange  you  should  be  given, 
I  '11  try  to  coax  our  Cerberus  up  to  heaven." 

LI. 

Here  Michael  interposed :  "  Good  saint !  and  devil ! 

Pray,  not  so  fast ;  you  both  outrun  discretion. 
Saint  Peter !  you  were  wont  to  be  more  civil : 

Salhan  !  excuse  this  warmth  of  his  expression, 
And  condescension  to  the  vulgar's  level : 

Even  saints  sometimes  forget  themselves  in  session. 
Have  you  got  more  to  say  ?" — "  No !" — "  If  you  please, 
I  '11  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses." 

LII. 

Then  Sathan  turn'd  and  waved  his  swarthy  hand, 
Which  stirr'd  with  its  electric  qualities 

Clouds  farther  off  than  we  can  understand, 
Although  we  find  him  sometimes  in  our  skies  ; 

Infernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land 
In  all  the  planets,  and  hell's  batteries 

Let  off  the  artillery,  which  Milton  mention* 

As  one  of  Sathan's  most  sublime  inventions. 

LIII. 

This  was  a  signal  unto  such  damn'd  souls 
As  have  the  privilege  of  their  damnation 

Extended  fur  beyond  the  mere  controls 
Of  worlds  past,  present,  or  to  come  ;  no  station 

Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 

Of  hell  assign'd  ;  but  where  their  inclination 

Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of  game, 

They  may  range  freely — being  damn'd  the  same. 

LIV. 

They  are  proud  of  this — as  very  well  they  may, 
It  being  a  sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt  key 

Stuck  in  their  loins ;  or  like  to  an  "  entree" 
Up  the  back  stairs,  or  such  free-masonry  • 

I  borrow  my  comparisons  from  clay, 

Being  clay  myself.    Let  not  those  spirits  be 

Offended  with  such  base  low  likenesses  ; 

We  know  their  posts  are  nobler  far  than  these. 

LV. 

When  the  great  signal  ran  from  heaven  to  hell, — 
About  ten  million  times  the  distance  reckon'd 

»'rom  our  sun  to  its  earth,  as  we  can  tell 
How  much  time  it  t.-ikes  up,  even  to  a  second, 

For  every  ray  that  travels  to  dispel 
1'he  fogs  of  London  ;  through  which,  dimly  bfacon'd, 

['ho  woathercorks  are  jjilt,  some  thrice  a  year, 

il  ma..  in<-.  sumiw  '.«  no1  too  severe : — 


LVI. 

I  say  that  I  can  tell — 't  was  half  a  minute ; 

I  know  the  solar  beams  take  up  more  time 
Ere,  pack'd  up  for  their  journey,  they  begin  it ; 

But  then  their  telegraph  is  less  sublime, 
And  if  they  ran  a  race,  they  would  not  win  it 

'Gainst  Sathan's  couriers  bound  for  their  own  clime 
The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every  ray 
To  reach  its  goal — the  devil  not  half  a  day. 

LVII. 

Upon  the  verge  of  space,  aboui  the  size 
Of  half-a-crown,  a  little  speck  appear'd 

(I  've  seen  a  something  like  it  in  the  skies 
In  the  ^Egean,  ere  a  squall)  ;  it  near'd, 

And,  growing  bigger,  took  another  guise ; 
Like  an  aerial  ship  it  tack'd,  and  fteer'd 

Or  was  steer'd  (I  am  doubtful  of  the  grammar 

Of  the  last  phrase,  which  makes  the  stanza  stammer  ;— 

LVIII. 

But  take  your  choice) ;  and  then  it  grew  a  cloud, 

And  so  it  was — a  cloud  of  witnesses. . 
But  such  a  cloud  !    No  land  e'er  saw  a  crowd 

Of  locusts  numerous  as  the  heaven  saw  these  ; 
They  shadow'd  with  their  myriads  space ;  their  loud 

And  varied  cries  were  like  those  of  wild-geese 
(If  nations  may  be  liken'd  to  a  goose), 
And  realized  the  phrase  of  "  hell  broke  loose.'* 

LIX. 

Here  crash'd  a  sturdy  oath  of  stout  John  Bull, 
Who  damn'd  away  his  eyes  as  heretofore : 

There  Paddy  brogued  "by  Jasus! "  "What 's  yo\r~  will !  *• 
The  temperate  Scot  exclaim'd:  the  French  gho*  *w«n  « 

In  certain  terms  I  sha'nt  translate  in  full, 
As  the  first  coachman  will ;  and  'midst  the  w» 

The  voice  of  Jonathan  was  heard  to  express, 

"  Our  President  is  going  to  war,  I  guess." 

LX. 

Besides  there  were  the  Spaniard,  Dutch,  and  E      »  , 

In  short  an  universal  shoal  of  shades 
From  Otaheite's  Isle  to  Salisbury  Plain, 

Of  all  climes  and  professions,  years  and  trade. 
Ready  to  swear  against  the  good  king's  reign, 

Bitter  as  clubs  in  cards  are  against  spades : 
All  summon'd  by  this  grand  "  subpoena,"   to 
Try  if  kings  may  n't  be  damn'd  like  me  or  you. 

LXI. 

When  Michael  saw  this  host,  he  first  grew  pale, 
As  angels  can  ;  next,  like  Italian  twilight, 

He  turn'd  all  colours — as  a  peacock's  tail, 

Or  sunset  streaming  through  a  Gothic  skylignt 

In  some  old  abbey,  or  a  trout  not  stale, 

Or  distant  lightning  on  the  horizon  by  night, 

Or  a  fresh  rainbow,  or  a  grand  review 

Of  thirty  regiments  in  red,  green,  and  blue. 

LXII. 

Then  he  address'd  himself  to  Sathan:  "Why 
My  good  old  friend,  for  such  I  deem  you. 

Our  different  parties  make  us  fight  so  shy, 
I  ne'er  mistake  you  for  a  personal  foe  ; 

Our  difference  is  political,  and  I 

Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below, 

You  know  my  great  respect  for  you ;  and  tin* 

Makes  me  regret  whate'er  you  do  amiss — 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LXIII. 

•*  Why,  my  d^ar  Lu.  ifer,  would  you  abuse 
My  coll  for  witnesses  ?     I  did  not  mean 

That  you  should  half  of  earth  and  hell  produce ; 
"T  is  even  superfluous,  since  two  honest,  clean 

True  testimonies  are  enough :  we  lose 
Our  time,  nay,  our  eternity,  between 

The  accusation  and  defence :  if  we 

Hear  both,  't  will  stretch  our  immortality." 

LXIV. 

Sathan  replied,  "  To  me  the  matter  is 
Indifferent,  in  a  personal  point  of  view : 

I  can  have  fifty  better  souls  than  this 

With  far  less  trouble  than  we  have  gone  through 
Already  ,•  and  I  merely  argued  his 

Late  Majesty  of  Britain's  case  with  you 
U[i  •••>  a  point  of  form :  you  may  dispose 
Of  ,-jn  ;  I  've  kings  enough  below,  God  knows!" 

LXV. 

Thus  spoke  the  demon  (late  call'd  "  multi-faced" 
By  multo-scribbling  Southey).    "  Then  we  '11  call 

One  or  two  persons  of  the  myriads  placed 
Around  our  congress,  and  dispense  with  all 

The  rest,"  quoth  Michael :  "  Who  may  be  so  graced 
As  to  speak  first  ?  there 's  choice  enough — who  shall 

tl  be  ?"    Then  Sathan  answer'd,  "  There  are  many ; 

But  you  may  choose  Jack  Wilkes  as  well  as  any." 

LXVI. 

\  merry,  cock-eyed,  curious  looking  sprite 
Upon  the  instant  started  from  the  throng, 

Dress'd  in  a  fashion  now  forgotten  quite  ; 
For  all  the  fashions  of  the  flesh  stick  long 

By  people  in  the  next  world ;  where  unite 
AH  the  costumes  since  Adam's  right  or  wrong, 

From  Eve's  fig-leaf  down  to  the  petticoat, 

Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 

LXVII. 

The  spirit  look'd  around  upon  the  crowds 

Assembled,  and  exclaim'd,  "  My  friends  of  all 

The  spheres,  we  shall  catch  cold  amongst  these  clouds ; 
So  let 's  to  business :  why  this  general  call  ? 

If  those  are  freeholders  I  see  in  shrouds, 
And  't  is  for  an  election  that  they  bawl, 

Behold  a  candidate  with  unturn'd-coat ! 

Saint  Peter,  may  I  count  upon  your  vote  ?" 

Lxvm. 

"  Sir,"  replied  Michael,  "  you  mistake :  these  things 

Are  of  a  former  life,  and  what  we  do 
Above  is  more  august ;  to  judge  of  kings 

Is  the  tribunal  met ;  so  now  you  know." 
"  Then  I  presume  those  gentlemen  with  wings," 

Said  Wilkes,  "  are  cherubs  ;  and  that  soul  below 
Looks  much  like  George  the  Third ;  but  to  my  mind 
A  good  deal  older — Bless  me  !  is  he  blind  7" 

LXIX. 
•'  lie  is  what  you  behold  him,  and  his  doom 

I)epends  upon  his  deeds,"  the  angel  said. 

II  If  you  have  aught  to  arraign  in  him,  the  tomb 
Gives  license  to  the  humblest  beggar's  head 

To  lift  useif  against  the  loftiest." — "  Some," 

Said  Wilkes,  "  don't  wait  to  see  them  laid  ID  lead, 
Foi  such  a  libe;1y — and  I,  for  one, 
H»vo  told  them  what  I  thought  beneath  the  sun." 


LXX. 

' Above  the  sun  repeat,  then,  what  thou  hast 
To  urge  against  him,"  said  the  archangel.    "  Why 

Replied  the  spirit,  "  since  old  scores  are  past, 
Must  I  turn  evidence  ?  In  faith,  not  I. 

Besides,  I  beat  him  hollow  at  the  last, 

With  all  his  Lords  and  Commons  :   in  the  sky 

I  don't  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  since 

His  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a  prince. 

LXXI. 

"  Foolish,  no  doubt,  and  wicked,  to  oppress 
A  poor  unlucky  devil  without  a  shilling ; 

But  then  I  blame  the  man  himself  much  less 
Than  Bute  and  Grafton,  and  shall  be  unwilling 

To  see  him  punish'd  here  for  their  excess, 

Since  they  were  both  damn'd  long  ago,  and  still  >n 

Their  place  below ;   for  me,  I  have  forgiven, 

And  vote  his  *  habeas  corpus'  into  heaven." 

LXXII. 

"  Wilkes,"  said  the  devil,  "  I  understand  all  this  , 
You  turn'd  to  half  a  courtier  ere  you  died, 

And  seem  to  think  it  would  not  be  amiss 
To  grow  a  whole  one  on  the  other  side 

Of  Charon's  ferry ;  you  forget  that  his 
Reign  is  concluded ;   whatsoe'er  betide, 

He  won't  be  sovereign  more :  you  've  lost  your  labour 

For  at  the  best  he  will  but  be  your  neighbour. 

LXXIII. 

"  However,  I  knew  what  to  think  of  it, 
When  I  beheld  you,  in  your  jesting  way, 

Flitting  and  whispering  round  about  the  spit 
Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day, 

With  Fox's  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 
His  pupil ;   I  knew  what  to  think,  I  say : 

That  fellow  even  in  hell  breeds  farther  ills  • 

I  'II  have  him  gagg'd — 't  was  one  of  his  own  bills. 

LXXIV. 

"  Call  Junius !"  From  the  crowd  a  shadow  stalk'd- 
And  at  the  name  there  was  a  general  squeeze, 

So  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  walk'd 
In  comfort,  at  their  own  aerial  ease, 

But  were  all  ramm'd,  and  jamm'd  (but  to  be  balk'tf, 
As  we  shall  see)  and  jostled  hands  and  knees, 

Like  wind  compress'd  and  pent  within  a  bladder, 

Or  like  a  human  colic,  which  is  sadder. 

LXXV. 

The  shadow  came !  a  tall,  thin,  gray-hair'd  figure, 

That  look'd  as  it  had  been  a  shade  on  earth  ; 
Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigour, 

But  nought  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its  birth : 
Now  it  wax'd  little,  then  again  grew  bigger, 

With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savage  mirth ; 
But  as  you  gazed  upon  its  features,  they 
Changed  every  instant — to  what  none  could  say. 

LXXVI. 
The  more  intently  the  ghosts  gazed,  the  less 

Could  they  distinguish  whose  the  features  were ; 
The  devil  himself  seem'd  puzzled  even  to  guess ; 

They  varied  like  a  dream — now  here,  now  there , 
And  several  people  swore  from  out  the  press, 

They  knew  him  perfectly ;  and  one  could  swear 
He  was  his  father  ;  upon  which  another 
Was  sure  he  was  his  mother's  cousin's  brother  : 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


49.3 


LXXVII. 
Another,  that  he  was  a  duke,  or  knight, 

An  orator,  a  lawyer,  or  a  priest, 
A  nabob,  a  man-midwife ;  but  the  wight 

Mysterious  changed  his  countenance  at  least 
As  oft  as  they  their  minds :  though  in  full  sight 

He  stood,  the  puzzle  only  was  increased ; 
The  man  was  a  phantasmagoria  in 
Himself— he  was  so  volatile  and  thin  ! 

.  LXXVIII. 

The  moment  that  you  had  pronounced  him  one, 
Presto  !  his  face  changed,  and  he  was  another ; 

And  when  that  change  was  hardly  well  put  on, 
It  varied,  till  I  don't  think  his  own  mother 

(If  that  he  had  a  mother)  would  her  son 
Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from  one  to  t'  other, 

Till  guessing  from  a  pleasure  grew  a  task, 

At  this  epistolary  "  iron  mask." 

LXXIX. 

For  sometimes  he  like  Cerberus  would  seem — 
"  Three  gentlemen  at  once  "  (as  sagely  says 

Good  Mrs.  Malaprop) ;  then  you  might  deem 
That  he  was  not  even  one  ;  now  many  rays 

Were  flashing  round  him  ;  and  now  a  thick  steam 
Hid  him  from  sight — like  fogs  on  London  days : 

Now  Burke,  now  Tooke,  he  grew  to  people's  fancies, 

And  ceites  often  like  Sir  Philip  Francis. 

LXXX. 

I  've  an  hypothesis — 't  is  quite  my  own  ; 

I  never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
Of  doing  people  harm  about  the  throne, 

And  injuring  some  minister  or  peer 
On  whom  the  stigma  might  perhaps  be  blown ; 

It  is — my  gentle  public,  lend  thine  ear  ! 
T  is,  that  what  Junius  we  are  wont  to  call, 
Was  really,  truly,  nobody  at  all. 

LXXXI. 

1  don't  see  wherefore  letters  should  not  be 
Written  without  hands,  since  we  daily  view 

Them  written  without  heads  ;  and  books  we  see 
Are  fill'd  as  well  without  the  latter  too ; 

And  really,  till  we  fix  on  somebody 

For  certain  sure  to  claim  them  as  his  due, 

Their  author,  like  the  Niger's  mouth,  will  bother 

The  world  to  say  if  there  be  mouth  or  author. 

LXXXH. 

"•  And  who  and  what  art  thou  ?"  the  archangel  said. 

"  For  thai,  you  may  consult  my  title-page," 
Replied  this  mighty  shadow  of  a  shade  : 

"  If  I  have  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 
(  scarce  shall  tell  it  now." — "  Canst  thou  upbraid," 

Continued  Michael,  "  George  Rex,  or  allege 
Aught  further  ?"  Junius  answer'd,  "You  had  better 
First  ask  him  for  his  answer  to  my  letter. 

LXXXIII. 

My  charges  upon  record  will  outlast 

The  brass  of  both  his  epitaph  and  tomb." 
*  Repent'st  thou  not,"  said  Michael,  "  of  some  past 

Exaggeration  ?  something  which  may  doom 
Thyself  if  false,  as  him  if  true  ?    Thou  wast 

Too  bitter — is  it  not  so  ?  in  thy  gloom 
Of  passion  ?"  "  Passion  !"  cried  the  phantom  dim, 
'  I  loved  my  country,  and  I  hated  him. 
2u  2 


LXXXIV. 

"  What  I  have  written,  I  have  written  :  let 

The  rest  be  on  his  head  or  mine  !"  So  spoke 
Old  "nominis  umbra  ;"  and,  while  speaking  yet, 

Away  he  melted  in  celestial  smoke. 
Then  Sathan  said  to  Michael,  "  Don't  forget 

To  call  George  Washington,  and  John  Home  To<iko, 
And  Franklin  :" — but  at  this  time  there  was  heard 
A  cry  for  room,  though  not  a  phantom  stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 
At  length,  with  jostling,  elbowing,  and  the  aid 

Of  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post, 
The  devil  Asmodeus  to  the  circle  made 

His  way,  and  look'd  as  if  his  journey  cost 
Some  trouble.     When  his  burden  down  he  laid, 

"  What 's  this  ?"  cried  Michael;  "why,  'tis  noi  • 

ghost!" 

"  I  know  it,"  quoth  the  incubus  ;  "  but  he 
Shall  be  one,  if  you  leave  the  affair  to  me. 

LXXXVT. 
"  Confound  the  renegado  !  I  have  sprain'd 

My  left  wing,  he  's  so  heavy  ;   one  would  think 
Some  of  his  works  about  his  neck  were  chain'd. 

But  to  the  point :   while  hovering  o'er  the  brink 
Of  Skiddaw  (where,  as  usual,  it  still  rain'd), 

I  saw  a  taper  far  below  me  wink, 
And,  stooping,  caught  this  fellow  at  a  libel — 
No  less  on  history  than  the  holy  bible. 

LXXXVII. 
"  The  former  is  the  devil's  scripture,  and 

The  latter  yours,  good  Michael ;  so  the  affair 
Belongs  to  all  of  us,  you  understand. 

I  snatch'd  him  up  just  as  you  see  him  there, 
And  brought  him  off  for  sentence  out  of  hand  : 

I  've  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the  air—- 
At least  a  quarter  it  can  hardly  be  : 
I  dare  say  that  his  wife  is  still  at  tea." 

LXXXVIII. 
Here  Sathan  said,  "  I  know  this  man  of  old, 

And  have  expected  him  for  some  time  here  ; 
A  sillier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold, 

Or  more  conceited  in  his  petty  sphere : 
But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 

Such  trash  below  your  wing,  Asmodeus  dear ! 
We  had  the  poor  wretch  safe  (without  being  bored 
With  carriage)  coming  of  his  own  accord. 
LXXXIX. 

But  since  he 's  here,  let 's  see  what  he  has  done.'* 

"  Done !"  cried  Asmodeus,  "  he  anticipate* 
The  very  business  you  are  now  upon, 

And  scribbles  as  if  head  clerk  to  the  Fates. 
Who  knows  to  what  his  ribaldry  may  run, 

When  such  an  ass  as  this,  like  Balaam's,  prates  V" 

Let 'shear,"  quoth  Michael,  "  what  he  has  to  ia»  , 
You  know  we  're  bound  to  that  in  every  way  !" 

xc. 

Now  the  bard,  glad  to  get  an  audience,  whicn 
By  no  means  often  was  his  case  t>elow, 

Began  to  cough,  and  hawk,  and  hem,  and  pitch 
His  voice  into  that  awful  note  of  woe 

To  all  unhappy  hearers  within  reach 
Of  poets  when  the  tide  of  rhyme 's  in  flow  . 

But  stuck  fast  with  his  first  hexameter, 

Not  one  of  all  whose  gouty  feet  would  Mir. 


4IM 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XCI. 


But  ere  the  spavu  'd  Jactyls  could  be  spurr'd 

Into  recitative,  m  great  dismay 
Both  cherubira  a/.d  seraphim  were  heard 

To  murmur  loui'ly  through  their  long  array ; 
And  Michael  ruse  ere  he  could  get  a  word 

Of  all  his  founder'd  verses  under  way, 
And  cried,  "For  God's  sake  stop,  my  friend  !  'twere 

best— 
Non  di,  non  homines, — '  you  know  the  rest." 

XCII. 

A  general  bustle  spread  throughout  the  throng, 
Which  seem'd  to  hold  all  verse  in  detestation  ; 

The  angels  had  of  course  enough  of  song 
When  upon  service ;  and  the  generation 

Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not  long 
Before,  to  profit  by  a  new  occasion  ; 

The  monarch,  mute  till  then,  exclaim'd  "What !  what! 

Pye  come  again  ?  No  more — no  more  of  that !" 

XCIII. 
The  tumult  grew,  an  universal  cough 

Convulsed  the  skies,  as  during  a  debate, 
When  Casttcreagh  has  been  up  long  enough 

(Befo.'e  he  was  first  minister  of  state, 
I  mean — the  slaves  hear  now),  some  cried  "  off,  off," 

As  at  a  farce ;  till,  grown  quite  desperate, 
The  bard  Saint  Peter  pray'd  to  interpose 
(Himself  an  author)  only  for  his  prose. 

XCIV. 
The  varlet  was  not  an  ill-favour'd  knave ; 

A  good  deal  like  a  vulture  in  the  face, 
With  a  hook  nose  and  a  hawk's  eye,  which  gave 

A  smart  and  sharper  looking  sort  of  grace 
To  his  whole  aspect,  which,  though  rather  grave, 

Was  by  no  means  so  ugly  as  his  case ; 
But  that  indeed  was  hopeless  as  can  be, 
Quite  a  poetic  felony,  "  de  se." 

xcv. 

Then  Michael  blew  his  trump,  and  still'd  the  noise 

With  one  still  greater,  as  is  yet  the  mode 
On  earth  besides  ;  except  some  grumbling  voice, 

Which  now  and  then  will  make  a  slight  inroad 
Upon  decorous  silence,  few  will  twice 

Lift  up  their  lungs  when  fairly  overcrow'd  ; 
And  now  the  bard  could  plead  his  own  bad  cause, 
With  all  the  attitudes  of  self-applause. 

XCVI. 
fie  said  —(I  only  give  the  heads) — he  said, 

He  meant  no  harm  in  scribbling  ;  't  was  his  way 
L'pon  all  topics ;  't  was,  besides,  his  bread, 

Of  which  he  butter'd  both  sides  ;  't  would  delay 
T-'o  brig  the  assembly  (he  was  pleased  to  dread), 

And  take  up  rather  more  time  than  a  day, 
To  name  his  works — he  would  but  cite  a  few — 
Wi..  Tyler — rhymes  on  Blenheim — Waterloo. 

XCVII. 
lie  had  written  praises  of  a  regicide  ; 

He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  whatever ; 
He  had  written  for  republics,  far  and  wide, 

AnH  then  against  them,  bitterer  than  ever; 
For  pantisocracy  he  once  had  cried 

Aloud,  a  scheme  less  moral  than  't  was  clever ; 
Tri.nn  grew  a  hearty  anti-jacobin — 
Had  •urnM  !><«  coat — and  would  ha  e  turn'd  his  skin. 


XCVIII. 

He  had  sung  against  all  battles,  and  again 
In  their  high  praise  and  glory ;   he  had  call'd 

Reviewing1  "the  ungentle  craft,''  and  then 
Become  as  base  a  critic  as  e'er  crawl'd — 

Fed,  paid,  and  pamper'd  by  the  very  men 

By  whom  his  muse  and  morals  had  been  maul'd . 

He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker  pros< 

And  more  of  both  than  any  body  knows. 

XCIX. 

He  hgd  written  Wesley's  life: — here,  turning  round 
To  Sathan,  "  Sir,  I  'in  ready  to  write  yours, 

In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound, 

With  notes  and  preface,  all  that  most  allures 

The  pious  purchaser ;   and  there  's  no  ground 
For  fear,  for  I  can  choose  my  own  reviewers : 

So  let  me  have  the  proper  documents,  • 

That  I  may  add  you  to  my  other  saints." 

C. 

Sathan  bow'd,  and  was  silent.   "  Well,  if  you, 

With  amiable  modesty,  decline 
My  offer,  what  says  Michael?  There  are  few 

Whose  memoirs  could  be  render'd  more  divine. 
Mine  is  a  pen  of  all  work  ;  not  so  new 

As  it  was  onc~,  but  I  would  make  you  shine 
Like  your  own  trumpet ;  by  the  way,  my  own 
Has  more  brass  in  it,  and  is  as  well  blown. 

CI. 

"  But  talking  about  trumpets,  here 's  my  Vision ! 

Now  you  shall  judge,  all  people ;  yes,  you  snail 
Judge  with  my  judgment,  and  by  my  decision 

Be  guided  who  shall  enter  heaven  or  fall ! 
I  settle  all  these  things  by  intuition, 

Times  present,  past,  to  come,  heaven,  hell,  and  all, 
Like  King  Alfonso  ! a  When  I  thus  see  double, 
I  save  the  deity  some  worlds  of  trouble." 

CII. 
He  ceased,  and  drew  forth  an  MS. ;  and  no 

Persuasion  on  the  part  of  devils,  or  saints, 
Or  angels,  now  could  stop  the  torrent ;  so 

He  read  the  first  three  lines  of  the  contents  ; 
But  at  the  fourth,  the  whole  spiritual  show 

Had  vanish'd  with  variety  of  scents, 
Ambrosial  and  sulphureous,  as  they  sprang, 
Like  lightning,  off  from  his  "  melodious  twang."* 

cm. 

Those  grand  heroics  acted  as  a  spell : 

The  angels  stopp'd  their  ears,  and  plied  their  pinions: 
The  devils  ran  howling,  deafen'd,  down  to  hell ; 

The  ghosts  fled,  gibbering,  for  their  own  dominions 
(For  't  is  not  yet  decided  where  they  dwell, 

And  I  leave  every  man  to  his  opinions) ; 
Michael  took  refuge  in  his  trump — but  lo  ! 
His  teeth  were  set  on  edge, — he  could  not  blow  ! 


1  See  "  Life  of  li.  KirKe  White." 

2  King  Alfonzu,  speaking  of  the  Ptolomonn  system,  sain, 
that  "had  he  been  consulted  at  the  creation  of  the  world,  IIB 
would  have  spared  the  Maker  sumo  absurdities." 

3  See  Aubrey's  account  of  the  apparition  which   disap- 
peared "  with  a  curious  perfume  and  a  mehuU.us 

or  see  the  Antiquary,  vol.  1. 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


496 


CIV. 

Saint  Peter,  who  has  hitherto  been  known 

For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his  keys, 
And  at  the  fifth  line  knock'd  the  poet  down ; 

Who  fell  like  Phaeton,  but  more  at  case, 
l'-lo  his  lake,  for  there  he  did  not  drown, 

A  different  web  being  by  the  destinies 
Woven  for  the  Laureate's  final  wreath,  whene'er 
Reform  shall  happen  either  here  or  there. 

CV. 
He  first  sunk  to  the  bottom — like  his  works, 

But  soon  rose  to  the  surface — like  himself: 
For  all  corrupted  things  are  buoy'd,  like  corks,' 

By  their  own  rottenness,  light  as  an  elf, 

1  A  drowned   body  lies  at  the  bottom  til!  rotten ;  it  then 
Boats,  as  most  people  know. 


Or  wisp  that  flits  o'er  a  morass :   ne  lurks, 

It  may  be,  still,  !ike  dull  books  on  a  shelf, 
In  his  own  den,  to  scrawl  some  "  Life"  or  "  Vision, 
As  Welborn  says — "the  devil  turn'd  precisian." 

CVI. 

As  for  the  rest,  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
Of  this  true  dream,  the  telescope  is  gone 

Which  kept  my  optics  free  from  all  delusion, 
And  show'd  me  what  I  in  my  turn  have  shown : 

All  I  saw  further  in  the  last  confusion, 

Was,  that  King  George  slipp'd  into  heaven  for  or.a , 

And  when  the  tumult  dwindled  to  a  calm, 

I  left  him  practising  the  hundredth  psalm, 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  PULCI. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

THE  Morgante  Maggiore,  of  the  first  canto  of  which 
this  translation  is  offered,  divides  with  the  Orlando  In- 
namorato  the  honour  of  having  formed  and  suggested 
the  style  and  story  of  Ariosto.  The  great  defects  of 
Boiardo  were  his  treating  too  seriously  the  narratives 
cf  cmvairy,  and  his  harsh  style.  Ariosto,  in  his  con- 
tinuation, by  a  judicious  mixture  of  the  gaiety  of  Pulci, 
has  avoided  the  one,  and  Berni,  in  his  reformation  of 
Boiardo's  poem,  has  corrected  the  other.  Pulci  may  be 
considered  as  the  precursor  and  model  of  Berni  al- 
together, as  he  has  partly  been  to  Ariosto,  however 
inferior  to  both  his  copyists.  He  is  no  less  the  founder 
of  a  new  style  of  poetry  very  lately  sprung  up  in  Eng- 
land. I  allude  to  that  of  the  ingenious  Whistlecraft. 
The  serious  poems  on  Rcncesvalles  in  the  same  language, 
and  more  particularly  the  excellent  one  of  Mr.  Merivale, 
are  to  be  traced  to  the  same  source.  It  has  never  yet 
been  decided  entirely,  whether  Pulci's  intention  was  or 
was  not  to  deride  the  religion,  which  is  one  of  his  fa- 
vourite topics.  It  appears  to  me,  that  such  an  intention 
would  have  been  no  less  hazardous  to  the  poet  than  to 
the  priest,  particularly  in  that  age  and  country ;  and 
the  permission  to  publish  the  poem,  and  its  reception 
among  the  classics  of  Italy,  prove  that  it  neither  was 
nor  is  so  interpreted.  That  he  intended  to  ridicule 
the  monastic  life,  and  suffered  his  imagination  to  play 
with  the  simple  dulness  of  his  converted  giant,  seems 
evident  enough  ;  but  surely  it  were  as  unjust  to  accuse 
him  of  irreligion  on  this  account,  as  to  denounce  Fielding 
for  his  Parson  Adams,  Barnabas,  Thwackum,  Supple, 
and  the  Ordinary  in  Jonathan  Wild, — or  Scott,  for  the 
exquisite  use  of  his  Covenanters  in  the  "Tales  of  my 
Landlord." 

In  the  following  translation  I  have  used  the  liberty 
of  the  original  with  the  proper  names ;  as  Pulci  uses 
Gan,  Ganellon,  or  Ganellone  ;  Carlo,  Carlomagno,  or 
Carlomano ;  Rondel,  or  Rondello,  etc.  as  it  suits  his 
convenience,  so  has  the  translator.  In  other  respects 


the  version  is  faithful  to  the  best  of  the  translator's 
ability  in  combining  his  interpretation  of  the  one  lan- 
guage with  the  not  very  easy  task  of  reducing  it  to 
the  same  versification  in  the  other.  The  reader  is  re- 
quested to  remember  that  the  antiquated  language  of 
Pulci,  however  pure,  is  not  easy  to  the  generality  of 
Italians  thcmse'ves,  from  its  great  mixture  of  Tuscan 
proverbs  ;  and  he  may  therefore  be  more  indulgent  to 
the  present  attempt.  How  far  the  translator  has  suc- 
ceeded, and  whether  or  no  he  shall  continue  the  work, 
are  questions  which  the  public  will  decide.  He  was 
induced  to  make  the  experiment  partly  by  his  love  for 
and  partial  intercourse  with,  the  Italian  language,  01 
which  it  is  so  easy  to  acquire  a  sligfit  knowledge,  and 
with  which  it  is  so  nearly  impossible  for  a  foreigner  tc 
become  accurately  conversant.  The  Italian  language 
is  like  a  capricious  beauty,  who  accords  her  smiles  to 
all,  her  favours  to  few,  and  sometimes  least  to  those  who 
have  courted  her  longest.  The  translator  wished  also 
to  present  in  an  English  dress  a  part  at  least  of  a  poem 
never  yet  rendered  into  a  northern  language :  at  the 
same  time  that  it  has  been  the  original  of  some  of  the 
most  celebrated  productions  on  this  side  of  the  Alps, 
as  well  as  of  those  recent  experiments  in  poetry  in 
England  which  have  been  already  mentioned. 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE 


CANTO  I. 

i. 

IN  the  beginning  was  the  Word  next  God ; 

God  was  the  Word,  the  Word  no  less  was  he , 
This  was  in  the  beginning,  to  my  mode 

Of  thinking,  and  without  him  nought  coiild  be 
Therefore, just  Lord!  from  out  Ihy  high  abod*. 

Benign  and  pious,  bid  an  angel  flee, 
One  only,  to  be  my  companion,  who 
Shall  help  my  famous,  worthy,  old  song  through 


49C 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


II. 

And  tnou,  oh  Virgin  !  daughter,  mother,  bride, 
Of  the  same  Lord,  who  gave  to  you  each  key 

Of  heaven,  and  hell,  and  every  thing  beside, 
The  day  thy  Gabriel  said,  "All  hail !"  to  thee, 

Since  to  thy  servants  pity 's  ne'er  denied, 
With  flowing  rhymes,  a  pleasant  style  and  free, 

Be  to  my  verses  then  benignly  kind, 

And  to  the  end  illuminate  my  mind. 

HI. 

"1  was  in  the  season  when  sad  Philomel 
Weeps  with  her  sister,  who  remembers  and 

Deplores  the  ancient  woes  which  both  befell, 
And  makes  the  nymphs  enamour'd,  to  the  hand 

Of  Phaeton  by  Phoobus  loved  so  well 

His  car  (but  temper'd  by  his  sire's  command) 

Was  given,  and  on  the  horizon's  verge  just  now 

Appear'd,  so  that  Tithonus  scratch'd  his  brow ; 

IV. 

When  I  prepared  my  bark  first  to  obey, 
As  it  should  still  obey,  the  helm,  my  mind, 

And  carry  prose  or  rhyme,  and  this  my  lay 
Of  Charles  the  Emperor,  whom  you  will  find 

By  several  pens  already  praised  ;  but  they 
Who  to  diffuse  his  glory  were  inclined, 

For  all  that  I  can  see  in  prose  or  verse, 

Have  understood  Charles  badly — and  wrote  worse. 

V. 

Leonardo  Aretino  said  already, 

That  if,  like  Pepin,  Charles  had  had  a  writer 
Of  genius  quick,  and  diligently  steady, 

No  hero  would  in  history  look  brighter ; 
He  in  the  cabinet  being  always  ready, 

And  in  the  field  a  most  victorious  fighter, 
Who  for  the  Church  and  Christian  faith  had  wrought, 
Certes  far  more  than  yet  is  said  or  thought. 

VI. 

You  still  may  see  at  Saint  Liberatore, 

The  abbey  no  great  way  from  Manopell, 
Erected  in  the  Abruzzi  to  his  glory, 

Because  of  the  great  battle  in  which  fell 
A  pagan  king,  according  to  the  story, 

And  felon  people  whom  Charles  sent  to  hell: 
And  there  are  bones  so  many,  and  so  many, 
Near  them  Giusaffa's  would  seem  few,  if  any. 

VII. 
But  the  world,  blind  and  ignorant,  don't  prize 

His  virtues  as  I  wish  to  see  them :  thou, 
Horence,  by  his  great  bounty  don't  arise, 

And  hast,  and  may  have,  if  thou  wilt  allow, 
All  proper  customs  and  true  courtesies: 

Whate'er  thou  hast  acauired  from  then  till  now, 
V\  ith  knightly  courage,  treasure,  or  the  lance, 
IK  sprung  from  out  the  noble  blood  of  France. 

VIII. 
1  welve  paladins  had  Charles,  in  court,  of  whom 

The  wirest  and  most  famous  was  Orlando ; 
Him  traitor  Gan  conducted  to  the  tomb 

In  Roncesvalles,  as  the  villain  pJann'd  too, 
While  the  horn  rang  so  loud,  and  knell'd  the  doom 

Of  their  sau  rout,  though  he  did  all  knight  can  do, 
Anil  Dante  in  his  comedy  has  given 
To  him  a  haioy  seat  with  Charles  in  heaven. 


IX. 

'T  was  Christmas-day ;  in  Paris  all  his  court 
Charles  held ;  the  chief,  I  say,  Orlando  was. 

The  Dane ;  Astolfo  there  too  did  resort, 
Also  Ansuigi,  the  gay  time  to  pass 

In  festival  and  in  triumphant  sport, 

The  much  renown'd  Saint  Dennis  being  ihe  causn 

Angiolin  of  Bayonne,  and  Oliver, 

And  gentle  Belinghieri  too  came  there : 

X. 

Avolio,  and  Anno,  and  Othone 

Of  Normandy,  and  Richard  Paladin, 
Wise  Hamo,  and  the  ancient  Salemone, 

Walter  of  Lion's  Mount,  and  Baldovin, 
Who  was  the  son  of  the  sad  Ganellone, 

Were  there,  exciting  too  much  gladness  in 
The  son  of  Pepin: — when  his  knights  came  hilher, 
He  groan'd  with  joy  to  see  them  altogether. 

XL 

But  watchful  fortune  lurking,  takes  good  heed 
Ever  some  bar  'gainst  our  intents  to  bring. 

While  Charles  reposed  him  thus  in  word  and  deed, 
Orlando  ruled  court,  Charles,  and  every  thirg; 

Curst  Gan,  with  envy  bursting,  had  such  need 
To  vent  his  spite,  that  thus  with  Charles  the  king, 

One  day  he  openly  began  to  say, 

"  Orlando  must  wa  always  then  obey  ? 

XII. 

"  A  thousand  times  I  've  been  about  to  say, 
Orlando  too  presumptuously  goes  on ; 

Here  are  we,  counts,  kings,  dukes,  to  own  thy  sway, 
Hamo,  and  Otho,  Ogier,  Solomon, 

Each  have  to  honour  thee  and  to  obey  ; 

But  he  has  too  much  credit  near  the  throne. 

Which  we  won't  suffer,  but  are  quite  decided 

By  such  a  boy  to  be  no  longer  guided. 

XIII. 

"And  even  at  Aspramont  thou  didst  begin 
To  let  him  know  he  was  a  gallant  knight, 

And  by  the  fount  did  much  the  day  to  win  ; 
But  I  know  who  that  day  had  won  the  fight 

If  it  had  not  for  good  Gherardo  been : 

The  victory  was  Almonte's  else  ;  his  sight 

He  kept  upon  the  standard,  and  the  laurels 

In  fact  and  fairness  are  his  earning,  Charles. 

XIV. 

"  If  thou  rememberest  being  in  Gascony, 
When  there  advanced  the  nations  out  of  Spain, 

The  Christian  cause  had  suffered  shamefully, 
Had  not  his  valour  driven  them  back  again. 

Best  speak  the  truth  when  there  's  a  reason  why : 
Know  then,  oh  emperor  !  that  all  complain : 

As  for  myself,  I  shall  repass  the  mounts 

O'er  which  I  cross'd  with  two  and  sixty  counts. 

XV. 

"  'T  is  fit  thy  grandeur  should  dispense  relief, 
So  that  each  here  may  have  his  proper  part, 

For  the  whole  court  is  more  or  less  in  grief: 

Perhaps  thou  decm'st  this  lad  a  Mars  in  heait  ?" 

Orlando  one  day  heard  this  speech  in  brief, 
As  by  himself  it  chanced  he  sate  apart : 

Displeased  he  was  with  Gan  becajse  lie  saiJ  ;t, 

But  much  me  t  still  thatCharu*  should  given 


MORGANTE  MAGG1ORE. 


497 


XVI. 

And  with  the  sword  he  would  have  murder'd  Gan, 

But  Oliver  thrust  in  between  the  pair, 
And  from  his  hand  extracted  Durlindan, 

And  thus  at  length  they  separated  were. 
Orlando,  angry  too  wi'h  Carlornan, 

Wanted  but  little  to  have  slain  him  there ; 
Then  forth  alone  from  Paris  went  the  chief, 
And  burst  and  madden'd  with  disdain  and  grief. 

XVII. 

From  Ermellina,  consort  of  the  Dane, 
He  took  Cortana,  and  then  took  Rondell, 

And  on  towards  Brara  pnck'd  him  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And  when  she  saw  him  coming,  Aldabelle 

Stretch' d  forth  her  arms  to  clasp  her  lord  again : 
Orlando,  in  whose  brain  all  was  not  well, 

As  "  Welcome  my  Orlando  home,"  she  said, 

Raised  up  his  sword  to  smite  her  on  the  head. 

XVIII. 

Like  him  a  fury  counsels ;  his  revenge 
On  Gan  in  that  rash  act  he  seem'd  to  take, 

ifVhich  Aldabella  thought  extremely  strange, 
But  soon  Orlando  found  himself  awake  ; 

And  his  spouse  took  his  bridle  on  this  change, 
And  he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and  spake 

Of  every  thing  which  pass'd  without  demur, 

And  then  reposed  himself  some  days  with  her. 

XIX. 

Then  full  of  wrath  departed  from  the  place, 
And  far  as  Pagan  countries  roam'd  astray, 

And  while  he  rode,  yet  still  at  every  pace 
The  traitor  Gan  remember'd  by  the  way  ; 

And  wandermg  on  in  error  a  long  space, 
An  abbey  which  in  a  lone  desert  lay, 

Midst  glens  obscure,  and  distant  lands  he  found, 

Which  form'd  the  Christian's  and  the  Pagan's  bound. 

XX. 

The  abbot  was  call'd  Clermont,  and  by  blood 
Descended  from  Angrante  :  under  cover 

Of  a  great  mountain's  brow  the  abbey  stood, 
But  certain  savage  giants  look'd  him  over  ! 

One  Passamont  was  foremost  of  the  brood, 
And  Alabaster  and  Morgante  hover 

Second  and  third,  with  .certain  slings,  and  throw 

In  daily  jeopardy  the  place  below. 

XXI. 

The  monks  could  pass  the  convent  gate  no  more, 

Nor  leave  their  cells  for  water  or  for  wood. 
Orlando  knock'd,  but  none  would  ope,  before 

Unto  the  prior  it  at  length  seem'd  good  ; 
Enter'd,  he  said  that  he  was  taught  to  adore 

Him  who  was  born  of  Mary's  holiest  blood, 
And  was  baptized  a  Christian  ;  and  then  show'd 
flow  to  the  abbey  he  had  found  his  road. 

XXII. 
Said  the  aboot,  "You  are  welcome ;  what  is  mine 

We  give  you  freely,  since  that  you  believe 
With  us  in  Mary  Mother's  son  divine  ; 

And  that  you  may  not,  cavalier,  conceive 
The  cause  of  our  delay  to  let  you  in 

To  be  rusticity,  you  shall  receive 
The  reason  why  our  gate  was  barr'd  to  you ; 
Thus  those  who  in  suspicion  live  must  do. 
68 


XXIII. 

"  When  hither  to  inhabit  first  we  came 

These  mountains,  albeit  that  they  are  obscure, 
As  you  perceive,  yet  without  fear  or  blame 

They  seem'd  to  promise  an  asylum  sure  : 
From  savage  brutes  alone,  too  fierce  to  tame, 

'T  was  fit  our  quiet  dwelling  to  secure  ; 
But  now,  if  here  we  'd  stay,  we  needs  must  guard 
Against  domestic  beasts  with  watch  and  ward. 

XXIV. 
"  These  make  us  stand,  in  fact,  upon  the  watch, 

For  late  there  have  appear'd  three  giants  rough  ; 
What  nation  or  what  kingdom  bore  the  batch 

I  know  not,  but  they  are  all  of  savage  stuff"; 
When  force  and  malice  with  some  genius  match, 

You  know,  they  can  do  all — we  are  not  enough : 
And  these  so  much  our  orisons  derange, 
I  know  not  what  to  do  till  matters  change. 

XXV. 
"  Our  ancient  fathers  living  the  desert  in, 

For  just  and  holy  works  were  duly  fed  ; 
Think  not  they  lived  on  locusts  sole,  't  is  certain 

That  manna  was  rain'd  down  from  heaven  instead  ; 
But  here  't  is  fit  we  keep  on  the  alert  in 

Our  bounds,  or  taste  the  stones  shower'd  down  fm 

bread, 

From  off  yon  mountain  daily  raining  faster, 
And  flung  by  Passamont  and  Alabaster. 

XXVI. 
"  The  third,  Morgante, 's  savagest  by  far  ;  he 

Plucks  up  pines,  beeches,  poplar-trees,  and  oaks, 
And  flings  them,  our  community  to  bury, 

And  all  that  I  can  do  but  rr>'re  provokes." 
While  thus  they  parley  in  the  cemetery, 

A  stone  from  one  of  their  gigantic  strokes, 
Which  nearly  crush'd  Rondell,  came  tumbling  over, 
So  that  he  took  a  long  leap  under  cover. 

XXVII. 

"  For  God's  sake,  cavalier,  come  in  with  speed, 

The  manna 's  falling  now,"  the  abbot  cried  : 
"  This  fellow  does  not  wish  my  horse  should  feed, 

Dear  abbot,"  Roland  unto  him  replied  ; 

Of  rest'iveness  he  'd  cure  him  had  he  need  ; 

That  stone  seems  with  good-will  and  aim  applied." 
The  holy  father  said,  "  I  don't  deceive  ; 
They  '11  one  day  fling  the  mountain,  I  believe." 

XXVIII. 
Orlando  bade  them  take  care  of  Rondello, 

And  also  made  a  breakfast  of  his  own  : 
"  Abbot,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  find  that  fellow 

Who  flung  at  my  good  horse  yon  corner-stone." 
Said  the  abbot,  "  Let  not  my  advice  stem  shallow. 

As  to  a  brother  dear  I  speak  alone  ; 
I  would  dissuade  you,  baron,  from  this  strife, 
As  knowing  sure  that  you  will  lose  your  life. 

XXIX. 
"That  Passamont  has  in  his  hand  three  darts—- 

Such  slings,  clubs, ballast-stones,  that  yield  you  ni-isi, 
You  know  that  giants  have  much  stouter  hearts 

Than  us,  with  reason,  in  proportion  just  • 
If  50  you  will,  guard  well  against  their  arts, 

For  these  are  very  barbarous  and  robust.'" 
Orlando  answer'd,  "  This  I  '11  see,  be  sure. 
And  walk  the  wild  on  foot  to  be  secur«." 


(98 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XXX. 

The  a  .hot  sign'd   ne  great  cross  on  his  front, 
"  Tlipp  go  you  with  God's  benison  and  mine  ;" 

Orlandi,  after  he  had  scaled  the  mount, 
As  the  abb  >t  had  directed,  kept  the  line 

Right  to  the  usual  haunt  of  Passamont; 
Who,  seeing  nim  alone  in  this  design, 

Survey'd  him  fore  and  aft  with  eyes  observant, 

Then  asked  him,  "If  he  wish'd  to  stay  as  servant?" 

XXXI. 

And  promised  him  an  office  of  great  ease  ; 
But,  said  Orlando,  u  Saracen  insane ! 

I  come  to  kill  you,  if  it  shall  so  please 

God,  not  to  serve  as  footboy  in  your  train ; 

You  with  his  monks  so  oft  have  broke  the  peace- 
Vile  dog  !  't  is  past  his  patience  to  sustain." 

I'he  giant  ran  to  fetch  his  arms,  quite  furious, 

When  he  received  an  answer  so  injurious. 

XXXII. 

And  being  return'd  to  where  Orlando  stood, 

Who  had  not  moved  him  from  the  spot,  and  swinging 

The  cord,  he  hurl'd  a  stone  with  strength  so  rude, 
As  show'd  a  sample  of  his  skill  in  slinging  ; 

[.  roll'd  on  Count  Orlando's  helmet  good 
And  head,  and  set  both  head  and  helmet  ringing, 

So  that  he  swoon'd  with  pain  as  if  he  died, 

But  more  than  dead,  he  seem'd  so  stupificd. 

XXXIII. 

Then  Passamont,  who  thougut  him  slain  outright. 

Said,  "  I  will  go,  and,  while  he  lies  along, 
Disarm  me :   why  such  craven  did  I  fight  ?" 

But  Christ  his  servants  ne'er  abandons  long, 
Especially  Orlando,  such  a  knight, 

As  to  desert  would  almost  be  a  wrong. 
While  the  giant  goes  to  put  off  his  defences, 
Orlando  iias  recall'd  his  force  and  senses: 

XXXIV. 
And  loud  he  shouted,  "  Giant,  where  dost  go  ? 

Thou  thought's!  me  doubtless  for  the  bier  outlaid  ; 
To  the  right  about — without  wings  thou  'rt  too  slow 

To  fly  my  vengeance — currish  renegade ! 
'T  was  but  by  treachery  thou  laid'st  me  low." 

The  giant  his  astonishment  betray'd, 
And  turn'd  about,  and  stopp'd  his  journey  on, 
And  then  he  stoop'd  to  pick  up  a  great  stone. 

XXXV. 
Orlando  had  Ccrtana  bare  in  hand, 

To  split  the  head  in  twain  was  what  he  schemed— 
Cortana  clave  the  skull  like  a  trie  brand, 

And  pagan  Passamont  died  unredeem'd. 
Yet  harsh  and  haughty,  as  he  lay  he  bann'd, 

And  most  devoutly  Macon  still  blasphemed; 
But  while  his  crude,  rude  blasphemies  he  heard, 
Orlando  thank'd  the  Father  and  the  Word, — 

XXXVI. 
faying,  "  What  grace  to  me  thou  'st  given ! 

And  I  to  thee,  oh  Lord,  am  ever  bound. 
I  know  my  life  was  saved  by  thee  from  heaven, 

Since  by  the  giant  I  was  fairly  down'd. 
All  things  by  tiiee  are  measured  just  and  even  ; 

(rur  power  without  thine  aid  would1  nought  be  found : 
1  pray  tnee  take  heed  of  me,  till  I  can 
At  least  'ciiirn  once  more  to  Carloman." 


XXXVII. 

And  having  said  thus  much,  he  went  his  way  : 

And  Alabaster  he  found  out  below, 
Doing  the  very  best  that  in  him  lay 

To  root  from  out  a  oanK  a  roes  or  two. 
Orlando,  when  he  reach'd  him,  iouH  'gan  say, 

"  How  think'st  thou,  glutton,  such  a  stone  lo  throw  ? 
When  Alabaster  heard  his  deep  voice  ring, 
He  suddenly  betook  him  to  his  sling, 

XXXVIII. 

And  hurl'd  a  fragment  of  a  size  so  large, 
That  if  it  had  in  fact  fulfill'd  its  mission, 

And  Roland  not  avail'd  him  of  his  targe, 
There  would  have  been  no  need  of  a  physician. 

Orlando  set  himself  in  turn  to  charge, 
And  in  his  bulky  bosom  made  incision 

With  all  his  sword.    The  lout  fell ;  but,  o'erthrown,  h* 

However  by  no  means  forgot  Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante  had  a  palace  in  his  mode, 

Composed  of  branches,  logs  of  wood,  and  earth, 
And  stretch'd  himself  at  ease  in  this  abode, 

And  shut  himself  at  night  within  his  birth. 
Orlando  knock'd,  and  knock'd  again,  to  goad 

The  giant  from  his  sleep  ;  and  he  came  forth, 
The  door  to  open,  like  a  crazy  thing, 
For  a  rough  dream  had  shook  him  slumbering. 

XL.* 

He  thought  that  a  fierce  serpent  had  attack'd  him, 

And  Mahomet  he  call'd,  but  Mahomet 
Is  nothing  worth,  and  not  an  instant  back'd  him ; 

But  praying  blessed  Jesu,  he  was  set 
At  liberty  from  all  the  fears  which  rack'd  him ; 

And  to  the  gate  he  came  with  great  regret — 
"  Who  knocks  here  ?"  grumbling  all  the  while,  said  he 
"That,"  said  Orlando,  "you  will  quickly  see." 

XLI. 
"  I  come  to  preach  to  you,  as  to  your  brothers, 

Sent  by  the  miserable  monks — repentance ; 
For  Providence  divine,  in  you  and  others, 

Condemns  the  evil  done  by  new  acquaintance. 
'T  is  writ  on  high — your  wrong  must  pay  another's ; 

From  heaven  itself  is  issued  out  this  sentence ; 
Know  then,  that  colder  now  than  a  pilaster 
I  left  your  Passamont  and  Alabaster." 

XLII. 
Morgante  said,  "  O  gentle  cavalier  ! 

Now  by  thy  God  say  me  no  villany ; 
The  favour  of  your  name  I  fain  would  hear, 

And  if  a  Christian,  speak  for  courtesy." 
Replied  Orlando,  "  So  much  to  your  ear 

I  by  my  faith  disclose  contentedly ; 
Christ  I  adore,  who  is  the  genuine  Lord, 
And,  if  you  please,  by  you  may  be  adored." 

XLIII. 
The  Saiacen  rejoin'd  in  humble  tone, 

"  I  have  had  an  extraordinary  vision  j 
A  savage  serpent  fell  on  me  alone. 

And  Macon  would  not  pity  rny  condition ; 
Hence  to  thy  God,  who  for  ye  did  atone 

Upon  the  cross,  preferr'd  I  my  petition ; 
His  timely  succour  set  me  safe  and  free, 
And  I  a  Christian  am  disposed  to  be." 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


49S 


XLIV. 

LTiando  answer'd,  "  Baron  just  and  pious, 
If  this  good  wish  your  heart  can  really  move 

To  the  true  God,  who  will  not  then  deny  us 
Eternal  honour,  you  will  go  above. 

And,  if  you"  please,  as  friends  we  will  ally  us, 
And  I  will  love  you  with  a  perfect  love. 

Your  idols  are  vain  liars  full  of  fraud, 

The  only  true  God  is  the  Christian's  God. 

XLV. 
u  The  Lord  descended  to  the  virgin  breast 

Of  Mary  Mother,  sinless  and  divine  ; 
If  you  acknowledge  the  Redeemer  blest, 

Without  whom  neither  sun  or  star  can  shine, 
Abjure  Lad  Macon's  false  and  felon  test, 

Your  renegado  God,  and  worship  mine, — 
Baptize  yourself  with  zeal,  since  you  repent." 
To  which  Morgante  answer'd,  "  I  'm  content." 

XLVI. 

And  then  Orlando  to  embrace  him  flew, 

And  made  much  of  his  convert,  as  he  cried, 
-To  the  abbey  I  will  gladly  marshal  you  :" 

To  whom  Morgante,  "  Let  us  go,"  replied ; 
*  I  to  the  friars  have  for  peace  to  sue." 

Which  thing  Orlando  heard  with  inward  pride, 
Saying,  "  My  brother,  so  devout  and  good, 
Ask  the  abbot  pardon,  as  I  wish  you  would : 

XLVII. 
"  Since  God  has  granted  your  illumination, 

Accepting  you  in  mercy  for  his  own, 
Humility  should  be  your  first  oblation." 

Morgante  said,  "  For  goodness'  sake  make  known — 
Since  that  your  God  is  to  be  mine — your  station, 

And  let  your  name  in  verily  be  shown  ; 
Then  will  I  every  thing  at  your  command  do." 
On  which  the  other  said,  he  was  Orlando. 

XLVIII. 
M  Then,"  quoth  the  giant,  "  blessed  be  Jesu, 

A  thousand  times  with  gratitude  and  praise ! 
Oft,  perfect  baron  !  have  I  heard  of  you 

Through  all  the  different  period  of  my  days : 
And,  as  I  said,  to  be  your  vassal  too 

I  wish,  for  your  great  gallantry  always." 
Thus  reasoning,  they  continued  much  to  say, 
And  onwards  to  the  abbey  went  their  way. 

XLIX. 
And  by  the  way,  about  the  giants  dead 

Orlando  with  Morgante  reason'd  :  "  Be, 
For  their  decease,  I  pray  you,  comforted, 

And  since  it  is  God's  pleasure,  pardon  me  ; 
A  thousand  wrongs  unto  the  mon'ns  they  bred, 

And  our  true  scripture  soundeth  openly — 
Good  is  rewarded,  and  chastised  the  ill, 
Which  the  Lord  never  faileth  to  fulfil : 

L. 
M  Because  his  love  of  justice  unto  all 

Is  such,  he  wills  his  judgment  should  devour 
All  who  have  sin,  however  great  or  small ; 

But  good  he  well  remembers  to  restore  : 
Nor  without  justice  holy  could  we  call 

Him,  whom  I  now  require  you  to  adore : 
All  men  must  make  his  will  their  wishes  sway, 
And  quickly  and  spontaneously  obey. 


LI. 

"  And  here  our  doctors  are  of  one  accord, 

Coming  on  this  point  to  the  same  conclusion — 

That  in  their  thoughts  who  praise  in  hc-aven  the  Lore 
If  pity  e'er  was  guilty  of  intrusion 

For  their  unfortunate  relations  stored 

In  hell  below,  and  damn'd  in  great  confusion, — 

Their  happiness  would  be  reduced  to  nought, 

And  thus  unjust  the  Almighty's  self  be  thought. 

LII. 

"  But  they  in  Christ  have  firmest  hope,  and  all 
Which  seems  to  him,  to  them  too  must  appeal 

Well  done  ;  nor  couid  it  otherwise  befall ; 
He  never  can  in  any  purpose  err : 

[f  sire  or  mother  suffer  endless  thrall, 
They  don't  disturb  themselves  for  him  or  her ; 

What  pleases  God  to  them  must  joy  inspire  ; — 

Such  is  the  observance  of  the  eternal  choir." 

LIU. 
"  A  word  unto  the  wise,"  Morgante  said, 

"  Is  wont  to  be  enough,  and  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  grieve  about  my  brethren  dead ; 

And  if  the  will  of  God  seem  good  to  me, 
Just,  as  you  tell  me,  't  is  in  heaven  obey'd — 

Ashes  to  ashes, — merry  let  us  be  ! 
I  will  cut  off"  the  hands  from  both  their  trunks 
And  carry  them  unto  the  holy  monks. 

LIV. 
"  So  that  all  persona  may  be  sure  and  certain 

That  they  are  dead,  and  have  no  further  feaj 
To  wander  solitary  this  desert  in, 

And  that  they  may  perceive  my  spirit  clear 
By  the  Lord's  grace,  who  hath  withdrawn  the  curtani 

Of  darkness,  making  his  bright  realm  appear." 
He  cut  his  brethren's  hands  off'  at  these  words, 
And  left  them  to  the  savage  beasts  and  birds. 

LV. 
Then  to  the  abbey  they  went  on  together, 

Where  waited  them  the  abbot  in  great  doubt. 
The  monks,  who  knew  not  yet  the  fact,  ran  thitner 

To  their  superior,  all  in  breathless  rout, 
Saying,  with  tremor,  "  Please  to  tell  us  whether 

You  wish  to  have  this  person  in  or  out  ?" 
The  abbot,  looking  through  upon  the  giant, 
Too  greatly  fear'd,  at  first,  to  be  compliant. 

LVI. 
Orlando,  seeing  him  thus  agitated, 

Said  quickly,  "  Abbol,  be  thou  of  good  cheer ; 
He  Christ  believes,  as  Christian  must  be  rated, 

And  hath  renounced  his  Macon  false;"  which  h«x« 
Morgante  with  the  hands  corroborated, 

A  proof  of  both  the  giants'  fate  quite  clear : 
Thence,  with  due  thanks,  the  abbot  God  adored, 
Saying,  "Thou  hast  contented  me,  oh  Lord  !" 

LVII. 

He  gazed ;   Morgante's  height  he  calculated. 
And  more  than  once  contemplated  his  size  , 

And  then  he  said,  "  Oh  giant  celebrated, 
Know,  that  no  more  my  wonder  will  arise, 

How  you  could  tear  and  fling  the  trees  you  late  (hit. 
When  I  behold  your  form  with  my  own  eyes. 

You  now  a  true  and  perfect  friend  will  sho»" 

Yourself  to  Christ,  as  once  you  were  a  few 


500 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LVIII. 

"  And  one  of  our  apostles,  Saul  once  named, 
Long  persecuted  sore  the  faith  of  Christ, 

Till  one  day  by  the  Spirit  being  inflamed, 

4  Why  dost  thou  persecute  me  thus?'  said  Christ; 

And  then  from  his  offence  he  was  reclaim'd, 
And  went  for  ever  after  preaching  Christ ; 

And  of  the  faith  became  a  trump,  whose  sounding 

O'er  the  whole  earth  is  echoing  and  rebounding. 

LIX. 

"  So,  my  Morgante,  you  may  do  likewise  ; 

He  who  repents, — thus  writes  the  Evangelist, — 
Occasions  more  rejoicing  in  the  skies 

Than  ninety-nine  of  the  celestial  list. 
You  may  be  sure,  should  each  desire  arise 

With  just  zeal  for  the  Lord,  that  you  '11  exist 
Among  the  happy  saints  for  evermore  ; 
But  you  were  lost  and  damn'd  to  hell  before !" 

LX. 

And  thus  great  honour  to  Morgante  paid 
The  abbot :  many  days  they  did  repose. 

One  day,  as  with  Orlando  they  both  stray'd, 

And  saunter'd  here  and  there,  where'er  they  chose, 

The  abbot  show'd  a  chamber  where  array'd 
Much  armour  was,  and  hung  up  certain  bows  ; 

And  one  of  these  Morgante  for  a  whim 

Girt  on,  though  useless,  he  believed,  to  him. 

LXI. 

There  being  a  want  of  water  in  the  place, 

Orlando,  like  a  worthy  brother,  said, 
**  Morgante,  I  could  wish  you  in  this  case 

To  go  for  water."    "  You  shall  be  obey'd 
In  all  commands  "  was  the  reply,  "  straightway." 

Upon  his  shoulder  a  great  tub  he  laid, 
And  went  out  on  his  way  unto  a  fountain, 
Where  he  was  wont  to  drink  below  the  mountain. 

LXH. 

Arrived  there,  a  prodigious  noise  he  hears, 

Which  suddenly  along  the  forest  spread ; 
Whereat  from  out  his  quiver  he  prepares 

An  arrow  for  his  bow,  and  lifts  his  head ; 
And  lo !  a  monstrous  herd  of  swine  appears, 

And  onward  rushes  with  tempestuous  tread, 
And  to  the  fountain's  brink  precisely  pours, 
So  that  the  giant 's  join'd  by  all  the  boars. 

LXIII. 
Morgante  at  a  venture  shot  an  arrow, 

Which  pierced  a  pig  precisely  in  the  ear, 
And  pass'd  unto  the  other  side  quite  through, 

So  that  the  boar,  defunct,  lay  tripp'd  up  near. 
Another,  to  revenge  his  fellow  farrow, 

Against  the  giant  rush'd  in  fierce  career, 
And  reach'd  the  passage  with  so  swift,  a  foot, 
Morganle  was  not  now  in  time  to  shoot. 

LXIV. 
Perceiving  that  the  pig  was  on  him  close, 

Fie  gave  him  such  a  punch  upon  the  head ' 
Aa  floor'd  him,  so  that  he  no  more  arose — 

Smashing  the  very  bone ;  and  he  fell  dead 
fff.vt  t«  tnt  other.     Having  seen  such  blows, 

'[«e  other  pigs  along  the  valley  fled  ; 
Morgame  on  his  neck  the  bucket  took, 
Full  from  th«  spring  which  neither  swerved  nor  shook. 


LXV. 

The  tun  was  on  one  shoulder,  and  there  were 
The  hogs  on  t'  other,  and  he  brush'd  apace 

On  to  the  abbey,  though  by  no  means  near, 
Nor  spilt  one  drop  of  water  in  his  race. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  so  soon  appear 

With  the  dead  boars,  and  with  that  brimful  vase, 

Marvell'd  to  see  his  strength  so  very  great ; — 

So  did  the  abbot,  and  set  wide  the  gate. 

LXVI. 

The  monks,  who  saw  the  water  fresh  and  good, 
Rejoiced,  but  much  more  to  perceive  the  pork  ; 

All  animals  are  glad  at  sight  of  food : 
They  lay  their  breviaries  to  sleep,  and  work 

With  greedy  pleasure,  and  in  such  a  mood, 
That  the  flesh  needs  no  salt  beneath  their  fork; 

Of  rankness  and  of  rot  there  is  no  fear, 

For  all  the  fasts  are  now  left  in  arrear. 

LXVII. 

As  though  they  wish'd  to  burst  at  once,  they  ate ; 

And  gorged  so  that,  as  if  the  bones  had  been 
In  water,  sorely  grieved  the  dog  and  cat, 

Perceiving  that  they  all  were  pick'd  too  clean. 
The  abbot,  who  to  all  did  honour  great, 

A  few  days  after  this  convivial  scene, 
Gave  to  Morgante  a  fine  horse  well  train'd, 
Which  he  long  time  had  for  himself  maintain'^ 

LXVIII. 

The  horse  Morgante  to  a  meadow  led, 
To  gallop,  and  to  put  him  to  the  proof, 

Thinking  that  he  a  back  of  iron  had, 

Or  to  skim  eggs  unbroke  was  light  enough , 

But  the  horse,  sinking  with  the  pain,  fell  dead, 
And  burst,  while  cold  on  earth  lay  head  and  hoof 

Morgante  said,  "  Get  up,  thou  sulky  cur  !" 

And  still  continued  pricking  with  the  spur. 

LXIX. 

But  finally  he  thought  fit  to  dismount, 

And  said,  "  I  am  as  light  as  any  feather, 
And  he  has  burst — to  this  what  say  you,  count  ?" 

Orlando  answer'd,  "  Like  a  ship's  mast  rather 
You  seem  to  me,  and  with  the  truck  for  front : — 

Let  him  go  ;  fortune  wills  that  we  together 
Should  march,  but  you  on  foot,  Morgante,  still." 
To  which  the  giant  answer'd,  "  So  I  will. 

LXX. 
"  When  there  shall  be  occasion,  you  shall  see 

How  I  approve  my  courage  in  the  fight." 
Orlando  said,  "  I  really  think  you  '11  be, 

If  it  should  prove  God's  will,  a  goodly  knight, 
Nor  will  you  napping  there  discover  me  • 

But  never  mind  your  horse,  though  out  of  sight 
'T  were  best  to  carry  him  into  some  wood, 
If  but  the  means  or  way  I  understood." 

LXXI. 
The  giant  said,  "  Then  carry  him  I  will, 

Since  that  to  carry  me  he  was  so  slack — 
To  render,  as  the  gods  do,  good  for  ill ; 

But  lend  a  hand  to  place  him  on  my  back  " 
Orlando  answer'd,  "  V.  my  counsel  sty 

May  weigh,  Morgante,  do  not  ui.dertake 
To  lift,  or  carry  this  dead  courser,  wh<\ 
As  you  have  done  to  him,  will  do 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


50' 


LXXH. 

M  Pake  care  he  don't  revenge  himself,  though  dead, 
As  Nessus  did  of  old  beyond  all  cure ; 

I  don't  know  if  the  fact  you  've  heard  or  read, 
But  he  will  make  you  burst,  you  may  be  sure." 

"  But  help  him  on  my  back,"  Morgante  said, 
"  And  you  shall  see  what  weight  I  can  endure : 

In  place,  my  gentle  Roland,  of  this  palfrey, 

With  all  the  bells,  I  'd  carry  yonder  belfry." 

LXXIII. 

The  abbot  said,  "  The  steeple  may  do  well, 
But,  for  the  hells,  you  've  broken  them,  I  wot." 

Morgante  answer'd,  "  Let  them  pay  in  hell 
The  penalty,  who  lie  dead  in  yon  grot:" 

And  hoisting  up  the  horse  from  where  he  fell, 
He  said,  "  Now  look  if  I  the  gout  have  got, 

Orlando,  in  the  legs — or  if  I  have  force ;" — 

And  then  he  made  two  gambols  with  the  horse. 

LXXIV. 

Mot  gante  was  like  any  mountain  framed ; 

So  if  he  did  this,  't  is  no  prodigy ; 
But  secretly  himself  Orlando  blamed, 

Because  he  was  one  of  his  family ; 
Aiid,  fearing  that  he  might  be  hurt  or  maim'd, 

Once  mere  he  bade  him  lay  his  burthen  by : 
"  Put  down,  nor  bear  him  further  the  desert  in." 
Morgante  said,  "  I  '11  carry  him  for  certain." 

LXXV. 

He  did  ;  and  stow'd  him  in  some  nook  away, 
And  to  the  abbey  then  return'd  with  speed. 

Orlando  said,  "  Why  longer  do  we  stay ; 
Morgante,  here  is  nought  to  do  indeed." 

The  abbot  by  the  hand  he  took  one  day, 
And  said  with  great  respect,  he  had  agreed 

To  leave  his  reverence ;  but  for  this  decision 

He  wish'd  to  have  his  pardon  and  permission. 

LXXVT. 

The  honours  they  continued  to  receive 

Perhaps  exceeded  what  his  merits  claim'd : 
He  said,  "  I  mean,  and  quickly,  to  retrieve 

The  lost  days  of  time  past,  which  may  be  blamed  ; 
Some  days  ago  I  should  have  ask'd  your  leave, 

Kind  father,  but  I  really  was  ashamed, 
And  know  not  how  to  show  my  sentiment, 
So  much  I  see  you  with  our  stay  content. 

LXXVII. 
"  But  in  my  heart  I  bear  through  every  clime, 

The  abbot,  abbey,  and  this  solitude — 
So  much  I  love  you  in  so  short  a  time ; 

For  me,  from  heaven  reward  you  with  all  good, 
The  God  so  true,  the  eternal  Lord  sublime ! 

Whose  kingdom  at  the  last  hath  open  stood : 
Meanwhile  we  stand  expectant  of  your  blessing, 
And  recommend  us  to  your  prayers  with  pressing." 

LXXVIII. 
Now  when  the  abbot  Count  Orlando  heard, 

His  heart  grew  soft  with  inner  tenderness, 
Such  fervour  in  his  bosom  bred  each  word  ; 

And,  "  Cavalier,"  he  said,  "  if  I  have  less 
Courteous  and  kind  to  your  great  worth  appear'd, 

Than  fits  me  for  such  gentle  blood  to  express,     ' 
(  know  I  've  done  too  little  in  this  case ; 
Hut  blame  our  ignorance,  and  this  poor  place. 
2  V 


LXXIX. 

"  We  can  indeed  but  honour  you  with  massus, 
And  sermons,  thanksgivings,  and  pater-nosters 

Hot  suppers,  dinners  (fitting  other  places 
In  verity  much  rather  than  the  cloisters); 

But  such  a  love  for  you  my  heart  embraces, 
For  thousand  virtues  which  your  bosom  fosters 

That  wheresoe'er  you  go,  I  too  shall  be, 

And,  on  the  other  part,  you  rest  with  me. 

LXXX. 

"  This  may  involve  a  seeming  contradiction, 
But  you,  I  know,  are  sage,  and  feel,  and  taste 

And  understand  my  speech  with  full  conviction. 
For  your  just,  pious  deeds  may  you  be  graced 

With  the  Lord's  great  reward  and  benediction, 
By  whom  you  were  directed  to  this  waste : 

To  his  high  mercy  is  our  freedom  due, 

For  which  we  render  thanks  to  him  and  you. 

LXXXI. 

M  You  saved  at  once  our  life  and  soul :  such  fear 
The  giants  caused  us,  that  the  way  was  lost 

By  which  we  could  pursue  a  fit  career 
In  search  of  Jesus  and  the  saintly  host ; 

And  your  departure  breeds  such  sorrow  here, 
That  comfortless  we  all  are  to  our  cost ; 

But  months  and  years  you  could  not  stay  in  sloth, 

Nor  are  you  form'd  to  wear  our  sober  cloth  ; 

LXXXII. 

"  But  to  bear  arms  and  wield  the  lance ;  indeed, 
With  these  as  much  is  done  as  with  this  co'.vl, 

In  proof  of  which  the  scripture  you  may  read. 
This  giant  up  to  heaven  may  bear  his  soul 

By  your  compassion  ;  now  in  peace  proceed. 
Your  state  and  name  I  seek  not  to  unroll, 

But,  if  I  'm  ask'd,  this  answer  shall  be  given, 

That  here  an  angel  was  sent  down  from  heaven. 

LXXXIII. 

"  If  you  want  armour  or  aught  else,  go  in, 

Look  o'er  the  wardrobe,  and  take  what  you  chooso; 
And  cover  with  it  o'er  this  giant's  skin." 

Orlando  answer'd,  "  If  there  should  lie  loose 
Some  armour,  ere  our  journey  we  begin, 

Which  might  be  turn'd  to  my  companion's  use, 
The  gift  would  be  acceptable  to  me." 
The  abbot  said  to  him,  "Come  in  and  see." 

LXXXIV. 
And  in  a  certain  closet,  where  the  wall 

Was  cover'd  with  old  armour  like  a  crust, 
The  abbot  said  to  them,  "I  give  you  all." 

Morgante  rummaged  piecemeal  from  the  dust 
The  whole,  which,  save  one  cuirass,  was  too  small, 

And  that  too  had  the  mail  inlaid  with  rust. 
They  wonder'd  how  it  fitted  him  exactly, 
Which  ne'er  had  suited  others  so  compactly. 

LXXXV. 
'T  was  an  immeasurable  giant's,  who 

By  the  great  Milo  of  Argante  fell 
Before  the  abbey  many  years  ago. 

The  story  on  the  wall  was  ngured  well ; 
In  the  last  moment  of  the  abbey's  foe, 

Who  long  had  waged  a  war  implacable* 
Precisely  as  the  war  occurr'd  they  drew  him, 
And  there  was  Milo  as  he  overthrew  him. 


LXXXVI. 


heart -Oh  God!  whom  the  sky 
Mass,  how  was  Mfe  hither  lad, 
cawed  the  fktnt  m  OB  place  w  die  '!* 

XI 

& 

JUI 
Frost  eri  keep  yom,  the  h^hKmj  of  Gkwy! 


Paee.iOO.hne5-. 
B «  fav«  km  sefi  a  poadi  Mf 
"GS  <J«te  in  suDa  testa  on  gran  punxone.'"    It  if 
anBge  that  FgtdstmU  have  literally  anticipated  tba 
lishnkal  term?  of  tmj  old  friend  and  master,  Jackson, 
and  the  an  wiadi  be  has  earned  to  its  highest  pitch. 
"  J  mcacfc  «  CW  k«x?,"  or,  «  «  f«M* 
*•  OB  pmiMK  is  ruth  testa,1*  is  die  exact 
phrase  of  oar  hast  p^usts,  who  ottle<k«un  that  they 


AH    APOSTBOPHIC    HYMH. 


TO  THE  PUBIJSHER. 


I  AM  X 


the  boa,  Mrs.  EL  «n,  V  I  coUd  drire. 


MIS.H.H  inni  iag  (shaii 01  fami 

•ets  •  the  latter  end  of  the  bat  centnry).  1  nahooted. 

me  «ni  paces  to  the  newest  tames.    Bnl,  jndge  of  my 
ompriit,  c-j  arm?*;,  to  see  poor  dear  Mrs.  Homem 

»    --     .,;  .    ^--;      '•;_'•:•    ~-     VT        .    "-     :'     1  ~:  --:."- 

•  -  _—  f .     --  __        .  _    •_  . .-. •  «-?- 

JBQmiK  e^BWCmw  •  VCVCK  sea  «j    -   .      -'. .      E]    -    _  .    * . 

•*  say  men.  rather  mare  than  half  ramd  her  want. 


'and  down  sort  of  tmte,  that  reminded  ma  of 
the  -Mack  joke,"  only  more  "m^ftlmsss,"  til  it  made 
guify  wvh  vrooocm^  ufecr  were  not  so.  BT 
and  hy  they  stopped  a  bit,  and  I  thought  they  would 
sfc or  &•  down:— bat,  no ;  with  Mrs.  H.'s  hand  on  hit 
TMM/ranBarieer***  (as  Terence  said  when 
at  school)yfhey  waited  abort  a  mismte,  and  then 
at  k  again,  nke  two  cock-chafers  spitted  on  the  same 
I  asked  what  al  this  meant,  when,  with  a 
mod  hHgh,a,chid  no  older  than  om-Wibebnma  (a 
I  necw  heard  hot  in  the  Vicar  of  WakeneJd, 
her  mother  would  eaO  her  after  the  Princes* 
of  Swmppenhaca),  said,  •*  Lord,  Mr.  Homem,  can\  JOB 
see  they  am  vafamg,"  or  watering  (I  forgot  which);  aad 
not  np  she  got,  and  her  mother  and  sisur,  and  away 
they  went,  aad  romid-dbonted  k  til  smmar-time.  Now 
that  I  know  what  it  k,  I  fike  k  of  al  thmfs,  and  so 
does  Mrs.  EL  (thoo^fa  I  have  broken  my  shins,  and  fear 
overturned  Mrs.  Homem's  maid  in  practising  the 
_ .  -  i  — .  ^  •  •  •  ;  -  '.~.-_  —  •  —  -  -  .  .:•".'"  ~  : :  -  ? 
I  ..-•:  .-.  ••  I'  -•_-  -  r  s.  :-•"-••""••  "--"  /  -"  -.v-:  - 
eiecoon  halndi,and  songs  in  Honour  of  afl  the 
Tictories  (bat  tiS  lately  I  have  had  nttfe  practice  in  that 
way).  I  sat  down,  and  with  the  aid  of  W.  F.  Esq.,  and 
a  few  hints  ion  Dr.  B.  (whose  recitations  I  attend,  and 

.-._-..-  -._.--.  .-  ..  -J.  -  _  -_._;, 

his  father's  hie  snccesrfW  D.  L.  address),  I  ecmpoiad 
the  fbBowiag  hymn,  wherewithal  to  make  my  sen6» 
n  to  the  pohhe,  whom,  Drrr,tbdess,  1 

r. ri."— T  c-€^7-a^  as  we..  &>  tr:^  cr:"jcs. 

am.  &,  yoors  «*«M  «*'- 

HOR*CE  flORNF.M 


WALTZ. 


5-OJ 


WALTZ. 


Mm  of  the 

Are  aow  extended  a»  fnm  left  to  arms  ; 
IrKnicHOBf ! — loo  bag  oBodeewM  a.  onid- 
Bevrachfid  tenot-fcectow'd  hat  to  aphraid— 


Uencefonb  m  al  the  hmm  rf 

The  lean  a.  ratal  of  the  *vgp*  Niae. 

Far  be  faailfaee  aad  thi*e  the  Maw  of  and* 

Bfoek'd,  yet  tnaaMthaat ;  aaeerM  at, 

If  VJ.  rjir  cr^-J  3 

Tbj  breast— if  hate 


Ar.i 


HMM  dhaktrte  the  idd. 


Tte  wfaiekerVi  wxarr  of  wakz  aad  < 


A^jnt 
Hi ...  ^. 


A 
Oi 
Coefc*d 


«---ra:?Wt.a:_>> 


mai  Wdtolew'* 

^  !••• 


G.T^.  L;  .-.  ca.--  ir^i  -js-.*  c§  lak*  ^*  r«t. 

Oh!  firlfaeiavaf  Baghy,  or  of  F«z, 

The  fatties'*  lojaky.  I 

To  ueacrpzethe'ab 

Aad  gire  both  Bcaal  aad  a* 


Inperal  Waki! 


Oh,  GeraHar!  hoar  MM*  I*  ihce  we  awe, 


Aado^rldTwthrd d  debts 

Of  i 

Wei 

Of  i:^«  r« 


To  Gcnarar,  ad  1 

Who. 

To  CMBUMIJ,  what  owe  we  not  beaiees  ? 


Wl»  DM!  fcr  *y«sar,  widb  her  mpal  Uooi, 
Dra«»  f<Mf  ihr  XeM  rf  each  TertoMe  «• 
Who  Kat  •»-«•  he  •Mkd'4  al  her  wdb- 


•M 


Back  to  arr  taeaae — O 
A 


Bar«»  the  heath  of  hypuhoreai  gde* 
Froai  niadaat'»  part  (whie  Ubaawg  yet  had  ««aV) 
Ei«  j«  ariarfcy  fjaif     tnmfiVd  to  creep 


O,  IMX^^  L-.-    ^r 


Whie  Mfant  MOK»W  *  j«  kad  »ews 

Kor  owed  her  ioy  ok  to  x.  fiiead, 

She  cane—  Wafez  cawe—  «*d  «rilfa  hw  cettaam  mO» 


T«  playc,  a^  fcrty  tal»  «f  KuMzehw'*  ; 


Thetaigi 

XataatHenMfiac,^ 

Her  aaatte  feet. 

3iot  Cfeopatn  «•  her  faker's  deck, 


To] 

Arise  «*&id«e  aa 
To7o.of.iM* 


cof  teaimn! 

tofaapOMe; 

•-J-.  -  •  bav 


.  af«haa»flV«f«i 


With  added* 
Of  aatmar 
To«oa,«« 

T:.  r^j.-  i  «.-.•-'«.  -.-r  =.i_*^  i. 


,«£•««, 


M^B«I 


BMMfirH^* 
1 1  1  in  ai  fljaaai 
To  en 


to— 40  ihr  am?  aM&ae  Me 


504 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Observant  travellers  !  of  every  time  ; 
Yt  quartos  !  publish'd  upon  every  clime ; 
O  say,  shall  dull  Romaika's  heavy  round, 
fandango's  wriggle,  or  Bolero's  bound  ; 
Can  Egypt's  Almas6 — tantalizing  group — 
Columbia's  caperers  to  the  warlike  whoop— 
Can  aught  from  cold  Kamtschatka  to  Cape  Horn 
With  Waltz  compare,  or  after  Waltz  be  borne? 
Ah,  no !  from  Morier's  pages  down  to  Gait's, 
Each  tourist  pens  a  paragraph  for  "  Waltz." 

Shades  of  those  belles,  whose  reign  began  of  yore, 
With  George  the  Third's — and  ended  long  before — 
Though  in  your  daughters'  daughters  yet  you  thrive, 
Burst  from  your  lead,  and  be  yourselves  alive  ! 
Back  to  the  ball-room  speed  your  spectred  host : 
Fool's  Paradise  is  dull  to  that  you  lost. 
No  treacherous  powder  bids  -conjecture  quake ; 
No  stiff  starch'd  stays  make  meddling  fingers  ache  ; 
(Transferr'd  to  those  ambiguous  things  that  ape 
Goats  in  their  visage,7  women  in  their  shape); 
No  damsel  faints  when  rather  closely  press'd, 
But  more  caressing  seems  when  most  caress'd  ; 
Superfluous  hartshorn,  and  reviving  salts, 
Uoth  banish'd  by  the  sovereign  cordial  "  Waltz." 

Seductive  Waltz ! — though  on  thy  native  shore 
Even  Werter's  self  proclaim'd  thee  half  a  whore; 
Werter — to  decent  vice  though  much  inclined, 
Yet  warm,  not  wanton  ;  dazzled,  but  not  blind — 
Though  gentle  Gen'is,  in  her  strife  with  Stael, 
Would  even  proscribe  thee  from  a  Paris  ball ; 
The  fashion  hails — from  countesses  to  queens, 
And  maids  and  valets  waltz  behind  the  scenes  ; 
Wide  and  more  wide  thy  witching  circle  spreads, 
And  turns — if  nothing  else — at  least  our  heads; 
With  thee  even  clumsy  cits  attempt  to  bounce 
And  cockneys  practise  what  they  can't  pronounce. 
Gods  !  how  the  glorious  theme  my  strain  exalts, 
And  rh^me finds  partner  rhyme  in  praise  of  "Waltz." 

Blest  was  the  time  Waltz  chose  for  her  dlbwt ; 

The  court,  the  R 1,  like  herself,  were  new  ;8 

New  face  for  friends,  for  foes  some  new  rewards, 
New  ornaments  for  black  and  royal  guards  ; 
New  laws  to  hang  the  rogues  that  roar'd  for  bread ; 
New  coins  (most  new')  to  follow  those  that  fled  ; 
New  victories — nor  can  we  prize  them  less, 
Though  Jenky  wonders  at  his  own  success  ; 
New  wars,  because  the  old  succeed  so  well, 
That  most  survivors  envy  those  who  fell ; 
New  mistresses — no— old — and  yet 't  is  true, 
Though  they  be  old,  the  thing  is  something  new; 
Each  new,  quite  new — (except  some  ancient  tricks I0), 
New  white-sticks,  gold-sticks,  broom-sticks,  all  new 

et-icks  ! 

With  vests  or  ribands — deck'd  alike  in  hue, 
Ni:w  troopers  strut,  new  turncoats  blush  in  blue : 
S-j  saith  the  muse — my — u,  what  say  you  ? 
Such  was  the  time  when  Waltz  might  best  maintain 
Her  new  preferments  in  this  novel  reign  ; 
Such  was  the  time,  r.or  ever  yet  was  such, 
Hoops  are  no  more,  and  petticoats  not  much  ; 
Morals  and  minuets,  virtue  and  her  stays, 
And  t«.ll-talc  powder — all  have  had  their  days. 


The  ball  begins — the  honours  of  the  house 

First  duly  done  by  daughter  or  by  spouse, 

Some  potentate — or  royal  or  serene — 

With  K — t's  gay  grace,  or  sapient  G — st — r's  mien, 

Leads  forth  the  ready  dame,  whose  rising  flush 

Might  once  have  been  mistaken  for  a  blush. 

From  where  the  garb  just  leaves  the  bosom  free, 

That  spot  where  hearts  12  were  once  supposed  to  be  j 

Round  all  the  confines  of  the  yielded  waist, 

The  strangest  hand  may  wander  undisplaced ; 

The  lady's  in  return  may  grasp  as  much 

As  princely  paunches  offer  to  her  touch. 

Pleased  round  the  chalky  floor  how  well  they  trip, 

One  hand  reposing  on  the  royal  hip  ; 

The  other  to  the  shoulder  no  less  royal 

Ascending  with  affection  truly  loyal : 

Thus  front  to  front  the  partners  move  or  stand, 

The  foot  may  rest,  but  none  withdraw  the  hand  ; 

And  all  in  turn  may  follow  in  their  rank, 

The  Earl  of— Asterisk— and  Lady— Blank  ; 

Sir — such  a  one — with  those  of  fashion's  host, 

For  whose  blest  surnames — vide  "  Morning  Post;" 

(Or  if  for  that  impartial  print  too  late, 

Search  Doctors'  Commons  six  months  from  my  dat?)— 

Thus  all  and  each,  in  movement  swift  or  slow, 

The  genial  contact  gently  undergo  ; 

Till  some  might  marvel,  with  the  modest  Turk, 

If  "nothing  follows  all  this  palming  work  ?"13 

True,  honest  Mirza — you  may  trust  my  rhyme — 

Something  does  follow  at  a  fitter  time  ; 

The  breast  thus  publicly  resign'd  to  man, 

In  private  may  resist  him if  it  can. 

O  ye  !  who  loved  our  grandmothers  of  yore, 
F-tz — t — k,  Sh-r-d-n,  and  many  more  ! 
And  thou,  my  prince,  whose  sovereign  taste  and  will 
It  is  to  love  the  lovely  beldames  still ; 

Thou,  ghost  of  Q !  whose  judging  sprite 

Satan  may  spare  to  peep  a  single  night, 
Pronounce — if  ever  in  your  days  of  bliss— 
Asmodeus  struck  so  bright  a  stroke  as  this  ; 
To  teach  the  young  ideas  how  to  rise, 
Flush  in  the  cheek  and  languish  in  the  eyes ; 
Rush  to  the  heart  and  lighten  through  the  frame, 
With  half-told  wish  and  ill-dissembled  flame ; 
For  prurient  nature  still  will  storm  the  breast— 
VFho,  tempted  thus,  can  answer  for  the  rest  ? 

But  ye — who  never  felt  a  single  thought 
For  what  our  morals  are  to  be,  or  ought ; 
Who  wisely  wish  the  charms  you  view  to  reap, 
Say — would  you  make  those  beauties  quite  so  cheap  ? 
Hot  from  the  hands  promiscuously  applied, 
Round  the  slight  waist ;  or  down  the  glowing  side , 
Where  were  the  rapture  then  to  clasp  the  form, 
From  this  lewd  grasp,  and  lawless  contact  warm  ? 
At  once  love's  most  endearing  thought  resign, 
To  press  the  hand  so  press'd  by  none  but-  thine ; 
To  gaze  upon  that  eye  which  never  met 
Another's  ardent  look  without  regret  • 
Approach  the  lip  which  all,  without  restraint, 
Come  near  enough — if  not  to  touch — to  taint ; 
If  such  thou  lovest — love  her  then  no  more, 
Or  give — like  her — caresses  to  a  score  ; 
Her  mind  with  these  is  gone,  and  with  it  go 
The  little  left  behind  it  to  bestow. 


WALTZ. 


50.- 


Voluptuous  Wallz  !  and  dare  I  thus  blaspheme  ? 

Thy  bard  forgot  thy  praises  were  his  theme. 

TERPSICHORE  forgive! — at  every  ball 

My  wife  now  waltzes — and  my  daughters  shall ; 

My  son  (or  stop — 't  is  needless  to  inquire — 

1  hesc  little  accidents  should  ne'er  transpire  ; 

Some  ages  hence  our  genealogic  tree 

Will  wear  as  green  a  bough  for  him  as  me), 

Waltzing  shall  rear,  to  make  our  name  amends, 

Grandsons  for  me — in  heirs  to  all  his  friends. 


NOTES. 


Note  1.  Page  502,  line  4. 
State  of  the  poll  (last  day)  5. 

Note  2.  Page  502,  line  6. 

My  Latin  is  all  forgotten,  if  a  man  can  be  said  to  have 
forgotten  what  he  never  remembered ;  but  I  bought 
my  title-page  motto  of  a  Catholic  priest  for  a  three 
shilling  bank  token,  after  much  haggling  for  the  even 
sixpence.  I  grudged  tne  money  to  a  Papist,  being  all 
for  the  memory  of  Perceval,  and  "  No  Popery ;"  and 
quite  regretting  the  downfall  of  the  Pope,  because  we 
can't  burn  him  any  more. 

Note  3.  Page  503,  line  1. 
"  Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet." — Gray. 

Note  4.  Page  503,  line  21. 

To  rival  Lord  W.'s,  or  his  nephew's,  as  the  reader 
pleases: — the  one  gained  a  pretty  woman,  whom  he 
deserved,  by  fighting  for  ;  and  the  other  has  been  fight- 
ing in  the  Peninsula  many  a  long  day,  "  by  Shrewsbury 
clock,"  without  gaining  any  thing  in  that  country  but 
the  title  of  "  the  Great  Lord,"  and  "  the  Lord,"  which 
savours  of  profanation,  having  been  hitherto  applied 
only  to  that  Being,  to  whom  "  Te  Deums"  for  carnage 
are  the  rankest  blasphemy. — It  is  to  be  presumed  the 
general  will  one  day  return  to  his  Sabine  farm,  there 
"To  tame  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain, 
Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer'd  Spain  1" 

The  Lord  Peterborough  conquered  continents  in  a 
summer ;  we  do  more — we  contrive  both  to  conquer 
and  lose  them  in  a  shorter  season.  If  the  "great  Lord's" 
Cincinnatian  progress  in  agriculture  be  no  speedier 
than  the  proportional  average  of  time  in  Pope's  couplet, 
it  will,  according  to  the  farmer's  proverb,  be  "  plough- 
ing with  dogs." 

By  the  by — one  of  this  illustrious  person's  new  titles 
is  forgotten — it  is,  however,  worth  remembering — "Sal- 
vador del  mundo !"  creditf,  po.iteri !  If  this  be  the 
uppellation  annexed  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  Peninsula 
to  the  name  of  a  man  who  has  not  yet  saved  them — 
query — are  they  worth  saving  even  in  this  world?  for, 
according  to  the  mildest  modifications  of  any  Christian 
creed,  those  three  words  make  the  odds  much  against 
them  in  the  next. — "  Saviour  of  the  world,"  quotha! — 
it  were  to  be  wished  that  he,  or  any  one  else,  could  save 
a  corner  of  it — his  country.  Yet  this  stupid  misnomer, 
although  it  shows  the  near  connexion  between  super- 
stition and  impiety,  so  far  has  its  use,  that  it  proves 
there  can  be  little  to  dread  from  those  Catholics  (in- 
•uisitorial  Catholics  too^  who  can  confer  such  an  ap- 
•ellation  on  a  Protestant,  1  suppose  next  year  he  will 
bt  entitled  the  "  Virgin  Mary :"  if  so,  Lord  George  Gor- 
2  v  3  '  69 


don  himself  would  have  nothing  to  object  to  such  liberal 
bastards  of  our  Lady  of  Babylon. 

Note  5.  Page  503,  line  7. 

The  patriotic  arson  of  our  amiable  allies  cannot  be 
sufficiently  commended — nor  subscribed  for.  Amongst 
other  details  omitted  in  the  various  despatches  of  oui 
eloquent  ambassador,  he  did  not  state  (being  too  much 
occupied  with  the  exploits  of  Colonel  C ,  in  swim- 
ming rivers  frozen,  and  galloping  over  roads  impas- 
sable), that  one  entire  province  perished  by  famine  in 
the  most  melancholy  manner,  as  follows : — In  General 
Rostopchin's  consummate  conflagration,  the  consump- 
tion of  tallow  and  train  oil  was  so  great,  that  the  market 
was  inadequate  to  the  demand :  and  thus  one  hundred 
and  thirty-three  thousand  persons  were  starved  to  death, 
by  being  reduced  to  wholesome  diet !  The  lamplighters 
of  London  have  since  subscribed  a  pint  (of  oil)  a-piece, 
and  the  tallow-chandlers  have  unanimously  voted  a 
quantity  of  best  moulds  (four  to  the  pound)  to  the  re- 
lief of  the  surviving  Scythians — the  scarcity  will  soon, 
by  such  exertions,  and  a  proper  attention  to  the  quality 
rather  than  the  quantity  of  provision,  be  totally  alle- 
viated. It  is  said,  in  return,  that  the  untouched  Ukraine 
has  subscribed  sixty  thousand  beeves  for  a  day's  meal 
to  our  suffering  manufacturers. 

Note  6.  Page  504,  line  5. 

Dancing  girls — who  do  for  hire  what  Waltz  doth 
gratis. 

Note  7.  Page  504,  line  20. 

It  cannot  be  complained  now,  as  in  the  Lady  Baus- 
siere's  time,  of  the  "  Sieur  de  la  Croix,"  that  there  be 
"  no  whiskers ;"  but  how  far  these  are  indications  of 
valour  in  the  field,  or  elsewhere,  may  still  be  question* 
able.  Much  may  be  and  hath  been  avouched  on  both 
sides.  In  the  olden  time  philosophers  had  whiskers 
and  soldiers  none — Scipio  himself  was  shaven — Han- 
nibal thought  his  one  eye  handsome  enough  without 
a  beard;  but  Adrian,  the  Emperor,  wore  a  beard 
(having  warts  on  his  chin,  which  neither  the  Empress 
Sabina,  nor  even  the  courtiers,  could  abide) — Turenne 
had  whiskers,  Marlborough  none — Buonaparte  is  un- 

whiskered,  the  R whiskered  ;  "  argal"  greatness  of 

mind  and  whiskers  may  or  may  not  go  together :  but 
certainly  the  different  occurrences,  since  the  growth  of 
the  last-mentioned,  go  further  in  behalf  of  whiskers 
than  the  anathema  of  Anselm  did  against  long  hair  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  I. 

Formerly,  red  was  a  favourite  colour.  See  Lodowick 
Barrey's  comedy  of  Uam  Alley,  1661,  act  I.  scene  1. 

"  Taffeta.  Now,  for  a  wager — What  colour'd  beard 
comes  next  by  the  window  ? 

"  Adriana.  A  black  man's,  I  think. 

"  Taffeta.  I  think  not  so :  I  think  a  red,  tor  that  u 
most  in  fashion. ': 

There  is  "  nothing  new  under  the  sun ;"  but  red, 
then  a  favourite,  has  now  subsided  into  a  favourit^i 
colour. 

NoteS.  Page  504,  line  40. 

An  anachronism — Waltz,  and  the  battle  of  Auster,itz 
are  before  said  to  have  opened  the  ball  together  :  tne 
hard  means  (if  he  means  any  thing;  Waltz  was  not  so 

much  in  vogue  till  the  k 1  attained  the  acme  o*' 

his  popularity.  Waltz,  the  comet,  whiskers,  and  Uw 
new  government,  illuminated  heaven  and  earth,  in  aU 


5W> 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


iheir  glory,  much  about  the  same  time ;  of  these  the 
comet  only  has  disappeared ;  the  other  three  continue 
to  astonish  us  stiil. — PRINTER'S  DEVIL. 

Note  9.  Page  504,  line  44. 

Amongst  others  a  new  ninepence — a  creditahle  coin 
now  forthcoming,  worth  a  pound,  in  paper,  at  the  fairest 
calculation. 

Note  10.  Page  504,  line  51. 

"  Oh  that  right  should  thus  overcome  might .'"  Who 
does  not  remember  the  "  delicate  investigation"  in  the 
"  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor?" 

"  Ford.  Pray  you  come  near :  if  I  suspect  without 
cause,  why  then  make  sport  at  me ;  then  Jet  me  be 
your  jest ;  I  deserve  it.  How  now  ?  whither  bear  you 
this? 

"  Mrs.  Ford.  What  have  you  to  do  whither  they  bear 
it  ? — you  were  best  meddle  with  buck-washing." 

Note  11.  Page  504,  line  56. 

The  gentle,  or  ferocious  reader,  may  fill  up  the  blank 
as  he  pleases — there  are  several  dissyllabic  names  at  his 


service  (being  already  in  the  R t's) :  it  would  not  b» 

fair  to  back  any  peculiar  initial  against  the  alphabet, 
as  every  month  will  add  to  the  list  now  entered  for  the 
sweepstakes — a  distinguished  consonant  is  said  to  ho 
the  favourite,  much  against  the  wishes  of  the  knwving 
ones. 

Note  12.  Page  504,  line  74. 

"  We  have  changed  all  that,"  says  the  Mock  Doctor, 
"  't  is  all  gone — Asmodeus  know?  where.  After  all,  it 
is  of  no  great  importance  how  women's  hearts  are  dis- 
posed of;  they  have  nature's  privilege  to  distribute  them 
as  absurdly  as  possible.  But  there  are  also  some  men 
with  hearts  so  thoroughly  bad,  as  to  remind  us  of  those 
phenomena  often  mentioned  in  natural  history  ;  viz.  a 
mass  of  solid  stone— only  to  be  opened  by  force — and 
when  divided,  you  discover  a  toad  in  the  centre,  lively, 
and  with  the  reputation  of  being  venomous." 
Note  13.  Page  504,  line  94. 

In  Turkey,  a  pertinent — here,  an  impertinent  and 
superfluous  question — literally  put,  as  in  the  text,  by 
a  Persian  to  Morier,  on  seeing  a  waltz  in  Pera. — Vtd» 
Morier's  Travels. 


Efte  Hament  of 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


AT  Ferrara  (in  the  library)  are  preserved  the  original 
MSS.  of  Tasso's  Gierusalemme  and  of  Gnarini's  Pastor 
Fido,  with  letters  of  Tasso,  one  from  Titian  to  Ariosto ; 
and  the  inkstand  and  chair,  the  tomb  and  the  house  of 
the  "latter.  But  as  misfortune  has  a  greater  interest  for 
posterity,  and  little  or  none  for  the  contemporary,  the  cell 
where  Tasso  was  confined  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna 
attracts  a  more  fixed  attention  than  the  residence  or  the 
monument  of  Ariosto — at  least  it  had  this  effect  en  me. 
There  are  two  inscriptions,  one  on  the  outer  gate,  the 
second  over  the  cell  itself,  inviting,  unnecessarily,  the 
wonder  and  the  indignation  of  the  spectator.  Ferrara  is 
much  decayed  and  depopulated ;  the  castle  still  exists  en- 
tire ;  and  I  saw  the  court  where  Parisina  and  Hugo  were 
beheaded,  according  to  the  annal  of  Gibbon. 


'HIE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


i. 

I,.»NO  years !— It  tries  the  thrilling  frame  to  bear 

And  eagle-spirit  of  a  child  of  song — 

Long  years  of  outrage,  calumny  and  wrong  ; 

Imputed  madness,  prison'd  solitude, 

And  the  mind's  canker  in  its  savage  mood, 

When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 

1 'arches  the  heart :  and  the  abhorred  grate, 

Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 

Works  through  the  throbbing  eye-ball  to  the  brain 

With  a  hot  sense  of  heaviness  and  pain  ; 

And  bare,  at  once,  cantivity  displayed 

Sianas  scoffing  tnrougn  the  ncver-open'd  gate, 

tVhi"h  nothing  through  its  bars  admits,  save  day 


And  tasteless  food,  which  I  have  eat  alone 

Till  its  unsocial  bitterness  is  gone ; 

And  I  can  banquet  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 

Which  is  my  lair,  and — it  may  be — my  grave. 

All  this  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may  wear, 

But  must  be  borne.    I  stoop  not  to  despair  ; 

For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony, 

And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 

The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall, 

And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall ; 

And  revell'd  among  men  and  things  divine, 

And  pour'd  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 

In  honour  of  the  sacred  war  for  him, 

The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven, 

For  he  hath  strengthcn'd  me  in  heart  and  limb. 

That  through  this  sufferance  I  might  be  forgiven, 

I  have  employ'd  my  penance  to  record 

How  Salem's  shrine  was  won.  and  how  adored. 

II. 

But  this  is  o'er — my  pieasant  task  is  aone : 

My  long-sustaining  friend  of  many  years ! 

If  1  do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears, 

Know  that  my  sorrows  have  wrung  from  me  none. 

But  thou,  my  young  creation  !  my  soul's  child  ! 

Which  ever  playing  round  me  came  and  smiled. 

And  woo'd  me  from  myself  with  thy  sweet  sij;ht, 

Thou  too  art  gone-  -and  so  is  my  delight : 

And  therefore  do  I  weep  and  inly  bleed 

With  this  last  bruise  upon  a  broken  reed. 

Thou  too  art  ended — what  is  left  me  now  ? 

For  I  have  anguish  yet  to  bear — and  how  ? 

I  know  not  that — but  in  the  innate  force 

Of  my  own  spirit  shall  be  found  resource. 

I  have  not  sunk,  for  I  had  no  remorse, 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


50; 


Nor  cause  for  such :  they  call'd  me  mad — and  why  ? 

Oh  Leonora  !   wilt  not  tlinu  reply  ? 

t  was  indeed  delirious  in  my  heart 

To  lift  my  love  so  lofty  as  thou  art ; 

But  still  my  frenzy  was  not  of  the  mind ; 

I  knew  my  fault,  and  feel  my  punishment 

Not  less  jecause  I  suffer  it  unbent. 

That  thou  wert  beautiful,  and  I  not  blind, 

Hath  been  the  sin  which  shuts  me  from  mankind ; 

But  let  them  go,  or  torture  as  they  will, 

My  heart  can  multiply  thine  image  still ; 

Successful  love  may  sate  itself  away, 

The  wretched  are  the  faithful ;  't  is  their  fate 

To  have  all  feeling  save  the  one  decay, 

And  every  passion  into  one  dilate, 

As  rapid  rivers  into  ocean  pour  ; 

But  ours  is  fathomless,  and  hath  no  shore. 

III. 

Above  me,  hark  !  the  long  and  maniac  cry 

Of  minds  and  bodies  in  .captivity. 

And  hark  !  the  lash  and  the  increasing  howl, 

And  the  half-inarticulate  blasphemy  ! 

There  be  some  here  with  worse  than  frenzy  foul, 

Some  who  do  still  goad  on  the  o'er-labour'd  mind, 

And  dim  the  little  light  that 's  left  behind 

With  needless  torture,  as  their  tyrant  will 

Is  wound  up  to  the  lust  of  doing  ill  : 

With  these  and  with  their  victims  am  I  class'd, 

'Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  long  years  have  pass'd; 

'Mid  sights  and  sounds  like  these  my  life  may  close : 

So  let  it  be — for  then  I  shall  repose. 

IV. 

I  have  been  patient,  let  me  be  so  yet ; 

I  had  forgotten  half  I  would  forpef, 

But  it  revives— oh  !  would  it  were  my  lot 

To  be  forgetful  as  I  am  forgot! — 

Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  bade  me  dwell 

In  this  vast  lazar-house  of  many  woes  ? 

Where  laughter  is  not  mirth,  nor  thought  the  mind, 

Nor  words  a  language,  nor  ev'n  men  mankind  ; 

Where  cries  reply  to  curses,  shrieks  to  hlows, 

And  each  is  tortured  in  his  separate  hell — 

For  we  are  crowded  in  our  solitudes — 

Many,  but  each  divided  by  the  wall, 

Which  echoes  Madness  in  her  babbling  moods ; — 

While  all  can  hear,  none  heed  his  neighbour's  call — 

None  !  save  that  One,  the  veriest  wretch  of  all, 

Who  was  not  made  to  be  the  mate  of  these, 

Nor  bound  between  distraction  and  disease. 

Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  placed  me  here  ? 

Who  have  debased  me  in  the  minds  of  men, 

Debarring  me  the  usage  of  my  own, 

Blighting  my  life  in  best  of  its  career, 

Branding  my  thoughts  as  things  to  shun  and  fear  ? 

Would  I  not  pay  them  back  these  pangs  again, 

And  teach  them  inward  sorrow's  stifled  groan? 

The  struggle  to  be  calm,  and  cold  distress, 

Which  undermines  our  stoical  success  7 

N<~ ! — still  too  proud  to  be  vindictive — I 

H.IVP  pp.rdon'd  princes'  insults,  and  would  die. 

Yes,  sister  of  my  sovereign  !   for  thy  sake 

I  weed  all  bitterness  from  out  my  breast, 

it  hath  PO  business  wliPro  tfwv  art  a  guest ; 


Thy  brother  hates — but  I  can  not  detest, 
Thou  pitiest  not — but  I  can  not  forsake. 

V. 

Look  on  a  love  which  knows  not  to  despair, 
But  all  unquench'd  is  still  my  better  part, 
Dwelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  silent  heart 
As  dwells  the  gather'd  lightning  in  its  cloud, 
Encompass'd  with  its  dark  and  rolling  shroud, 
Till  struck, — forth  flies  the  all-ethereal  dart ! 
And  thus  at  the  collision  of  thy  name 
The  vivid  thought  still  flashes  through  my  frame, 
And  for  a  moment  all  things  as  they  were 
Flit  by  me  ; — they  are  gone — I  am  the  same. 
And  yet  my  love  without  ambition  grew ; 
I  knew  thy  state,  my  station,  and  I  knew 
A  princess  was  no  love-mate  for  a  bard  ; 
I  told  it  not,  I  breathed  it  not,  it  was 
Sufficient  to  itself,  its  own  reward  ; 
And  if  my  eyes  reveal'd  it,  they,  alas  ! 
Were  punish'd  by  the  silentness  of  thine, 
And  yet  I  did  not  venture  to  repine. 
Thou  wert  to  me  a  crystal-girded  shrine, 
Worshipp'd  at  holy  distance,  ana  around 
Hallow'd  anJ  meekly  kiss'd  the  saintly  ground , 
Not  for  thou  wert  a  princess,  but  that  love. 
Had  robed  thee  with  a  glory,  and  array'd 
Thy  lineaments  in  beauty  that  dismay'd — 
Oh  !  not  dismay'd — but  awed,  like  One  above  , 
And  in  that  sweet  severity  there  was 
A  something  which  all  softness  did  surpass — 
I  know  not  how — thy  genius  master'd  mine — 
My  star  stood  still  before  thee: — if  it  were 
Presumptuous  thus  to  love  without  design, 
That  sad  fatality  hath  cost  me  dear  ; 
But  thou  art  dearest  still,  and  I  should  be 
Fit  for  this  cell,  which  wrongs  me,  but  for  thee. 
The  very  love  which  lock'd  me  to  my  chain 
Hath  lighten'd  half  its  weight ;  and  for  the  rest, 
Though  heavy,  lent  me  vigour  to  sustain, 
And  look  to  thee  with  undivided  breast, 
And  foil  the  ingenuity  of  pain. 

VI. 

It  is  no  marvel — from  my  very  birtn 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love,  which  did  pervade 

And  mingle  with  whate'er  I  saw  on  earth ; 

Of  objects  all  inanimate  I  made 

Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers, 

And  rocks,  whereby  they  grew,  a  paradise, 

Where  I  did  lay  me  down  within  the  shade 

Of  waving  trees,  and  dream'd  uncounted  hour*. 

Though  I  was  chid  for  wandering  ;   and  the  wise 

Shook  their  white  aged  heads  o'er  me,  and  said 

Of  such  materials  wretched  men  were  made. 

And  such  a  truant  boy  would  end  in  woe, 

And  that  the  only  lesson  was  a  blow  ; 

And  then  they  smote  me,  and  I  did  not  wee,), 

But  cursed  them  in  my  heart,  and  to  my  haunt 

Return'd  and  wept  alone,  and  dream'd  again 

The  visions  which  arise  without  a  sleep. 

And  with  my  years  my  soul  began  to  pant 

With  feelings  of  strange  tumult  and  soft  pain  , 

And  the  whole  heart  exhaled  into  one  want. 

But  undefined,  and  wandering,  till  the  dav 


508 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


1  found  the  thing  I  sought — and  that  was  thee  ; 
And  then  I  lost  my  being  all  to  be 
Absorb'd  in  thine — the  world  was  past  away — 
fltou  didst  annihilate  the  earth  to  me  ! 

vn. 

I  loved  all  solitude — but  little  thought 
To  spend  I  know  not  what  of  life,  remote 
From  all  communion  with  existence,  save 
The  maniac  and  his  tyrant ;  had  I  been 
Their  fellow,  many  years  ere  this  had  seen 
My  mind  like  theirs  corrupted  to  its  grave ; 
But  who  hath  seen  me  writhe,  or  heard  me  rave  ? 
Perchance  in  such  a  cell  we  suffer  more 
Than  the  wreck'd  sailor  on  his  desert  shore  ; 
The  world  is  all  before  him — mine  is  here, 
Scarce  twice  the  space  they  must  accord  my  bier. 
What  though  he  perish,  he  may  lift  his  eye 
And  with  a  dying  glance  upbraid  the  sky — 
I  will  not  raise  my  own  in  such  reproof, 
Although  't  is  clouded  by  my  dungeon  roof. 

vm. 

Yet  do  I  feel  at  times  my  mind  decline, 
But  with  a  sense  of  its  decay: — I  see 
Unwonted  lights  along  my  prison  shine, 
And  a  strange  demon,  who  is  vexing  me 
With  pilfering  pranks  and  petty  pains,  below 
The  feeling  of  the  healthful  and  the  free ; 
But  much  to  one,  who  long  hath  suffer'd  so, 
Sickness  of  heart,  and  narrowness  of  place, 
And  all  that  may  be  borne,  or  can  debase. 
I  thought  mine  enemies  had  been  but  man, 
But  spirits  may  be  leagued  with  them — all  earth 
Abandons — Heaven  forgets  me  ; — in  the  dearth 
Of  such  defence  the  powers  of  evil  can, 
It  may  be,  tempt  me  further,  and  prevail 
Against  the  outworn  creature  they  assail. 
Why  in  this  furnace  is  my  spirit  proved 
Like  steel  in  tempering  fire  ?  because  I  loved  ! 
Because  I  loved  what  not  to  love,  and  see, 
Was  more  or  less  than  mortal,  and  than  me. 


IX. 

I  once  was  quick  in  feeling — that  is  o'er ; — 

My  scars  are  callous,  or  I  should  have  dash'd 

My  brain  against  these  bars  as  the  sun  flash'd 

In  mockery  through  them ; — if  I  bear  and  bo  w 

The  much  I  have  recounted,  and  the  more 

Which  hath  no  words,  't  is  that  I  would  not  die 

And  sanction  with  self-slaughter  the  dull  lie 

Which  snared  me  here,  and  with  the  brand  of  shams 

Stamp  madness  deep  into  my  memory, 

And  woo  compassion  to  a  blighted  name, 

Scaling  the  sentence  which  my  foes  proclaim. 

No— it  shall  be  immortal ! — and  I  make 

A  future  temple  of  my  present  cell, 

Which  nations  yet  shall  visit  for  my  sake. 

While  thou,  Ferrara !  when  no  longer  dwell 

The  ducal  chiefs  within  thee,  shall  fall  down, 

And  crumbling  piecemeal  view  thy  hearthless  halls, 

A  poet's  wreath  shall  be  thine  only  crown, 

A  poet's  d'.mgeon  thy  most  far  renown, 

While  strangers  wonder  o'er  thy  unpeopled  walls  ! 

And  thou,  Leonora  !  thou — who  wert  ashamed 

That  such  as  I  could  love — who  blush'd  to  hear 

To  less  than  monarchs  that  thou  couldst  be  dear, 

Go  !  tell  thy  brother  that  my  heart,  untamed 

By  grief,  years,  weariness — and  it  may  be 

A  taint  of  that  he  would  impute  to  me, 

From  long  infection  of  a  den  like  this, 

Where  the  mind  rots  congenial  with  the  abyss, — 

Adores  thee  still ; — and  add — that  when  the  lowers 

And  battlements  which  guard  his  joyous  hours 

Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel,  are  forgot, 

Or  left  untended  in  a  dull  repose, 

This — this  shall  be  a  consecrated  spot ! 

But  thou — when  all  that  birth  and  beauty  throws 

Of  magic  round  thee  is  extinct — shall  have 

One  half  the  laurel  which  o'ershades  my  grave. 

No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart, 

As  none  in  life  could  rend  ihee  from  nay  heart. 

Yes,  Leonora  !  it  shall  be  our  fate 

To  be  entwined  for  ever— but  too  late  ! 


J&elotrCcs. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  subsequent  poems  were  written  at  the  request 
of  my  friend,  the  Hon.  D.  Kinnaird,  for  a  selection  of 
Hebrew  Melodies,  arid  have  been  published,  with  ihe 
music,  arranged  by  Mr.  BRAHAM  and  Mr.  NATHAN. 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 
SHF  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  rjfudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 


And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  bright 

Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 
Thus  mellow'd  to  thai  lender  light 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 
One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 

Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 

Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face  5 
Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 

How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-placa 
And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  thai  brow, 

So  sofl,  so  calm,  yel  eloquent, 
The  smiles  thai  win,  the  linls  that  glow. 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  *nose  love  is  innocent  * 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


500 


THE  HARP  THE  MONARCH  MINSTREL 

SWEPT. 
THE  harp  the  monarch  minstrel  swept, 

The  king  of  men,  the  loved  of  Heaven, 
Which  Music  hallow'd  while  she  wept 

O'er  tones  her  heart  of  hearts  had  given. 

Redoubled  be  her  tears,  its  chords  are  riven ! 
It  sofien'd  men  of  iron  mould, 

It  gave  them  virtues  not  their  own  5 
No  ear  so  dull,  no  soul  so  cold, 

That  felt  not,  fired  not  to  the  tone, 

Till  David's  lyre  grew  mightier  than  his  throne ! 

It  told  the  triumphs  of  our  king, 

It  wafted  our  glory  to  our  God  ; 
It  made  our  gladden'd  valleys  ring, 

The  cedars  bow,  the  mountains  nod ; 

Its  sound  aspired  to  heaven,  and  there  abode  ! 
Since  then,  though  heard  on  earth  no  more, 

Devotion  and  her  daughter  Love 
Still  bid  the  bursting  spirit  soar 

To  sounds  that  seem  as  from  above, 

In  dreams  that  day's  broad  light  can  not  remove. 


IF  THAT  HIGH  WORLD. 

If  that  high  world,  which  lies  beyond 

Our  own,  surviving  love  endears  ; 
If  there  the  cherish'd  heart  be  fond, 

The  eye  the  same,  except  in  tears — 
How  welcome  those  untrodden  spheres ! 

How  sweet  this  very  hour  to  die  ! 
To  soar  from  earth,  and  find  all  fears 

Lost  in  thy  light — Eternity  ! 

It  must  be  so :  't  is  not  for  self 

That  we  so  tremble  on  the  brink  ; 
And  striving  to  o'erleap  the  gulf, 

Yet  cling  to  being's  severing  link. 
Oh !  in  that  future  let  us  think 

To  hold  each  heart  the  heart  that  shares, 
With  them  the  immortal  waters  drink, 

And  soul  in  soul  grow  deathless  theirs ! 


THE  WILD  GAZELLE. 

THE  wild  gazelle  on  Judah's  hills 

Exulting  yet  may  bound, 
And  drink  from  all  the  living  rills 

That  gush  on  holy  ground ; 
Its  airy  step  and  glorious  eye 

May  glance  in  tameless  transport  by  :— 

A  step  as  fleet,  an  eye  more  bright, 

Hath  Judah  witness'd  there  ; 
And  o'er  her  scenes  of  lost  delight 

Inhabitants  more  fair. 
The  cedars  wave  on  Lebanon, 
But  Judah's  statelier  maids  are  gone ! 

More  blest  each  palm  that  shades  those  plains 

Than  Israel's  scatter'd  race  ; 
For,  taking  root,  it  there  remains 

In  solitary  grace : 
It  cannot  quit  its  place  of  birth, 
It  will  not  live  in  other  earth. 


But  we  must  wander  witheringly, 

In  other  lands  to  die  ; 
And  where  our  fathers'  ashes  be, 

Our  own  may  never  lie : 
Our  temple  hath  not  left  a  stone, 
And  Mockery  sits  on  Salem's  throne. 


OH!  WEEP  FOR  THOSE. 

OH  !  weep  for  those  that  wept  by  Babel's  stream, 
Whose  shrines  are  desolate,  whose  land  a  dream ; 
Weep  for  the  harp  of  Judah's  broken  shell : 
Mourn — where  their  God  hath  dwelt  the  godless  dwc- 

And  where  shall  Israel  lave  her  bleeding  feet  ? 
And  when  shall  Zion's  songs  again  seem  sweet? 
And  Judah's  melody  once  more  rejoice 
The  hearts  that  leap'd  before  its  heavenly  voice  ? 

Tribes  of  the  wandering  foot  and  weary  breast, 
How  shall  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest  ? 
The  wild-dove  hath  her  nest,  the  fox  his  cave, 
Mankind  their  country — Israel  but  the  grave  ! 


ON  JORDAN'S  BANKS 

ON  Jordan's  banks  the  Arab's  camels  straj , 

On  Sion's  hill  the  False  One's  votaries  pray, 

The  Baal-adorer  bows  on  Sinai's  steep — 

Yet  there— -even  there — Oh  God  !  thy  thunders  tf«  ep  . 

There — where  thy  finger  scorch'd  the  tablet  stone' 
There — where  thy  shadow  to  thy  people  shone ! 
Thy  glory  shrouded  in  its  garb  of  fire : 
Thyself — none  living  see  and  not  expire  ! 

Oh !  in  the  lightning  let  thy  glance  appear ! 
Sweep  from  his  shiver'd  hand  the  oppressor's  spter  . 
How  long  by  tyrants  shall  thy  land  be  trod? 
How  long  thy  temple  worshipless,  Oh  God  ? 


JEPHTHA'S  DAUGHTER. 

SrNCE  our  country,  our  God — Oh !  my  sire  ' 
Demand  that  thy  daughter  expire  ; 
Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy  vow- 
Strike  the  bosom  that 's  bared  for  thee  now  ' 

And  the  voice  of  my  mourning  is  o'er, 
And  the  mountains  behold  me  no  more : 
If  the  hand  that  I  love  lay  me  low, 
There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow  ! 

And  of  this,  oh,  my  father!  be  sure — 
That  the  blood  of  thy  child  is  as  pure 
As  the  blessing  I  beg  ere  it  flow, 
And  the  last  thought  that  soothes  me  below 

Though  the  virgins  of  Salem  lament, 
Be  the  judge  and  the  hero  unbent ! 
I  have  won  the  great  battle  for  thee, 
And  my  father  and  country  are  free ' 

When  this  blood  of  thy  giving  hath  gu?h'-i 
When  the  voice  that  thou  lovest  is  hush'o, 
Let  my  memory  still  be  thy  pride. 
And  forget  not  I  smiled  as  I  diecf . 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


OH!  SNATCfl'D  AWAY  IN  BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 

OH  !  snaLch.'A  »way  in  beauty's  bloom, 
On  thee  shal  press  no  ponderous  tomb ; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year  ; 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom : 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread : 
Fond  wretch !  as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead ! 

Away !  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 
That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress  : 

Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  ? 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less  ? 

And  tliou — who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 


MY  SOUL  IS  DARK. 
Mr  soul  is  dark. — Oh !  quickly  string 

The  harp  I  yet  can  brook  to  hear ; 
And  let  thy  gentle  fingers  fling 

Its  melting  murmurs  o'er  mine  ear. 
If  in  this  heart  a  hope  be  dear, 

That  sound  shall  charm  it  forth  again  ; 
If  in  these  eyes  there  lurk  a  tear, 

'T  will  flow,  and  cease  to  burn  my  brain  : 

But  bid  the  strain  be  wild  and  deep, 

Nor  let  thy  notes  of  joy  be  first : 
I  tell  thee,  minstrel,  I  must  weep, 

Or  else  this  heavy  heart  will  burst ; 
For  it  hath  been  by  sorrow  nurst, 

And  ached  in  sleepless  silence  long  ; 
And  now  't  is  doom'd  to  know  the  worst, 

And  break  at  once — or  yield  to  song. 


I  SAW  THEE  WEEP. 
I  SAW  thee  weep — the  big  bright  tear 

Came  o'er  that  eye  of  blue  ; 
*.nd  then  methought  it  did  appear 

A  violet  dropping  dew  ; 
I  saw  thee  smile — the  sapphire's  blaze 

Beside  thee  ceased  to  shine, 
It  could  not  match  the  living  rays 

That  fill'd  that  glance  of  thine. 

As  clouds  from  yonder  sun  receive 

A  deep  and  mellow  die. 
Which  scarce  the  shade  of  coming  eve 

Can  banish  from  the  sky, 
Those  smiles  unto  the  moodiest  mind 

Their  own  pure  joy  impart ; 
Their  sunshine  leaves  a  glow  behind 

Thai  lightens  o'er  the  heart. 


THY  DAYS  ARE  DONE. 

THY  Days  are  done,  thy  fame  begun ; 
T/iv  country's  Btrai&t  record 


'ITie  triumphs  of  her  chosen  son, 
The  slaughters  of  his  sword  ! 

The  deeds  he  did,  the  fields  he  won, 
The  freedom  he  restored ! 

Though  thou  art  fall'n,  while  we  are  treo 
Thou  shall  not  taste  of  death  ! 

The  generous  blood  that  flow'd  from  thp<* 
Disdain'd  to  sink  beneath  : 

Within  our  veins  its  currents  be, 
Thy  spirit  on  our  breath : 

Thy  name,  our  charging  hosts  along, 

Shall  be  the  battle-word  ! 
Thy  fall,  the  theme  of  choral  song 

From  virgin  voices  pour'd  ! 
To  weep  would  do  thy  glory  wrong  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  be  deplored. 


SONG  OF  SAUL  BEFORE  HIS  LAST 

BATTLE. 

WARRIORS  and  chiefs !  should  the  shaft,  or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's,  in  your  path: 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath ! 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow, 
Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from  the  foe, 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy  feet ! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not  to  meet 

Farewell  to  others,  but  never  we  part, 
Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart ! 
Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway, 
Or  kingly  the  death,  which  awaits  us  to-dav ' 


SAUL. 
THOU  whose  spell  can  raise  the  dead, 

Bid  the  prophet's  form  appear. 
"  Samuel,  raise  thy  buried  head ! 

King,  behold  the  phantom  seer!" 

Earth  yawn'd  ;  he  stood  the  centre  of  a  cloud : 
Light  changed  its  hue,  retiring  from  his  shroud: 
Death  stood  all  glassy  in  his  fixed  eye ; 
His  hand  was  wither'd  and  his  veins  were  dry  ; 
His  foot,  in  bony  whiteness,  glitter'd  there, 
Shrunken  and  sinewless,  and  ghastly  bare : 
From  lips  that  moved  not  and  unbreathing  irame 
Like  cavern'd  winds,  the  hollow  accents  came. 
Saul  saw,  and  fell  to  earth,  as  falls  the  oak, 
At  once,  and  blasted  by  the  thunder-stroke. 

"Why  is  my  sleep  disquieted? 
Who  is  he  that  calls  the  dead  ? 
Is  it  thou,  oh  king?   Behold, 
Bloodless  are  these  limbs,  and  cold : 
Such  are  mine  ;   and  such  shall  be 
Thine,  to-morrow,  when  with  me  : 
Ere  the  coming  day  is  done, 
Such  shalt  thou  be,  such  thy  son. 
Fare  thee  well,  but  for  a  day ; 
Then  we  mix  our  mouldering  clay 
Thou,  thy  race,  lie  pale  and  low, 
I  terced  by  shafts  of  many  a  bow : 


HEBREW  MELODIES 


And  the  falchion  by  thy  side 
To  thy  heart,  thy  hand  shall  guide  : 
Crownless,  breathless,  headless  fall, 
Son  and  sire,  the  house  of  Saul !" 


1  ALL  IS  VANITY,  SAITH  THE  PREACHER.' 

FAME,  wisdom,  love,  and  power  were  mine, 

And  health  and  youth  possess'd  me ; 
My  gohlcts  blush'd  from  every  vine, 

And  lovely  forms  caress'd  me  ; 
I  sunn'd  my  heart  in  beauty's  eyes, 

And  felt  my  soul  grow  tender ; 
All  earth  can  give,  or  mortal  prize, 

Was  mine  of  regal  splendour. 

I  strive  to  number  o'er  what  days 
'     Remembrance  can  discover, 
Which  all  that  life  or  earth  displays 

Would  lure  me  to  live  over. 
There  rose  no  day,  there  roll'd  no  hour 

Of  pleasure  unembitter'd ; 
And  not  a  trapping  deck'd  my  power 

That  gall'd  not  while  it  glitter'd. 

The  serpent  of  the  field,  by  art 

And  spells,  is  won  from  harming ; 
But  that  which  coils  around  the  heart, 

Oh  !  who  hath  power  of  charming  ? 
It  will  not  list  to  wisdom's  lore, 

Nor  music's  voice  can  lure  it ; 
But  there  it  stings  for  evermore 

The  soul  that  must  endure  it. 


WHEN  COLDNESS  WRAPS  THIS  SUFFER- 
ING CLAY. 

WHEN  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay, 

Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay, 

But  leaves  its  darken'd  dust  behind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way  ? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecay'd, 

A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 
All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  display'd, 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 
Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds, 

So  darkly  of  departed  years, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds, 

And  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  creation  peopled  earth, 

Its  eye  shall  roll  through  chaos  back  ; 
And  where  the  furthest  heaven  had  birth, 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes, 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be, 
While  sun  is  quench'd  or  system  breaks, 

Fix'd  in  its  own  eternity. 
Above  or  love,  hope,  hate,  or  fear, 

It  lives  all  pasrutiless  and  pure : 


An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year  . 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  wing, 

O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thoughts  shall  fl? 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing, 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 

VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 

THE  king  was  on  his  throne, 

The  satraps  throng'd  the  hail ; 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold, 

In  Judah  deem'd  divine — 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  heathen's  wine ! 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall, 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand  : 
The  fingers  of  a  man ; — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wana. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice  ; 
All  bloodless  wax'd  his  look, 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 
"  Let  the  men  of  lore  appeal, 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear, 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 

Chaldea's  seers  are  good, 

But  here  they  have  no  skill : 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood, 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore ; 
But  new  they  were  not  sage, 

They  saw — but  knew  no  more 

A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth, 
He  heard  the  king's  command, 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view  ; 
He  read  it  on  that  night, — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true 

"  Belshazzar's  grave  is  made, 

His  kingdom  pass'd  away, 
He  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay. 
The  shroud,  his>  robe  of  state, 

His  canopy,  the  stone  ; 
The  Mode  is  at  his>  gate ' 

The  Persian  on  his  throne!" 

SUN  OF  THE  SLEEPLESS' 

N  of  the  sleepless  !  melancholy  star ' 
Whose  tearful  beam  glows  tremulously  far 


512 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Th;it  show'st  the  darkness  thou  canst  not  dispel, 
How  like  art  thou  to  joy  rcmember'd  well! 
So  gleams  the  past,  the  light  of  other  days, 
Which  shines,  but  warms  not  with  its  powerless  rays  ; 
A  night-beam  sorrow  watcheth  to  behold, 
Distinct,  but  distant — clear — but,  oh  how  cold  ! 


WERE  MY  BOSOM  AS  FALSE  AS  THOU 

DEEM'ST  IT  TO  BE. 

WERE  my  bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem'st  it  to  be, 
I  need  not  have  wander'd  from  far  Galilee; 
It  was  but  abjuring  my  creed  to  efface 
The  curse  which,  thou  say'st,  is  the  crime  of  my  race. 
If  the  bad  never  triumph,  then  God  is  with  thee ! 
If  the  slave  only  sin,  thou  art  spotless  and  free ! 
If  the  exile  on  earth  is  an  outcast  on  high, 
Live  on  in  thy  faith,  but  in  mine  I  will  die. 
I  have  lost  for  that  faith  more  than  thou  canst  bestow, 
As  the  God  who  permits  thee  to  prosper  doth  know ; 
In  his  hand  is  my  heart  and  my  hope — and  in  thine 
The  lan^  and  the  life  which  for  him  I  resign. 


HEROD'S  LAMENT  FOR  MARIAMNE. 

OH,  Mariamne  !  now  for  thee 

The  heart  for  which  thou  bled'st  is  bleeding ; 
Revenge  is  lost  in  agony, 

And  wild  remorse  to  rage  succeeding. 
Oh,  Mariamne  !   where  art  thou? 

Thou  canst  not  hear  my  bitter  pleading : 
All,  couldst  thou — thou  wouldst  pardon  now, 

Though  Heaven  were  to  my  prayer  unheeding. 

And  is  she  dead  ? — and  did  they  dare 

Obey  my  frenzy's  jealous  raving  ? 
My  wrath  but  doom'd  my  own  despair : 

The  sword  that  smote  her 's  o'er  me  waving. — 
But  thou  art  cold,  my  murder'd  love  ! 

And  this  dark  heart  is  vainly  craving 
For  her  who  soars  alone  above, 

And  leaves  my  soul  unworthy  saving. 

She 's  gone,  who  shared  my  diadem ! 

She  sunk,  with  her  my  joys  entombing ; 
I  swept  that  flower  from  Judah's  stem 

Whose  leaves  for  me  alone  were  blooming. 
And  mine 's  the  guilt,  and  mine  the  hell, 

This  bosom's  desolation  dooming ; 
And  I  have  earn'd  those  tortures  well, 

Which  unconsumed  are  still  consuming ! 


ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF 
JERUSALEM  BY  TITUS. 

FROM  the  last  hill  that  looks  on  thy  once  holy  dome 
I  beheld  thee,  oh  Sion  !  when  render'd  to  Rome: 
T  was  thy  last  sun  went  down,  and  the  flames  of  thy  fall 
'•'lash'd  back  on  the  last  glance  I  gave  to  thy  wall. 

I  look'd  for  thy  temple,  I  look'd.  for  my  home, 

And  to'got  for  a  moment  my  bondage  to  come  ; 

I  beheld  but  the  death-fire  that  fed  on  thy  fane. 

And  !h«  fast -fetter' d  hands  that  made  vengeance  in  vain. 


On  many  an  eve,  the  High  sriot  whence  I  gazed 
Had  reflected  the  last  beam  of  day  a«  it  blazed ; 
While  I  stood  on  the  height,  and  beheld  the  decline 
Of  the  rays  from  the  mountain  that  sh:  ne  on  thy  shnnn. 

And  now  on  that  mountain  I  stood  on  that  day, 
But  I  mark'd  not  the  twilight  beam  melting  away ; 
Oh !  would  that  the  lightning  had  glared  in  its  stead, 
And  the  thunderbolt  burst  on  the  conqueror's  head  1 

But  the  gods  of  the  Pagan  shall  never  profane 
The  shrine  where  Jehovah  disdain'd  not  to  reign ; 
And  scatter'd  and  scorn'd  as  thy  people  may  be, 
Our  worship,  oh  Father  !  is  only  for  thee. 


BY  THE  RIVERS  OF  BABYLON  WE  SAT 
DOWN  AND  WEPT. 

WE  sat  down  and  wept  by  the  waters 
Of  Babel,  and  thought  of  the  day 

When  our  foe,  in  the  hue  of  his  slaughters, 
Made  Salem's  high  places  his  prey ; 

And  ye,  oh  her  desolate  daughters  ! 
Were  scatter'd  all  weeping  away. 

While  sadly  we  gazed  on  the  river 
Which  roll'd  on  in  freedom  below, 

They  demanded  the  song ;  but,  oh  never 
That  triumph  the  stranger  shall  know ! 

May  this  right  hand  be  vvither'd  for  ever, 
Ere  it  string  our  high  harp  for  the  foe  ! 

On  the  willow  that  harp  is  suspended, — 
Oh  Salem  !  its  sound  should  be  free  ; 

And  the  hour  when  thy  glories  were  ended, 
But  left  me  that  token  of  thee : 

And  ne'er  shall  its  soft  tones  be  blended 
With  the  voice  of  the  spoiler  by  me ! 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

THE  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold  ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen : 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 
For  the  angel  of  death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd  ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew  still. 
And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride  > 
And  the  foam  of  h\r  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 
And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 
And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  swor<?, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glanr«  of  iSe  Lo»-l ' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


FROM  JOB. 

A  tPiRiT  pass'd  before  me:  I  beheld 
The  face  of  immortality  unveil'd — 
"Deep  sleep  came  down  on  every  eye  save  mine 
And  there  it  stood, — all  formless — but  divine : 
Along  my  bones  the  creeping  flesh  did  quake ; 
And  a*  my  damp  hair  stiifen'd,  thus  it  spake : 


"  Is  man  more  just  than  God  ?    Is  man  more  pur' 
Than  he  who  deems  even  seraphs  insecure  ? 
Creatures  of  clay — vain  dwellers  in  the  dust! 
The  moth  survives  you,  and  are  ye  more  just  ? 
Things  of  a  day  !  you  wither  ere  the  night, 
Heedless  and  blind  to  wisdom's  wasted  light!'1 


ODE 

TO 

NAPOLEON   BUONAPARTE. 


*"  Expends  Annibalern  :- 
Invenieil" 


quot  libras  in  duce  summo 

JUVtNAL,  Sat.  X. 


**  The  Emperor  Ncpos  was  acknowledged  by  the  Senate, 
by  the  Italians,  and  by  the  provincials  of  Gaul ;  his  moral 
lues  and  military  talenU  were  loudly  celebrated;  and  those 
who  derived  any  private  benefit  from  his  government  an- 
uounced  in  prophetic  strains  the  restoration  of  public  felicity. 


P.y  this  shameful  abdication,  he  protracted  his  life  a  few 
rears,  in  a  very  ambiguous  state,  between  an  emperor  and 

co  exile,  till " 

GIBBON'S  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  220. 


ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 

T  is  done — but  yesterday  a  king ! 

And  arm'd  with  kings  to  strive — 
And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing, 

So  abject — yet  alive ! 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
Who  strew'd  our  earth  with  hostile  bones  ? 

And  can  he  thus  survive? 
Since  he,  miscall'd  the  morning  star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 

Ill-minded  man  !  why  scourge  thy  kind, 

Who  bow'd  so  low  the  knee  ? 
By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 

Thou  taught'st  the  rest  to  see. 
With  might  unquestion'd, — power  to  save — 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave 

To  those  that  worshipp'd  thee ; 
Nor,  till  thy  fall,  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition's  less  than  littleness  ! 

Thanks  for  that  lesson — it  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preach'd  before, 
fhal  soell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  pagod  things  of  sabre-sway, 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 
2  W  70 


The  triumph  and  the  vanitv, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife — ' 
The  earthquake  shout  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life  ; 
The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seem'd  made  but  to  obey, 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife — 
All  quell'd ! — Dark  spirit !  what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  ! 

The  desolator  desolate ! 

The  victor  overthrown ! 
The  arbiter  of  others'  fate 

A  suppliant  for  his  own  ! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope  ? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone? 
To  die  a  prince — or  live  a  slave — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave ! 

He9  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak 
Dream'd  not  of  the  rebound  ; 

Chain'd  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke, — 
Alone — how  look'd  he  round  ? — 

Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength, 

An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length, 
And  darker  fate  hast  found  : 

He  fell,  the  forest-prowlers'  prey ; 

But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away ! 

The  Roman,1  when  his  burning  heart 

Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 
Threw  down  the  dagger — dared  deport, 

In  savage  grandeur,  home. 
He  dared  depart,  in  utter  scorn 
Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom ! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandon'd  power. 

The  Spaniard,4  when  the  lust  of  swaj 
Had  lost  its  quickening  spell, 

Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 
An  empire  for  a  cell ; 

A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 

A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds, 
His  dotage  trifled  well  : 


1  C'ertaminig  gaudia,  the  expression  of  Attiia,  in  » 
rangue  to  his  army,  previous  to  the  battle  of  Chalou* 
in  Cassiodorus. 

2  Milo. 

3  Sylla. 

4  Charles  V 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Vet  better  had  he  never  known 

A.  bigot's  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 

But  thou — from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung — 
Too  late  thou  leavest  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung  ; 
All  evil  spirit  as  thou  art, 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart, 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung ; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  thing  so  mean ; 

And  earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 

Who  thus  can  hoard  his  own ! 
And  monarchs  bow'd  the  trembling  limb, 

And  thank'd  him  for  a  throne ! 
Fair  freedom !  we  may  hold  thee  dear, 
When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
Oh  !  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind ! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore, 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain — 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more, 

Or  deepen  every  stain. 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honour  dies, 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise, 

To  shame  the  woriu  -gain — 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height, 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night  ? 

Wei^h'd  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

lt>  vile  as  vulgar  clay  ; 
Thy  scales,  mortality  !  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away ; 
But  yet,  methought,  the  living  great 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate 

To  dazzle  and  dismay ; 
Nor  deem'd  contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 
Of  these,  the  conquerors  of  the  earth. 

And  she,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower, 

Thy  still  imperial  bride  ; 
How  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  ? 
Must  she  too  bend,  must  she  too  share 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despair, 

Thou  throneless  homicide  ? 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem, 
'T  is  worth  thy  vanish'd  diadem  ! 

Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea ; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile, 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee ! 
Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand, 
In  loitering  mood,  upon  the  sand, 

That  earth  is  now  as  free  ! 
fhat  Corinth's  pedagogue  hath  now 
Transferr'd  his  by-word  to  thy  brow. 

fhou  Timor !  in  his  captive's  cage1 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine, 

»Vhile  brooding  in  thy  prison'd  rage  ? 
Bui  one — "  The  world  was  mine:" 


Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 

All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone. 

Life  will  not  long  confine 
That  spirit  pour'd  so  widely  fortn — 
So  long  obey'd — so  little  worth  ! 

Or  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven, 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock? 
And  share  wirh  him,  the  unforgiven, 

His  vulture  and  his  rock? 
Foredoom'd  by  God — by  man  accurst, 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  worst, 

The  very  fiend's  arch  mock  ;2 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride, 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  died ' 

MONODY 

ON    THE 

DEATH  OF  THE  RIGHT  HON.  R.  B.  SrtERIDAN 

SPOKEN    AT    DRURY-LANE    THEATRE. 

WHEN  lae  last  sunshine  of  expiring  day 

In  summer's  twilight  weeps  itself  away. 

Who  hath  not  felt  the  softness  of  the  hour 

Sink  on  the  heart,  as  dew  along  the  flower? 

With  a  pure  feeling  which  absorbs  and  awes 

While  Nature  makes  that  melancholy  pause, 

Her  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge  where  Time 

Of  light  and  darkness  forms  an  arch  sublime, 

Who  hath  not  shared  that  calm  so  still  and  deep, 

The  voiceless  thought  which  would  not  speak  but  \\t/s> 

A  holy  concord — and  a  bright  regret, 

A  glorious  sympathy  with  suns  that  set  ? 

'T  is  not  harsh  sorrow — but  a  tenderer  woe, 

Nameless,  but  dear  to  gentle  hearts  below, 

Felt  without  bitterness — but  full  and  clear, 

A  sweet  dejection — a  transparent  tear, 

Unmix'd  with  worldly  grief  or  selfish  stain, 

Shed  without  shame — and  secret  without  pain. 

Even  as  the  tenderness  that  hour  instils 

When  summer's  day  declines  along  the  hills, 

So  feels  the  fulness  of  our  heart  and  eyes 

When  all  of  genius  which  can  perish  dies. 

A  mighty  spirit  is  eclipsed — a  power 

Hath  pass'd  from  day  to  darkness — to  whose  hour 

Of  light  no  likeness  is  bequeath'd — no  name, 

Focus  at  once  of  all  the  rays  of  fame  ! 

The  flash  of  wit — the  bright  intelligence, 

The  beam  of  song — the  blaze  of  eloquence, 

Set  with  their  sun — but  still  have  left  behind 

The  enduring  produce  of  immortal  Mind ; 

Fruits  of  a  genial  .morn,  and  glorious  noon, 

A  deathless  part  of  him  who  died  too  soon. 

But  small  that  portion  of  the  wondrous  whole, 

These  sparkling  segments  of  that  circling  soul, 

Which  all  embraced — and  lighten'd  over  all, 

To  cheer — to  pierce — to  please — or  to  appal 

From  the  charm'd  council  to  the  festive  board 

Of  human  feelings  the  unbounded  lord  ; 

In  whose  acclaim  the  loftiest  voices  vied. 

The  praised,  the  proud,  who  made,  his  praise  the-'  pr irta 


1  Promertieus. 

2  "The  fiend's  arch  mock — 
To  lip  a  wanton,  and  suppose  lisr  chaste." 

Shaksptort 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


VVneii  the  loud  cry  of  trampled  Hindostan 

Arose  to  Heaven  in  her  appeal  from  man, 

tlis  was  the  thunder — his  the  avenging  rod, 

The  wrath — the  delegated  voice  of  God  ! 

fVhich  shook  the  nations  through  his  lips — and  blazec 

1  ill  vanquish'd  senates  trembled  as  they  praised. 

A  i)    here,  oh  !  here,  where,  yet  all  young  and  warm, 
Thu  gay  creations  of  his  spirii  charm. 
The  matchless  dialogue — the  deathless  wit, 
Which  knew  not  what  it  was  to  intermit ; 
The  glowing  portraits,  fresh  from  life  that  bring 
Home  to  our  hearts  the  truth  from  which  they  spring ; 
These  wondrous  beings  of  his  fancy,  wrought 
To  fulness  by  the  fiat  of  his  thought, 
Here  in  their  first  abode  you  still  may  meet, 
Bright  with  the  hues  of  his  Promethean  heat ; 
\  halo  of  the  light  of  other  days, 
Which  still  the  splendour  of  its  orb  betrays. 
But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  wisdom  yields  a  base  delight, 
Men  who  exull  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jar  in  the  music  which  was  born  their  own, 
Still  let  them  pause — Ah  !   little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seem'd  vise  might  be  but  woe. 
Hard  is  his  fate  on  whom  the  public  gaze 
Is  fix'd  for  ever  to  detract  or  praise  ; 
Repose  denies  her  requiem  to  his  name, 
And  Folly  loves  the  martyrdom  of  Fame. 
The  secret  enemy,  whose  sleepless  eye 
Stands  sentine' — accuser — judge — and  spy, 
The  foe — the  fool — the  jealous — and  the  vain, 
The  envious  who  but  breathe  in  others'  pain — 
Behold  the  host !  delighting  to  deprave, 
Who  track  the  steps  of  glory  to  the  grave, 
Watch  every  fault  that  daring  genius  owes 
Half  to  the  ardour  which  its  birth  bestows, 
Distort  the  truth,  accumulate  the  lie, 
And  pile  the  pyramid  of  calumny  ! 
These  are  his  portion — but  if  join'd  to  these 
Gaunt  Poverty  should  league  with  deep  Disease, 
If  the  high  spirit  must  forget  to  soar, 
And  stoop  to  strive  with  misery  at  the  door, 
To  soothe  indignity — and  face  to  face 
Meet  sordid  rage — and  wrestle  with  disgrace, 
To  find  in  hope  but  the  renew'd  caress, 
The  serpent-fold  of  further  faithlessness, — 
If  such  may  be  the  ills  which  men  assail, 
What  marvel  if  at  last  the  mightiest  fail  ? 
Breasts  to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling  given 
Bear  nearts  electric — charged  with  fire  from  heaven, 
Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn, 
By  clouds  surrounded,  and  on  whirlwinds  borne, 
Driven  o'er  the  louring  atmosphere  that  nurst 
Thoughts  which  have  turn'd  to  thunder — scorch — and 

burst. 

But  far  from  us  and  from  our  mimic  scene 
Such  things  should  be — if  such  have  ever  been  ; 
Ours  be  the  gentler  wish,  the  kinder  task, 
fo  give  the  tribute  Glory  need  not  ask, 
To  mourn  the  vanish'd  beam — and  add  our  mite 
Of  praise  in  payment  of  a  long  delight. 

1  See  Fox.  Burke,  and  Pitt's  eulogy  on  Mr.  Sheridan'ii  speech 
on  the  charges  exhibited  agninst  Mr  Hastings  in  the  House  of 
1,'oinmons.  Mr.  Pitt  entreated  the  House  10  adjourn,  to  give 
tin?"  for  a  calmer  or>naidp-»i.ion  of  tlie  question  than  could 
hen  occur  alter  me  mimeaiiue  effect  jf  that  oration. 


Ye  orators  !  whom  yet  our  council  yield, 
Mourn  for  the  veteran  hero  of  your  field ! 
The  worthy  rival  of  the  wondrous  Three ." 
Whose  words  were  sparks  of  immortality  ! 
Ye  bards  !  to  whom  the  Drama's  Muse  is  dear 
He  was  your  master — emulate  him  here  ! 
Ye  men  of  wit  and  social  eloquence  ! 
He  was  your  brother — bear  his  ashes  hence ! 
While  powers  of  mind  almost  of  boundless  range, 
Complete  in  kind — as  various  in  their  change, 
While  eloquence — wit — poesy — and  mirth, 
That  humbler  harmonist  of  care  on  earth, 
Survive  within  our  souls — while  lives  our  sense 
Of  pride  in  merit's  proud  pre-emr  .ence, 
Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness-  -long  in  vain, 
And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain, 
Sighing  that  Nature  form'd  hut  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die — in  moulding  Sheridan  ! 


THE  IRISH  AVATAR. 

ERE  the  Daughter  of  Brunswick  is  cold  in  her  grave, 
And  her  ashes  still  float  to  their  home  o'er  the  tide, 

Lo  !  GEORGE  the  triumphant  speeds  over  the  wave, 
To  the  long-cherish 'd  Isle  which  he  loved  like  his— 
bride. 

True,  the  great  of  her  bright  and  brief  era  are  gone, 
The  rainbow-like  epoch  where  Freedom  could  pauzo 

For  the  few  little  years,  out  of  centuries  won, 

Which  betray'd  not,  or  crush'd  not,  or  wept  not  he* 
cause. 

True,  the  chains  of  the  Catholic  clank  o'er  his  rags, 
The  castle  still  stands,  and  the  senate 's  no  more, 

And  the  famine,  which  dwelt  on  her  freedomless  crags 
Is  extending  its  steps  to  her  desolate  shore. 

To  her  desolate  shore — where  the  emigrant  stands 
For  a  moment  to  gaze  ere  he  flies  from  his  hearth : 

Tears  fall  on  his  chain,  though  it  drops  from  his  hands. 
For  the  dungeon  he  quits  is  the  place  of  his  birth. 

But  he  comes!  the  Messiah  of  royalty  comes! 

Like  a  goodly  Leviathan  roll'd  from  the  waves ! 
Then  receive  him  as  best  such  an  advent  becomes, 

With  a  legion  of  cooks,  and  an  army  of  slaves  ! 

He  comes  in  the  promise  and  bloom  of  three-score, 
To  perform  in  the  pageant  the  sovereign's  part — 

But  long  live  the  Shamrock  which  shadows  him  o'er 
Could  the  Green  in  his  hat  be  transferr'd  to  his  heart  ' 

Could  that  long-wither'd  spot  but  be  verdant  again, 
And  a  new  spring  of  noble  affections  arise — 

Then  might  Freedom  forgive  thee  this  dance  in  thy  chain. 
And  this  shout  of  thy  slavery  which  saddens  the  skies. 

Is  it  madness  or  meanness  which  clings  to  thee  now? 

Were  he  God — as  he  is  but  the  commonest  clay, 
With  scarce  fewer  wrinkles  than  sins  on  his  brow — 

Such  servile  devotion  might  shame  him  away. 

Ay,  roar  in  his  train  !  let  thine  orators  lash 
Their  fanciful  spirits  to  pamper  his  prido  — 

Vot  thus  did  thy  GKATTAN  indignantly  flasn 
His  soul  o'er  the  freedom  implored  and  denied. 


fox.  Pitt,  Burke 


iifi 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Ever  glono  is  GRATTAN  !  the  best  of  the  good ! 

So  simp1,':  in  heart,  so  sublime  in  the  rest ! 
With  all  wnich  Demosthenes  wanted,  endued, 

And  his  rival  or  victor  in  all  he  possess'd. 

Krc  Tt'LLV  arose  in  the  zenith  of  Rome, 

Though  unequall'd,  preceded,  the  task  was  begun — 

But  GRATTAN  sprung  up  like  a  god  from  the  tomb 
Of  ages,  the  first,  last,  the  saviour,  the  One  ! 

With  the  skill  of  an  Orpheus  to  soften  the  brute ; 

With  the  fire  of  Prometheus  to  kindle  mankind  ; 
Even  Tyranny  listening  sate  melted  or  mute, 

And  corruption  shrunk  scorch'd  from  the  glance  of 
his  mind. 

But  back  to  our  theme !  Back  to  despots  and  slaves  ! 

Feasts  furnish'd  by  Famine !  rejoicings  by  Pain  ! 
True  Freedom  but  welcomes,  while  slavery  still  raves, 

When  a  week's  Saturnalia  hath  loosen'd  her  chain. 

Let  the  poor  squalid  splendour  thy  wreck  can  afford 
(As  the  bankrupt's  profusion  his  ruin  would  hide) 

Gild  over  the  palace,  Lo  !  ERIN,  thy  lord! 
Kiss  his  foot  with  thy  blessings  denied ! 

Or  if  freedom  past  hope  be  extorted  at  last, 
If  the  Idol  of  Brass  find  his  feet  are  of  clay, 

Must  what  terror  or  policy  wring  forth  be  class'd 
With  what  monarchs  ne'er  give,  but  as  wolves  yield 
their  prey  ? 

Each  brute  hath  its  nature,  a  king's  is  to  rei^n, — 
To  reign  !  in  that  word  see,  ye  ages,  comprised, 

The  cause  of  the  curses  all  annals  contain, 
From  CAESAR  the  dreaded,  to  GEORGE  the  despised  ! 

Wear,  FINGAL,  thy  trapping  '.  O'CONNEL,  proclaim 
His   accomplishments  !    His  <  /  /  and  thy  country 

convince 

Half  an  age's  contempt  was  an  error  of  Fame, 
And  that   "Hal  is  the   rascaliest   sweetest  young 
Prince !" 

Will  thy  yard  of  blue  riband,  poor  FINGAL,  recall 
The  fetters  from  millions  of  Catholic  limbs? 

Or,  has  it  not  bound  thee  the  fastest  of  all 
The  slaves,  who  now  hail  their  betrayer  with  hymns  ? 

Ay  !  M  Build  him  a  dwelling  !"  let  each  give  his  mite  ! 

Till,  like  Babel,  the  new  royal  dome  hath  arisen ! 
Let  thy  beggars  and  Helots  their  pittance  unite — 

And  a  palace  bestow  for  a  poor-house  and  prison ! 

Spread — spread,  for  VITELLIUS,  the  royal  repast, 
Till  the  gluttonous  despot  be  stuflT'd  to  the  gorge ! 

\nd  the  roar  of  his  drunkards  proclaim  him  at  last 
The    Fourth  of  the  fools    and    oppressors    eall'd 
"GEORGE!" 

I-iet  the  takes  be  loaded  with  feasts  till  they  groan ! 

Till  they  groan  like  thy  people,  through  ages  of  woe ! 
1*4  the  wine  flew  around  the  old  Bacchanal's  throne, 

Like  their  blood  which  has  flow'd,  and  which  yet  has 
to  flow. 

But  let  not  his  name  be  thine  iaol  alone — 
On  his  right  liand  behold  a  SEJAJJUS  appears ! 

Fhm«own  CASTLEREAOH  !  let  him  still  be  thine  own! 
\  wretch,  neve'  named  but  with  curses  and  jeers  ! 


Till  now,  when  the  Isle  which  should  blush  for  his  birth, 
Deep,  deep  as  the  gore  which  he  shed  on  her  soil. 

Seems  proud  of  tne  reptile  which  crawl'd  from  her  earth. 
And  for  murder  repays  him  with  shouts  and  a  smile  ! 

Without  one  single  ray  of  her  genius,  without 
The  fancy,  the  manhood,  the  fire  of  ner  race — 

The  miscreant  who  weJ  mignt  p.unge  ERIN  in  doubt 
If  she  ever  gave  oirtn  ..o  o  being  so  base. 

If  she  did — let  her  .ong-ooastea  proverb  be  hush'd, 
Which  procla'ms  tnat  from  ERIN  no  reptile  can 
spring — 

See  the  cold-blooded  serpent,  with  venom  full  flush'd. 
Still  warming  its  (olds  in  the  breast  of  a  King ! 

Shout,  drink,  feast,  and  flatter  !  Oh  !  ERIN,  how  low 
Wert  thou  sunk  by  misfortune  and  tyrannv,  till 

Thy  welcome  of  tyrants  hath  plunged  thee  below 
The  depth  of  thy  deep  in  a  deeper  gulf  still. 

My  voice,  though  bu»  '.mmble,  was  raised  for  thy  right, 
My  vote,  as  a  freeman's,  still  voted  thee  free, 

This  hand,  though  but  feeble,  would  arm,  in  thy  fight, 
And  this  heart,  though  outworn,  had  a  throb  stil 
for  thee  ! 

Yes,  I  loved  thee  and  thine,  though  thou  art  not  my 
land, 

I  have  known  noble  hearts  and  great  souls  in  thy  sons, 
And  I  wept  with  the  world  o'er  the  patriot  band 

Who  are  gone,  but  1  weep  them  no  longer  as  once. 

For  happy  are  they  now  reposing  afar, — 

Thy  GRATTAN,  thy  CURRAN,  thy  SHERIDAN,  all 

Who,  for  years,  were  the  chiefs  in  the  eloquent  war, 
And  redeem'd,  if  they  have  not  retarded,  thy  falL 

Yes,  happy  are  they  in  their  cold  English  graves  ! 

Their  shades  cannot  start  to  thy  shouts  of  to-day,— 
Nor  the  steps  of  enslavers  and  chain-kissing  slaves 

Be  stamp'd  in  the  turf  o'er  their  fetterless  clay. 

Till  now  I  had  envied  thy  sons  and  their  shore, 

Though  their  virtues  were  hunted,  their  liberties  fled, 

There  was  something  so  warm  and  sublime  in  the  core 
Of  an  Irishman's  heart,  that  I  envy — thy  dead. 

Or,  if  aught  in  my  bosom  can  quench  for  an  hour 

My  contempt  for  a  nation  so  servile,  though  sore, 
Which  though  trod  like  the  worm  will  not  turn  upoi 

Power, 

'Tis  the  glory  of  GRATTAN,  and  genius  ofMooRB  I 
Sevt.  16<A,  1821. 


THE  DREAM. 


OUR  life  is  twofold  :  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
Death  and  existence  ;  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 
And  dreams  in  their  developement  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy  ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toih, 
They  do  divide  our  being  ;  they  become 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


51* 


And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity : 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past, — they  speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future ;  they  have  power — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will, 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that 's  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanish'd  shadows— Are  they  so  ? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ?  What  arc  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind? — The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dream'd 
Perchance  in  sleep — for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

II. 

1  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 
Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  't  were  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  corn-fields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scatter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ; — the  hill 
vVas  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fix'd, 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful: 
Arid  both  were  young,  yet  not  alike  in  youth. 
As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him ;  he  had  look'd 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away ; 
He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  her's  ; 
She  was  his  voice ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words  ;  she  was  his  sight, 
For  his  eye  follow'd  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 
Which  colour'd  all  his  objects  ; — he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all :  upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 
And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his  heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 
But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share  : 
Her  sighs  were  not  for  him  ;  to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a  brother — but  no  more  ;  't  was  much, 
For  brotheness  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him ; 
Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 
Of  a  time-honour'd  race.— It  was  a  name 
Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not — and  why? 
Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — when  she  loved 
Another  ;   even  now  she  loved  another,  t 

And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  wkh  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 
2  w  2 


III. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 

Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd : ' 

Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 

The  boy  of  whom  I  spake ; — he  was  alone, 

And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro ;   anon 

He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of:  then  he  lean'd 

His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  't  wer» 

With  a  convulsion — then  arose  again, 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 

What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 

And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiet :  as  he  paused, 

The  lady  of  his  love  re-enter'd  there ; 

She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 

She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved, — she  knew, 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 

Was  darken'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 

He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 

He  took  her  hand ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came ; 

He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 

Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles  :  he  pass'd 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  hall, 

And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way, 

And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

IV. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  boy  was  sprung  to  manhood  :  in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams  ;  he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects  ;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer. 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all ;  and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couch'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruin'd  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  rear'd  them  ;  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten'd  near  a  fountain  ;  and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around : 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 

V. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
Who  did  not  love  her  better :  in  her  home, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  native  horn*. 
She  dwelt,  begirt  w'  .h  growing  infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  beauiy, — uot  behold ' 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshiid  lean 


018 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  all  she  loved, 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
FQ  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
Or  ill-repress'd  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  loved  him  not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 
Noi  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 
Upon  her  mind — a  spectre  of  the  past. 

VI. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  return'd. — I  saw  him  stand 
Before  an  altar — with  a  gentle  bride ; 
Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  star-light  of  his  boyhood ; — as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  self-same  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude  ;  and  then — 
As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced, — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 
The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 
And  all  things  reel'd  around  him ;  he  could  see 
Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been — 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustom'd  hall, 
And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  place, 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine  and  the  shade, 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny  came  back, 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light : 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time  ? 

VII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  lady  of  his  love  ; — oh !  she  was  changed 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;  her  mind 
Had  wander'd  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things  ; 
And  forms,  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight,  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy  ;  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift ; 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  phantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

VIII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore, 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 
Or  were  at  war  with  him ;  he  was  a  mark 
Fur  blight  and  desolation,  compass'd  round 
With  hatred  and  contention  ;  pain  was  mix'd 
In  ail  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until, 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days,1 
He  t'ei'  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power, 
But  wore  a  kind  of  nutriment ;  he  lived 
fhrou.;!i  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men, 
Aiui  ni<*d«:  him  friends  of  mountains :  with  the  stars 


1  Mitnndatcs  of  Pontiu. 


And  the  quick  spirit  of  the  universe 

He  held  his  dialogues  ;   and  they  did  teach 

To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries  ; 

To  him  the  book  of  night  was  open'd  wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 

A  marvel  and  a  secret — Be  it  so. 

IX. 

My  dream  was  past ;  it  had  no  further  change. 
It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 
Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 
Almost  like  a  reality — the  one 
To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery. 


ODE. 
I. 

OH  Venice !  Venice !  when  thy  marble  walls 

Are  level  with  the  waters,  there  shall  be 
A  cry  of  nations  o'er  thy  sunken  halls, 
A  loud  lament  along  the  sweeping  sea ! 
If  I,  a  northern  wanderer,  weep  for  thee, 
What  should  thy  sons  do  ? — any  thing  but  weep  • 
And  yet  they  only  murmur  in  their  sleep. 
In  contrast  with  their  fathers — as  the  slime, 
The  dull  green  ooze  of  the  receding  deep, 
Is  with  the  dashing  of  the  spring-tide  foam, 
That  drives  the  sailor  shipless  to  his  home, 
Are  they  to  those  that  were  ;  and  thus  they  creep. 
Crouching  and  crab-like,  through  their  sapping  streou 
Oh  !   agony — that  centuries  should  reap 
No  mellower  harvest !  Thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  wealth  and  glory  turn'd  to  dust  and  tears  ; 
And  every  monument  the  stranger  meets, 
Church,  palace,  pillar,  as  a  mourner  greets ; 
And  even  the  Lion  all  subdued  appears, 
And  the  harsh  sound  of  the  barbarian  drum, 
With  dull  and  daily  dissonance,  repeats 
The  echo  of  thy  tyrant's  voice  along 
The  soft  waves,  once  all  musical  to  song, 
That  heaved  beneath  the  moonlight  with  the  throng 
Of  gondolas — and  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  cheerful  creatures,  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
Were  but  the  overheating  of  the  heart, 
And  flow  of  too  much  happiness,  which  needs 
The  aid  of  age  to  turn  its  course  apart 
From  the  luxuriant  and  voluptuous  flood 
Of  sweet  sensations  battling  with  the  blood. 
But  these  are  better  than  the  gloomy  errors, 
The  weeds  of  nations  in  their  last  decay, 
When  vice  walks  forth  with  her  unsoften'd  terrors, 
And  mirth  is  madness,  and  but  smiles  to  slay  ; 
And  hope  is  nothing  but  a  false  delay, 
The  sick  man's  lightning  half  an  hour  ere  death, 
When  faintness,  the  last  mortal  birth  of  pain, 
And  apathy  of  limb,  the  dull  beginning 
Of  the  cold  staggering  race  which  death  is  winning, 
Steals  vein  by  vein  and  pulse  by  pulse  away  ; 
Yet  so  relieving  the  o'ertortured  clay, 
To  him  appears  renewal  of  his  breath, 
And  freedom  the  mere  numbness  of  his  chain  ;- 
And  then  he  talks  of  life,  and  how  agair. 
He  feels  his  spirit  soaring — albeit  weax, 
And  of  the  fresher  air,  which  he  would  seek ; 
And  as  he  whispers  knows  not  tb:  t  he  gasps, 
That  his  thin  finger  feels  not  what  it  clasps. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


519 


And  so  the  film  comes  o'er  him — and  the  dizzy 
Chamber  r*ims  round  and  round — and  shadows  busy, 
At  which  he  vainly  catches,  flit  and  gleam, 
Till  the  last  rattle  chokes  the  strangled  scream, 
And  all  is  ice  and  blackness, — atid  the  earth 
That  which  it  was  the  moment  ere  our  birth. 

n. 

There  is  no  hope  for  nations  !  Search  the  page 
Of  many  thousand  years — the  daily  scene,    . 
The  fbw  and  ebb  of  each  recurring  age, 
The  everlasting  to  be  which  hath  been, 
Hath  taught  us  nought  or  little :  still  we  lean 
On  things  that  rot  beneath  our  weight,  and  wear 
Our  strength  away  in  wrestling  with  the  air ; 
For  't  is  our  nature  stnkes  us  down :  the  beasts 
Slaughter'd  in  hourly  hecatombs  for  feasts 
Are  of  as  high  an  order — they  must  go 
Even  where  their  driver  goads  them,  though  to  slaughter. 
Ye  men,  who  pour  your  blood  for  kings  as  water, 
What  have  they  given  your  children  in  return  ? 
A  heritage  of  servitude  and  woes, 
A  blindfold  bondage  where  your  hire  is  blows. 
What  ?  do  not  yet  the  red-hot  ploughshares  burn, 
O'er  which  you  stumble  in  a  false  ordeal, 
And  deem  this  proof  of  loyalty  the  real ; 
Kissing  the  hand  that  guides  you  to  your  scars, 
And  glorying  as  you  tread  the  glowing  bars  ? 
All  that  your  sires  have  left  you,  all  that  time 
Bequeaths  of  free,  and  history  of  sublime, 
Spring  from  a  different  theme! — Ye  see  and  read, 
Admire  and  sigh,  and  then  succumb  and  bleed ! 
Save  the  few  spirits,  who,  despite  of  all, 
And  worse  than  all,  the  sudden  crimes  cngender'd 
By  the  down-thundering  of  the  prison-wall, 
And  thirst  to  swallow  the  sweet  waters  tender'd, 
Gushing  from  freedom's  fountains — when  the  crowd, 
Madden'd  with  centuries  of  drought,  are  loud, 
And  trample  on  each  other  to  obtain 
The  cup  which  brings  oblivion  of  a  chain 
Heavy  and  sore, — in  which  long  yoked  they  plough'd 
The  sand,— or  if  there  sprung  the  yellow  grain 
'T  was  not  for  them,  their  necks  were  too  much  bow'd, 
And  their  dead  palates  chew'd  the  cud  of  pain : — 
Yes  !  the  few  spirits — who,  despite  of  deeds 
Which  they  abhor,  confound  not  with  the  cause 
Those  momentary  starts,  from  Nature's  laws, 
Which,  like  the  pestilence  and  earthquake,  smite 
But  for  a  term,  then  pass,  and  leave  the  earth 
With  all  her  seasons  to  repair  the  blight 
With  a  few  summers,  and  again  put  forth 
Cities  and  generations — fair,  when  free — 
For,  tyranny,  there  blooms  no  bud  for  thee ! 

III. 

Glory  and  empire !  once  upon  these  towers 

With  freedom — godlike  triad  !   how  ye  sate  ! 
The  league  of  mightiest  nations,  in  those  hours 
When  Venice  was  an  envy,  might  abate, 
But  did  not  quench,  her  spirit — in  her  fate 
All  wero  enwrapp'd :   the  feasted  monarchs  knew 

And  loved  their  hostess,  nor  could  learn  to  hate, 
Althou::h  they  humbled — with  the  kingly  few 
The  many  felt,  for  from  all  days  and  climes 
She  «a*  the  voyager's  worship; — even  her  crimes 


Were  of  the  softer  order — born  of  love, 
She  drank  no  blood,  nor  fatten'd  on  the  dea>., 
But  gladden'd  where  her  harmless  con<]uesit>  spread  , 
For  these  restored  the  cross,  that  from  above 
Hallow'd  her  sheltering  banners,  which  incessant 
Flew  between  earth  and  the  unholy  crescent, 
Which,  if  it  waned  and  dwindled,  earth  may  thank 
The  city  it  has  clothed  in  chains,  whicn  clank 
Now,  creaking  in  the  ears,  of  those  who  owe 
The  name  of  freedom  to  her  glorious  struggles ; 
Yet  she  but  shares  with  them  a  common  woe, 
And  call'd  the  "  kingdom  "  of  a  conquering  foe, — 
But  knows  what  all — and,  most  of  all,  we  know — 
With  what  set  gilded  terms  a  tyrant  juggles ! 

IV. 

The  name  of  commonwealth  is  past  and  gone 

O'er  the  three  fractions  of  the  groaning  globe  ; 
Venice  is  crush'd,  and  Holland  deigns  to  own 

A  sceptre,  and  endures  the  purple  robe  ; 
If  the  free  Switzer  yet  bestrides  alone 
His  chainless  mountains,  't  is  but  for  a  time, 
For  tyranny  of  late  is  cunning  grown, 
And  in  its  own  good  season  tramples  down 
The  sparkles  of  our  ashes.     One  great  clime, 
Whose  vigorous  offspring  by  dividing  ocean 
Are  kept  apart  and  nursed  in  the  devotion 
Of  freedom,  which  their  fathers  fought  for,  ana 
Bequeath'd — a  heritage  of  heart  and  hand, 
And  proud  distinction  from  each  other  land, 
Whose  sons  must  bow  them  at  a  monarch's  motion, 
As  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a  wand 
Full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  science — 
Still  one  great  clime,  in  full  and  free  defiance, 
Yet  rears  her  crest,  unconquer'd  and  sublime, 
Above  the  far  Atlantic ! — She  has  taught 
Her  Esau-brethren  that  the  haughty  flag, 
The  floating  fence  of  Albion's  feebler  crag, 
May  strike  to  those  whose  red  right  hands  have  bought 
Rights  cheaply  earn'd  with  blood.   Still,  still,  for  ever 
Better,  though  each  man's  life-blood  were  a  river, 
That  it  should  flow,  and  overflow,  than  creep 
Through  thousand  lazy  channels  in  our  veins, 
Damm'd  like  the  dull  canal  with  locks  and  chains, 
And  moving,  as  a  sick  man  in  his  sleep, 
Three  paces,  and  then  faltering: — belter  be 
Where  the  extinguish'd  Spartans  still  are  free, 
In  their  proud  charnel  of  Thermopylae, 
Than  stagnate  in  our  marsh, — or  o'er  the  deep 
Fly,  and  one  current  to  the  ocean  add, 
One  spirit  to  the  souls  our  fathers  had, 
One  freeman  more,  America,  to  thee! 


WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 
As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 

Some  name  arrests  the  passer-by  ; 
Thus,  when  thou  view's!  this  page  alone, 

May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye ! 

And  wnen  by  thee  tb.it  name  is  read, 
Perchance  in  some  succeeding  yeaj, 

Reflect  on  me  as  on  the  dead, 

And  think  my  heart  is  buried  tier* 
Septembrr  \4lh,  1809. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ROMANCE  MUY  DOLOROSO 

DEL 

SITIO  Y  TOMA  DE  ALHAMA, 
BL  CUAL  DECIA  EN  ARABIGO  ASI. 


PASEABASE  el  Rey  more 
Por  la  ciudad  de  Granada, 
Desde  la  puerta  dc  Elvira 
Hasta  la  de  Bivarambla. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Cartas  le  fucron  venidas 
Que  Alhama  era  ganada. 
Las  cartas  ech6  en  el  fuego, 
Y  al  mensagero  matarau 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Descavalga  de  una  mula, 
Y  en  un  caballo  cavalga. 
Por  el  Zacatin  arriba 
Subido  se  habia  al  Alhambra. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Como  en  el  Alhambra  estuvo, 
Al  mismo  punto  mandaba 
Que  se  toquen  las  trompetas 
Con  anafilos  de  plata. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Y  que  atambores  de  guerra 
Apriesa  toquen  alarma  ; 
Por  que  lo  origan  sus  Moros, 
Los  de  la  Vega  y  Granada. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Los  Moros  que  el  son  oyeron, 
Que  al  sangriento  Marte  llama, 
Uno  A  uno,  y  dos  d  dos, 
Un  gran  escuadron  formaban. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Alii  hab!6  un  Moro  viejo ; 
De  esta  manera  hablaba : — 
"  i  Para  que  nos  llamas,  Rey  ? 
I  Para  que  es  esta  llamada  ?" 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

"  Habeis  de  saber,  amigos, 
ifna  nueva  desdichada : 
Que  cristianos,  con  bravcza, 
Ya  nos  han  tornado  Alhama." 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Alii  nab!6  un  v-^jo  Alfaqui, 
De  barba  crecida  y  cana : — 
•  Bien  se  ic  emplca,  buen  Rey; 
Buen  Rey,  bien  se  te  emplcaba. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

"  Mataste  IDS  Bencerrages, 
Que  e*an  la  "  >•  ae  Granada; 
"  Jogiste  los  tornadizos 
Of  C6rdova  'a  nomorada. 
Av  de  mi,  Alhama 


A  VERY  MOURNFUL  BALLAD 

ON    THE 

SIEGE  AND  CONQUEST  OF  ALHAMA, 

IVhich,   in  the  Arabic  language,  it  to  the  fallowing 

purport. 

[The  effect  of  the  original  ballad  (which  existed  both  in 
Spanish  and  Arabic)  was  such  thai  it  was  forbidden  to  be 
sung  by  the  Moors,  on  pain  of  death,  within  Granada,  j 

THE  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada's  royal  town  ; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Letters  to  the  monarch  (ell 
How  Alhama's  city  fell ; 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course  ; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

When  the  Alhambra  walls  he  gain'd, 
On  the  moment  he  ordain'd 
That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  wai 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain, 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recall'd  them  there, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before, 
"  Wherefore  call  on  us,  oh  king  ? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering  ?" 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"Friends!  ye  have,  alas!  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow, 
That  the  Christians,  stem  and  bold, 
Have  obtain'd  Alhama's  hold." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see, 
"Good  king,  thou  art  justly  served, 
Good  king,  this  thou  has',  deserved. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ' 

"  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS- 


52' 


For  eso  mereces,  Rey, 
Una  pena  bien  doblada ; 
Que  te  pierdas  tu  y  el  reino, 
Y  que  se  pierda  Granada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Albania! 

Si  no  se  respetan  leyes, 
Es  ley  que  todo  se  pierda ; 
y  que  se  pierda  Granada, 
Y  que  te  pierdas  en  ella. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Fuego  por  los  ojos  vierte, 
El  Rey  que  esto  oyera, 
Y  como  el  otro  de  leyes 
De  leyes  tambien  hablaba. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Sabe  un  Rey  que  no  hay  leyes 
De  darle  &  Reyes  disgusto.— 
Eso  dice  el  Rey  moro 
Relinchando  de  c61era. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Moro  Alfaqui,  Moro  Alfaqui, 
El  de  la  vellida  barba, 
El  Rey  te  manda  prender, 
^or  la  perdida  de  Alhama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

y  cortarte  la  cabeza, 
Y  ponerla  en  el  Alhambra, 
Per  que  d  ti  castigo  sea, 
Y  otros  tiemblen  en  miralla. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Caballeros,  hombres  buenos, 
Decid  de  mi  parte  al  Rey, 
Al  Rey  moro  de  Granada, 
Como  no  le  devo  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

De  aberse  Alhama  perdido 
A  mi  me  pesa  en  el  alma ; 
Que  si  el  Rey  perdi6  su  tierr» 
Otro  mucho  mas  perdiera. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama . 

Perdieran  hijos  padres, 
Y  casados  las  casadas : 
Las  cosas  que  mas  amara 
Perdu)  uno  y  otro  fatna. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Perdi  una  hija  doncella 
Que  era  la  flor  d'  esta  tierra ; 
Cien  doblas  daba  por  ella, 
No  me  las  estimo  en  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Diciendo  asi  al  hacen  Alfaqui, 
Le  cortaron  la  cabe?a, 
Y  la  elevan  al  Alhambra, 
Asi  como  el  Rey  lo  manda. 
Ay  de  mi,  Alhama! 


"  And  for  this,  oh  king  !   is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement, 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law  ; 
And  Granada  must  be  won, 
And  thyself  with  her  undone." 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Fire  flash'd  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eyes, 
The  monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answer'd,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings  :" — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  king,  and  doom'd  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama 

Moor  Alfaqui !    Moor  Alfaqui ! 
Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be, 
The  king  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized, 
For  Alhama's  loss  displeased. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra's  loftiest  stone  ; 
That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law, 
And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Cavalier !  and  man  of  worth ! 
Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth ; 
Let  the  Moorish  monarch  know, 
That  to  him  I  nothing  owe  : 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs, 
And  on  my  inmost  spirit  preys  ; 
And  if  the  king  his  land  hath  losi, 
Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives  , 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  another  wealth  or  fame. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  I  lost  a  damsel  in  that  hour, 
Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  flower  , 
Doubloons  a  hundred  I  would  pay, 
And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day." 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor  sain 
They  sever'd  from  the  trunk  his  head ; 
4nd  to  the  Alhambra's  wail  with  speeo 
T  was  carried,  as  the  king  decreed. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ' 


JLHC  men  ••tfldlHIblfc 


!    <:mr   WfM^Mt 


us 


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IMS-    mr    DillT-,1 

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".  rs  :  ~.: 


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ii.t    vi,:     m,: 


w.  !«-*.  :n«  ar.mrit  nut  .;:il  an. 
7:  faq   TV;  :,«:«!  v  u-n. 


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ui'ir  i« 


B  V  RON'S  WORKS. 


"••R1TTE.V  AFTER  SWIMMING   FROM  SESTOS 
TO  ABTDOS,'  MAY  9,  ISO. 

far,  m  the  month  of  dark  December, 

I  .gander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  wifl  not  the  tale  remember  ?) 

To  cross  thy  stream,  broad  Hellespont! 
It,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roar'd, 

He  sped  to  Hero,  nothing  loth, 
And  thus  of  old  thy  current  pourM, 

Fair  Venus!  how  I  pity  both! 
For  Me,  degenerate  modern  wretch, 

Though  in  the  genial  month  of  May 
My  drip^ng  bnbs  I  faintly  stretch, 

Aid  thmk  I've  done  a  teat  to-day. 
But  since  be  crossed  the  rapid  tide. 

According  to  the  doubtful  story, 

And  swam  (or  Vore,  as  I  for  glory ; 
T  were  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  best: 

Sad  mortals!  thus  the  gods  stiB  plague  you ! 
He  lost  tus  labour,  I  my  jest, 

For  be  was  drown'd,  and  I've  the  ague. 


ATHE3S,  1810. 

MAID  of  Athens,  ere  we  part. 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  uiy  heart! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  ft  now,  and  take  tbe  rest! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 


10:-JM3co-'MiT.-r:C  .wh-  tr* 
lyissi  m  urn 


C-p^ir  Birh'jrjf 
rl  of  that 


fricakt  ami  Ike  water  of  these  rhymes  swam  (root  UK  Euro- 
pea*  shore  to  the  Asiatic—  by-the-by.  from  Abydos  to  Settoi 
;  correct.  Tbe  whole  distance  from  the 


tin  isgthefcacth  we  were  carried  by  the  enrresa.  was  cosa- 
paasd  by  those  OB  bawd  the  frigate  at  upwards  of  four  Bac- 
ish  niies;  though  tbe  aebnl  breadth  is  bare.'y  one.  The 
rapidity  of  ike  current  •  UK*  that  no  boat  can  row  directly 

.••iiiirii  nflhr^il-  fill  n  Vrfrrir  mihfciil  tir  nnr 
W  Ike  SMtin  •  a*  h«ar  aad  ire.  aad  bj  the  otker  m  an  boar 
and  tea  ••im  •  The  water  wai  estnmelr  cold.  COB  the 
aiekiBC  of  tk* 

u:  Apr:.,  we  bad  rriue  1^  BttH^t.  IM  tiT.M  mUsi  a.:  t« 


bH  tiw  frieate  ucbored  below  tbe  cutlet,  when 


way  above  the  Eavopeaa.  sad  Itadmc  below  the  Asiatic  fort. 
Chavafier  say*  that  a  yowac  Jew  swam  the  same  distance  for 
his  nalirm  .  and  Ofirer  meatioa<  its  baring  been  dose  by  a 

A  -±~*T  tl  ---rr  s.i#-::e-i  ::*•*•  w^  ir..u-  -.o  tiT'e 
I  a  cnater  distasce;  aad  the  only  ting  that  sor- 
.  that.  Mdoobtshadbeea  eMertamed  of  the  tram 
ofI^oad<^siUir7.B<ftraveBerhadevereadeavoaredtoascer- 
aia  it*  practicability. 

2  Z*r  mum.  tut  mgmf».m  Zvm.  0*8,  vmf  ayaT-5,  a  Romaic 
inaiwann  of teademeK :  ifltraaslale  it  I  sfaal  aflnmtlhe 

tf  I  do  aot,  I  may  affroot  the  bMliet  For  fear  of  aay  mmtosr 
struetkm  on  the  part  of  the  totter.  I  shal  do  so.  beejios 
paidoa  of  nv  leaned.  It  means.  "My  fife,  I  lore  yoa'" 
which  s  ami  ill  T«y  prerlly  m  aB  lasoacea,  aad  is  a*  much 
v  fishin-  m  Gteeeeat  ma  day  as.  Jarenal  teia  us.  the  two 

laJBcueniod. 


By  those  tresses  onccnfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  ^gean  wind  ; 
By  those  '.:.:s  whrso  jc-"y  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge, 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
»a  j  ay  arw. 


By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist  ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers'  that  teD 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  weD  ; 
By  lore's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
ZA,  fof, 


Maid  of  Athens  !  I  •"*  gone  : 
Think  of  me,  sweet  !  when  alone.  — 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol,1 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul  : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  tbee  1  No  ! 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FAMOUS  GRFEK 
WAR-SONG, 

Aivrc  tfiitt  tvr  'EXX<fr«r, 

Wrinea  bySifa.  who  perished  in  tbe  attempt  to  rerolHdoMl* 
Greece.  The  following  tranlauoa  »  u  Btera!  as  th*  ante 
could  make  it  in  Tose;  it  is  of  tbe  *ane  measure  a*  that  o 


Soxs  of  tbe  Greeks,  arise  ! 

The  glorious  hour's  gone  forth, 
And,  worthy  of  such  ties, 

Display  who  gave  us  birth. 


S:r.s  r-:  Greeks,  let  us  go 

In  arms  against  the  foe, 
TiU  their  hated  blood  shall  flow 

In  a  river  past  oar  feet. 

Then  manfully  despising 

The  Turkish  tyrant's  yoke, 
Let  your  country  see  you  rising. 

And  all  her  chains  are  broke. 
Brave  shades  of  chiefs  and  sages, 

Behold  the  coining  strife ! 

H-r-.v.'.vS  r.l    p3=t  ir^. 

Oh,  start  again  to  life ! 
At  the  sound  of  my  trumpet,  breaking 

Your  sleep,  oh,  join  with  me ! 
And  tbe  seven-hill'd J  city  seeking, 

Fight,  conquer,  til  we  're  free. 

Sir-scf  Greeks,  etc. 

Sparta,  Sparta,  why  in  dumber* 

Lethargic  dost thou  lie? 
Awake,  and  join  thy  numbci  i 

With  Athens,  old  ally ! 


1  la  tbe  East  (where  ladies  are  oottanxbt  to  write,  lert  tbey 
mould  scribble  asstcnatioos)  flowers,  cinder*,  pebble*,  etc.. 


t  of  the  parties  by  that  •ahrenal  deputy 
i  old  woman.  A  cinder  say*. "  I  born  for '.bee-,' 
i  of  flowers  tied  wnh  hair, -Take  me  aad  ly;'  bat 
declare*    what  nothmg.  em»  caa. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Lermidas  recaulir.z, 

That  chid  of  ar.cienl  son  2 
Who  saved  yc  or.ce  from 

The  lemble,  the  strong  ! 
Who  mi.- 5  lha:  ixi!d  diversion 

In  old  Thermopylae, 
And  warrir.2  '•'•;'-"•  ihe  Persiin 

To  keep  his  country  free ; 
With  his  Lnrc-e  hur..ir&d 

The  bi.;tle,  long  he  stool, 
And,  bke  a  lion  rapn?, 

Expired  in  seas  of  Mood. 

Sons  of  Greek*,  etc. 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ROMAIC  SONG, 


Mag  fitim  wfciefa  thk  a  taken  •  s  gre*:  taTocrite  win  the 
gate  of  Alton  of  al  rl»»«     Tfcrif  miaarr  afm 
in  rotatm.  the 


I  have  Ward  it  neqacndy  at  oar  "  1 
rofiaiO-lL    TWairiiplaintneudnRttV. 

I  EsrrzE  thy  garden  of  roses, 

Beloved  and  fak- Haidee, 
Each  morning  when  Flora  reposes. 

For  surely  I  see  her  in  thee. 
Oh,  lovely  *  thus  low  I  implore  thee, 

Receive  this  fond  truth  from  my  tongue, 
Which  utters  its  song  to  adore  thee, 

Yet  trembles  for  what  it  has  sung: 
As  the  branch,  at  the  bidding  of  nature, 

Adds  fragrance  and  fruit  to  the  tree. 
Through  her  eyes,  through  her  every  feature, 

Shines  the  soul  of  the  young  Haidee. 

Bat  the  loveliest  garden  grows  hateful. 

When  love  has  abandon'd  the  bowers; 
Bring  me  hemlock— once  mine  is  ungrateful, 

That  herb  is  more  fragrant  than  flowers. 
The  poison,  when  pour'd  from  the  chance, 

WiB  deeply  embitter  the  bowl ; 
Bat  when  drunk  to  escape  from  thy  mafice. 

The  dranght  shafl  be  sweet  to  my  sodl 
Too  crod !  in  vain  I  implore  thee 

My  heart  from  these  horrors  to  save : 
W3I  nought  to  my  bosom  restore  thee  7 

Then  open  the  gates  of  the  grave. 

As  the  chief  who  to  combat  advances, 

Secure  of  ha  coDquest  Sc!->re, 
Thus  thou,  with  those  eyes  for  thy  lances, 

Hast  pierced  through  my  heart  to  its  core. 
Ah,  tefl  me,  my  soul !  roust  I  perish 

By  pangs  which  a  cmue  would  dispel? 
Would  the  hope,  which  tbou  once  bad1*  i 

For  torture  repay  me  too  wefl  ? 
Now  sad  is  the  garden  of  roses, 

Beioved  but  false  Haidee! 
rbere  Flora  al  witherM  reposes, 

And  mourns  o'er  thine  absence  with  me. 


ON  P.\RTCSG. 

In  kiss,  dear  maid!  thy  up  has  left, 
never  part  from  mme. 


Cnlai  nied  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly 
An  equal  love  may  see: 

The  tear  that  from  thine  eyebd  strc 
Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 

1  ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest. 


Nor  one  memorial  for  abreast, 
Whose  thoughts  are  aB  thine  owi 

Nor  need  I  wrta— to  tefl  the  tale 
My  pen  were  doubly  weak: 

Oh!  what  can  idle  word*  avail, 
Unless  the  heart  codd  speak  ? 

By  day  or  night,  m  weal  or  woe, 
That  heart,  no  longer  free. 

Most  bear  the  love  it  cannot  show, 
And  silent  ache  for  thee. 


TO  THTRZA. 

WITHOUT  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot, 

And  say,  what  truth  might  weB  have  saao. 
By  aD,  save  one,  perchance  forgot. 

Ah,  wherefore  art  tbou  lowly  hud  ' 
By  many  a  shore  and  many  a  sea 

Divided,  yet  beloved  m  vain  ; 
The  past,  the  future  fled  to  thee 

To  bid  us  meet    no-  ne'er  again! 
Could  this  have  been— a  word,  a  look, 

That  softly  said,  «  We  part  in  peace,1* 
Had  taught  my  bosom  how  to  brook. 

With  fainter  sighs,  thy  sooTs  release. 
And  didst  thou  not,  smce  death  for  -flea 

Prepared  a  Eght  and  passes*  dart. 
Once  long  for  him  thoa  ne'er  shak  see, 

Who  held,  and  holds  tbee  m  his  heart? 
Oh!  who  Eke  him  had  watch'd  thee  here? 

Or  sadly  marked  thy  ghang  eye, 
!•  that  dread  hour  ere  death  appear, 

*»  ntn  5-."?r*  sory!' "•*  t^^r?  ii  ri£r., 
Tia  all  was  past?  But  when  no  more 

T  was  thme  to  reck  of  human  woe, 
Affection's  heart-drops,  gashing  o'er, 

Had  flow'd  as  fast— as  now  they  flow 
Shafl  they  not  flow,  when  many  a  day 

In  these,  to  me,  deserted  towers, 
Ere  eaJTd  but  for  a  time  away, 

Affection's  mmghng tears  were  oars? 
Ours  too  the  glance  i 

Thesmiew 
The  wmsper'd  thoogfat  of  hearts  afied. 

The  pressure  of  tie  thrffimg  hand; 
The  kiss  so  guiUess  and  refined. 

That  love  each  < 


•h'd  to  olead  for  mot* 
The  tone,  that  taught  me  to  rejoice, 

When  prone,  unlike  thee,  to  repine, 
The  song  celestial  from  thy  voice, 

B  in  cwee:  io  =.~  i:  ,.ra  n< -•«  *-:  i^aat . 


•  26 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


The  pledge  we  wore — I  wear  it  still, 

But  where  is  thine  ? — ah,  where  art  thou  ? 
Oft  have  I  borne  the  weight  of  ill, 

Bat  neves  bent  beneath  tin  now ! 
WeH  bast  thou  lea  in  life's  best  bloom 

The  cup  of  woe  for  roe  to  drain. 
If  rest  alone  be  in  the  tomb, 

I  woold  not  wish  thee  here  again; 
But  if  in  worlds  more  blest  than  this 

Thy  virtues  seek  a  fitter  sphere, 
Impart  some  portion  of  thy  bliss. 

To  wean  me  from  mine  anguish  here. 
Teach  roe — too  early  taught  by  thee ! 

To  bear,  forgiving  and  forgiven : 
On  earth  thy  lore  was  inch  to  me, 

It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven ! 


STANZAS. 
Aw  AT,  away,  ye  note*  of  woe ! 

Be  silent,  thou  once  soothing  strain, 
Or  I  must  flee  from  hence,  for,  oh ! 

I  dare  not  trust  those  sounds  again. 
To  me  they  speak  of  brighter  days — 

But  lull  the  chords,  for  now,  alas ! 
1  mast  not  think,  I  may  not  gaze 

On  what  I  am,  on  what  I  was. 

I1ie  voice  that  made  those  sounds  more  sweet 

Is  hush'd,  and  all  their  charms  are  fled  ; 
And  now  their  softest  notes  repeat 

A  dirge,  an  anthem  o'er  the  dead ! 
Fes,  Thyrra !  yes,  they  breathe  of  thee. 

Beloved  dost !  since  dust  thou  art ; 
And  aH  that  once  was  harmony 

Is  worse  than  discord  to  my  heart ! 

T  is  silent  ai  .'—but  on  my  ear 

The  weu-remember  d  echoes  thriD ; 
I  hew  a  voice  I  would  not  hear, 

A  voice  that  now  might  wed  be  still ; 
Yet  oft  niy  doubting  soul  't  will  shake : 

Even  slumber  owns  its  gentle  tone, 
Tifl  consciousness  wifl  vainly  wake 

To  listen,  though  the  dream  be  flown. 

Sweet  Thyrza !  waking  as  in  sleep, 

Thou  art  but  now  a  lovely  dream  ; 
A  star  that  trembled  o'er  the  deep, 

Then  turn'd  from  earth  its  tender  beam. 
But  he  who  through  life's  dreary  way 

Must  pass,  when  heaven  is  veil'd  in  wrath, 
rVil  long  lament  the  vanish'd  ray 

That  scauer'd  gladness  o'er  his  path. 


TO  THYRZA. 
On  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free 

From  pangs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain, 
One  last  long  sigh  to  love  and  thee, 

Tlien  back  to  busy  life  again. 
It  suits  me  weE  to  mmgie  no* 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before: 
IViu^h  every  joy  is  fled  below, 

What  future  grief  can  touch  me  more? 


Then  bring  me  wine,  the  banquet  brir^j ; 

Man  was  not  fbrm'd  to  live  alone : 
1 11  be  that  light  unmeaning  th:ng 

That  smiles  with  all  and  weeps  with  none 
It  was  not  thus  in  days  more  dear, 

It  never  would  have  been,  but  thou 
Hast  fled,  and  left  me  lonely  here ; 

Thou  'rt  nothing,  all  are  nothing  now. 

In  vain  my  lyre  would  lightly  breathe ! 

The  smile  that  sorrow  fain  would  wear, 
But  mocks  the  woe  that  lurks  beneath, 

Like  roses  o'er  a  sepulchre. 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  a  while  the  sense  of  ill ; 
Though  pleasure  fires  the  maddening  soul, 

The  heart — the  heart  is  lonely  still ! 

On  many  a  lone  and  lovely  night 

It  soothed  to  gaze  upon  the  sky  ; 
For  then  I  decm'd  the  heavenlv  light 

Shone  sweetly  on  thy  pensive  eye ; 
And  oft  I  thought  at  Cynthia's  noon, 

When  sailing  o'er  the  ^gean  wave, 
"  Now  Thyrza  gazes  on  that  moon — " 

Alas,  it  gleam'd  upon  her  grave ! 

When  stretch'd  on  fever's  sleepless  bed, 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 
"  T  is  comfort  still,"  I  faintly  said, 

u  That  Thyrza  cannot  know  my  pains  •' 
Like  freedom  to  the  time-worn  slave, 

A  boon  't  is  idle  then  to  give, 
Relenting  Nature  vainly  gave 

My  life  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live ! 

My  Thyrza's  pledge  in  better  days, 

When  love  and  life  alike  were  new, 
How  different  now  thou  meet'st  my  gaze . 

How  tinged  oy  time  with  sorrow's  hoe ' 
The  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 

Is  silent — ah,  were  mine  as  still ! 
Though  cold  as  even  the  dead  can  be, 

It  feels,  it  sickens  with  the  chill. 

Thou  bitter  pledge !   thou  mournful  token ! 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast ! 
Stili,  still,  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  to  which  thou  'rt  preat' 
Time  tempers  love,  but  not  removes, 

More  hallow'd  when  its  hope  is  fled : 
Oh  !  what  are  thousand  living  loves 

To  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead  ? 


EUTHANASIA. 

WHE*  time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  Aeu£ 

Oblivion  !  may  thy  languid  wins 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed ! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 
To  weep  or  wish  the  coming  blow ; 

No  maiden,  with  dishevelFd  han, 
To  feel,  or  feign,  decorous  woe. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


5'.' 


But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth. 
With  no  officious  mourners  near : 

I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth, 
Nor  startle  friendship  with  a  fear. 

Yet  Love,  if  Love  in  such  an  hour 
Could  nobly  check  its  useless  sighs, 

Might  then  exert  its  latest  power 
In  her  who  lives  and  him  who  dies. 

T  were  sweet,  my  Psyche,  to  the  last 
Thy  features  still  serene  to  see  : 

Forgetful  of  its  struggles  past, 

Even  Pain  itself  should  smile  on  thee. 

But  vain  the  wish — for  Beauty  still 
Will  shrink,  as  shrinks  the  ebbing  breath  ; 

And  woman's  tears,  produced  at  will, 
Deceive  in  life,  unman  in  death. 

Then  lonely  be  my  latest  hour, 
Without  regret,  without  a  groan ! 

For  thousands  death  hath  ceased  to  lour, 
And  pain  been  transient  or  unknown. 

*  Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go,"  alas ! 

Where  all  have  gone,  and  afl  must  go  ! 
To  be  the  nothing  that  I  was 

Ere  born  to  life  and  living  woe ! 

Count  o'er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen, 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free, 

And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
T  is  something  better  not  to  be. 


STANZAS. 
m>  at  em  rdiqu  nnu-i  qua  tn  mCBiai 

Awn  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare, 

Too  soon  return'd  to  earth  ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook    . 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  win  not  ask  where  thou  best  low, 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow, 

So  I  behold  them  not: 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  bred,  and  Ion?  must  jtra, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot ; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 
T  is  nothing  that  I  loved  so  wriL 

Yet  did  I  lore  thee  to  the  last 

As  fervently  as  thou, 
Who  didst  not  change  through  aD  the  past, 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  death  has  set  his  seal, 
Nor  age  can  chifl,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow: 
And  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  01  change,  or  fault  in  me. 


The  better  days  of  life  were  ours  ; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine , 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  loon. 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away, 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fait  the  earliest  prey ; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away : 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watrJi  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaC 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  to-day ; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  in  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade  ; 
The  night  that  foilow'd  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade : 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past, 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last ; 

ExtinguishM,  not  decay'd ; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 
To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed  ; 
To  gaze,  how  fondly !  on  thy  face. 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace. 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head ; 
And  show  that  love,  however  rain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  maca  less  h  were  to  gain. 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free. 
The  lovefiest  things  that  stifl  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee ! 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  eternity, 

Returns  again  tome, 
And  more  thy  buried  tore  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  living  yean. 


STANZAS. 

IF  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  mem 

Thaw  image  from  my  breast  may  frite. 
The  lonely  hour  presents  again 

The  semblance  of  thy  gentle  shade  • 
And  now  that  sad  and  silent  hour 

Thus  much  of  thee  can  still  restore, 
And  sorrow  unobserved  may  pour 

The  plaint  she  dare  not  speak  betuta. 

Oh,  pardon  that  in  crowds  awhile, 

I  waste  one  tlnxight  I  owe  to  thee, 
And,  setteondemu'd,  appear  to  sniile. 

Unfaithful  to  thy  J 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Nor  deem  that  memory  less  dear, 
That  then  I  seem  not  to  repine ; 

I  would  not  fools  should  overhear 
One  sigh  that  should  be  wholly  thine. 

If  not  the  goblet  pass  unquaff'd, 

It  is  not  drain'd  to  banish  care, 
The  cup  must  hold  a  deadlier  draught 

That  brings  a  Lethe  for  despair. 
And  could  oblivion  set  my  soul 

From  all  her  troubled  visions  fre^ 
I  'd  dash  to  earth  the  sweetest  bowl 

That  drown'd  a  single  thought  of  thee. 

For  wert  thou  banish'd  from  my  mind, 

Where  could  my  vacant  bosom  turn  ? 
And  who  would  then  remain  behind 

To  honour  thine  abandon'd  urn  ? 
No,  no — it  is  my  sorrow's  pride 

That  last  dear  duty  to  fulfil ; 
Though  all  the  world  forget  beside, 

'T  is  meet  that  I  remember  still. 

For  well  I  know,  that  such  had  been 

Thy  gentle  care  for  him,  who  now 
Unmourn'd  shall  quit  this  mortal  scene, 

Where  none  regarded  him,  but  thou : 
And,  oh !  I  feel  in  that  was  given 

A  blessing  never  meant  for  me ; 
Thou  wert  too  like  a  dream  of  heaven, 

For  earthly  love  to  merit  thee. 

March  Uth,  1812. 


ON  A  CORNELIAN  HEART  WHICH  WAS 

BROKEN. 
ILL-FATED  heart!  and  can  it  be 

That  thou  shouldst  thus  be  rent  in  twain  ? 
Have  years  of  care  for  thine  and  thce 
Alike  been  all  employ'd  in  vain  ? 

Yet  precious  seems  each  shatter'd  part, 
And  every  fragment  dearer  grown, 

Since  he  who  wears  thee  feels  thou  art 
A  fitter  emblem  of  his  own. 


TO  A  YOUTHFUL  FRIEND. 
rhi«  poem  and  the  following  were  written  some  yean  ago.] 
FEV  years  have  pass'd  since  thou  and  I 
Were  firmest  friends,  at  least  in  name, 
And  childhood's  gay  sincerity 
Preserved  our  feelings  long  the  same. 

But  now,  like  me,  too  well  thou  know'st 

What  trifles  oft  the  heart  recall ; 
And  those  who  once  have  loved  the  most 

Too  soon  forget  they  loved  at  all. 

And  such  the  change  the  heart  displays, 

So  frail  is  early  friendship's  reign, 
A  month's  brief  lapse,  perhaps  a  day's, 

Will  view  thy  wind  estranged  again. 


If  so,  it  never  shall  be  mine 

To  mourn  the  loss  of  such  a  heart ; 

The  fault  was  Nature's  fault,  not  thine, 
Which  made  thee  fickle  as  thou  art. 

As  rolls  the  ocean's  changing  tide, 
So  human  feelings  ebb  and  flow  ; 

And  who  would  in  a  breast  confide 
Where  stormy  passions  ever  glow  ? 

It  boots  not  that,  together  bred, 
Our  childish  days  were  days  of  joy  ; 

My  spring  of  life  has  quickly  fled ; 
Thou,  too,  hast  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 

And  when  we  bid  adieu  to  youth, 
Slaves  to  the.  specious  world's  control 

We  sigh  a  long  farewell  to  truth  ; 
That  world  corrupts  the  noblest  soul. 

Ah,  joyous  season !  when  the  mind 
Dares  all  things  boldly  but  to  lie  ; 

When  thought,  ere  spoke,  is  unconfined, 
And  sparkles  in  the  placid  eye. 

Not  so  in  man's  maturer  years, 
When  man  himself  is  but  a  tool ; 

When  interest  sways  our  hopes  and  fears 
And  all  must  love  or  hate  by  rule. 

With  fools  in  kindred  vice  the  same, 
We  learn  at  length  our  faults  to  blend, 

And  those,  and  those  alone,  may  claim 
The  prostituted  name  of  friend. 

Such  is  the  common  lot  of  man  : 
Can  we  then  'scape  from  folly  free  ? 

Can  we  reverse  the  general  plan, 
Nor  be  what  all  in  turn  must  be  ? 

No,  for  myself,  so  dark  my  fate 

Through  every  turn  of  life  hath  bee» , 

Man  and  the  world  I  so  much  hate, 
I  care  not  when  I  quit  the  scene. 

Buflhou,  with  spirit  frail  and  light, 
Wilt  shine  awhile,  and  pass  away ; 

As  glow-worms  sparkle  through  the  nigh 
But  dare  not  stand  the  test  of  day. 

Alas !  whenever  folly  calls 
Where  parasites  and  princes  meet, 

(For  cherish'd  first  in  royal  halls, 
The  welcome  vices  kindly  greet), 

Even  now  tnou  'rt  nightly  seen  to  add 
One  insect  to  the  fluttering  crowd ; 

And  still  thy  trifling  heart  is  glad, 
To  join  the  vain  and  court  the  proud 

There  dost  thou  glide  from  fair  to  fair. 
Still  simpering  on  with  eager  haste, 

As  flies  along  the  gay  parterre,     • 

That  taint  the  flowers  they  scarc«!j  \\SIM 


UTISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


52P 


But  say,  what  nymph  will  prize  the  flame 
Which  seems,  as  marshy  vapours  move, 

To  flit  along  from  dame  to  dame, 
An  ignis-fatuus  gleam  of  love  ? 

What  friend  for  thee,  howe'er  inclined, 
Will  deign  to  own  a  kindred  care  ? 

Who  will  debase  his  manly  mind, 
For  friendship  every  fool  may  share  ? 

In  time  forbear ;  amidst  the  throng 
No  more  so  base  a  thing  be  seen ; 

No  more  so  idly  pass  along : 

Be  something,  any  thing,  but — mean. 


WELL  !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too ; 

For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband  's  blest — and  't  will  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot : 

But  let  them  pass — Oh !  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not  I 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favourite  child, 
I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break  ; 

But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it,  for  its  mother's  sake. 

I  kiss'd  it,  and  repress'd  my  sighs, 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see  ; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu !  I  must  away  : 

While  thou  art  blest,  I  '11  not  repine ; 

B;i».  near  thee  I  can  never  stay  ; 
My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deem'd  that  time,  I  deem'd  that  pride 
Had  quench'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame ; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 
My  heart  in  all,  save  hope,  the  same. 

Yet  was  I  calm  :  I  knew  the  time 
My  breast  woulJ  thrill  before  thy  look ; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime — 
We  met,  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

(  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 
Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there : 

Ofio  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace— 
1TVe  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 

Jt'tftjr !  away  !  my  early  dream 
gtemembrance  never  must  awake : 

Oh !  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream  7 
My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break. 


FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 

.!»  moments  to  delight  devoted, 

"My  life!"  with  tenderest  tone,  you  cry; 
Dear  words  on  which  my  heart  had  doted, 

If  youth  could  neither  fade  nor  die. 
2x  3  72 


To  death  even  hours  like  these  must  rol. ; 

Ah  !  then  repeat  those  accents  never ; 
Or  change  "my  life"  into  "my  soul!" 

Which,  like  my  love,  exists  for  ever. 


IMPROMPTU,  IN  REPLY  TO  A  FRIEND. 

WHEN  from  the  heart  where  Sorrow  sits, 

Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high, 
And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits, 

And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eye ; 
Heed  not  that  gloom,  which  soon  shall  sink  : 

My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  wel! ; 
Back  to  my  breast  the  wanderers  shrink 

And  droop  within  their  silent  cell. 


ADDRESS, 

8POKEIT    AT    THE     OPENING     OF     DRURY-LANi 
THEATRE,  SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  10,  1812. 

IN  one  dread  night  our  city  saw,  and  sigh'd, 
Bow'd  to  the  dust,  the  Drama's  tower  of  pride  : 
In  one  short  hour  beheld  the  blazing  fane, 
Apollo  sink,  and  Shakspeare  cease  to  reign. 

Ye  who  beheld,  (oh !  sight  admired  and  moum'd, 
Whose  radiance  mock'd  the  ruin  it  adorn'd!) 
Through  clouds  of  fire,  the  massy  fragments  riven, 
Like  Israel's  pillar,  chase  the  night  from  heaven ; 
Saw  the  long  column  of  revolving  flames 
Shake  its  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames, 
While  thousands,  throng'd  around  the  burning  dome, 
Shrank  back  appall'd,  and  trembled  for  their  home, 
As  glared  the  volumed  blaze,  and  ghastly  shone 
The  skies  with  lightnings  awful  as  their  own, 
Till  blackening  ashes  and  the  lonely  wall 
Usurp'd  the  Muse's  realm,  and  mark'd  her  fall ; 
Say — shaH  this  new,  nor  less  aspiring  pile, 
Rear'd  where  once  rose  the  mightiest  in  our  isle, 
Know  the  same  favour  which  the  former  knew, 
A  shrine  for  Shakspeare — worthy  him  and  you  7 

Yes — it  shall  be — the  magic  of  that  name 
Defies  the  scythe  of  time,  the  torch  of  flame  ; 
On  the  same  spot  still  consecrates  the  scene, 
And  bids  the  Drama  be  where  she  hath  been  ; 
This  fabric's  birth  attests  the  potent  spell — 
Indulge  our  honest  pride,  and  say,  How  veil ! 

As  soars  this  fane  to  emulate  the  last, 
Oh !  might  we  draw  our  omens  from  the  pasi. 
Some  hour  propitious  to  our  prayers  may  boast 
Names  such  as  hallow  still  the  dome  we  lost. 
On  Drury  first  your  Siddons'  thrilling  art 
O'erwhelm'd  the  gentlest,  storm'd  the  sternest  ).«*t 
On  Drury,  Garrick's  latest  laurels  grew  ; 
Here  your  last  tears  retiring  Roscius  drew, 
Sigh'd  his  last  thanks,  and  wept  his  last  adieu 
But  still  for  living  wit  the  wreaths  may  bloom 
That  only  waste  their  odours  o'er  the  tomb. 
Such  Drury  claim'*1  and  claims — nor  you  refust 
One  tribute  to  .  _«ve  his  slumbering  muse  ; 
With  garlands  deck  your  own  Menander's  hcail! 
Nor  hoard  your  honours  id!v  for  thi  dead  ' 


530 


.BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Dear  are  the  days  which  made  our  annals  bright, 
Ere  Garrick  fled,  or  Brinsley  ceased  to  write. 
Heirs  to  their  labon  •?,  like  all  high-born  heirs, 
Vain  of  our  ancestry,  as  they  of  theirs ; 
While  thus  remembi  ance  borrows  Banquo's  glass, 
To  claim  the  sceptred  shadows  as  they  pass, 
And  we  the  mirror  hold,  where  imaged  shine 
Immortal  names,  embla/on'd  on  our  line, 
Pause — ere  their  feebler  offspring  you  condemn, 
Reflect  how  hard  the  task  to  rival  them ! 

Friends  of  the  stage !  to  whom  both  players  and  nlays 

Must  sue  alike  for  pardon  or  for  praise, 

Whose  judging  voice  and  eye  alone  direct 

The  boundless  power  to  cherish  or  reject; 

If  e'er  frivolity  has  led  to  fame, 

And  made  us  blush  that  you  forbore  to  blame ; 

If  e'er  the  sinking  stage  could  condescend 

To  soothe  the  sickly  taste  it  dare  not  mend, 

AH  past  reproach  may  present  scenes  refute, 

And  censure,  wisely  loud,  be  justly  mute! 

Oh !  since  your  fiat  stamps  the  drama's  laws, 

Forbear  to  mock  us  with  misplaced  applause  ; 

So  pride  shall  doubly  nerve  the  actor's  powers, 

And  reason's  voice  be  echo'd  back  by  ours ! 

This  greeting  o'er,  the  ancient  rule  obey'd, 

The  Drama's  homage  by  her  herald  paid, 

Receive  our  welcome  too,  whose  every  tone 

Springs  from  our  hearts,  and  fain  would  win  your  own. 

The  curtain  rises — may  our  stage  unfold 

Scones  not  unworthy  Drury's  days  of  old ! 

Britons  our  judges,  Nature  for  our  guide, 

Stifl  may  we  please — long,  long  may  you  preside ! 


TO  TIME. 

TIME  !  on  whose  arbitrary  wing 

The  varying  hours  must  flag  or  fly, 
Whose  tardy  winter,  fleeting  spring, 

But  drag  or  drive  us  on  to  die — 
Hail  thou  !  who  on  my  birth  bestow'd 

Those  boons  to  all  that  know  thee  known ; 
Yet  better  I  sustain  thy  load, 

For  now  I  bear  the  weight  alone. 
I  would  not  one  fond  heart  should  share 

The  bitter  moments  thou  hast  given  ; 
And  pardon  thce,  since  thou  couldst  spare, 

All  that  I  loved,  to  peace  or  heaven. 
To  them  be  joy  or  rest,  on  me 

Thy  future  ills  shall  press  in  vain  ; 
J  nothing  owe  but  years  to  thee, 

A  debt  already  paid  in  pain, 
f  et  e'en  that  pain  was  some  relief; 

It  felt,  but  still  forgot  thy  power : 
Flie  active  agony  of  grief 

Retards,  but  never  counts  the  hour. 
In  joy  I  've  sigh'd  to  think  thy  flight 

Would  soon  subside  from  swift  to  slow  j 
Thv  cloud  could  overcast  the  light, 

But  could  not  add  a  night  to  woe ; 
For  then,  however  drear  and  dark, 

My  soul  was  suited  to  thy  sky ; 
t'nc  star  alone  shot  forth  a  spaik 

To  prove  the*  -not  Eternity. 


That  beam  hath  sunk  ;   and  now  thou  art 

A  blank  ;   a  thing  to  count  and  curse 
Through  each  dull,  tedious  trifling  part, 

Which  all  regret,  yet  all  rehearse. 
One  scene  even  thou  canst  not  deform ; 

The  limit  of  thy  sloth  or  speed, 
When  future  wanderers  bear  the  storm 

Which  we  shall  sleep  too  sound  to  heed : 
And  I  can  smile  to  think  how  weak 

Thine  efforts  shortly  shall  be  shown, 
When  all  the  vengeance  thou  canst  wreak 

Must  fall  upon — a  nameless  stone ! 


TRANSLATION  OF  A  ROMAIC  LOVE  SON(J 

AH  !  Love  was  never  yet  without 
The  pang,  the  agony,  the  doubt, 
Which  rends  my  heart  with  ceaseless  sigh, 
While  day  and  night  roll  darkling  by. 

Without  one  friend  to  hear  my  woe, 
I  faint,  I  die  beneath  the  blow. 
That  Love  had  arrows,  well  I  knew : 
Alas !  I  find  them  poison'd  too. 

Birds,  yet  in  freedom,  shun  the  net, 
Which  Lore  around  your  haunts  hath  se 
Or,  circled  by  his  fatal  fire, 
Your  hearts  shall  burn,  your  hopes  expire. 

A  bird  of  free  and  careless  wing 
Was  I,  through  many  a  smiling  spring ; 
But  caught  within  the  subtle  snare, 
I  burn,  and  feebly  flutter  there. 

Who  ne'er  have  loved,  and  loved  in  vain, 
Can  neither  feel  nor  pity  pain, 
The  cold  repulse,  the  look  askance, 
The  lightning  of  love's  angry  glance. 

In  flattering  dreams  I  deem'd  thee  mine  j 
Now  hope,  and  he  who  hoped,  decline ; 
Like  melting  wax,  or  withering  flower, 
I  feel  my  passion,  and  thy  power. 

My  light  of  life !  ah,  tell  rne  why 
That  pouting  lip,  and  alter'd  eye  7 
My  bird  of  love  !  my  beauteous  mate ! 
And  art  thou  changed,  and  canst  thou  hate  * 

Mine  eyes  like  wintry  streams  o'erflow : 
What  wretch  with  me  would  barter  woe  1 
My  bird  !  relent :  one  note  could  give 
A  charm,  to  bid  thy  lover  Uve. 

My  curdling  blood,  my  maddening  brain, 
In  silent  anguish  I  sustain ! 
And  still  thy  heart,  without  partaking 
One  pang,  exults — while  mine  is  breaking 

Pour  me  the  poison  ;   fear  not  thou  ! 
Thou  canst  not  murder  more  than  now: 
I  've  lived  to  curse  my  natal  day, 
And  love,  that  thus  can  lingering  slay. 

My  wounded  soul,  my  bleeding  breast. 
Can  patience  preach  thee  into  rest '/ 
Alas  !  too  late  I  dearly  know, 
That  joy  is  harbinger  of  woe. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


531 


A  SONG. 

THOU  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  fickle, 
To  those  thyself  so  fondly  sought ; 

The  tears  that  thou  hast  forced  to  trickle 
Are  doubly  bitter  from  that  thought : 

'T  is  this  which  breaks  the  heart  thou  grievest, 

Too  well  thou  lov'st — too  soon  thou  leavest. 

The  wholly  false  the  heart  despises, 

And  spurns  deceiver  and  deceit ; 
But  she  who  not  a  thought  disguises, 

Whose  love  is  as  sincere  as  sweet, — 
When  she  can  change  who  loved  so  truly, 
It  feels  what  mine  lias  felt  so  newly. 

To  dream  of  joy  and  wake  to  sorrow 
Is  doom'd  to  all  who  love  or  live  ; 

And  if,  when  conscious  on  the  morrow, 
We  scarce  our  fancy  ran  forgive, 

That  cheated  us  in  slumber  only, 

To  leave  the  waking  soul  more  lonely. 

What  must  they  feel  whom  no  false  vision, 
But  truest,  tenderest  passion  warm'd  ? 

Sincere,  but  swift  in  sad  transition, 
As  if  a  dream  alone  had  charm'd  ? 

Ah  !  sure  such  grief  is  fancy's  scheming, 

And  all  thy  change  can  be  but  dreaming  ! 


ON  BEING  ASKED  WHAT  WAS  THE 
"ORIGIN  OF  LOVE?" 

THE  "  Origin  of  Love  !" — Ah,  why 

That  cruel  question  ask  of  me, 
When  thou  may'st  read  in  many  an  eye 

He  starts  lo  life  on  seeing  thee  ? 

And  shouldst  thou  seek  his  end  to  know : 
My  heart  forebodes,  my  fears  foresee, 

He  '11  linger  long  in  silent  woe ; 
But  live — until  I  cease  to  be. 


REMEMBER  HIM,  ETC. 

REMEMBER  him,  whom  passion's  power 
Severely,  deeply,  vainly  proved : 

Remember  thou  that  dangerous  hour 

When  neither  fell,  though  both  were  loved. 

That  yielding  breast,  that  melting  eye, 

Too  much  invited  to  be  blest : 
That  gentle  prayer,  that  pleading  sigh, 

The  wilder  wish  reproved,  represt. 

Oh  !  let  me  feel  that  all  I  lost, 

But  saved  thee  all  that  conscience  fears ; 
And  blush  for  every  pang  it  cost 

To  spare  the  vain  remorse  of  years. 

Yet  think  of  this  when  many  a  tongue, 
Whose  busy  accents  wnisper  blame, 

Would  do  the  heart  that  loved  thee  wrong, 
And  brand  a  nearly  blighted  name. 


Think  that,  whate'er  to  others,  thon 
Hast  seen  each  selfish  thought  subdued 

I  bless  thy  purer  soul  even  now, 
Even  now,  in  midnight  so.itude. 

Oh,  God !  that  we  nad  met  in  time, 

Our  hearts  as  fond,  thy  hand  more  free  ; 

When  thou  hadst  loved  without  a  crime. 
And  I  been  less  unworthy  thee ' 

Far  may  thy  days,  as  heretofore, 
From  this  our  gaudy  world  be  past ! 

And,  that  too  bitter  moment  o'er, 
Oh !  may  such  trial  be  thy  last ! 

This  heart,  alas  !  perverted  long, 
Itself  destroy'd  might  there  destroy  , 

To  meet  thee  in  the  glittering  throng, 
Would  wake  presumption's  hope  of  joy.' 

Then  to  the  things  whose  bliss  or  woe, 
Like  mine,  is  wild  and  worthless  all, 

That  world  resign — such  scenes  forego, 
Where  those  who  feel  must  surely  fall. 

Thy  youth,  thy  charms,  thy  tenderness, 
Thy  soul  from  long  seclusion  [Hire, 

From  what  even  here  hath  past,  may  guess, 
What  there  thy  bosom  must  endure. 

Oh !  pardon  that  imploring  tear, 
Since  not  by  virtue  shed  in  vain, 

My  frenzy  drew  from  eyes  so  dear ; 
For  me  they  shall  not  weep  again. 

Though  long  and  mournful  must  it  be, 
The  thought  that  we  no  more  may  meet ; 

Yet  I  deserve  the  stern  decree, 
And  almost  deem  the  sentence  sweet. 

Still,  had  I  loved  thee  less,  my  heart 
Had  then  less  sacrificed  to  thine ; 

It  felt  not  half  so  much  to  part, 
As  if  its  guilt  had  made  thee  mine. 


LINES 

INSCRIBED    PPOW    A    CVf    FORMED    FROM    A    SKU»  L 

START  not — nor  deem  my  spirit  fled: 

In  me  behold  the  only  skull 
From  which,  unlike  a  living  head, 

Whatever  flows  is  never  dull. 

I  lived,  I  loved,  I  quaff'd,  like  thee  ; 

I  died ;  let  earth  my  bones  resign ' 
Fill  up — thou  canst  not  injure  me ; 

The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 

Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape, 
Than  nurse  the  earth-worm's  slimy  broon  • 

And  circle  in  the  goblet's  shape 

The  drink  of  gods,  than  reptiles'  food. 

Where  once  my  wit,  perchance,  hatn  shono 

In  aid  of  others'  let  me  shine  ; 
And  when,  alas !  our  brains  are  gore. 

What  noble'  substitute  than  wine  7 


,S32 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Quaff  while  thou  canst — another  race, 

When  thou  and  thine  like  me  are  sped, 
May  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace, 

And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 
Why  not  ?  since  through  life's  little  day 

Our  heads  such  sad  effects  produce ; 
Redeem'd  from  worms  and  wasting  clay, 

This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use. 
Newstead  Abbey,  1808. 


i  >N  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  PETER  PARKER, 

BART. 
THERE  is  a  tear  for  all  that  die, 

A  mourner  o'er  the  humblest  grave  ; 
But  nations  swell  the  funeral  cry, 
And  triumph  weeps  above  the  brave. 

For  them  is  sorrow's  purest  sigh 

O'er  ocean's  heaving  bosom  sent: 
In  vain  their  bones  unburied  lie, 

All  earth  becomes  their  monument ! 

A  tomb  is  theirs  on  every  page. 

An  epitaph  on  every  tongue. 
The  present  hours,  the  future  age, 

For  them  bewail,  to  them  belong. 

For  them  the  voice  of  festal  mirth 

Grows  hush'd,  their  name  the  only  sound ; 

While  deep  remembrance  pours  to  worth 
The  goblet's  tributary  round. 

A  theme  to  crowds  that  knew  them  not, 

Lamented  by  admiring  foes, 
Who  would  not  share  their  glorious  lot? 

Who  would  not  die  the  death  they  chose  ? 

And,  gallant  Parker  !  thus  enshrined 
Thy  life,  thy  fall,  thy  fame  shall  be; 

And  early  valour,  glowing,  find 
A  model  in  thy  memory. 

But  there  are  breasts  that  bleed  with  thee 

In  woe,  that  glory  cannot  quell ; 
And  shuddering  hear  of  victory, 

Where  one  so  dear,  so  dauntless,  fell. 

Where  shall  they  turn  to  mourn  thee  less  ? 

When  cease  to  hear  thy  cherish'd  name  ? 
Time  cannot  teach  forgetfulness, 

While  grief's  full  heart  is  fed  by  fame. 

Alas !  for  them,  though  not  for  thee, 
They  cannot  choose  but  weep  the  more  j 

Deep  fui  the  dead  the  grief  must  be 
Who  ne'er  gave  cause  to  mourn  before. 

TO  A  LADY  WEEPING. 

WEEP,  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 

A  sire's  disgrace,  a  realm's  decay  ; 
Ah,  happj  •   if  eact  tear  of  thine 

Could  wash  a  father's  fault  away ! 
Weep— for  thy  tears  are  virtue's  tears — 

Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles ; 
And  be  each  drop,  in  future  years 

Repaid  thee  bv  thv  oeople's  smiles ! 
March*  1812 


FROM  THE  TURKISH. 

THE  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  view, 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound, 

The  heart  that  offer'd  both  was  true, 
And  ill  deserved  the  fate  it  found. 

These  gifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  spell 
Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine  ; 

And  they  have  done  their  duty  well, 
Alas !  they  could  not  teacli  thee  thine. 

That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link, 
But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch ; 

That  lute  was  sweet — till  thou  couldst  think 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 

Let  him,  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 
The  chain  which  shiver' d  in  his  grasp, 

Who  saw  that  lute  refuse  to  sound, 
Restring  the  chords,  renew  the  clasp. 

When  thou  wert  changed,  they  alter'd  too  ; 

The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute : 
'T  is  past — to  them  and  thee  adieu — 

False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  silent  lute. 


SONNET. 

TO    OENEVRA. 

THINE  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair, 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features — caught 
From  contemplation — where  serenely  wrought, 
Seems  sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  its  despair- 
Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  air, 
That — but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloy'd  and  stainless  thought — 
I  should  have  deetn'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  care. 
With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colours  blent, 

When  from  his  beauty-breathing  pencil  corn, 
(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent) 

The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  morn — 
Such  seem'st  thou— but  how  much  more  excellent! 
With  nought  remorse  can  claim — nor  virtue  scora 


SONNET. 

TO    OENEVRA. 

THV  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  wo«, 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 

My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow : — 

And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes — but  oh ! 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 

Soft  as  thn  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending 
The  soul  of  melancholy  gentleness 

Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending, 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress  ; 

At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 

INSCRIPTION 

ON  THE  MONUMENT  OF  A  NEWFOUNDLAND  TiV* 

WHEN  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  unheld  by  birta. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  scul]rtor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe, 
And  storied  uim  record  who  rests  below  ; 
When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen, 
Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been : 
But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend, 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend, 
Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own, 
Who  labours,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 
I'nhonour'd  falls,  unnoticed  all  his  worth, 
Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth : 
While  man,  vain  insect !  hopes  to  be  forgiven, 
And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 
Oh  man !  thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 
Debased  by  slavery,  or  corrupt  by  power, 
Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  disgust, 
Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust ! 
Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat, 
Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit ! 
By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 
Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 
Ye  !  who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn, 
Pass  on — it  honours  none  you  wish  to  mourn : 
To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise— 
I  never  knew  but  one,  and  here  he  lies. 
Newstead  Abbey,  Oct.  30, 1808. 


FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL  !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  other's  weal  avail' d  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air, 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 
'T  were  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh : 

Oh  !  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  guilt's  expiring  eye, 

Are  in  that  word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These  lips  are  mute,  these  eyes  are  dry ; 

But  in  my  breast,  and  in  my  brain, 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by, 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel; 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain — 

I  only  feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 


BRIGHT  be  the  place  of  thy  soul! 

No  lovelier  spirit  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control, 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 
On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine, 

As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be ; 
And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine, 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 
Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb  ! 

May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be: 
There  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom 

In  aught  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 
Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 

May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest . 
But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see  ; 

For  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  b'est? 


WHEW  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cUd, 

Colder  thy  kiss ; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame ; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear ; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well : — 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 
In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee  ? 

With  silence  and  tears. 


1808. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC.' 

O  Lacrymarum  fong,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo :  quater 
Felix  !  in  imo  qui  scatentem 
Pectore  to,  pia  Nympha,  sensit. 

GRAY'S  POEMATA 

THERE  's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes 

away, 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's 

dull  decay ; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone, 

which  fades  so  fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  hem  is  gone,  ere  youth  itself 

be  past. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  fioat  above  the  wreck  01 

happiness, 

Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guik  or  ocean  of  excess . 
The  magnet  of  their  coursu  a  gone,  or  only  points  in 

vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shi»«/d  sail  shall  n»»ver  sfcetch 

again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itself 

conies  down  , 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its  awn/ 


1  These  Verse*  were  given  by  Lord  Byron  to  Mr  Power 
Strand,  who  has  punliahed  them,  with  very  beartifuj  niuic  bv 
Sir  John  Stevenson 


i>34 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Drat  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our 

tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  't  is  where  the 

ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth  dis- 
tract the  breast, 

Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their  for- 
mer hope  of  rest ; 

'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreathe, 

All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn  and  gray 
beneath, 

Oh  could  I  feei  as  1  nave  felt,— or  be  what  I  have  been, 
Or  weep,  as  I  could  once  have  wept,  o'er  many  a  v 

ish'd  scene : 
As  springs,  in  deserts  found,  seem  sweet — all  brackish 

though  they  be, — 
bo,  'midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would 

flow  to  me. 

1815. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

THERE  be  none  of  beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee  ; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me : 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charm'd  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep : 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 
As  an  infant's  asleep : 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee. 

To  listen  and  adore  thee  ; 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 

Lil.e  the  swell  of  summer's  ocean. 


FARE  THEE  WELL. 


Alas !  they  had  been  friendi  in  youth  ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above : 

And  lire  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain : 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  wo  love. 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain* 

But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining— 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 

Like  cliffs,  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frcet,  nor  thunder 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 
''he  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

COLERIDGE'S  Christabel 


»  ARE  thee  well!  and  if  for  ever, 

Still  for  ever,  fare  thee  well ! 
t.vcn  though  unforgiving,  never 

''Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 
Would  that  oreast  were  bared  before  thee 

Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 


While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 

Which  tliou  ne'er  canst  know  acain : 
Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 

Every  inmost  thaught  could  show ! 
Then  tliou  wouldst  at  last  discover 

'T  was  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 
Though  the  world  for  this  commend  tne»— 

Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 
Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 

Founded  on  another's  wos — 
Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 

Could  no  other  arm  be  found 
Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 

To  inflict  a  cureless  wound  ? 
Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not, 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay, 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away : 
Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth — 

Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat 
And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 

Is — that  we  no  mare  may  meet. 
These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 

Than  the  wail  above  the  dead  j 
Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 

Wake  us  from  a  widow'd  bed. 
And  when  thou  wouldst  solace  gather. 

When  our  child's  first  accents  flow, 
Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Father  !" 

Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 
When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 

When  her  lip  to  thine  is  prest, 
Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  the« 

Think  of  him  thy  love  had  bless'd ! 
Should  her  lineaments  resemble 

Those  thou  never  more  may'st  see, 
Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 

With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 
All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowcst, 

All  my  madness  none  can  know ; 
All  my  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest, 

Wither — yet  with  thee  they  go. 
Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken  ; 

Pride,  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  to  thee — by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now  • 
But 't  is  done — all  words  are  idle- 
Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 
But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 

Force  their  way  without  the  will. — 
Fare  thee  well ! — thus  disunited, 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 
Sear'd  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted— 

More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 


TO  **  * 
WHEN  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark, 

And  reason  half  withheld  her  ray — 
And  hope  but  shed  a  dying  spark 

Which  more  misled  my  lonely  way ; 
In  that  deep  midnight  of  the  mind, 

And  that  internal  strife  of  heart, 
When,  dreading  to  be  deem'd  too  kir>d, 

The  weak  despair — the  cold  depart : 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


When  fortune  changed — and  love  fled  far, 
And  hatred'?  shafts  flew  thick  and  fast, 

Thou  wert  tha  lolitary  star 
Which  rose  and  set  not  to  the  last. 

Oh !  blest  be  thine  unbroken  light ! 

That  watch'd  me  as  a  seraph's  eye, 
And  stood  between  me  and  the  night, 

For  ever  shining  sweetly  nigh. 

And  when  the  cloud  upon  us  came, 

Which  strove  to  blacken  o'er  thy  ray- 
Then  purer  spread  its  gentle  flame, 
And  dash'd  the  darkness  all  away. 

Still  may  thy  spirit  dwell  on  mine, 

And  teach  it  what  to  brave  or  brook- 
There  's  more  in  one  soft,  word  of  thine, 
Than  in  the  world's  defied  rebuke. 

Thou  stood'st,  as  stands  a  lovely  tree, 
That  still  unbroke,  though  gently  bent, 

Still  waves  with  fond  fidelity 
Its  boughs  above  a  monument. 

The  winds  might  rend,  the  skies  might  pour, 
But  there  thou  wert — and  still  wouldst  be 

Devoted  in  the  stormiest  hour 

To  shed  thy  weeping  leaves  o'er  me. 

But  tho-i  and  thine  shaH  know  no  blight, 
Whatever  fate  on  me  may  fall ; 

For  heaven  in  sunshine  will  requite 
The  kind — and  thee  the  most  of  all. 

Then  let  the  ties  of  baffled  love 
Be  broken — thine  will  never  break ; 

Thy  heart  can  feel — but  will  not  move  ; 
Thy  soul,  though  sod,  will  never  shake. 

&nd  these,  when  all  was  lost  beside, 
Were  found,  and  still  are  fixed,  in  thee— 

And  bearing  still  a  breast  so  tried, 
Earth  is  no  desert — even  to  me. 


ODE. 

[FROM  THE  FRENCH.] 

We  do  not  curse  thee,  Waterloo  ! 
Though  freedom's  blood  thy  plain  bedew  ; 
There 't  was  shed,  but  is  not  sunk — 
Rising  from  each  gory  trunk, 
Like  the  water-spout  from  ocean, 
With  a  strong  and  growing  motion — 
It  soars  and  mingles  in  the  air, 
With  that  of  lost  LABEDOYERE — 
With  that  of  him  whose  honour'd  grave 
Contains  the  "bravest  of  the  brave." 
A  crimson  cload  it  spreads  and  glows, 
But  shall  return  to  whence  it  rose  ; 
When  'tis  full,  't  will  burst  asunder — 
Never  yet  was  heard  such  thunder 
\s  then  shall  shake  the  world  with  wonder- 
Never  yet  was  seen  such  lightning, 
As  o'er  heaven  shall  then  be  bright'ning! 
Like  the  Wormwood  star,  foretold 
By  the  stunte'1  seer  of  old, 


Showering  down  a  fiery  1<-od, 
Turning  rivers  into  blooc.1 

The  chief  has  fallen,  but  not  bv  you, 
Vanquishers  of  Waterloo ' 
When  the  soldier  citizen 
Sway'd  not  o'er  his  fellow-men — 
Save  in  deeds  that  led  them  on 
Where  glory  smiled  on  freedom's  son — 
Who,  of  all  the  despots  banded, 

With  that  youthful  chief  competed  ? 

Who  could  boast  o'er  France  defeated, 
Till  lone  tyranny  commanded  ? 
Till,  goaded  by  ambition's  sting, 
The  hero  sunk  into  the  king? 
Then  he  fell ; — so  perish  all, 
Who  would  men  by  man  enthral ! 

And  thou  too  of  the  snow-white  plume ! 
Whose  reaim  refused  thee  even  a  tomb;2 
Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leading 
France  o'er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding, 
Than  sold  thyself  to  death  and  shame 
For  a  meanly  royal  name  ; 
Such  as  he  of  Naples  wears, 
Who  thy  blood-bought  title  bears. 
Little  didst  thou  deem,  when  dashing 

On  thy  war-horse  through  the  ranks, 

Like  a  stream  which  burst  its  banks, 
While  helmets  cleft,  and  sabres  clashing, 
Shone  and  shiver'd  fast  around  thee — 
Of  the  fate  at  last  which  found  thee : 
Was  that  haughty  plume  laid  low 
By  a  slave's  dishonest  blow  ? 
Once  as  the  moon  sways  o'er  the  tide, 
It  roll'd  in  air,  the  warrior's  guide ; 
Through  the  smoke-created  night  , 

Of  the  black  and  sulphurous  fight, 
The  soldier  raised  his  seeking  eye 
To  catch  that  crest's  ascendency,— 
And  as  it  onward  rolling  rose 
So  moved  his  heart  upon  our  foes. 
There,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickea* 
And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  thickest, 
Strew'd  beneath  the  advancing  banner 

Of  the  eagle's  burning  crest — 
(There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her 

Who  could  then  her  wing  arrest — 

Victory  beaming  from  her  breast  ?) 
While  the  broken  line  enlarging 

Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain  : 
There  be  sure  was  MUR  AT  charging ! 

There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again ! 


1  See  Rev.  chap.  viii.  verse  7,  etc.  "  The  first  angel  Bounded 
and  there  followed  hail  and  fire  mingled  with  blood,"  etc. 

Verse  8.  "And  iho  §econd  angel  sounded,  and  as  it  were  a 
great  mountain  burning  with  fire  wag  cast  into  the  sea;  and 
the  third  part  of  the  sea  became  blood,"  etc. 

Verse  10.  "And  the  third  angel  sounded,  and  there  fell  t 
great  star  from  heaven,  burning  as  it  were  a  lamp ;  and  it  fel 
upon  a  third  part  of  the  rivers,  ami  upon  the  fountain*  of 
waters." 

Verse  11.    "And  the  name  of  the  star  is  called  IVorntwooA 
and  the  third  part  of  the  waters  became  wormwood ;  and 
many  men  died   of  the  waters,  because  they  were  mad« 
bitter." 

2  Mural's  remain*  arc  said  to  hftve  been  torn  from  the  r '*•• 
and  burnt. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


O'er  glories  gone  the  invaders  march, 

Weeps  triumph  o'er  each  levell'd  arch — 

But  let  Freedom  rejoice, 

With  her  heart  in  her  voice ; 

Put  her  hand  on  her  sword, 

Doubly  shall  she  be  adored  ; 

France  hath  twice  too  well  been  taught 

The  "  moral  lesson "  dearly  bought — 

Her  safety  sits  not  on  a  throne, 

With  CAPET  or  NAPOLEON  ! 

But  in  equal  rights  and  laws, 

Hearts  and  hands  in  one  great  cause — 

Freedom,  such  as  God  hath  given 

Unto  all  beneath  his  heaven, 

With  their  breath,  and  from  their  birth, 

Though  guilt  would  sweep  it  from  the  earth ; 

With  a  fierce  and  lavish  hand 

Scattering  nations'  wealth  like  sand ; 

Pouring  nations'  blood  like  water, 

In  imperial  seas  of  slaughter! 

But  the  heart  and  the  mind, 
And  the  voice  of  mankind, 
Shall  arise  in  communion — 
And  who  shall  resist  that  proud  union? 
The  time  is  past  when  swords  subdued- 
Man  may  die — the  soul 's  renew'd : 
Even  in  this  low  world  of  care, 
Freedom  ne'er  shall  want  an  heir ; 
Millions  breathe  but  to  inherit 
Her  for-ever  bounding  spirit — 
When  once  more  her  hosts  assemble, 
Tyrants  shall  believe  and  tremble- 
Smile  they  at  this  idle  threat  ? 
Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet. 


[FROM  THE  FRENCH.] 

AH  wept,  but  particularly  Savary,  and  a  Polish  officer  who 
had  been  exalted  from  the  ranks  by  Buonaparte.  He  clung 
to  his  master's  knees ;  wrote  a  letter  to  Lord  Keith,  entreat- 
ing permission  to  accompany  him,  even  in  the  most  menial 
capacity,  which  could  not  be  admitted." 

MUST  thou  go,  my  glorious  chief, 

Sever'd  from  thy  faithful  few? 
Who  can  tell  thy  warrior's  grief, 

Maddening  o'er  that  long  adieu  ? 
Woman's  love  and  friendship's  zeal — 

Dear  as  both  have  been  to  me — 
«Vhat  are  they  to  all  I  feel, 

With  a  soldier's  faith,  for  thee? 

Idol  of  the  soldier's  soul ! 

First  in  fight,  but  mightiest  now : 
Many  could  a  world  control : 

Thee  alone  no  doom  can  bow. 
By  thy  side  for  years  I  dared 

Death,  and  envied  those  who  fell, 
When  their  dying  shout  was  heard 

Blessing  him  they  seived  so  well.1 


i  At  Waterloo,  one  man  was  seen,  whose  led  arm  was  shat- 
ered  by  a  cannon-ball,  to  wrench  it  off  with  the  other,  and, 
throwing  it  up  in  the  air,  exclaimed  to  his  comrades,  '  Vive 
'Empereui  jusqu'k  la  mort.'  There  were  many  other  in- 
ttances  of  the  like ;  this  you  may,  however,  depend  on  ai 
tnie  •#  private  Letter  from  Brutseli. 


Would  that  I  were  cold  with  those, 

Since  this  hour  I  live  to  see  ; 
When  the  doubts  of  coward  foes 

Scarce  dare  trust  a  man  with  thee, 
Dreading  each  should  set  thee  free. 

Oh !  although  in  dungeons  pent, 
All  their  chains  were  light  to  me, 

Gazing  on  thy  soul  unbent. 

Would  the  sycophants  of  him 

Now  so  deaf  to  duty's  prayer, 
Were  his  borrow'd  glories  dim, 

In  his  native  darkness  share  ? 
Were  that  world  this  hour  his  own, 

All  thou  calmly  dost  resign, 
Could  he  purchase  with  that  throne 

Hearts  like  those  which  still  are  thine  ? 

My  chief,  my  king,  m/  friend,  adieu ! 

Never  did  I  droop  before ; 
Never  to  my  sovereign  sue, 

As  his  foes  I  now  implore, 
All  I  ask  is  to  divide 

Every  peril  he  must  brave, 
Sharing  by  the  hero's  side 

His  fall,  his  exile,  and  his  grave. 

ON  THE  STAR  OF  "THE  LEGION  OF  HONOUR 
[FROM  THE  FRENCH.] 

STAR  of  the  brave ! — whose  beam  hath  shed 

Such  glory  o'er  the  quick  and  dead — 

Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit ! 

Which  millions  rush'd  in  arms  to  greet, — 

Wild  meteor  of  immortal  birth  ! 

Why  rise  in  heaven  to  set  on  earth  ? 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  form'd  thy  rays  ; 
Eternity  flash'd  through  thy  blaze ! 
The  music  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  high  and  honour  here  ; 
And  thy  light  broke  on  human  eyes 
Like  a  volcano  of  the  skies. 

Like  lava  roll'd  thy  stream  of  blood, 
•And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood  ; 
Earth  rock'd  beneath  thee  to  her  base, 
As  thou  didst  lighten  through  all  space ; 
And  the  shorn  sun  grew  dim  in  air, 
And  set  while  thou  wert  dwelling  there. 

Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 

A  rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue, 

Of  three  bright  colours,1  each  divine, 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign  ; 

For  freedom's  hand  had  blended  them 

Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 

One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes ; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  seraphs'  eyes ; 
One,  the  pure  spirit's  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light ; 
The  three  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 


1  The  tri-coloui. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Star  of  the  brave !  thy  ray  is  pale, 
And  darkness  must  again  prevail ! 
But,  oh  ihou  rainbow  of  the  free  ! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  thee. 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away, 
Our  life  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 

And  freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead  ; 
For  beautiful  in  death  are  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  array ; 
And  soon,  oh  goddess !  may  we  be 
For  evermore  with  them  or  thee ! 


NAPOLEON'S  FAREWELL. 

[FROM  THE  FRENCH.] 

FAI  r.WELL  to  the  land  where  the  gloom  of  my  glory 
Aro,./  and  o'ershadow'd  the  earth  with  her  name — 
She  abandons  me  now, — but  the  page  of  her  story, 
Tho  brightest  or  blackest,  is  fill'd  with  my  fame. 
I  have  warrd  with  a  world  which  vanquish'd  me  only 
When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too  far ; 
I  have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me  thus 

lonely, 
The  last  single  captive  to  millions  in  war ! 

Fai  e  well  to  thee,  France!  when  thy  di  adem  crown'd  me, 

[  made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth, — 

But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as  I  found  thee, 

Decay'd  in  thy  glory  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 

Oh !  for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 

In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were  won — 

Then  the  eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment  was  blasted, 

Had  sliil  soar'd  with  eyes  fix'd  on  Victory's  sun  ! 

Farewell  to  thee,  France ! — but  when  liberty  rallies 
Once  more  in  thy  regions,  remember  me  then — 
The  violet  still  grows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys ; 
Though  wither'd,  thy  tears  will  unfold  it  again: 
Yet,  yet  I  may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround  us, 
And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap 'a wake  to  my  voice — 
There  are  links  which  must  break  in  the  chain  that  has 

bound  us, 
Then  turn  thee,  and  call  on  the  chief  of  thy  choice ! 


SONNET. 

ROUSSEAU — Voltaire — our  Gibbon — and  de  Stael — 
Leman  ! '  these  names  are  worthy  of  thy  shore,      , 
Thy  shore  of  names  like  these  ;  wert  thou  no  more, 

Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall: 

To  them  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all ; 

But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for  the  lore 
Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core    » 

Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 

Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wond'rous  ;  but  by  thee 
low  much  more,  Lake  of  Beauty  !  do  we  feel, 
fn  sweetly  gliding  o'er  thy  crystal  sea, 

1    ^  wild  ^low  of  that  not  ungentle  zeal, 
'hich  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 

Is  p.  >ud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  real ! 


1  Geneva,  Ferney,  Coppet,  Lausanne. 
2  Y  73 


WRITTEN  ON  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  "THE 
PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY." 

ABSENT  or  present,  still  to  thee, 

My  friend,  what  magic  spells  belong! 
As  all  can  tell,  who  share,  like  me, 

In  turn,  thy  converse  and  thy  song. 
But  when  the  dreaded  hour  shall  come, 

By  friendship  ever  deem'd  too  nigh, 
And  "MEMORY"  o'er  her  Druid's  tomb 

Shall  weep  that  aught  of  thee  can  die, 
How  fondly  will  she  then  repay 

Thy  homage  offer'd  at  her  shrine, 
And  blend,  while  ages  roll  away, 

Her  name  immortally  with  thine  ! 
April  19, 1812. 

STANZAS  TO  *** 
THOUGH  the  day  of  my  destiny's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find  ; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainled. 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  the  Jove  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling 

The  last  smile  which  arswers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine  ; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shiver'd, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  deliver'd 

To  pain — it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemiv- 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

'T  is  of  thee  that  I  think — not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me. 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me. 

Though  slander'd,  thou  never  couldst  shake, 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  't  was  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one — 
1«  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'T  was  folly  not  sooner  to  shun. 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me. 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thet. 

From  rte  wjreck  of  the  pas?,  which  hath  peris'!  u 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I  most  cherish'iJ 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 


533 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 
In  the  «  ide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 

And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 
Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  ihee. 

DARKNESS. 

I  HAD  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 

The  bright  sun  was  extinguished,  and  the  stars 

Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 

Rayless,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 

Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air ; 

Morn  came,  and  went — and  came,  and  brought  no  day. 

And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 

Ol  this  their  desolation ;   and  all  hearts 

Were  chill'd  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light : 

Ard  they  did  live  by  watch-fires — and  the  thrones, 

The  palaces  of  crowned  kings — the  huts, 

The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 

Wore  burnt  for  beacons  ;   cities  were  consumed, 

And  men  were  gather'd  round  their  blazing  homes 

To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face  : 

Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 

Of  the  volcanos  and  their  mountain-torch : 

A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contain'd ; 

Forests  were  set  on  fire — but  hour  by  hour 

They  fell  and  faded — and  the  crackling  trunks 

Extinguish'd  with  a  crash — and  all  was  black. 

The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 

Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 

The  flashes  fell  upon  'hem  ;  some  lay  down 

And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept ;  and  some  did  rest 

Tlieir  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled  ; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd  up 

With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a  past  world  ;   and  then  again 

With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  oust, 

And  gnash'd  their  teeth  aiid  howl'd:  the  wild  birds 

shriek'd, 

And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 
And  flap  their  useless  wings ;   the  wildest  brutes 
Came  tame  and  tremulous  ;  and  vipers  crawl'd 
And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 
Hissing,  but  stingless — they  were  slam  for  (ood : 
And  war,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more. 
Did  glut  himself  again — a  meal  was  bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart, 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom  :  no  love  was  left ; 
All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was  death, 
Immediate  and  inglorious  ;   and  the  pang 
Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails — men 
Dieu,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh  ; 
The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devoured, 
F,\  en  dogs  assail'd  their  masters,  all  save  one, 
A.nd  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse  and  k^pt 
The  birds  and  beasts  and  famish'd  men  at  bay, 
I'il^hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 
Lured  their  .ank  jaws ;  himself  sought  out  no  food, 
T5ut  wiih  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan 
And  a  qiuck  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
VV  mcli  answcr'd  not  with  a  caress — he  died. 
The  crowd  was  famish'd  by  degrees  ;  but  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive, 
And  ihev  were  enemies ;  they  met  beside 
The  <lvmg  embers  of  ar  altar-place, 


Where  had  been  heap'd  a  mass  of  holy  things 

For  an  unholy  usage ;  they  raked  up. 

And  shivering  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton  hand* 

The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 

Blew  for  e.  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 

Which  was  a  mockery ;   then  they  lifted  up 

Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 

Each  others'  aspects — saw,  and  shriek'd,  and  died— 

Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 

Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 

Famine  had  written  fiend.     The  world  was  void, 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 

Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless — 

A  lump  of  death — a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean,  all  stood  still, 

And  nothing  stirr'd  within  their  silent  depths ; 

Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea, 

And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal ;  as  they  dropp'd. 

They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge — 

The  waves  were  dead ;   the  tides  were  in  their  grave, 

The  moon  their  mistress  had  expired  before  ; 

The  winds  were  wither'd  in  the  stagnant  air, 

And  the  clouds  perish'd  ;   darkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them — she  was  the  universe. 


CHURCHILL'S  GRAVE. 

A    FACT    LITERALLY    RENDERED. 

I  STOOD  beside  the  grave  of  him  who  blazed 

The  comet  of  a  season,  and  I  saw 

The  humblest  of  all  sepulchres,  and  gazed 

With  not  the  less  of  sorrow  than  of  awe 

On  that  neglected  turf  and  quiet  stone, 

With  name  no  clearer  than  the  names  unknown, 

Which  jay  unread  around  it ;  and  I  ask'd 

The  gardener  of  that  ground,  why  it  might  be 

That  for  this  plant   strangers  Ins  memory  task'd 

Through  the  thick   deaths  of  half  a  century  ; 

And  thus  he  answer'd — "Well,  I  do-  not  know 

Why  frequent  travellers  turn  to  pilgrims  «>o  ; 

He  died  before  my  day  of  sextonship, 

And  1   had  not  the  digging  of  this  grave." 

And  is  this  all  ?    I  thought, — and  do  we  rip 

The  veil  of  immortality,  and  crave 

I  know  not  what  of  honour  and  of  light 

Through  unborn  ages,   to  endure  this  blight  ? 

So  soon  and   so  successless  ?    As  I  said, 

The  architect  of  all  on  which  we  tread, 

For  earth  is  but  a  tombstone,  did  essay 

To  extricate  remembrance  from  the  clay, 

Whose  mmglings  might  confuse  a  Newton's  thougni 

Were  it  not  that  all  life  must  end  in  one, 

Of  which  we  are  but  dreamers; — as  he  caught 

As  't  were  the  twilight  of  a  former  sun, 

Thus  spoke  he, — "I  believe  the  man  of  whom 

You  wot,  who  lies  in  this   selected  tomb, 

Was  a  most  famous  writer  in  nis  day, 

And  therefore  travellers  step  from  out  their  way 

To  pay  him  honour, — and  myself  whate'er 

Your  honour  pleases" — then  most  pleased  I  shook 

From  out  my  pocket's  avaricious  ncc.k 

Some  certain  coins  of  silver,  which  as  't  were 

Perforce  I  gave  this  man,  though  I  could  spare 

So  much  but  inconveniently .-. — ye"  smile, 

I  see  ye,  ye  profane  ones  '    4..  the  while 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Because  my  homely  phrase  the  truth  would  tell. 
You  are  the  fools,  not  I — for  I  did  dwell 
With  a  deep  thought,  and  with  a  soften'd  eye, 
On  that  old  sexton's  natural  homily, 
In  which  there  was  obscurity  and  fame, 
fne  giory  and  the  nothing  of  a  name. 


PROMETHEUS. 
TITAN  !  to  whose  immortal  eyes 

The  sufferings  of  mortality, 

Seen  in  their  sad  reality, 
Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise ; 
What  was  thy  pity's  recompense  ? 
A  silent  suffering,  and  intense ; 
The  rock,  the  vulture,  and  the  chain, 
All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain, 
The  agony  they  do  not  show, 
The  suffocating  sense  of  woe, 

Which  speaks  but  in  its  loneliness, 
And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 
Should  have  a  listener,  nor  will  sigh 

Until  its  voice  is  echoless. 

Titan  !  to  thee  the  strife  was  given 

Between  the  suffering  and  the  will, 

Which  torture  where  they  cannot  kill ; 
And  the  inexorable  heaven, 
And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  fate, 
The  ruling  principle  of  hate, 
Which  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate, 
Refused  thee  even  the  boon  to  die  • 
The  wretched  gift  eternity 

Was  thine — and  thou  hast  borne  it  well. 
All  that  the  Thunderer  wrung  from  thee 
Was  but  the  menace  which  flung  back 
On  him  the  torments  of  thy  rack ; 
The  fate  thou  didst  so  well  foresee, 

But  would  not  to  appease  him  tell: 
And  in  thy  silence  was  his  sentence, 
And  in  his  soul  a  vain  repentance, 
And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissembled 
That  in  his  hand  the  lightnings  trembled. 

Thy  godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind, 

To  render  with  thy  precepts  less 

The  sum  of  human  wretchedness, 
And  strengthen  man  with  his  own  mind ; 
But  baffled  as  thou  wert  from  high, 
Still  in  thyx  patient  energy, 

In  the  endurance,  and  repulse 
Of  thine  impenetrable  spirit, 

Which  earth  and  heaven  could  not  convulse, 
A  mighty  lesson  we  inherit: 

Thou  art  a  symbol  and  a  sign 
To  mortals  of  their  tate  and  force ; 

Like  thee,  man  is  in  part  divine, 
A  troubled  stream  from  a  pure  source ; 
And  man  in  portions  can  foresee 
His  own  funere;il  destiny  ; 
His  wrc.chcdness,  and  his  resistance, 
And  his  sad  unallicd  existence : 
To  which  h's  spirit  may  oppose 
Fiscii —  an  tonal  to  all  voes, 


And  a  firm  will,  and  a  deep  sense, 
Which  even  in  torture  can  descrj 

Its  own  concentred  recompense, 
Triumphant  where  it  dares  defy, 
And  making  death  a  victory. 


ODE. 

OH  shame  to  thee,  land  of  the  Gaui ! 

Oh  shame  to  thy  children  ami  thee : 
Unwise  in  thy  glory,  and  base  in  thy  fall, 

How  wretched  thy  portion  shall  be ' 
Derision  sna.ll  strike  thee  forlorn, 

A  mockery  that  never  shall  die ; 
The  curses  of  hate,  and  the  hisses  of  srorn.. 

Shall  burden  the  winds  of  thy  sky  j 
And  proud  o'er  thy  ruin  for  ever  be  hurl'd 
The  laughter  of  triumph,  the  jeers  of  the  world ' 

Oh,  where  is  thy  spirit  of  yore, 

The  spirit  that  breathed  in  thy  dead, 
When  gallantry's  star  was  the  beacon  before, 

And  honour  the  passion  that  led  ? 
Thy  storms  have  awaken'd  their  sleep, 

They  groan  from  the  place  of  their  rest, 
And  wrathfully  murmur,  and  sullenly  weep, 

To  see  the  foul  stain  on  thy  breast ; 
For  where  is  the  glory  they  left  thee  in  trust  ? 
'T  is  scatter'd  in  darkness,  't  is  trampled  in  dusi ! 

Go,  look  to  the  kingdoms  of  earth, 

From  Indus  all  round  to  the  pole, 
And  something  of  goodness,  of  honour,  and  vi  orth, 

Shall  brighten  the  sins  of  the  soul. 
But  thou  art  alone  in  thy  shame, 

The  world  cannot  liken  thee  there ; 
Abhorrence  and  vice  have  disfigured  thy  name 

Beyond  the  low  reach  of  compare ; 
Stupendous  in  guilt,  thou  shall  lend  us  through  time 
A  proverb,  a  by-word,  for  treachery  and  crime! 

While  conquest  illumined  his  sword, 

While  yet  in  his  prowess  he  stood, 
Thy  praises  still  follow'd  the  steps  of  thv  lord 

And  welcomed  the  torrent  of  blood : 
Though  tyranny  sat  on  his  crown, 

And  wither'd  the  nations  afar, 
Yet  bright  in  thy  view  was  that  despot's  renow-i, 

Till  fortune  deserted  his  car  ; 
Then  back  from  the  chieftain  thou  slunkest  aws». 
The  foremost  to  insult,  the  first  to  betray ! 

Forgot  were  the  feats  he  had  done, 

The  toils  he  had  borne  in  thy  cause  • 
Tlnou  turned'st  to  worship  a  new  rising  sun, 

And  waft  other  songs  of  applause. 
But  the  storm  was  beginning  to  lour, 

Adversity  clouded  his  beam  ; 
And  honour  and  faith  were  the  brag  of  an  ho«r. 

And  loyalty's  self  but  a  dream : — 
To  him  thou  hadst  banish'd  thy  vows  wete  resioirrt, 
And  the  first  that  had  scoff 'd  were  the  first  that  ai!>  fit 

What  tumult  thus  burthens  the  air  ? 
What  throng  thus  encircles  his  throne  T 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


I  is  the  shout  01  delight,  *t  is  the  millions  that  swear 

His  sceptre  shall  ru'e  them  alone. 
Reverses  shall  brighten  their  zeal, 

Misfortune  shall  hallow  his  name, 
And  the  world  that  pursues  him  shall  mournfully  feel 

How  quenchless  the  spirit  and  flame 
That  Frenchmen  will  breathe,  when  their  hearts 

are  on  fire, 
For  the  hero  they  love,  and  the  chief  they  admire ! 

Their  hero  has  rush'd  to  the  field  ; 

His  laurels  are  cover'd  with  shade — 
dut  where  is  the  spirit  that  never  should  yield, 

The  loyalty  never  to  fade  ? 
In  a  moment  desertion  and  guile 

Abandon'd  him  up  to  the  foe ; 
The  dastards  that  flourish'd  and  grew  in  his  smile 

Forsook  and  renounced  him  in  woe ; 
And  the  millions  that  swore  they  would  perish  to  save, 
Beheid  h.m  a  fugitive,  captive,  and  slave ! 

The  savage,  all  wild  in  his  glen, 

Is  nobler  and  better  than  thou ; 
Thou  standest  a  wonder,  a  marvel  to  men, 

Such  perfidy  blackens  thy  brow! 
If  thou  wert  the  place  of  my  birth, 

At  once  from  thy  arms  would  I  sever; 
I  'd  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth, 

And  quit  thee  for  ever  and  ever ; 
And  thinking  of  thee  in  my  long  after-years, 
Should  bu'.  kindle- my  blushes  and  waken  my  tears. 

Oh,  shame  to  thee,  land  of  the  Gaul ! 

Oh,  shame  to  thy  children  and  thee ! 
Unwise  in  thy  glory,  and  base  in  thy  fall, 

How  wretched  thy  portion  shall  be ! 
Derision  shall  strike  thee  forlorn, 

And  mockery  that  never  shall  die ; 
The  curses  of  hate,  and  the  hisses  of  scorn, 

Shall  burthen  the  winds  of  thy  sky ; 
And  proud  o'er  thy  ruin  for  ever  be  hurl'd 
The  laughter  of  triumph,  the  jeers  of  the  world ! 


WINDSOR  POETICS. 

I  ihie*  composed  on  the  occasion  of  H.  R.  H.  the  P e 

R-g — t  being  Been  standing  betwixt  the  coffins  of  Henry 
VIII.  and  Charles  1.  in  the  royal  vault  at  Windsor. 

FAMJ  D  for  contemptuous  breach  of  sacred  ties, 
By  headless  Charles,  see  heartless  Henry  lies ; 
Between  them  sRinds  another  sceptred  thing — 
It  moves,  it  reigns — in  all  but  name,  a  king : 
Charles  to  his  people,  Henry  to  his  wife — 
In  him  the  double  tyrant  starts  to  life: 
Justice  and  death  have  mix'd  their  dust  in  vain, 
Each  royal  vampyre  wakes  to  life  again: 
Ah !   what  can  tombs  avail — since  these  disgorge 

The  blood  and  dust  of  both to  mould  a  G...ge. 

1813. 


A  SKETCH  FROM  PRIVATE  LIFE. 

Honest — honest  lago  ! 

If  that  thou  be'st  a  devil.  I  cannot  kill  thee  ! 

SHAKSPEARE. 

ItoRw  in  the  garret,  in  the  kitchen  bred, 
Promoted  thence  to  deck  her  mistress'  head; 


Next — for  some  gracious  service  unex»  --est, 

And  from  its  wages  only  to  be  guessY; — 

Raised  from  the  toilet  to  the  table,  where 

Her  wondering  betters  wait  behind  her  chaii  : 

With  eye  unmoved,  and  forehead  unabash'd, 

She  dines  from  off"  the  plate  she  lately  wa-     I. 

Quick  with  the  tale,  and  ready  with  the  lie, 

The  genial  confidante  and  general  spy  ; 

Who  could,  ye  gods !    her  next  employment  •  less  ^ 

An  only  infant's  earliest  governess  ! 

She  taught  the  child  to  read,  and  taught  so    veil, 

That  she  herself,  by  teaching,  learn 'd  to  speL. 

An  adept  next  in  penmanship  she  grows, 

As  many  a  nameless  slander  deftly  showr: 

What  she  had  made  the  pupil  of  her  art, 

None  know — but  that  high  soul  secured  the  he»«l, 

And  panted  for  the  truth  it  could  not  hear, 

With  longing  breast  and  undeluded  ear. 

Foil'd  was  perversion  by  that  youthful  minil, 
Which  flattery  fool'd  not,  baseness  could  noi  blir«l, 
Deceit  infect  not,  near  contagion  soil, 
Indulgence  weaken,  nor  example  spoil, 
Nor  master'd  science  tempt  her  to  look  down 
On  humbler  talents  with  a  pitying  frown, 
Nor  genius  swell,  nor  beauty  render  vain, 
Nor  envy  ruffle  to  retaliate  pain, 
Nor  fortune  change,  pride  raise,  nor  passion  bow, 
Nor  virtue  teach  austerity — till  now. 
Serenely  purest  of  her  sex  that  live, 
But  wanting  one  sweet  weakness — to  forgive ; 
Too  shock'd  at  faults  her  soul  can  never  know, 
She  deems  that  all  could  be  like  her  below: 
Foe  to  all  vice,  yet  hardly  virtue's  friend — 
For  virtue  pardons  those  she  would  amend. 

But  to  the  theme — now  laid  aside  too  long, 
The  baleful  burthen  of  this  honest  song — 
Though  all  her  former  functions  are  no  more, 
She  rules  the  circle  which  she  served  before. 
If  mothers — none  know  why — before  her  quake, 
If  daughters  dread  her  for  the  mother's  sake ; 
If  early  habits — those  false  links  which  bind, 
At  times,  'the  loftiest  to  the  meanest  mind- 
Have  given  her  power  too  deeply  to  instil 
The  angry  essence  of  her  deadly  will  ; 
If  like  a  snake  she  steal  within  your  walls, 
Till  the  black  slime  betray  her  as  she  crawls ; 
If  like  a  viper  to  the  heart  she  wind, 
And  leave  the  venom  there  she  did  not  find ; 
What  marvel  that  this  hag  of  hatred  works 
Eternal  evil  latent  as  she  lurks, 
To  make  a  Pandemonium  where  she  dwells, 
And  reign  the  Hecate  of  domestic  hells ! 

Skill'd  by  a  touch  to  deepen  scandal's  tints, 
With  all  the  kind  mendacity  of  hints, 
While  mingling  truth  with  falsehood,  sneers  with  smiles, 
A  thread  of  candour  with  a  web  of  wiles  ; 
A  plain  blunt  show  of  briefly-spoken  seeming, 
To  hide  her  bloodless  heart's  soul-harden'd  scheming; 
A  lip  of  lies,  a  face  forrn'd  to  conceal, 
And,  without  feeling,  mock  at  all  who  feel ; 
With  a  vile  mask  the  Gorgon  would  disown, 
A  cheek  of  parchment,  and  an  eye  of  stone. 
Mark  how  the  channels  of  her  yellow  blood 
Ooze  to  her  skin,  and  stagnrte  there  to  mu^ 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


541 


Cued  like  the  centipede  in  saffron  mail, 
Or  darker  greenness  of  the  scorpion's  scale, 
(Fur  drawn  from  reptiles  only  may  we  trace 
Congenial  colours  in  that  soul  or  face). 
Look  on  her  features !   and  behold  her  mind, 
As  in  the  mirror  of  itself  defined: 
Look  on  the  picture!   deem  it  not  o'ercharged — 
There  is  no  trait  which  might  not  be  enlarged ; 
Yet  true  to  "  Nature's  journeymen,"  who  made 
This  monster  when  their  mistress  left  off  trade, — 
This  female  dog-star  of  her  little  sky, 
Where  all  beneath  her  influence  droop  or  die. 

Oh!   wretch  without  a  tear — without  a  thought, 
Save  joy  above  the  ruin  thou  hast  wrought — 
The  time  shall  come,  nor  long  remote,  when  thou 
Shalt  feel  far  more  than  thou  inflictest  now ; 
Feel  for  thy  vile  self-loving  self  in  vain, 
And  turn  thee  howling  in  unpitied  pain. 
May  the  strong  curse  of  crush'd  affections  light 
Back  on  thy  bosom  with  reflected  blight ! 
And  make  thee,  in  thy  leprosy  of  mind, 
As  loathsome  to  thyself  as   to  mankind! 
Till. all  thy  self-thoughts  curdle  into  hate, 
Black  as  thy  will  for  others  would  create : 
Till  thy  hard  heart  be  calcined  into  dust, 
And  thy  soul  welter  in  its  hideous  crust. 
Oh,  may  thy  grave  be  sleepless  as  the  bed, 
The  widow'd  couch  of  fire,  that  thou  hast  spread ! 
Then, w  lien  thou  fain  wouldst  weary  Heaven  with  prayer 
Look  on  mine  earthly  victims — and  despair ! 
Down  to  trie  dust .' — and,  as  thou  rott'st  away, 
Even  worms  snai!  perish  on  thy  poisonous  clay. 
But   for  the  love  I  bore,  and  still  must  bear, 
lo  her  thy  malice  irom  all  ties  would  tear, 
fhy  name — thy  human  name — to  everv  eye 
The  climax  of  all  scorn,  should  hang  on  rngn, 
Exalted  o'er  thy  less  abhorr'd  compeers, 
And  festering  in  the  infamy  of  years. 

March  30,  1816. 


CARMINA  BYRONIS   IN  C.  ELGIN. 

ASFICE,  quos  Scoto  Pallas  concedit  honores, 
Subter  stat  nomen,  facta  superque  vide. 

Scote  miser !   quamvis  nocuisti  Palladis  aedi, 
Infandum  facinus  vindicat  ipsa  Venus. 

Pygmalion  statuam  pro  sponsa  arsisse  refertur; 
In  statuam  rapias,  Scote,  sed  uxor  abest. 


LINES  TO  MR.  MOORE. 

*  he  following  lines  were  addressed  extempore  by  Lord  Byron 
to  his  friend  Kir.  Moore,  on  the  latter' s  last  visit  to  Italy.] 

MY  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 
But,  before  I  go,  TOM  MOORE, 

Here  's  a  double  health  to  thee. 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  sm.'Ie  to  those  who  hate ; 

And,  whatever  sky  's  above  me, 
Herd's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 
2i2 


Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on-, 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Wer't  the  last  drop  in  the  wel1, 
And  I  gasping  on  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

T  is  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

In  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — Peace  to  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  TOM  MOORE  ! 


'  ON  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLETE  MY  THIRTY- 
SIXTH  YEAR." 

January  22,  1824,  Mi*solont  to. 
'T  is  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move ; 
Yet  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love. 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leal ; 

The  flowers  and  fi  uits  of  love  are  gone : 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief, 
Are  mine  alone! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle ; 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 
A  funeral  pile ! 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  't  is  not  thus,  and  't  is  not  here 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul  ;  not  ••» 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  an^  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece  around  me  see! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake !    (not  Greece, — she  is  awake  ! ) 

Awake,  rny  spirit!    think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 

Unwortny  manhood  !    Unto  thee, 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,  why  live  t 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Js  here — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath! 

Seek  out,  less  often  sought  than  found, 
A  soldier's  grave — for  thee  I  he  best; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground. 
And  take  thy  rest. 


(     542     ) 

arttet 

TO  ****  *#****  ON 

THE  REV.  W.  L.  BOWLES'S  STRICTURES 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  POPE. 


I'll  play  at  Bowls  with  the  sun  and  moon. 

OLD  SONG. 

My  mither  's  auld,  sir,  nnd  she  has  rather  forgotten  hersell  in 
speaking  to  my  Leddy,  that  canna  wee!  bide  to  be  contradickit 
(as  I  ken  nacbody  likes  it  if  they  could  help  themsells). 

TALES  OF  MY  LANDLORD,  Old  Mortality,  vol.  it 


LETTER. 


Ravenna,  February  1th,  1821. 
DEAR  S:R, 

IN  the  different  pamphlets  which  you  have  had  the 
goodness  to  send  me,  on  the  Pope  and  Bowies'  contro- 
versy, I  perceive  that  my  name  is  occasionally  introduc- 
ed by  both  parties.  Mr.  Bowles  refers  more  than  once  to 
what  he  is  pleased  to  consider  "  a  remarkable  circum- 
stance," not  only  in  his  letter  to  Mr.  Campbell,  but  in 
his  reply  to  the  Quarterly.  The  Quarterly  also  and  Mr. 
Gilchrist.  have  conferred  on  me  the  dangerous  honour  of 
a  quotation  ;  and  Mr.  Bowles  indirectly  makes  a  kind 
of  appeal  to  me  personally,  by  saying,  "  Lord  Byron, 
if  he  remembers  the  circumstance,  will  witness — (wit- 
ne<*  IN  ITALIC,  an  ominous  character  for  a  testimony 
at  present.) 

I  shall  not  avail  myself  of  a  "  non  mi  ricordo"  even 
after  so  long  a  residence  in  Italy  ; — I  do  "  remember 
the  circumstance" — and  have  no  reluctance  to  relate  it 
(since  called  upon  so  to  do)  as  correctly  as  the  distance 
of  time  and  the  impression  of  intervening  events  will 
peimitme.  In  the  year  1812,  more  than  three  years 
aficr  the  publication  of  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch 
Reviewers,"  I  had  the  honour  of  meeting  Mr.  Bowles 
in  the  house  of  our  venerable  host  of"  Human  Life,  etc." 
the  last  Argonaut  of  Classic  English  poetry,  and  the 
Nestor  of  our  inferior  race  of  living  poets.  Mr.  Bowles 
calls  this  "  soon  after"  the  publication ;  but  to  me  three 
years  appear  a  considerable  segment  of  the  immortality 
of  a  modern  poem.  I  recollect  nothing  of  "  the  rest  of 
the  company  going  into  another  room" — nor,  though  I 
well  remember  the  topography  of  our  host'i  elegant  and 
classically-furnished  mansion,  could  I  swear  to  the  very 
room  where  the  conversation  occurred,  though  the 
"  taking  down  the  poem"  seems  to  fix  it  in  the  library. 
Had  it  been  "  taken  up,"  it  would  probably  have  been 
in  the  drawing-room.  I  presume  also  that  the  "  re- 
markable circumstance"  took  place  after  dinner,  as  I 
conceive  that  neither  Mr.  Bowles's  politeness  nor  appe- 
tite would  have  allowed  him  to  detain  "  the  rest  of  the 
company"  standing  round  their  chairs  in  the  "  other 
room"  while  we  were  discussing  "  the  Woods  of  Ma- 
d(  ira"  instead  of  circulating  its  vintage.  Of  Mr.  Bowles's 
"  good-humour"  I  have  a  full  and  not  ungrateful  recol- 
fection  ;  as  also  of  his  gentlemanly  manners  and  agree- 
able conversation.  I  speak  of  the  whole,  and  not  of  par- 
'icub.rs  ;  for  whether  he  did  or  did  not  use  the  precise 
w.is  pripteJ  in  the  pamphlet,  i  cannot  say,  nor  could 


he  with  accuracy.  Of  "the  tone  of  seriousness"  I  cer 
tainly  recollect  nothing :  on  the  contrary,  I  thought  Mr. 
Bowles  rather  disposed  to  treat  the  subject  lightly ;  for 
he  said  (I  have  no  objection  to  be  contradicted  if  incor- 
rect) that  some  of  his  good-natured  friends  had  come  to 
him  and  exclaimed,  "  Eh  !  Bowles  !  how  came  you  to 
make  the  Woods  of  Madeira,"  etc.  etc.  and  that  he  had 
been  at  some  pains  and  pulling  down  of  the  poem  to 
convince  them  that  he  had  never  made  "  the  Woods'' 
do  any  thing  of  the  kind.  He  was  right,  and  /  was 
wrong,  and  have  been  wrong  still  up  to  this  acknow- 
ledgment ;  for  I  ought  to  have  looked  twice  before  I 
wrote  that  which  involved  an  inaccuracy  capable  of  giv- 
ing pain.  The  fact  was,  that  although  I  had  certainly 
before  read  "  the  Spirit  of  Discovery,"  I  took  the  quo- 
tation from  the  review.  But  the  mistake  was  mine,  and 
not  the  review's,  which  quoted  the  passage  correctly 
enough,  I  believe.  I  blundered — God  knows  how — into 
attributing  the  tremors  of  the  lovers  to  the  "  Woods  of 
Madeira,"  by  which  they  were  surrounded.  And  I 
hereby  do  fully  and  freely  declare  and  asseverate,  that 
the  Woods  did  not  tremble  to  a  kiss,  and  that  the  lovers 
did.  I  quote  from  memory — 

A  kiss 

Stole  on  the  list'ning  silence,  etc.  etc. 

They  (the  lovers)  trembled,  even  as  if  the  power,  etc. 

And  if  I  had  been  aware  that  this  declaration  would 
have  been  in  the  smallest  degree  satisfactory  to  Mr. 
Bowles,  I  should  not  have  waited  nine  years  to  make  it, 
notwithstanding  that  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Re- 
viewers" had  been  suppressed  some  time  previously  to 
my  meeting  him  at  Mr.  Rogers's.  Our  worthy  host 
might  indeed  have  told  him  as  much,  as  it  was  at  his 
representation  that  I  suppressed  it.  A  new  edition  of 
that  lampoon  was  preparing  for  the  press,  when  Mr. 
Rogers  represented  to  me,  that  u  I  was  now  acquainted 
with  many  of  the  persons  mentioned  in  it,  and  with 
some  on  terms  of  intimacy;"  and  that  he  knew  "one 
family  in  particular  to  whom  its  suppression  would 
give  pleasure."  I  did  not  hesitate  one  moment ;  it  was 
cancelled  instantly ;  and  it  is  no  fault  of  mine  that  u 
has  ever  been  republished.  When  I  left  England,  in 
April,  1816,  with  no  very  violent  intentions  of  troubling 
that  country  again,  and  amidst  scenes  of  various  kinds 
to  distract  my  attention — almost  my  last  act,  I  belinvo 
was  to  sign  a  power  of  attorney,  to  yo.irself,  to  prevent 
or  suppress  any  attempts  (of  which  several  had  been 
made  in  Ireland)  at  a  republication.  It  is  proper  that  I 
should  state,  that  the  persons  with  whom  I  was  subse- 
quently acquainted,  whose  name.';  had  K^urred  in  thai 


LETTER  ON  BOWLES'S  STRICTURES  ON  POPE. 


643 


publication,  weic  made  my  acquaintances  at  their  own 
desire,  or  through  the  unsought  intervention  of  others. 
I  never,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  sought  a  personal 
introduction  to  any.  Some  of  them  to  this  day  I  know 
only  by  correspondence;  and  with  one  of  those  it  was 
begun  by  myself,  in  consequence,  however,  of  a  polite 
rerbal  communication  from  a  third  person. 

I  have  dwelt  for  an  instant  on  these  circumstances, 
because  it  has  sometimes  been  made  a  subject  of  bitier 
reproach  to  me  to  have  endeavoured  to  suppress  that 
satire.  I  never  shrunk,  as  those  who  know  rne  know, 
from  any  personal  consequences  which  could  be  attached 
10  its  publication.  Of  its  subsequent  suppression,  as  I 
possessed  the  copyright,  I  was  the  best  judge  and  the 
sole  master.  The  circumstances  which  occasioned  the 
suppression  I  have  now  stated ;  of  the  motives,  each 
must  judge  according  to  his  candour  or  malignity.  M-. 
Bowles  does  me  the  honour  to  talk  of  "noble  mind,' 
and  "generous  magnanimity;"  and  all  this  because 
u  the  circumstance  would  have  been  explained  had  not 
the  book  been  suppressed."  I  see  no  "nobility  of 
mind"  in  an  act  of  simple  justice;  and  I  hate  the  word 
"  magnanimity,"  because  I  have  sometimes  seen  it  ap- 
plied to  the  grossest  of  impostors  by  the  greatest  of 
fools;  but  I  would  have  "explained  the  circumstance," 
notwithstanding  "the  suppression  of  the  book,"  if  Mr. 
Bowles  had  expressed  any  desire  that  I  should.  As  the 
"gallant  Galbraith" says  to  "Baillie  Jarvie,"  "Well, the 
devil  take  the  mistake  and  all  that  occasioned  it."  I 
have  had  as  great  and  greater  mistakes  made  about  me 
personally  and  poetically,  once  a  month  for  these  last 
ten  years,  and  never  cared  very  much  about  correcting 
one  or  the  other,  at  least  after  the  first  eight-and-fbrty 
hours  had  gone  over  them. 

I  must  now,  however,  say  a  word  or  two  about  Pope, 
of  whom  you  have  my  opinion  more  at  large  in  the  un- 
published letter  on  or  to  (for  I  forget  which)  the  editor  of 
"Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine;" — and  here  I  doubt 
that  Mr.  Bowles  will  not  approve  of  my  sentiments. 

Altnough  I  regret  having  published  "  English  Bards 
and  Scotch  Reviewers,"  the  part  which  I  regret  the  least 
is  that  which  regards  Mr.  Bowles  with  reference  to  Pope. 
Whilstlwas  writing  that  publication, in  1807  and  1808, 
Mr.  Hobhouse  was  desirous  that  I  should  express  our 
mutual  opinion  of  Pope,  and  of  Mr.  Bowles's  edition  of 
his  works.  As  I  had  completed  my  outline,  and  felt 
lazy,  I  requested  that  he  would  do  so.  He  did  it.  His 
fourteen  lines  on  Bowles's  Pope  are  in  the  first  edition 
of  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers;"  and  are  quite 
as  severe  and  much  more  poetical  than  my  own  in  the 
second.  On  reprinting  the  work,  as  I  put  my  name  to 
it,  I  omitted  Mr.  Hobhouse's  lines,  and  replaced  them 
with  my  own,  by  which  the  work  gained  less  than  Mr. 
Bowles.  I  have  stated  this  in  the  preface  to  the  second 
edition.  It  is  many  years  since  I  have  read  that  poem ; 
out  the  Quarterly  Review,  Mr.  Octavius  Gilchrist,  and 
Mr.  Bowles  himself,  have  been  so  obliging  as  to  refresh 
my  memory,  and  that  of  the  public.  I  am  grieved  to 
gay,  that  in  reading  over  those  lines,  I  repent  of  their 
having  so  far  fallen  short  of  what  I  meant  to  express 
upon  the  subject  of  Bowles's  edition  of  Pope's  Works. 
Mr.  Bowles  says  that  "  Lord  Byron  knows  he  does  not 
wserve  this  character."  I  know  no  such  thing.  I  have 
met  Mr.  Bowles  occasionally,  in  the  best  society  in  Lon- 
don ;  he  appeared  to  me  an  amiable,  well-informed, 
and  extremely  able  man.  I  desire  nothing  belter  than 
to  dine  in  company  with  such  a  mannered  man  every 


day  in  the  week :  but  of  "  his  character"  1  know  noth- 
ing personally ;  I  can  only  speak  of  his  manners,  ana 
these  have  my  warmest  approbation.  But  I  never  -UU?B 
from  manners,  for  I  once  had  my  pocket  picked  oy  tne 
civilest  gentleman  I  ever  met  with  ;  and  one  of  the  mild- 
est persons  I  ever  saw  was  Ali  Pacha.  Of  Mr.  Bowles's 
"  character "  I  will  not  do  him  the  injustice  to  judgr 
from  the  edition  of  Pope,  if  he  prepared  it  heedlessly 
nor  the  justice,  should  it  be  otherwise,  because  I  woulr 
neither  become  a  literary  executioner,  nor  a  persona 
cne.  Mr.  Bowles  the  individual,  and  Mr.  Bowles  the 
editor,  appear  the  two  most  opposite  things  imaginable. 

"And  he  himself  one antithesis." 

I  won't  say  "vile,"  because  it  is  harsh;  nor  "  mis- 
taken," because  it  has  two  syllables  too  many ;  but 
j  every  one  must  fill  up  the  blank  as  he  pleases. 

What  I  saw  of  Mr.  Bowles  increased  my  surprise  anff 
|  regret  that  he  should  ever  have  lent  his  talents  to  such 
!  a  task.  If  he  had  been  a  fool,  there  would  nave  been 
some  excuse  for  him  ;  if  he  had  been  a  needy  or  a  bad 
man,  his  conduct  would  have  been  intelligible  j  but  he 
is  the  opposite  of  all  these ;  and  thinking  and  idling  as 
I  do  of  Pope,  to  me  the  whole  thing  is  unaccountable. 
However,  I  must  call  things  by  their  right  na7\:es.  1 
cannot  call  his  edition  of  Pope  a  "  candid"  work  ;  and 
I  stil!  think  that  there  is  an  affectation  of  that  quality 
not  only  in  those  volumes,  but  in  the  pamphlets  lately 
published. 

"Why  yet  he  doth  deny  his  prisoners." 
Mr.  Bowles  says,  that  "  he  has  seen  passages  in  his 
letters  to  Martha  Blount,  which  were  never  published  b> 
me,  and  I  hope  never  will  be  by  others ;  which  are  so  gross 
as  to  imply  the  grossest  licentiousness."  Is  this  fait 
play?  It  may,  or  it  may  not  be,  that  such  passages  exist ; 
and  that  Pope,  who  was  not  a  monk,  although  a  catholic, 
may  have  occasionally  sinned  in  word  and  in  deed  with 
woman  in  his  youth  ;  but  is  this  a  sufficient  ground  for 
such  a  sweeping  denunciation  ?  Where  is  the  unmar- 
ried Englishman  of  a  certain  rank  of  life,  who  (pro- 
vided he  has  not  taken  orders)  has  not  to  reproach 
himself  between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  thirty  with  far 
more  licentiousness  than  has  ever  vet  been  traced  to 
Pope  ?  Pope  lived  in  the  public  eve  from  his  youth  up- 
wards ;  he  had  all  the  dunces  of  his  own  time  for  his 
enemies,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  some,  who  have  not 
the  apology  of  dulness  foi  detraction,  since  his  death  ; 
and  yet  to  what  do  all  their  accumulated  hints  and 
charges  amount ; — to  an  equivocal  liaison  with  Martha 
Blount,  which  might  arise  as  much  from  his  infirmities 
as  from  his  passions  ;  to  a  hopeless  flirtation  with  Lady 
Mary  W.  Montagu  ;  to  a  story  of  Gibber's ;  and  to  two 
or  three  coarse  passages  in  his  works.  Who  could  come 
forth  clearer  from  an  invidious  inquest  on  a  life  of  fiftj- 
six  years  ?  WThy  are  we  to  be  officiously  reminded  of 
such  passages  in  his  letters,  provided  that  they  exist?  Is 
Mr.  Bowles  aware  to  what  such  rummaging  among 
"letters"  and  "stories"  might  lead?  I  have  myself  seen 
a  collection  of  letters  of  another  eminent,  nay,  pre- 
eminent, deceased  poet,  so  abominably  gross,  and  elab- 
orately coarse,  that  I  do  not  believe  that  they  could  be 
paralleled  in  our  language.  What  is  more  strange,  is, 
that  some  of  these  are  couched  as  postscripts  to  nw 
serious  and  sentimental  letters,  to  which  are  tacked 
either  a  piece  of  prose,  or  some  verses,  of  the  mi»M 
hyperbolical  indecency.  He  himself  says,  that  it  "  ob- 
scenity (using  a  much  coarser  word*  bo  the  sin  .i^amv 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


*e  Holy  Ghost,  he  most  certainly  cannot  be  saved." 
These  letters  are  in  existence,  and  have  been  seen  by 
i  myself;  but  would  his  editor  have  been 
even  auoding  to  them?  Nothing  would 
nave  even  provoked  SM,  an  indifferent  spectator,  to 
anude  to  them,  but  dut  further  attempt  at  the  deprecia- 
tion of  Pope. 

What  should  we  say  to  an  editor  of  Addison,  who 
cited  the  foBowing  passage  from  Walpote's  letters  to 
Geor^Mottag«?"Ifc.Youn5htt|inhnshed 
etc.  Mr.  Addison  sent  for  the  young  Earl  of  Warwick, 
as  be  was  dying,  to  *now  hint  in  what  pence  a  Christian 
unlnckfly  he  died  of  bn*dy:  nothing  makes 


a  Christian  die  in  peace  like  being  maudlin!  but  don't 
•say  this  in  Gath  where  jon  are.1*  Suppose  the  editor 
mtrodoced  it  with  this  preface :  "One  <jn  imiitlance  is 
1  by  Horace  Walpole,  which,  if  true,  was  mdeed 
Walpole  informs  Montana  that  Addison 


fer  the  young  Earl  of  Warwick,  when  dying,  to  show 
him  m  what  peace  a  Christian  could  die  ;  but  unlockuy 
he  died  drank,  etc.,  etc."  Now,  although  there  might 
occur  on  the  subsequent,  or  on  the  same  page,  a  faint 
show  of  dfebe&ef,  seasoned  with  the  expression  of  "the 
fame  emoW  (the  tame  exactly  as  throughout  the 
book),  I  should  say  that  this  editor  was  either  foolish  or 
Use  to  his  trust;  such  a  story  ought  not  to  have  been 
•dunned,  except  for  one  brief  mark  of  crushing  in- 
dfrgaarion,  unless  kwere  tmmplittty  pncaL  Why  the 
words  "  if  fr^r*  That  "if"  is  iwl  a  peace-maker.  Why 
out  of  •Gibber's  testimony"  to  his  **— «J""-wrt%?  To 


what  does  this  amount?  that  Pope,  when  very  young, 
was  snoc  ueuuyeu  by  some  noblemen  and  the  ulayci  to 
n  bouse  of  carnal  recreation.  Mr.  Bowies  was  not  always 
a  clergyman;  and  when  he  was  a  very  young  man,  was 

for  story-tettn^,  and  rebting  htde  anecdotes,  I  could 
teflamuch  better  story  of  Mr.  Bowles  than  Gibber's,  up- 
on much  better  authority,  viz.  that  of  Mr.  Bowies  him- 
sett  It  was  not  related  by  him  m  my  presence,  but  in 
that  of  a  third  person,  whom  Mr.  Bowks  names  oftener 
than  once  in  the  course  of  his  replies.  This  gentleman 
related  it  to  me  as  a  humoiuus  and  witty  anecdote ; 
and sok  was,  whUerer  its  other  characteristics  might  be. 
But  should  I,  from  a  youthful  froBc,  brand  Mr.  Bowles 
with  a  "libertine  sort  of  love,"  or  with  "licentious- 
ness?" is  be  the  less  now  a  pious  or  a  good  man  for 
not  having  always  been  a  priest?  No  such  thing;  lam 
wnbng  to  bcfieve  him  a  good  man,  almost  as  good  a  man 
as  Pope,  but  no  better. 

The  truth  is,  that  in  these  days  the  grand  "prisoon 
'  of  England  is  tmmt;  cant  poitical,  cant  poetical. 


through  ai  the  varieties  of  fife.  It  is  the 
while  it  lasts  wil  be  too  powerful  for  those  who  can 
eo)y  exist  by  taking  the  tone  of  the  time.  IsayomC, 
because  k  is  a  thing  of  wwds,  without  tbe  smallest  m- 
•nenee  upon  human  actions;  the  English  being  no 
wiser,  no  better,  and  much  poorer,  and  more  rniinul 
n»nngitthe<>»d>t^  as  wel  as  far  less  inoral,  than  they 
were  before  the  prevalence  of  this  verbal  ikrnrnm 
Hns  hysterical  horror  of  poor  Pope's  not  very  we! 
l5-c*r  ""-i." ~-,  ".  ~.  r-'vvT  M  v  zTOve-5  ?.rr.r>':T5  :  :«r  ever. 
Gibber  »**ns  that 

in  which  Pope  was  embarking) 
in  a  controversial  pamnhlrtt;  but  al  men  of 
•e  worVl  -W  know  what  fife  is,  or  at  least  what  k 


to  them  in  their  youth,  mus:  faugh  at  such  a  ludicrous 
foundation  of  the  charge  of  a  "lileruoe  sort  of  k  ve ;" 
while  the  more  serious  »  ni  look  upon  those  wno  bring 
forward  such  charges  upon  an  insulated  fact,  as  fanatics 
or  hypocrites,  perhaps  both.  The  two  are  sometime* 
compounded  in  a  happy  mixture. 

Mr.  Octavins  Gilchrist  speaks  rather  irreverently  of 
a  "  second  tumbler  of  hat  white-wine  negi.5.  '  What 
does  he  mean?  Is  there  any  harm  in  negus?  or  is  it 
tbe  worse  for  being  hot?  or  does  Mr.  Bowles  drink  ne- 
gus? I  had  a  better  opinion  of  him.  I  hoped  thai 
whatever  wine  he  drank  was  neat ;  or  at  least  that,  like 
the  ordinary  in  Jonathan  Wild,  "he  preferred  punch, 
the  rather  as  there  was  nothing  against  it  in  scripture." 
I  should  be  sorry  to  believe  that  Mr.  Bowles  was  fond 
of  negus;  k  is  such  a  "candid "  liquor, so  like  a  wishy- 
washy  compromise  between  the  passion  (or  wine  and 
tbe  propriety  of  water.  But  different  writers  have 
divers  tastes.  Judge  Blackstone composed  his  "Com- 
mentaries" (he  was  a  poet  too  in  his  youth),  with  a 
bottle  of  port  before  him.  Addison's  conversation  was 
not  good  for  much  Uli  he  had  taken  a  similar  dose. 
Perhaps  the  prescription  of  these  two  great  men  was 
not  inferior  to  the  very  different  one  of  a  soi-disant 
poet  of  this  day,  who,  after  wandering  amongst  the  hills, 
urns,  goes  to  bed,  and  dictates  his  verses,  being  fed 
by  a  by-stander  with  bread  and  butter,  during  the  opera- 

"«. 

I  now  come  to  Mr.  Bowles's  "  invariable  principles  of 
poetry."  These  Mr.  Bowles  and  some  of  his  correspond- 
ents pronounce  "  unanswerable ;"  and  they  are  "  unan- 
swered," at  least  by  Campbell,  who  seems' to  have  been 
astounded  by  the  tide.  The  sultan  of  the  time  being, 
offered  to  afly  himself  to  the  king  of  France,  because 
"he  hated  the  word  league:"  which  proves  that  the 
Padishan  understood  French.  Mr.  Campbell  has  no 
need  of  my  alliance,  nor  shall  I  presume  to  offer  it ; 
but  I  do  hate  that  word  "  invariable,'"  What  is  there 
of  fauum,  be  k  poetry,  philosophy,  wit,  wUdom,  science, 
power,  glory,  mind,  matter,  life  or  death,  which  is 

"mariable 7"  Of  course  I  put  things  divine  out  of 
:  question.  Of  all  arrogant  baptisms  of  a  book,  this 
title  to  a  pamphlet  appears  the  most  complacently  con- 
ceited. It  is  Mr.  Campbell's  part  to  answer  the  contents 
of  this  performance,  and  especially  to  vindicate  his  own 
"  Ship,"  which  Mr.  Bowles  most  triumphantly  proclaim* 
to  have  struck  to  his  very  first  fire. 

-  Qaotfc  he,  tWre  wat  a  Skit  ; 

Now  let  ne  co.  ibou  gray-hair 'd  loon. 

Or  BIT  staff  shall  make  tfcee  ckip ;" 

tt  is  no  affair  of  mine,  but  having  once  hegun  (certainly 
not  by  my  own  wish,  hot  called  upon  by  the  frequent 
nrrence  to  my  name  in  the  pamphlets),  I  am  like  an 
Irishman  in  a  "row,"  "any  body's  customer."  I  shall 
therefore  say  a  word  or  two  on  the  "Ship.'1 

Mr.  Bowles  asserts  that  Campbell's  "Ship  of  the  Line" 
derives  all  hs  poetry  not  from  "  art  n  but  from  "  notorc." 
"Take  awsy  the  waves,  the  winds,  the  sun,  etc.,  etc.  out 
wifl  become  a  stripe  of  blue  bunting ;  and  the  other  a 
piece  of  coarse  canvas  on  three  tall  poles."  Very  true; 
take  away  "the  waves,"  "the  winds,"  and  uVre  wil 
be  no  «hip  at  all,  not  only  for  poetical,  but  for  any 
other  purpose ;  and  take  away  "  the  fan,"  and  we  miwt 
read  Mr.  Bowles's  pamphlet  by  candle-light.  But  ti,« 
"poetry"  of  tbe  "Ship"  does  tut  depend,  a  "the  waves." 
etc.;  on  the  contrary,  the  *  Ship  of  the  Una* 


LETTER  ON  BOWLES'S  STRICTURES  ON  POPE 


•s  own  poetry  upon  die  waters,  and  heightens  titan.  I 
Jo  not  deny,  that  the  "  waves  and  winds,"  and  above 
tH  "  the  sun,"  are  highly  poetical ;  we  know  k  to  our 
x«st,  by  the  many  descriptions  of  them  m  verse  :  bat 
f  the  waves  bore  omy  the  foam  upon  their  bosoms,  if 
th»  winds  wafted  only  the  sea-weed  to  tne  shore,  if  toe 
sun  shone  neither  upon  pyramids,  nor  fleets,  nor  fo.-- 
Iresses,  would  its  beams  be  equally  poetical  ?  I  think 
nut:  tb«  poetry  is  at  least  reciprocal.  Takeaway  "the 
ship  of  the  fine  ""  swinging  round  "  the  •*  cahn  water," 
and  the  calm  water  becomes  a  somewhat  monotonous 
thing  to  look  at,  particu  irty  if  not  transparently  dear; 
witness  the  thousands  who  pass  by  without  looking  on 
it  at  aD.  What  was  it  attracted  the  thousands  to  the 
launch?  they  might  have  seen  the  poeucal  "cahn  water," 
atWapping,orintbe  "  London  Dock,"  or  in  the  Pad- 
dington  Canal,  or  in  a  horse-pond,  arm  a  sfop-basm,  or 
in  any  other  vase.  They  might  have  heard  the  poetical 
winds  howling  through  the  chinks  of  a  pig-*ty,  or  the 
garret- window ;  they  might  have  seen  the  son  ihinhig 
on  a  footman's  livery,  or  on  a  brass  warming-pan  ;  but 
could  the  "cahn  water,"  or  the  "wind,"  or  the  "son," 
make  aD,  or  any  of  these,  "poetical?"  I  think  not. 
Mr.  Bowles  admits  "the  ship"  to  be  poetical,  but  only 
from  those  accessories :  now  if  they  cwi/er  poetry  so  as 
to  make  one  thing  poetical,  they  would  make  other 
things  poetical;  the  more  so,  as  Mr.  Bowles  calls  a  "ship 
of  the  line"  without  them,  that  is  to  say,  its  "masts  and 
sails  and  streamers,"  "blue  bunting,"  and  "coarse  can- 
vas," and  "taD  poles."  So  they  are;  and  porcelain  is 
day,  and  man  is  dust,  and  flesh  is  grass,  and  yet  the 
tiro  latter  at  least  are  the  subjects  of  much  poesy. 

Did  Mr.  Bowles  ever  gaze  upon  the  sea?  I  presume 
hat  be  has,  at  least  upon  a  sea-piece.  Did  any  painter 
ever  paint  the  sea  omfy,  without  the  addition  of  a  ship, 
boat,  wreck,  or  some  such  adjunct  ?  Is  the  sea  itself  a 
more  attractive,  a  more  moral,  a  more  poetical  object 
with  or  without  a  vessel,  breaking  its  vast  but  fatiguing 
monotony?  Is  a  storm  more  poetical  without  a  ship? 
or,  in  the  poem  of  the  Shipwreck,  is  k  the  storm  or  the 
ship  which  most  interests?  both  succn,  undoubtedly ;  but 
without  the  vessel,  what  should  we  care  for  the  tempest? 
b  would  sink  into  mere  descriptive  poetry,  which  in 
•self  was  never  esteemed  a  high  order  of  that  art. 

I  look  upon  myself  as  entitled  to  talk  of  naval  mat- 
ters, at  least  to  poets :— with  the  exception  of  Waker 
Scott,  Moore,  and  Southey,  perhaps  (who  have  been 
voyagers),  I  have  aacm  more  miles  than  aD  the  rest  of 
them  together  now  living  ever  joabo,  and  have  fired 
for  months  and  months  on  ship-board  ;  and  during  the 
whole  period  of  my  fife  abroad,  have  scarcely  ever  passed 
a  month  out  of  sight  of  the  ocean:  besides  being  brought 
op  from  two  years  till  ten  on  the  brink  of  it.  I  recol- 
lect, when  anchored  off  Cape  Sig*um.  in  1810,  in  an 
English  frigate,  a  violent  squall  coming  on  at  sunset,  so 
violent  as  to  make  us  imagine  that  the  ship  would  part 
•able,  or  drive  from  her  anchorage.  Mr.  Hobbouse  and 
wrseu^and  some  officers,  had  been  up  the  Dardanelles 
p  Abydos,  and  were  jost  returned  in  time.  The  aspect 
of  a  storm  in  the  Archipelago  is  as  poetical  as  need  be, 
Ae  sea  being  particularly  short,  dashing,  and  dangerous, 
and  the  navigation  intricate  and  broken  by  the  isles  and 
currents.  Cape  Sigaam,  the  tamwE  of  tteTroad,  Lem- 
ons, Tenedos,  all  added  to  the  «««wiari«o«  of  the  time. 
Hut  what  seemed  the  most  "oaetioat"  of  aflat  the  mo- 
toent  were  the  numbers  (about  two  hundred)  of  Greek 
74 


and  Turkish  craft,  which  were  obliged  to  "  ent  and  ran  * 
before  the  wind,  from  their  unsafe  anchorage,  some  fo» 
Tenedos,  some  for  other  isles,  some  for  the  main,  an. 
some  it  might  be  for  eternity.  The  sight  of  these  finfe 
•rurinmg  vessels,  darting  over  the  foam  m  the  twiight 
m  aopearing  and  now  disappearing  between  the  waves 
in  the  ooud  of  night,  with  their  pecufiariy  «dbife  saik 
(the  Levant  sails  not  being  of  "atone  CBBCBS,"  hot  of 
white  cotton  ),  skimming  along  as  quickly,  bat  lev  safely 
than  the  sea-men*  which  hovered  over  them;  thexrevi- 


dtstance.  their  crowded  succession,  therr  tutting*,  as 
with  the  giant  element,  which  made  oar 


stout  forty-four's  fan*  timbers  (she  was  bunt  m  India) 
creak  again;  their  aspect  and  their  motion,  aO  struck 
as  something  tar  more  "poetical"  than  the  mere 
broad,  brawling,  sUpless  sea,  and  the  suflea  winds, 
could  passably  have  been  without  them. 

The  Euxine  is  a  noble  sea  to  look  upon,  and  the  port 
of  Constantinople  the  most  beautiful  of  harbours,  and 
yet  I  cannot  hut  think  that  the  twenty  sal  of  the  one, 
of  one  hundred  am4  jorty  guns,  rendered  k  mot* 
u  poeucal "  by  day  m  the  son,  and  by  night  perhaps  sol 
more,  for  the  Turks  SB™i-i»«g  thev  vessels  of  war  m  a 
cr  me  most  picturesque— and  yet  al  this  is  «rtyt- 
As  for  the  Eoxme,  I  stood  upon  the  Symplegades 
—I  swod  by  the  broken  altar  still  exposed  to  the  winds 
upon  one  of  them— I  (eft  al  the  "p<wby"of  theskua- 
as  I  repealed  the  first  5nes  of  Medea  ;  but  would 
not  that  "poetry  "have  been  heightened  by  use  Argf  t 
It  was  so  even  by  the  appearance  of  any  merchant 
tad  arriving  from  Odessa.  Bat  Mr.  Bowles  says, 
why  bring  your  ship  off  the  stocks?"  for  no  reason 
that  I  know,  except  that  ships  are  buik  to  be  b™»*H. 
The  water,  etc.,  undoubtedly  HEIGHTENS  the  poetical 
associations,  but  k  does  not  mulct  titan;  and  the  ship 
amply  repays  the  obfigation:  they  aid  each  other ;  the 
water  is  more  poetical  with  the  ainp— the  ship  less  so 
without  the  water.  But  even  a  ship,  laid  up  in  dock,  it 
a  grand  and  poetical  sight.  Even  an  old  boat,  keel  up- 
wards, wrecked  upon  the  barren  sand,  M  a  "poetical" 
object  (and  Wordsworth,  who  made  a  poem  about  a 
washing-tub  and  a  blind  boy,  may  tel  yon  so  as  wcL 
as  I);  whilst  a  long  extent  of  sand  and  unbrobtq  water 
without  the  boat,  would  be  as  Eke  dun  prose  *s  any 
pamphlet  lately  published. 

What  makes  the  poetry  m  the  image  of  th»  "ston* 
of  Tarfswr,"  or  Granger's  "Ode  to  SoJimde," 
so  much  admired  by  Johnson?  Is  k  the  « msriie,"  or 
the  "awsfe,"  the  ortyGcMf  or  the  mntarof  object?  The 
"waste"  is  fikeal  other  aaasfcs;  but  the  "marOenat 
Palmyra  makes  the  poetry  of  the  passage  as  of  tha 


The  beautiful  but  barren  Hymettns,  the  whole  coast 


mus,FhikipapDU5,etc.,etc.,are  in  themselves  poeoeal, 
and  would  he  so  if  the  name  of  Athens,  of  Alhfiuana. 
and  her  very  runs,  were  swept  from  the  earth.  Bat 
am  I  to  be  told  that  the  "  nature  "of  Attica  wonU  t« 
•tore  poetical  without  toe  «art"of  the  Acropofis  ?  trf 
the  Temple  of  Theseus?  and  of  the  still  al  Greek  aw> 
glorious  miatumeiilt  of  her  exqujgitely  artificial  fciVau? 
Ask  the  trareBer  what  strikes  him  as  most  poetica* 
the  Parthenon,  or  the  rock  on  which  k  stands?  TM 
coLpxxsof  CapeCoioona,or  the  Cape  kseif?  Tt* 
rocks,  ai  the  foot  ofk,  or  the  recolefia*  that  Fxoner<* 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


skip  was  bulged  upon  them.  There  are  a  thousand 
rocks  and  oapes,  far  more  picturesque  than  those  of 
the  Arropo'iis  and  Cape  Sun'mm  in  themselves  ;  what 
are  they  to  a  thousand  scenes  in  the  wilder  parts  of 
Greece,  of  Asia  Minor,  Switzerland,  or  even  of  Cintra 
in  Portugal,  or  to  many  scenes  of  Italy,  and  the  Sierras 
of  Spain  ?  But  it  is  the  "  art"  the  columns,  the  tem- 
ples, the  wiecked  vessel,  which  give  them  their  antique 
and  their  modern  poetry,  and  not  the  spots  themselves. 
Without  them,  the  spots  of  earth  would  be  unnoticed 
and  unknown ;  buried,  like  Babylon  and  Nineveh,  in 
indistinct  confusion,  without  poetry,  as  without  exist- 
ence :  but  to  whatever  spot  of  earth  these  ruins  were 
transported,  if  they  were  capable  of  transportation, 
like  the  obelisk,  and  the  sphinx,  and  the  Memnon's 
head,  there  they  would  still  exist  in  the  perfection  of 
their  beauty,  and  in  the  pride  of  their  poetry.  I  opposed, 
and  will  ever  oppose,  the  robbery  of  ruins  from  Athens, 
to  instruct  the  English  in  sculpture  ;  but  why  did  I  so  ? 
The  ruins  are  as  poetical  in  Piccadilly  as  they  were  in 
the  Parthenon  ;  but  the  Parthenon  and  its  rock  are  less 
so  without  them.  Such  is  the  poetry  of  art. 

Mr.  Bowles  contends,  again,  that  the  pyramids  of 
Egypt  are  poetical,  because  of  "  the  association  with 
boundless  deserts,"  and  that  a  "  pyramid  of  the  same 
dimensions "  would  not  be  sublime  in  "  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields  ;"  not  so  poetical,  certainly ;  but  take  away  the 
"  pyramids,"  and  what  is  the  "  desert  ?"  Take  away 
Stone-henge  from  Salisbury  plain,  and  it  is  nothing 
more  than  Hounslovv  Heath,  or  any  other  uninclosed 
down.  It  appears  to  me  that  St.  Peter's,  the  Coliseum, 
the  Pantheon,  the  Palatine,  the  Apollo,  the  Laocoon, 
the  Venus  di  Medicis,  the  Hercules,  the  dying  Gladiator, 
the  Moses  of  Michel  Angelo,  and  all  the  higher  works 
of  Canova  (I  have  already  spoken  of  those  of  ancient 
Greece,  still  extant  in  that  country,  or  transported  to 
England),  are  as  poetical  as  Mont  Blanc  or  Mount  ./Etna, 
perhaps  still  more  so,  as  they  are  direct  manifestations 
of  mind,  and  presuppose  poetry  in  their  very  concep- 
tion ;  and  have,  moreover,  as  being  such,  a  something 
of  actual  life,  which  cannot  belong  to  any  part  of  inani- 
mate nature,  unless  we  adopt  the  system  of  Spinosa, 
that  the  world  is  the  deity.  There  can  be  nothing  more 
poetica1  in  its  aspect  than  the  city  of  Venice :  does  this 
depend  upon  the  sea,  or  the  canals  ? — 

"  The  dirt  and  sea-weed  whence  proud  Venice  rose  !" 

Is  it  the  canal  which  runs  between  the  palace  and  the 
prison,  or  the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs  "  which  connects  them, 
that  render  it  poetical  ?  Is  it  the  "  Canal  Grande,"  cr 
the  Rialto  which  arches  it,  the  churches  which  tower 
over  it,  the  palaces  which  line,  and  the  gondolas  which 
glide  over  the  waters,  that  render  this  city  more  poetical 
than  Rome  itself?  Mr.  Bowles  will  say,  perhaps,  that 
the  Rialto  is  but  marble,  the  palaces  and  churches  only 
stone,  and  the  gondolas  a  "  coarse  "  black  cloth,  thrown 
over  some  planks  of  carved  wood,  with  a  shining  bit  of 
nmtasUcal'.y-formed  iron  at  the  prow,  "  wii'ioui"  the 
water.  And  I  tell  him  that  without  these  the  water 
would  be  nothing  but  a  clay-coloured  ditch,  and  who- 
ever says  the  contrary,  deserves  to  be  at  the  bottom  of 
that  where  Pope's  heroes  are  embraced  by  the  mud- 
Mympns.  There  would  be  nothing  to  make  the  canal 
uf  Venice  more  poetical  tnan  that  of  Paddington,  were 
it  not  for  the  artificial  adjuncts  above  mentioned,  al- 
iougti  it  is  a  p«fect,v  natural  canal,  formed  by  the 


sea,  and  the  innumerable  islands  which  constitute  tho 
site  of  this  extraordinary  city. 

The  very  Cloacae  of  Tarquin  at  Rome  are  as  po- 
etical as  Richmond  Hill  ;  many  will  think  more  so. 
Take  away  Rome,  and  leave  the  Tiber  and  the  seven 
hills,  in  the  nature  of  Evander's  time  ;  let  Mr.  Bowles, 
or  Mr.  Wordsworth,  or  Mr.  Southey,  or  any  of  the 
other  "  naturals,"  make  a  poem  upon  them,  and  then 
see  which  is  most  poetical,  their  production,  or  the 
commonest  guide-book  which  tells  you  the  road  from 
St.  Peter's  to  the  Coliseum,  and  informs  you  what  you 
will  see  by  the  way.  The  ground  interests  in  Virgil, 
because  it  wiU  be  Rome,  and  not  because  it  is  Evan 
der's  rural  domain. 

Mr.  Bowles  then  proceeds  to  press  Homer  into  his 
service,  in  answer  to  a  remark  of  Mr.  Campbell's,  that 
"  Homer  was  a  great  describer  of  xworks  of  art."  Mr. 
Bowles  contends,  that  all  his  great  power,  even  in  this, 
depends  upon  their  connexion  with  nature.  The 
"  shield  of  Achilles  derives  its  poetical  interest  from  the 
subjects  described  on  it."  And  from  what  does  the  spear 
of  Achilles  derive  its  interest  ?  and  the  helmet  and  the 
mail  worn  by  Patroclus,  and  the  celestial  armour,  and 
the  very  brazen  greaves  of  the  well-booted  Greeks  ?  Is 
it  solely  from  the  legs,  and  the  back,  and  the  breast,  and 
the  human  body,  which  they  inclose  ?  In  that  case,  it 
would  have  been  more  poetical  to  have  made  them  fight 
naked  ;  and  Gulley  and  Gregson,  as  being  nearer  to  a 
state  of  nature,  are  more  poetical,  boxing  in  a  pair  of 
drawers,  than  Hector  and  Achilles  in  radiant  armour, 
and  with  heroic  weapons. 

Instead  of  the  clash  of  helmets,  and  the  rushing  of 
chariots,  and  the  whizzing  of  spears,  and  the  glancing 
of  swords,  and  the  cleaving  of  shields,  and  the  piercing 
of  breast-plates,  why  not  represent  the  Greeks  and 
Trojans  like  two  savage  tribes,  tugging  and  tearing,  and 
kicking,  and  biting,  and  gnashing,  foaming,  grinning,  and 
gouging,  in  all  the  poetry  of  martial  nature,  unencum- 
bered with  gross,  prosaic,  artificial  arms,  an  equal  su- 
perfluity to  the  natural  warrior,  and  his  natural  poet  ? 
Is  there  any  thing  unpoetical  in  Ulysses  striking  the 
horses  of  Rhesus  with  his  bow  (having  forgotten  his 
thong),  or  would  Mr.  Bowles  have  had  him  kick  them 
with  his  foot,  or  smack  them  with  his  hand,  as  bein« 
more  unsophisticated  ? 

In  Gray's  Elegy,  is  there  an  image  more  striking  than 
his  "  shapeless  sculpture  ?"  Of  sculpture  in  general, 
it  may  be  observed,  that  it  is  more  poetical  than  nature 
itself,  inasmuch  as  it  represents  and  bodies  forth  that 
ideal  beauty  and  sublimity  which  is  never  to  be  found 
in  actual  nature.  This  at  least  is  the  general  opinion 
but,  always  excepting  the  Venus  di  Medicis,  I  differ 
from  that  opinion,  at  least  as  far  as  regards  female 
beauty,  for  the  head  of  Lady  Charlemont  (when  I  first 
saw  her,  nine  years  ago)  seemed  to  possess  all  that 
sculpture  could  require  for  its  ideal.  I  recollect  seeing 
something  of  the  same  kind  in  the  head  of  an  Albanian 
girl,  who  was  actually  employed  in  mending  a  road  in 
the  mountains,  and  in  some  Greek,  and  one  or  two 
Italian  faces.  But  of  sublimity,  I  have  never  seen  any 
thing  in  human  nature  at  all  to  approach  the  expression 
of  sculpture,  either  in  the  Apollo,  the  Moses,  or  other 
of  the  sterner  works  of  ancient  or  modern  art. 

Let  us  examine  a  little  further  this  "  babble  of  jrecu 
fields,"  and  of  bare  natu.e  in  general,  as  superior  to 
artificial  imagery,  for  the.  ooet  cal  purposes  of  the  fine 


LETTER  ON  BOWLES'S  STRICTURES  ON  POPE. 


arts.  In  landscape  painting,  the  great  artist  does  not 
give  you  a  literal  copy  of  a  country,  but  he  invents  and 
composes  one.  Nature,  in  her  actual  aspect,  does  not 
furnish  him  with  such  existing  scenes  as  he  requires. 
•  Even  where  he  presents  you  with  some  famous  city,  or 
celebrated  scene  from  mountain  or  other  nature,  it 
must  be  taken  from  some  particular  point  of  view,  and 
with  such  light,  and  shade,  and  distance,  etc.  as  serve 
not  only  to  heighten  its  beauties,  but  to  shadow  its  de- 
formities. The  poetry  of  nature  alone,  exactly  as  she 
appears,  is  not  sufficient  to  bear  him  out.  The  very  sky 
of  his  painting  is  not  the  portrait  of  the  sky  of  nature  ; 
it  is  a  composition  of  different  skies,  observed  at  dif- 
ferent times,  and  not  the  whole  copied  from  any  particu- 
lar day.  And  why?  Because  Nature  is  not  lavish  of 
her  beauties ;  they  are  widely  scattered,  and  occasionally 
displayed,  to  be  selected  with  care,  and  gathered  with 
difficulty. 

Of  sculpture  I  have  just  spoken.  It  is  the  great 
scope  of  the  sculptor  to  heighten  nature  into  heroic 
beauty,  i.  e.  in  plain  English,  to  surpass  his  model. 
When  Canova  forms  a  statue,  he  takes  a  limb  from  one, 
a  hand  from  another,  a  feature  from  a  third,  and  a 
shape,  it  may  be,  from  a  fourth,  probably  at  the  same 
time  improving  upon  all,  as  the  Greek  of  old  did  in 
embodying  his  Venus. 

Ask  a  portrait  painter  to  describe  his  agonies  in  ac- 
commodating the  faces  with  which  Nature  and  his  sit- 
ters have  crowded  his  painting-room  to  the  principles  of 
his  art ;  with  the  exception  of  perhaps  ten  faces  in  as 
many  millions,  there  is  not  one  which  he  can  venture  to 
give  without  shading  much  and  adding  more.  NaturCj 
exactly,  simply,  barely  nature,  will  make  no  great  artist 
of  nny  kind,  and  least  of  all  a  poet — the  most  artificial, 
perhaps,  of  all  artists  in  his  very  essence.  With  regard 
to  natural  imagery,  the  poets  are  obliged  to  take  some  of 
their  best  illustrations  from  art.  You  say  that  "  a  foun- 
tain is  as  clear  or  clearer  than  glass,"  to  express  its 
beauty — 

"  O  fons  BandusiaD,  gplendidior  vitro !" 

In  the  speech  of  Mark  Antony,  the  body  of  Cassar  is 
displayed,  but  so  also  is  his  mantle — 

'You  all  do  know  this  mantle,"   etc. 

1  Look  !  in  this  place  ran  Cassias'  dagger  through." 

If  the  poet  had  said  that  Cassius  had  run  his  fiat 
through  the  rent  of  the  mantle,  it  would  have  had  more 
of  Mr.  Bowles's  "  nature"  to  help  it ;  but  the  artificial 
dagger  is  more  poetical  than  any  natural  hand  without  it. 
In  the  sublime  of  sacred  poetry,  "  Who  is  this  that  cometh 
from  Edom?  with  dyed  garments  from  Bozrah?"  Would 
"the  comer"  be  poetical  without  his  "  dyed  garments  ?" 
which  strike  and  startle  the  spectator,  and  identify  the 
approaching  object. 

The  mother  of  Sisera  is  represented  listening  for  the 
"  wheels  of  his  chariot."  Solomcn,  in  his  Song,  com- 
pares the  nose  of  his  beloved  to  a  "  tower,"  which  to  us 
appears  an  eastern  exaggeration.  If  he  had  said,  that 
b°r  statue  was  like  that  of  "  a  tower,"  it  would  have 
een  as  poetical  as  if  he  had  compared  her  to  a  tree. 

"  The  virtuous  Marcia  towers  above  her  sex," 
•  an  instance  of  an  artificial  image  to  express  a  moral 
•uperiority.     But  Solomon,  it  is  probable,  did  not  com- 
pare his  beloved's  nose  to  a  "  tower"  on  account  of  its 


length,  but  of  its  symmetry  ;  and,  maiting  alltf  "anos  I> 
eastern  hyperbole  and  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  discrec- 
image  for  a  female  nose  in  nature,  it  is  perhap*-  as  gooa 
a  figure  as  any  other. 

Art  is  not  inferior  to  nature  for  poetical  purposes 
What  makes  a  regiment  of  soldiers  a  more  noble  objec 
of  view  than  the  same  mass  of  mob?  Their  arms,  thei 
dresses,  their  banners,  and  the  art  and  artificial  sym 
metry  of  their  position  and  movements.  A  Highland 
er's  plaid,  a  Mussulman's  turban,  and  a  Roman  toga 
are  more  poetical  than  the  tattooed  or  untattooed  but- 
tocks of  a  New-Sandwich  savage,  although  they  were 
described  by  William  Wordsworth  himself  like  the 
"  idiot  in  his  glory." 

I  have  seen  as  many  mountains  as  most  men,  and  more 
fleets  than  the  generality  of  landsmen  :  and,  to  my  mind, 
a  large  convoy,  with  a  few  sail  of  the  line  to  conduct 
thorn,  is  as  noble  and  as  poetical  a  prospect  as  all  that 
inanimate  nature  can  produce.  I  prfefer  the  "  mast  of 
some  great  ammiral,"  with  all  its  tackle,  to  the  Scotch  fir 
or  the  Alpine  tannen :  and  think  that  more  poetry  has  been 
made  out  of  it.  In  what  does  the  infinite  superiority  of 
"  Falconer's  Shipwreck,"  over  all  other  shipwrecks,  con- 
sist ?  In  his  admirable  application  of  the  terms  of  his 
art ;  in  a  poet-sailor's  description  of  the  sailor's  fate. 
These  very  terms,  by  his  application,  make  the  strength 
and  reality  of  his  poem.  Why  ?  because  he  was  a  poet, 
and  in  the  hands  of  a  poet  art  will  not  be  found  less 
ornamental  than  nature.  It  is  precisely  in  general  na- 
ture, and  in  stepping  out  of  his  element,  that  Falconer 
fails  ;  where  he  digresses  to  speak  of  ancient  Greece, 
and  "  such  branches  of  learning." 

In  Dyer'sjGrongar  Hill,  upon  which  his  farhe  rests, 
the  very  appearance  of  Nature  herse'f  is  moralized  into 
an  artificial  image : 

"  Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrujght. 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 
Thus  sho  dresses  green  and  gay, 
To  disperse  our  cares  away." 

And  here  also  we  have  the  telescope,  the  niisuse  of 
which,  from  Milton,  has  rendered  Mr.  Bowles  so  vi> 
umphant  over  Mr.  Campbell: 

"  So  we  mistake  the  future's  face. 
Eyed  through  Hope's  deluding  glass." 
And  here  a  word,  en  passant,  to  Mr.  Campbell* 
"  As  yon  summits,  soft  and  fair 
Clad  in  colours  of  the  air. 
Which,  to  those  who  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear, 
Still  we  truad  the  sa-mc  coarse  way— 
The  present 's  still  a  cloudy  day." 
Is  not  this  the  original  of  the  far-famed 

"'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue?" 

To  return  once  more  to  the  sea.  Let  any  one  look  on 
the  long  wall  of  Mdamocco,  which  curbs  the  Adriatic, 
and  pronounce  between  the  sea  and  its  master.  Surely 
that  Roman  work  (I  mean  Roman  in  conception  and 
performance),  which  says  to  the  ocean,  "  'hus  far  shak 
thou  come,  and  no  further,"  and  is  obeyed,  >s  not  less 
sublime  and  poetical  than  the  angry  waves  which  vaimv 
break  beneath  it. 

Mr.  Bowles  makes  the  chief  part  of  a  "hip's  poesy  de- 
pend on  the  "  wind:''  then  why  is  u  ship  iinucr  sai  mora 
poetical  than  a  hog  in  a  high  wind  ?  The  hog  is  aJi 
nature,  the  ship  is  all  art,  "  coarse  canvas,"  "  blue 
bunting,"  and  "  tall  poles ;"  both  are  violent 


548 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


upon  by  the  wind,  tossed  here  and  there,  to  and  fro  ; 
Rnd  yet  nothing  but  excess  of  hunger  could  make  me 
look  upon  the  pig  as  the  more  poetical  of  the  two,  and 
then  only  in  the  shape  of  a  griskin. 

Will  Mr.  Bowles  tell  us  that  the  poetry  of  an  aqueduct 
consists  in  the  walur  which  it  conveys  ?  Let  him  look 
on  that  of  Justinian,  on  those  of  Rome,  Constantinople, 
Lisbon,  and  EU  as,  or  even  at  the  remains  of  that  in 
Attica. 

We  are  asked  "  what  makes  the  venerable  towers  of 
Westminster  Abbey  more  poetical,  as  objects,  than  the 
tower  for  the  manufactory  of  patent  shot,  surrounded 
by  the  same  scenery?"  I  will  answer — the  architecture. 
Turn  Westminster  Abbey,  or  Saint  Paul's,  into  a  powder 
magazine,  their  poetry,  as  objects,  remains  the  same  ; 
the  Parthenon  was  actually  converted  into  one  by  the 
Turks,  during  Morosini's  Venetian  siege,  and  part  of  it 
destroyed  in  consequence.  Cromwell's  dragoons  stalled 
their  steeds  in  Worcester  cathedral ;  was  it  less  poeti- 
cal, as  an  object,  than  before  ?  Ask  a  foreigner  on  his  ap- 
proach to  London,  what  strikes  him  as  the  most,  no^tical 


of  the  towers  before  him  ;  he.  will  point  out  St.  Paul's  and  i 
Westminster  Abbey,  without,  perhaps,  knowing  thcj 
names  or  associations  of  cither,  and  pass  over  the  "tower 
for  patent  shot,"  not  that,  for  any  thing  he  knows  to 
the  contrary,  it  might  not  be  the  mausoleum  of  a  mon- 
arch, or  a  Waterloo  column,  or  a  Trafalgar  monument, 
but  because  its  architecture  is  obviously  inferior. 

To  the  question,  "  whether  the  description  of  a  game 
of  cards  be  as  poetical,  supposing  the  execution  of  the 
artists  equal,  as  a  description  of  a  walk  in  a  forest?" 
it  may  be  answered,  that  the  materials  are  certainly 
not  equal ;  but  that  "  the  artist"  who  has  rendered 
\  the  "  game  of  cards  poetical,"  is  by  far  the  greater  of 
the  two.  But  all  this  "ordering"  of  poets  is  purely  ar- 
bitrary on  the  part  of  Mr.  Bowles.  There  may  or  may 
not  be,  in  fact,  different  "  orders"  of  poetry,  but  the 
poet  is  always  ranked  according  to  his  execution,  and 
not  according  to  his  branch  of  the  art. 

Tragedy  is  one  of  the  highest  presumed  orders. 
Hughes  has  written  a  tragedy,  and  a  very  successful  one ; 
Fenton  another ;  and  Pope  none.  Did  any  man,  how- 
ever,— will  even  Mr.  Bowles  himself  rank  Hughes  and 
Fenton  as  poets  above  Pope  ?  Was  even  Addison  (the 
author  of  Cato),  or  Rowe  (one  of  the  higher  order  of 
dramatists,  as  far  as  success  goes),  or  Young,  or  even 
Otway  and  Southerne,  ever  raised  for  a  moment  to  the 
same  rank  with  Pope  in  the  estimation  of  the  reader 
or  the  critic,  before  his  death  or  since  ?  If  Mr.  Bowles 
will  contend  for  classifications  of  this  kind,  let  him  re- 
collect that  descriptive  poetry  has  been  ranked  as  among 
the  lowest  branches  of  the  art,  and  description  as  a  mere 
ornament,  but  which  should  never  form  "  the  subject" 
of  a  poem.  The  Italians,  with  the  most  poetical  lan- 
guage, and  the  most  fastidious  taste  in  Europe,  possess 
now  live  great  poets,  they  say,  Dante,  Petrarch,  Ariosto, 
Passo,  and  lastly  Alfieri ;  and  whom  do  they  esteem  one 
jf  the  highest  of  these,  and  some  of  them  the  very 
highest?  Petrarcfi,  the  sonnetteer ;  it  is  true  that  some  of 
his  ranzoni  arc  not  less  esteemed,  but  not  more ;  who 
erer  dreams  of  his  Latin  Africa? 

Were  Petrarch  to  be  ranked  according  to  the  "  order" 
of  his  compositions,  where  would  the  best  of  sonnets 
place  him  ?  with  Dante  and  the  others?  No:  but,  as  I 
lave  bf>i<»re  said,  the  ooet  who  executes  best  is  the  high- 


est, whatever  his  department,  and  will  ever  be  so  rated 
in  the  world's  esteem. 

Had  Gray  written  nothing  but  his  Elegy,  high  as  he 
stands,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  not  stand  higher ; 
it  is  the  corner-stone  of  his  glory ;  without  it,  his  odd- 
would  be  insufficient  for  his  fame.  The  leprcciation 
of  Pope  is  partly  founded  upon  a  false  idea  of  the 
dignity  of  his  order  of  poetry,  to  which  he  has  partly 
contributed  by  the  ingenuous  boast, 

"  That  not  in  fancy's  maze  lie  wander'd  Ions, 
But  stoop'd  to  truth,  and  moralized  his  song." 
He  should  have  written  "  rose  to  truth."    In  my  mind, 
the  highest  of  all  poetry  is  ethical  poetry,  as  the  high 
est  of  all  earthly  objects  must  be  moral  truth.   Religion 
does  not  make  a  part  of  my  subject ;  it  is  something 
beyond  human  powers,  and  has  failed  in  all   human 
hands  except  Milton's  and  Dante's,  and  even  Dante's 
powers  are  involved  in  the  delineation  of  human  pas- 
sions, though  in  supernatural  circumstances.     What 
made  Socrates  the  greatest  of  men  ?  His  moral  truth — 
his  ethics.  What  proved  Jesus  Christ  the  Son  of  God 

r  less  than  his  miracles?   His    moral   precepts. 

f  ethics  have  made  a  philosopher  the  first  of  men, 
and  have  not  been  disdained  as  an  adjunct  to  his  gosite. 
by  the  Deity  himself,  are  we  to  be  told  that  cthica. 
poetry,  or  didactic  poetry,  or  by  whatever  name  you 
term  it,  whose  object  is  to  make  men  better  and  wiser, 
is  not  the  very  first  order  of  poetry  ?  and  are  we  to  be 
told  this  too  by  one  of  the  priesthood  ?  It  requires 
more  mind,  more  wisdom,  more  power,  than  all  the 
"  forests"  that  ex  er  were  "  walked"  for  their  "  descrip- 
tion," and  all  the  epics  that  ever  were  founded  upon 
fields  of  battle.  The  Georgics  are  indisputably,  and, 
I  believe,  undisputedly,  even  a  finer  poem  than  the 
^Eneid.  Virgil  knew  this  ;  he  did  not  order  tliem  to  be 
burnt. 

"The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man." 

It  is  the  fashion  of  the  day  to  lay  great  stress  upon 
what  they  call  "  imagination"  and  "  invention,"  the  two 
commonest  of  qualities :  an  Irish  peasant,  with  a  little 
whiskey  in  his  head,  will  imagine  and  invent  more 
than  would  furnish  forth  a  modern  poem.  If  Lucretius 
had  not  been  spoiled  by  the  Epicurean  system,  we 
should  have  had  a  far  superior  poem  to  any  now  in 
existence.  As  mere  poetry,  it  is  the  first  of  Latin 
poems.  What  then  has  ruined  it?  His  ethics.  Pope 
has  not  this  defect ;  his  moral  is  as  pure  as  his  poetrv 
is  glorious.  In  speaking  of  artificial  objects,  I  have 
omitted  to  touch  upon  one  which  I  will  now  mention. 
Cannon  may  be  presumed  to  be  af  highly  poetical  as 
art  can  make  her  objects.  Mr.  Bowles  will,  perhaos. 
tell  me  that  this  is  because  they  resemble  that  grand 
natural  article  of  sound  in  heaven,  and  simile  upon 
earth — thunder.  I  shall  be  told  triumphantly,  thai 
Millon  made  sad  work  with  his  artillery,  when  he  arm'tf 
his  devils  therewithal.  He  did  so ;  and  this  artifiua. 
object  must  have  had  much  of  the  sublime  to  attract 
his  attention  for  such  a  conflict.  He  has  made  an 
absurd  use  of  it;  but  the  absurdity  consists  tret  in 
using  cannon  against  the  angels  of  God,  but  anv 
material  weapon.  The  thunder  of  the  clouds  wou'd 
have  been  as  ridiculous  and  vain  in  the  hands  of  the 


devils,  as'he  "  villanous  saltpetre  •"  the  sn^'lj  were  .is 
impervious  to  the  one  as  to  the  other,  li.e  tl.und^- 
bolts  became  sublime  in  the  hands  of  the  Alivgni /,  not 


LETTER  ON  BOWLES'S  STRICTURES  ON  POPE. 


as  such,  but  because  he  deigns  to  use  them  as  a  means 
of  repelling  the  rebel  spirits  ;  but  no  one  can  attribute 
their  defeat  to  this  grand  piece  of  natural  electricity  : 
the  Almighty  willed,  and  they  fell ;  his  word  would  have 
been  enough  ;  and  Milton  is  as  absurd  (and  in  fact, 
blasphemous)  in  putting  material  lightnings  into  the 
r-amls  Df  the  Godhead  as  in  giving  him  hands  at  all. 

The  artillery  of  the  demons  was  but  the  first  step  of 
his  mistake,  the  thunder  the  next,  and  it  is  a  step  lower. 
It  would  have  been  fit  for  Jove,  but  not  for  Jehovah. 
The  subject  altogether  was  essentially  unpoetical ;  he 
has  made  more  of  it  than  another  could,  but  it  is  be- 
yond him  and  all  men. 

In  a  portion  of  his  reply,  Mr.  Bowles  asserts  that 
Pope  "  envied  Phillips"  because  he  quizzed  his  pastorals 
in  the  Guardian  in  that  most  admirable  model  of 
irony,  his  paper  on  the  subject.  If  there  was  any 
thing  enviable  about  Phillips,  it  could  hardly  be  his 
pastorals.  They  were  despicable,  and  Pope  expressed 
his  contempt.  If  Mr.  Fitzgerald  published  a  volume  of 
•onnets,  or  a  "  Spirit  of  Discovery,"  or  a  "  Missionary," 
and  Mr.  Bowles  wrote  in  any  periodical  journal  an 
ironical  paper  upon  them,  would  this  be  "envy?"  The 
authors  of  the  "  Rejected  Addresses"  have  ridiculed  the 
sixteen  or  twenty  "  first  living  poets  "  of  the  day  ;  but 
do  they  "  envy  "  them  ?  "  Envy  "  writhes,  it  don't  laugh. 
The  authors  of  the  "  Rejected  Addresses"  may  despise 
some,  but  they  can  hardly  "  envy"  any  of  the  persons 
whom  they  have  parodied :  and  Pope  could  have  no 
more  envied  Phillips  than  he  did  Welsted,or  Theobalds, 
or  Smediey,  or  any  other  given  hero  of  the  Dunciad. 
He  could  not  have  envied  him,  even  had  he  himself  not 
been  the  greatest  poet  of  his  age.  Did  Mr.  Ings  "  envy  " 
Mr.  Phillips,  when  he  asked  him,  "how  came  your 
Pyirhus  to  drive  oxen,  and  say,  I  am  goaded  on  by 
love?"  This  question  silenced  poor  Phillips  ;  but  it  no 
more  proceeded  from  "  envy"  than  did  Pope's  ridicule. 
Did  he  envy  Swift  ?  Did  he  envy  Bolingbroke  ?  Did  he 
envy  Gay  the  unparalleled  success  of  his  "  Beggar's 
Opera?"  We  may  be  answered  that  these  were  his 
friends — true ;  but  does  friendship  prevent  envy  ? 
Study  the  first  woman  you  meet  with,  or  the  first  scrib- 
bler, let  Mr.  Bowles  himself  (whom  I  acquit  fully  of 
such  an  odious  quality)  study  some  of  his  own  poetical 
intimates :  the  most  envious  man  I  ever  heard  of  is  a 
poet,  and  a  high  one ;  besides  it  is  an  universal  passion. 
Goldsmith  envied  not  only  the  puppets  for  their  danc- 
ing, and  broke  his  shins  in  the  attempt  at  rivalry,  but 
was  seriously  angry  because  two  pretty  women  re- 
ceived more  attention  than  he  did.  This  is  envy  ;  but 
where  does  Pope  show  a  sign  of  the  passion  ?  In  that 
case,  Dryden  envied  the  hero  of  his  Mac  Flecknoe.  Mr. 
Bowles  compares,  when  and  where  he  can,  Pope  with 
Cowpcr  (the  same  Cowper  whom,  in  his  edition  of  Pope, 
ne  hughs  at  for  his  attachment  to  an  old  woman,  Mrs. 
CTnwin  :  search  and  you  will  find  it ;  I  remember  the 
passage,  though  not  the  page);  in  particular  he  re- 
quotes  Cowper's  Dutch  delineation  of  a  wood,  drawn 
up  like  a  seedsman's  catalogue,1  with  an  affected  imi- 


1  1  wiK  submit  to  Mr.  Bowles's  own  judgment  a  passage 
Tom  another  poem  of  Cowper's,  to  be  compared  with  the 
sume  writer's  Sylvan  Sampler.    In  the  .ines  to  Mary, 
*'  Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store. 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore. 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shino  no  more, 

My  Mary," 
2Z 


tation  of  Mi'ton's  style,  as  burlesque  as  the  "  Splendid 
Shilling."  These  two  writers  (for  Cowper  is  no  poet) 
come  into  comparison  in  one  great  work — liie  trans 
lation  of  Homer.  Now,  with  all  the  great,  and  mam 
fest,  and  manifold,  and  reproved,  and  acknowledged, 
and  uncontroverted  faults  of  Pope's  translation,  ana 
all  the  scholarship,  and  pains,  and  time,  and  trouble,  and 
blank  verse  of  the  other,  who  can  ever  read  Cowper  f 
and  who  will  ever  lay  down  Pope,  unless  for  the 
original  ?  Pope's  was  "  not  Homer,  it  was  Spondanus  ;" 
but  Cowper's  is  not  Homer,  either,  it  is  not  even  Cow- 
per. As  a  child  I  first  read  Pope's  Homer  with  a  rap- 
ture which  no  subsequent  work  could  ever  afford  ;  and 
children  are  not  the  wors:  judges  of  their  own  lan- 
guage. As  a  boy  I  read  Homer  in  the  original,  as  we 
have  all  done,  some  of  us  by  force,  and  a  few  by 
favour ;  under  which  description  I  come  is  nothing  to 
the  purpose,  it  is  enough  that  I  read  him.  As  a  man 
I  have  tried  to  read  Cowper's  version,  and  I  found  it 
impossible.  Has  any  human  reader  ever  succeeded  ? 

And  now  that  we  have  heard  the  Catholic  reproached 
with  envy,  duplicity,  licentiousness,  avarice — what  was 
the  Calvinist?  He  attempted  the  most  atrocious  of 
crimes  in  the  Christian  code,  viz.  suicide — and  why? 
Because  he  was  to  be  examined  whether  he  was  fit  for 
an  office  which  he  seems  to  wish  to  have  made  a  sine- 
cure. His  connexion  with  Mrs.  Unwin  was  pure  enough, 
for  the  old  lady  was  devout,  and  he  was  deranged ;  but 
why  then  is  the  infirm  and  then  elderly  Pope  to  be  re- 
proved for  his  connexion  with  Martha  Blount?  Cow- 
per was  the  almoner  of  Mrs.  Throgmorton  ;  but  Pope's 
charities  were  his  own,  and  they  were  noble  and  ex- 
tensive, far  beyond  his  fortune's  warrant.  Pope  waj 


contain  a  simple,  household,  "  indoor,"  artificial,  and  ordi 
nary  image.  I  refer  Mr.  Bowles  to  the  stanza,  and  ask  if  these 
three  lines  about  "needles"  are  not  worth  all  the  boasted 
twaddling  about  trees,  so  triumphantly  re -quoted?  and  yet 
in  fact  what  do  they  convey  1  A  homely  collection  of  images 
and  ideas  associated  with  the  darning  of  stockings,  and  the 
hemming  of  shirts,  and  the  mending  of  breeches;  but  will  any 
one  deny  that  they  are  eminently  poetical  and  pathetic  as  ad- 
dressed by  Cowper  to  his  nurse'?  The  trash  of  trees  reminds 
me  of  a  saying  of  Sheridan's.  Soon  after  the  "Rejected  Ad- 
dress ''  scene,  in  1812,  I  met  Sheridan.  In  the  course  of  din- 
ner, he  said,  "Lord  Byron,  did  you  know  that  amongst  tho 
writers  of  addresses  was  Whitbread  himself?"  1  answered 
by  an  inquiry  of  what  sort  of  an  address  he  had  made.  "  Of 
that,"  replied  Sheridan,  "I  remember  little,  except  that  there 
was  a  phan'X  in  it."  "  A  phoenix  !  !  Well,  how  did  he  de- 
scribe it  ?"  "  Like  a  poulterer,"  answered  Sheridan  •  "  it  wa» 
green,  and  yellow,  and  red,  and  blue:  he  did  not  let  us  oft* 
for  a  single  feather."  And  just  sucli  as  this  poulterer's  ac- 
count of  a  phoenix,  is  Cowper's  stick-picker's  detail  of  a  wood, 
with  all  its  petty  minutia;  of  this,  that,  and  the  other. 

One  more  poetical  instance  of  the  power  of  art,  and  even 
its  superiority  over  nature,  in  poetry,  and  I  have  done  : — the 
bust  of  Mutinous!  IB  there  any  thing  in  nature  like  thn 
marble,  excepting  the  Venus?  Can  there  be  more  poetry 
gathered  into  existence  than  in  that  wonderful  creation  of  per- 
fect beauty?  But  the  poetry  of  this  bust  is  in  no  respect  de- 
rived from  nature,  nor  from  any  association  of  moral  exulted 
ness ;  for  what  is  there  in  common  with  moral  n  iture  and  the 
male  minion  of  Adrian?  The  very  execution  i.«  not  natural 
but  super-natural,  or  rather  super-artificial,  for  nature  hu 
never  done  so  much. 

Away,  then,  with  this  cant  about  nature  and  "invariant 
principles  of  poetry!"  A  great  artist  will  make  a  block  of 
stone  as  sublime  as  a  mountain,  and  a  good  poet  can  imbuo 
a  pack  of  cards  with  more  poetry  than  inhabits  the  forests  ot 
America.  It  is  the  business  and  the  proof  of  a  poet  to  cue 
the  lie  to  the  iroverb.  and  sometimes  to  "  make  a  silken  pursi 
out  of  a  souTs  ear;"  and  to  conclude  with  another  homely 
proverb,  "  a  good  workman  will  not  find  fault  with  his  tcob  • 


550 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


the  tolerant  yet  steadv  adherent  of  the  most  bigoted  of 
sects  ;  aid  Cowper  the  most  bigoted  and  despondent 
sectaiy  r'lat  ever  anticipated  damnation  to  himself  or 
others,  is  this  harsh  ?  I  know  it  is,  and  I  do  not  assert 
it  as  my  opinion  of  Cowper  personally,  but  to  show 
what  might  be  said,  with  just  as  great  an  appearance  of 
truth  and  candour,  as  all  the  odium  which  has  been 
accumulated  upon  Pope  in  similar  speculations.  Cow- 
per was  a  good  man,  and  lived  at  a  fortunate  time  for 
his  works. 

Mr.  Bowles,  apparently  not  relying  entirely  upon  his 
own  arguments,  has,  in  person  or  by  proxy,  brought 
forward  the  names  of  Southey  and  Moore.  Mr.  Southey 
"agrees  entirely  with  Mr.  Bowles  in  his  invariable 
principles  of  p«ctry."  The  least  that  Mr.  Bowles  can 
do  in  return  is  to  approve  the  "  invariable  principles  of 
Mr.  Southoy."  I  should  have  thought  that  the  word 
41  invariable"  might  have  stuck  in  Southey's  throat,  like 
Macbeth's  "Amen!"  I  am  sure  it  did  in  mine,  and  I 
am  not  the  least  consistent  of  the  two,  at  least  as  a 
voter.  Moore  (et  tu  Brute  !)  also  approves,  and  a  Mr. 
J.  Scott.  There  is  a  letter  also  of  two  lines  from  a 
gentleman  in  asterisks,  who,  it  seems,  is  a  poet  of"  the 
highest  rank" — who  can  this  be?  not  my  friend,  Sir 
Walter,  surely.  Campbell  it  can't  be ;  Rogers  it  won't 
be. 

"  You  have  Ait  the  nail  in  the  head,  and  ****  [Pope,  I 
presume!  on  the  head  also." 

I  remain,  yours,  affectionately, 

(Four  Asterisks.) 

And  in  asterisks  let  him  remain.  Whoever  this  person 
may  be,  he  deserves,  for  such  a  judgment  of  Midas, 
that  "the  nail"  which  Mr.  Bowles  has  hit  in  the 
hsad  should  be  driven  through  his  own  ears ;  I  am 
sure  lhat  they  a  5  long  enough. 

The  attention  >f  the  poetical  populace  of  the  present 
day  to  obtain  an  •  stracism  against  Pope  is  as  easily  ac- 
counted for  as  tl  t  Athenian's  shell  against  Aristides  ; 
they  are  tired  of  I  earing  him  always  called  "  the  Just." 
They  are  also  fig.iting  for  life  ;  for  if  he  maintains  his 
station,  they  will  reach  their  own  falling.  They  have 
raised  a  mosque  by  the  side  of  a  Grecian  temple  of  the 
purest  architecture ;  and,  more  barbarous  than  the 
barbarians  from  whose  practice  I  have  borrowed  the 
figure,  they  are  nc<  contented  with  their  own  grotesque 
edifice,  unless  they  destroy  the  prior  and  purely  beauti- 
ful fabric  which  preceded,  and  which  shames  them  and 
tiieirs  for  ever  and  ever.  I  shall  be  told  that  amongst 
those  I  have  been  (or  it  may  be  still  am)  conspicuous — 
tun:,  and  I  am  ashamed  of  it.  I  have  been  amongst 
the  builders  of  this  Babel,  attended  by  a  confusion  of 
tongues,  but  never  amongst  the  envious  destroyers  of 
the  classic  temple  of  our  predecessor.  I  have  loved 
and  honoured  the  fame  and  name  of  that  illustrious 
and  unrivalled  man,  far  more  than  my  own  paltry 
renown,  and  the  trashy  jingle  of  the  crowd  of 
*•  schools  "  and  upstarts,  who  pretend  to  rival,  or  even 
surpass  him.  Sooner  than  a  single  leaf  should  be 
.orn  from  his  laurel,  it  were  better  that  all  which  these 
lien,  and  that  I,  as  one  of  their  set,  have  ever  written, 
ihoijld 

"  Linu  trunks,  clothe  spice,  or,  fluttering  in  a  row, 
Beliinge  the  rails  of  Bedlam  or  Soho !" 

Tuer«  are  those  who  will  believe  this,  and  those  who 


will  not.  You,  sir,  know  how  fa'  I  am  sincere,  and 
whether  my  opinion;  not  only  in  the  short  work  in- 
tended for  publication,  and  in  private  letters  which 
can  never  be  published,  has  or  has  not  been  the  same. 
I  look  upon  this  as  the  declining  age  of  English  poetry; 
no  regard  for  others,  no  selfish  feeling,  can  prevent  me 
from  seeing  this,  and  expressing  the  truth.  There  can 
be  no  worse  sign  for  the  taste  of  the  times  than  the 
depreciation  of  Pope.  It  would  be  better  to  receive  for 
proof  Mr.  Gobbet's  rough'  but  strong  attack  upon 
Shakspeare  and  Milton,  than  to  allow  this  smooth  and 

candid"  undermining  of  the  reputation  of  the  most 
perfect  of  our  poets  and  the  purest  of  our  moralists. 
Of  his  power  in  the  passions,  in  description,  in  the 
mock-heroic,  I  leave  others  to  descant.  /  take  him  on 
his  strong  ground,  as  an  ethical  poet:  in  the  former 
none  excel,  in  the  mock-heroic  and  the  ethical  none 
equal  him ;  and,  in  my  mind,  the  latter  is  the  highest 
of  all  poetry,  because  it  does  that  in  verse,  which  the 
greatest  of  men  have  wished  to  accomplish  in  prose. 
If  the  essence  of  poetry  must  be  a  lie,  throw  it  to  the 
dogs,  or  banish  it  from  your  republic,  as  Plato  would 
have  done.  He  who  can  reconcile  poetry  with  truth 
and  wisdom,  is  the  only  true  "poet"  in  its  real  sense; 

the  maker,"  "  the  creator  " — why  must  this  mean  lh« 

liar,"  the  "  feigner,"  "  the  tale-teller?"  A  man  may 
make  and  create  better  things  than  these. 

I  shall  not  presume  to  say  that  Pope  is  as  high  a 
poet  as  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  though  his  enemy, 
Warton,  places  him  immediately  under  them.  I  would 
no  more  say  this  than  I  would  assert  in  the  mosque 
(once  St.  Sophia's),  that  Socrates  was  a  greater  man 
than  Mahomet.  But  if  I  say  that  he  is  very  near  them, 
it  is  no  more  than  has  been  asserted  of  Burns,  who  .s 
supposed 

"  To  rival  all  but  Shakspeare's  name  below." 
I  say  nothing  against  this  opinion.  But  of  what "  order" 
according  to  the  poetical  aristocracy,are  Burns's  poems? 
These  are  his  opus  magnum,  "  Tarn  O'Shanter,"  a  tale; 
the  "  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  a  descriptive  sketch : 
some  others  in  the  same  style  ;  the  rest  are  songs.  So 
much  for  the  rank  of  his  productions;  the  rank  of 
Burns  is  the  very  first  of  his  art.  Of  Pope  I  have  ex- 
pressed my  opinion  elsewhere,  as  also  of  the  effect 
which  the  present  attempts  at  poetry  have  had  upon 
our  literature.  If  any  great  national  or  natural  con- 
vulsion could  or  should  overwhelm  your  country,  in 
such  sort  as  to  sweep  Great  Britain  from  the  kingdoms 
of  the  earth,  and  leave  only  that,  after  all  the  most 
living  of  human  things,  a  dead  language,  to  be  studied 
and  read,  and  imitated,  by  the  wise  of  future  and  far 
generations  upon  foreign  shores ;  if  your  literature 
should  become  the  learning  of  mankind,  divested  of 
party  cabals,  temporary  fashions,  and  national  pride 
and  prejudice ;  an  Englishman,  anxious  that  the  pos- 
terity of  strangers  should  know  that  there  had  been 
such  a  thing  as  a  British  Epic  and  Tragedy,  might  wish 
for  the  preservation  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton ;  bui 
the  surviving  world  would  snatch  Pope  from  the  wreck, 
and  let  the  rest  sink  with  the  people.  He  is  the  moral 
poet  of  all  civilization,  and,  as  such,  let  us  hope  that 
he  will  one  day  be  the  national  poet  of  mankind .  He 
is  the  only  poet  that  never  shocks  ;  the  only  poet  whose 
faultlessness  has  been  made  his  reproach.  Cast  your 
eye  over  his  productions ;  consider  their  extent,  and 


LETTER  ON  BOWLES'S  STRICTURES  ON  POPE. 


contemplate  their  variety : — pastoral,  passion,  mock- 
neroic,  translation,  satire,  ethics, — all  excellent,  and 
often  perfef  t.  If  his  great  charm  be  his  melody,  how 
comes  it  that  foreigners  adore  him  even  in  their  diluted 
translation  ?  But  I  have  made  this  letter  too  long. 
G:./d  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Bowles. 

Yours  ever,  very  truly, 

BYRON. 
To  J.  Murray,  Esq. 

Post  scriptum. — Long  as  this  letter  has  grown,  I 
ftcd  it  necessary  to  append  a  postscript, — if  possible,  a 
short  ane.  Mr.  Bowles  denies  that  he  has  accused  Pope 
of  "a  sordid  money-getting  passion;"  but  he  adds  "if 
I  had  ever  done  so,  I  should  be  glad  to  find  any  testi- 
mony that  might  show  me  he  was  not  so."  This  testi- 
mony he  may  find  to  his  heart's  content  in  Spence 
and  elsewhere.  First,  there  is  Martha  Blount,  who, 
Mr.  Bowles  charitably  says,  "  probably  thought  he  did 
not  save  enough  for  her  as  legatee."  Whatever  she 
thought  upon  this  point,  her  words  are  in  Pope's  favour. 
Then  there  is  Alderman  Barber — see  Spence's  Anec- 
dotes. There  is  Pope's  cold  answer  to  Halifax,  when  he 
proposed  a  pension ;  his  behaviour  to  Craggs  and  to 
Addison  upon  like  occasions ;  and  his  own  two  lines — 

"And,  thanks  to  Homer,  since  I  live  and  thrive. 
Indebted  to  no  prince  or  peer  alive — " 

written  when  princes  would  have  been  proud  to  pen- 
sion, and  peers  to  promote  him,  and  when  the  whole 
army  of  dunces  were  in  array  against  him,  and  would 
have  been  but  too  happy  to  deprive  him  of  this  boast 
of  independence.  But  there  is  something  a  little  more 
serious  in  Mr.  Bowles's  declaration,  that  he  "would  have 
ipoken"  of  his  "noble  generosity  to  the  outcast,  Richard 
Savage,"  and  other  instances  of  a  compassionate  and 
generous  heart,  "had  they  occurred  to  his  recollection  when 
hi  wrote."  What !  is  it  come  to  this  ?  Does  Mr.  Bowles 
sit  down  to  write  a  minute  and  laboured  life  and  edition 
of  a  great  poet  ?  Does  he  anatomize  his  character, 
moral  and  poetical  ?  Does  he  present  us  with  his  faults 
and  with  his  foibles  ?  Does  he  sneer  at  his  feelings,  and 
doubt  of  his  sincerity  ?  Does  he  unfold  his  vanity  and 
duplicity?  and  then  omit  the  good  qualities  which 
might,  in  part,  have  "covered  this  multitude  of  sins?" 
and  then  plead  that  "they  did  not  occur  to  his  recollection?" 
Is  this  the  frame  of  mind  and  of  memory  with  which  the 
illustrious  dead  are  to  be  approached?  If  Mr.  Bowles, 
who  must  have  had  access  to  all  the  means  of  refreshing 
las  memory,  did  not  recollect  these  facts,  he  is  unfit  for 
liis  task  ;  but  if  he  did  recollect,  and  omit  them,  I  know 
not  what  he  is  fit  for,  but  I  know  what  would  be  fit 
ior  him.  Is  the  plea  of  "  not  recollecting"  such  promi- 
nent facts  to  be  admitted  ?  Mr.  Bowles  has  been  at  a 
jublic  school,  and,  as  I  have  been  publicly  educated 
a.so,  I  can  sympathize  with  his  predilection.  When  we 
were  in  the  third  form  even,  had  we  pleaded  on  the 
Monday  morning,  that  we  had  not  brought  up  the  Satur- 
day's exercise  because  "  we  had  forgotten  it,"  what 
would  have  been  the  reply  ?  -And  is  an  excuse,  which 
would  not  be  pardoned  to  a  school-boy,  to  pass  current 
fti  a  matter  which  so  nearly  concerns  'he  fame  of  the 
first  poet  of  his  age,  if  not  of  his  country?  If  Mr.  Bowles 
so  readily  forgets  the  virtues  of  others,  why  complain 
BO  grievously  that  others  have  a  better  memory  for  his 
»wn  faults  ?  They  are  but  the  faults  of  an  author ; 


while  the  virtues  he  omitted   from  his  catalogue  are 
essential  to  the  justice  due  to  a  man. 

Mr.  Bowles  appears,  indeed,  to  be  susceptible  beyond 
the  privilege  of  authorship.  There  is  a  plaintive  dedica- 
tion to  Mr.  Gifford,  in  which  he  is  made  responsible  for 
all  the  articles  of  the  Quarterly.  Mr.  Southey,  it  seems, 
"the  most  able  and  eloquent  writer  in  that  Review," 
approves  of  Mr.  Bowles's  publication.  Now,  it  seems 
to  me  the  more  impartial,  that,  notwithstanding  that  the 
great  writer  of  the  Quarterly  entertains  opinions  op- 
posite to  the  able'  article  on  Spence,  nevertheless  thai 
essay  was  permitted  to  appear.  Is  a  review  to  be  de- 
voted to  the  opinions  of  any  one  man?  Must  it  not 
vary  according  to  circumstances,  and  according  to  tha 
subjects  to  be  criticised?  I  fear  that  writers  must  tako 
the  sweets  and  bitters  of  the  public  journals  as  they 
occur,  and  an  author  of  so  long  a  standing  as  Mr.  Bowles 
might  have  become  accustomed  to  such  incidents ;  he 
might  be  angry,  but  not  astonished.  I  have  been  re- 
viewed in  the  Quarterly  almost  as  often  as  Mr.  Bowles, 
and  have  had  as  pleasant  things  said,  and  some  as  un- 
pleasant, as  could  well  be  pronounced.  In  the  review 
of"  The  Fall  of  Jerusalem,"  it  is  stated  that  I  have  de- 
voted "  my  powers,  etc.  to  the  worst  parts  of  mani- 
cheism,"  which,  being  interpreted,  means  that  I  wor- 
ship the  devil.  Now,  I  have  neither  written  a  reply,  nor 
complained  to  GifFord.  I  believe  that  I  observed  in  a 
letter  to  you,  that  I  thought  "  that  the  critic  might  have 
praised  Milman  without  finding  it  necessary  to  abuse 
me  ;"  but  did  I  not  add  at  the  same  time,  or  soon  after 
(apropos,  of  the  note  in  the  book  of  travels),  that  1 
would  not,  if  it  were  even  in  my  power,  have  a  single 
line  cancelled  on  my  account  in  that  nor  in  any  other 
publication? — Of  course,  I  reserve  to  myself  the  privi- 
lege of  response  when  necessary.  Mr.  Bowles  seems  in 
a  whimsical  state  about  the  article  on  Spence.  You 
know  very  well  that  I  am  not  in  your  confidence,  nor 
in  that  of  the  conductor  of  the  journal.  The  moment 
I  saw  that  article,  I  was  morally  certain  that  I  knew  the 
author  "  by  his  style."  You  will  tell  me  that  I  do  not 
know  him :  that  is  all  as  it  should  be  ;  keep  the  secret, 
so  shall  I,  though  no  one  has  ever  entrusted  it  to  me. 
He  is  not  the  person  whom  Mr.  Bowles  denounces.  Mr. 
Bowles's  extreme  sensibility  reminds  me  of  a  circum- 
stance which  occurred  on  board  of  a  frigate,  in  which 
I  was  a  passenger  and  guest  ot  the  captain's  for  a  con- 
siderable time.  The  surgeon  on  board,  a  very  gentle 
manly  young  man,  and  remarkably  able  in  his  profes 
sion,  wore  a  wig.  Upon  this  ornament  he  was  extremely 
tenacious.  As  naval  jests  are  sometimes  a  little  rough, 
his  brother-officers  made  occasional  allusions  to  this 
delicate  appendage  to  the  doctor's  person.  One  day  a 
young  lieutenant,  in  the  course  of  a  facetious  discus- 
sion, said,  "  Suppose,  now,  doctor,  I  should  take  off 
your  hat."  "  Sir,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  I  shaii  talk  no 
longer  with  you  ;  you  grow  scurrilous."  He  would  not 
even  admit  so  near  an  approach  as  to  the  hat  which 
protected  it.  In  like  manner,  if  any  body  approaches 
Mr.  Bowles's  laurels,  even  in  his  outside  capacity  of  an 
editor,  "they  grow  scurrilous."  You  say  that  you  are 
about  to  prepare  an  edition  of  Pope ;  you  cannot  do 
better  for  your  own  credit  a?  a  publisher,  nor  for  the  10- 
demption  of  Pope  from  Mr.  Bowles,  and  of  the  pubiM 
taste  from  rapid  degeneracy. 


(     562     ) 


June  17,  1816. 

If  the  year  17 — .  having  for  some  time  determined 
on  a  journey  through  countries  not  hitherto  much  fre- 
quented by  travellers,  I  set  out,  accompanied  by  a  friend 
wnom  I  shall  designate  by  the  name  of  Augustus  Dar- 
rell.  He  was  a  few  years  my  elder,  and  a  man  of  con- 
siderable fortune  and  ancient  family — advantages  which 
an  extensive  capacity  prevented  him  alike  from  under- 
valuing or  overrating.  Some  peculiar  circumstances  in 
his  private  history  had  rendered  him  to  me  an  object 
of  attention,  of  interest,  and  even  of  regard,  which 
neither  the  reserve  of  his  manners,  nor  occasional  indi- 
cations of  an  inquietude  at  times  nearly  approaching  to 
alienation  of  mind,  could  extinguish. 

I  was  yet  young  in  life,  which  I  had  begun  early ; 
but  my  intimacy  with  him  was  of  a  recent  date :  we  had 
been  educated  at  the  same  schools  and  university  ;  but 
his  progress  through  these  had  preceded  mine,  and  he 
had  been  deeply  initiated  into  what  is  called  the  world, 
while  I  was  yet  in  my  noviciate.  While  thus  engaged,  I 
had  heard  much  both  of  his  past  and  present  life  ;  and, 
although  in  these  accounts  there  were  many  and  irre- 
concilable contradictions,  I  could  still  gather  from  the 
whole  that  he  was  a  being  of  no  common  order,  and 
one  who,  whatever  pains  he  might  take  to  avoid  re- 
mark, would  still  be  remarkable.  I  had  cultivated  his 
acquaintance  subsequently,  and  endeavoured  to  obtain 
his  friendship,  but  tliis  last  appeared  to  be  unattainable; 
whatever  affections  he  might  have  possessed  seemed 
now,  some  to  have  been  extinguished,  and  others  to  be 
concentred :  that  his  feelings  were  acute,  I  had  suffi- 
cient opportunities  of  observing ;  for,  although  he  could 
control,  he  could  not  altogether  disguise  them :  still  he 
had  a  power  of  giving  to  one  passion  the  appearance  of 
another  in  such  a  manner  that  it  was  difficult  to  define 
the  nature  of  what  was  working  within  him ;  and  the 
expressions  of  his  features  would  vary  so  rapidly,  though 
slightly,  that  it  was  useless  to  trace  them  to  their  sources. 
It  was  evident  that  he  was  a  prey  to  some  cureless  dis- 
quiet ;  but  whether  it  arose  from  ambition,  love,  re- 
morse, grief,  from  one  or  all  of  these,  or  merely  from 
a  morbid  temperament  akin  to  disease,  I  could  not  dis- 
cover :  there  were  circumstances  alleged  which  might 
have  justified  the  application  to  each  of  these  causes ; 
but,  as  I  have  before  said,  these  were  so  contradictory 
and  contradicted,  that  none  could  be  fixed  upon  with 
accuracy.  Where  there  is  mystery,  it  is  generally  sup- 
posed that  there  must  also  be  evil :  I  know  not  how  this 
may  be,  but  in  him  there  certainly  was  the  one,  though 
I  could  not  ascertain  the  extent  of  the  other — and  felt 
loth,  as  far  as  regarded  himself,  to  believe  in  its  exist- 
ence. My  advances  were  received  with  sufficient  cold- 
ness ;  but  I  was  young,  and  not  easily  discouraged,  and 
at  lengtn  s^'-ceded  in  obtaining,  to  a  certain  degree, 
that  commonplace  intercourse  and  moderate  confidence 
of  common  and  every-day  concerns,  created  and  ce- 
.Tientf.J  by  similarity  of  pursuit  and  frequency  of  meet- 
ing, which  is  called  intimacy,  or  friendship,  according  to 
rlie  ideas  of  him  who  uses  those  words  to  express  them. 

Uarvell  had  already  travelled  extensively,  and  to  him 
i  nod  applied  for  information  with  regard  to  the  con- 


duct of  my  intended  journey.  It  was  my  secret  wisa 
that  he  might  be  prevailed  on  to  accompany  me :  it  wa* 
also  a  probable  hope,  founded  upon  the  shadowy  rest- 
lessness which  I  had  observed  in  him,  and  to  which  the 
animation  which  he  appeared  to  feel  on  such  subjects, 
and  his  apparent  indifference  to  all  by  which  he  was 
more  immediately  surrounded,  gave  fresh  strength. 
This  wish  I  first  hinted,  and  then  expressed :  his  answer, 
though  I  had  partly  expected  it,  gave  me  all  the  pleasure 
of  surprise — he  consented ;  and,  after  the  requisite  ar- 
rangements, we  commenced  our  voyages.  After  journey- 
ing through  various  countries  of  the  south  of  Europe, 
our  attention  was  turned  towards  the  east,  according 
to  our  original  destination ;  and  it  was  in  my  progress 
through  those  regions  that  the  incident  occurred  upon 
which  will  turn  what  I  may  have  to  relate. 

The  constitution  of  Darvell,  which  must,  from  his 
appearance,  have  been  in  early  life  more  than  usually 
robust,  had  been  for  some  time  gradually  giving  way, 
without  the  intervention  of  any  apparent  disease :  he 
had  neither  cough  nor  hectic,  yet  he  became  daily 
more  enfeebled:  his  habits  were  temperate,  and  he 
neither  declined  nor  complained  of  fatigue,  yet  he  was 
evidently  wasting  away :  he  became  more  and  more 
silent  and  sleepless,  and  at  length  so  seriously  altered, 
that  my  alarm  grew  proportionate  to  what  I  conceived 
to  be  his  danger. 

We  had  determined,  on  our  arrival  at  Smyrna,  on 
an  excursion  to  the  ruins  of  Ephesus  and  Sardis,  from 
which  I  endeavoured  to  dissuade  him,  in  his  present 
state  of  indisposition — but  in  vain :  there  appeared  to  be 
an  oppression  on  his  mind,  and  a  solemnity  in  his  man- 
ner, which  ill  -'responded  with  his  eagerness  to  proceed 
on  what  I  res^  rted  as  a  mere  party  of  pleasure,  littls 
suited  to  a  valetudinarian  ;  but  I  opposed  him  no  longer 
— and  in  a  few  days  we  set  off  together,  accompanied 
only  by  a  serrugee  and  a  single  janizary. 

We  had  passed  half-way  towards  the  remains  of 
Ephesus,  leaving  behind  us  the  more  fertile  environs  of 
Smyrna,  and  were  entering  upon  that  wild  and  ten- 
antless  track  through  the  marshes  and  defiles  which 
lead  to  the  few  huts  yet  lingering  over  the  broken  col- 
umns of  Diana — the  roofless  walls  of  expelled  Christi- 
anity, and  the  still  more  recent  but  complete  desolation 
of  abandoned  mosques — when  the  sudden  and  rapid  ill- 
ness of  my  companion  obliged  us  to  halt  at  a  Turkish 
cemetery,  the  turbaned  tombstones  of  which  were  the 
sole  indication  that  human  life  had  ever  been  a  sojourner 
in  this  wilderness.  The  only  caravansera  we  had  seen 
was  left  some  hours  behind  us ;  not  a  vestige  of  a  town 
or  even  cottage,  was  within  sight  or  hope,  and  this  "city 
of  the  dead"  appeared  to  be  the  sole  refuge  for  my  un- 
fortunate friend,  who  seemed  on  the  verge  of  becoming 
the  last  of  its  inhabitants. 

In  this  situation,  I  looked  round  for  a  place  where  he 
might  most  conveniently  repose : — contrary  to  the  usual 
aspect  of  Mahometan  burial-giounds,  the  cypresses 
were  in  this  few  in  number,  and  these  thinly  scattered 
over  its  extent :  the  tombstones  were  mostly  fallen,  and 
worn  with  age:  upon  one  of  the  most  considerable  <•! 
these,  and  beneath  one  of  the  most  soreadmg  (r«e» 


PARLIAMENTARY  SPEECHES. 


553 


r*nrvell  supported  himself,  in  a  half-reclining  posture, 
with  great  difficulty.  He  asked  for  water.  I  had  some 
doubts  of  our  being  able  to  find  any,  and  prepared  to  go 
in  search  of  it  with  hesitating  despondency — but  he 
desired  me  to  remain ;  and,  turning  to  Suleiman,  our 
janizary,  who  stood  by  us  smoking  with  great  tranquil- 
lity, he  said,  "  Suleiman,  verbana  su,"  (i.  e.  brinjr  some 


«  Why  ?" 

"You  will  see." 

«* The  ninth  day  of  the  month,  you  say?" 

"  The  ninth." 

As  I  observed  that  the  present  was  the  ninth  day  o» 
the  month,  his  countenance  changed,  and  he  paused.  At 
he  sate,  evidently  becoming  more  feeble,  a  stork,  with  e 


water),  and  went  on  describing  the  spot  where  it  was  to  j  snake  in  her  beak,  perched  upon  a  tombstone  near  us ; 
be  found  with  great  minuteness,  at  a  small  well  for !  and,  without  devouring  her  prey,  appeared  to  be  sted- 
camels,  a  few  hundred  yards  to  the  right :  the  janizary  j  fastly  regarding  us.  I  know  not  what  impelled  me  to 


obeyed  i  said  to  Darvell,  "  How  did  you  know  this  ?" 


drive  it  away,  but  the  attempt  was  useless  ;  she  made  a 


— He  replied,  "  From  our  situation  ;  you  must  perceive  few  circles  in  the  air,  and  returned  exactly  to  the  same 
"hat  this  place  was-  once  inhabited,  and  could  not  have  j  spot.  Danrell  pointed  to  it,  and  smiled :  he  spoke — 1 
Aeen  so  without  springs :  I  have  also  been  here  before." « know  not  whether  to  himself  or  to  me — but  the  words 

"  You  have  been  here  before ! — How  came  you  never  were  only,  "'T  is  well !" 
lo  mention  this  to  me  ?  and  what  could  you  be  doing  in 
a  place  where  no  one  would  remain  a  moment  longer 
than  they  could  help  it?" 


To  this  question  I  received  no  answer.   In  the  mean-  i 


"  What  is  well  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 
•*  No  matter :  you  must  bury  me  here  this  evening, 
and  exactly  where  that  bird  is  now  perched.  You  know 


the  rest  of  my  injunctions." 


fune,  Suleiman  returned  with  the  water,  leaving  the  ser-  |  He  then  proceeded  to  give  me  several  directions  a* 
nigee  and  the  horses  at  the  fountain.  The  quenching  of'  to  the  manner  in  which  his  death  might  be  best  con 
his  thirst  had  the  appearance  of  reviving  him  for  a  mo-  cealed.  After  these  were  finished,  he  exclaimed,  "  Yo« 
ment ;  and  I  conceived  hopes  of  his  being  able  to  pro-  'perceive  that  bird?" 


eced,  or  at  least  to  return,  and  I  urged  the  attempt.  He 
was  silent — and  appeared  to  be  collecting  his  spirits  for 
an  effort  to  speak.  He  began. 

"  This  is  the  end  of  my  journey,  and  of  my  life— 1 
came  here  to  die :  but  I  have  a  request  to  make,  a 
command — for  such  my  last  words  must  be. — You  will 
observe  it?" 

"  Most  certainly ;  but  have  better  hopes." 

"  I  have  no  hopes,  nor  wishes,  but  this — conceal  my 
death  from  every  human  being." 

u  I  hope  there  will  be  no  occasion ;  that  you  win  re- 
o?ver,  and " 

u  Peace !  it  must  be  so :   promise  this." 

"Ido.-' 

"  Swear  it  by  all  Ihst" He  here  dictated  an  oath 

of  great  solemnity. 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  this — 1  T»2!  observe  your 


request ;  and  to  doubt  me  is " 

44  It  cannot  be  helped,  you  must  swear." 


1  Certainly." 

"  And  the  serpent  writhing  in  her  beak  ?" 

"  Doubtless :  there  is  nothing  uncommon  in  it ;  it « 
her  natural  prey.  But  it  is  odd  that  she  does  not  de- 
vour it." 

He  smiled  in  a  ghastly  manner,  and  said,  faintly,  u  It 
is  not  yet  time !"  As  he  spoke,  the  stork  flew  away. 
My  eyes  followed  it  for  a  moment ;  rt  could  hardly  be 
longer  than  ten  might  be  counted.  I  feh  Darvell's 
weight,  as  it  were,  increase  upon  my  shoulder,  and, 
turning  to  look  upon  his  face,  perceived  that  he  was 
dead! 

I  was  shocked  with  the  sudden  certainty  which  cauld 
not  be  mistaken — his  countenance  in  a  few  minutes 
became  nearly  black.  I  should  have  attributed  so  rapid 
a  change  to  poison,  had  I  not  been  aware  that  he  had 
no  opportunity  of  receiving  it  unperceived.  The  day 


was  declining,  the  body   was   rapidly   altering,  and 
nothing  remained  but  to  fulfil  his  request.  With  the  aid 

I  took  the  oath  :  it  appeared  to  relieve  him.  He  re-  j  of  Suleiman's  ataghan  and  my  own  sabre,  we  scooped 
moved  a  seal-ring  from  his  finger,  on  which  were  some  '  a  shallow  grave  upon  the  spot  which  Darvell  had  indi 
Arabic  characters,  and  presented  it  to  me.  He  pro-  jcated:  the  earth  easily  gave  way,  having  already  received 
ceeded —  (some  Mahometan  tenant.  We  dug  as  deeplv  as  the 

"'On  the  ninth  day  of  the  month,  at  noon  precisely  time  permitted  us,  and  throwing  the  dry  earth  upon  all 
(what  month  you  please,  but  this  must  be  the  day),  you  '  that  remained  of  the  singular  being  so  latelv  departed, 
must  fling  this  ring  into  the  salt  springs  which  run  into !  we  cut  a  few  sods  of  greener  turf  from  the  less  withered 
the  Bay  of  Eleusis  :  the  day  after,  at  the  same  hour, '  soil  around  us,  and  laid  them  upon  his  sepulchre, 
you  must  repair  to  the  ruins  of  the  temple  of  Ceres,  I     Between  astonishment  and  grief,  I  was  tearless, 
and  wait  one  hour."  *  *  ***** 


pcccftcs. 


UEBATE  ON  THE   FRAME-WORK  BILL,  IX  THE 
HOUSE  OF  LORDS,  FEBRUARY  27,  1812. 

THE  order  of  the  day  for  the  second  reading  of  this 
bill  being  read, 

LORD  BYRON  rose,  and  (for  the  first  time)  ad- 
eresseJ  their  lordships,  as  follows: 
2x2  75 


Mr  LORDS — the  subject  now  submitted  to  your  loro- 
ships  for  the  first  time,  though  new  M  the  House,  is  by 
no  rowans  new  to  the  country.  I  believe  it  haJ  occtr 
pied  the  serious  thoughts  of  all  descriptions  of  perauna, 
long  before  its  introduction  to  the  notice  of  that  legis- 
lature, whose  interference  alone  could  be  of  real  «cr 
vice.  As  a  person  in  tone  degree  connected  wfch  tfa* 


554 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


suffering  county,  though  i  stranger  not  only  to  this 
House  in  general,  but  to  almost  every  individual  whose 
attention  I  presume  to  solicit,  I  must  claim  some  por- 
tion of  your  lordships'  indulgence  whilst  I  offer  a  few 
observations  on  a  question  in  which  1  confess  myself 
deeply  interested. 

To  enter  into  any  detail  of  the  riots  would  be  super- 
fluous :  the  House  is  already  aware  that  every  outrage 
short  of  actual  bloodshed  has  been  perpetrated,  and 
that  the  proprietors  of  the  frames  obnoxious  to  the 
rioters,  and  all  persons  supposed  to  be  connected 
with  them,  have  been  liable  to  insult  and  violence. 
During  the  short  time  I  recently  passed  in  Nottingham- 
shire, not  twelve  hours  elapsed  without  some  fresh  act 
of  violence  ;  and  on  the  day  I  left  the  county,  I  was  in- 
formed that  forty  frames  had  been  broken  the  preced- 
ing evening,  as  usual,  without  resistance  and  without 
detection. 

Such  was  then  the  state  of  that  county,  and  such  I 
have  reason  to  believe  it  to  be  at  this  moment.  But 
whilst  these  outrages  must  be  admitted  to  exist  to  an 
alarming  extent,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  they  have 
arisen  from  circumstances  of  the  most  unparalleled 
distress.  The  perseverance  of  these  miserable  men  in 
their  proceedings,  tends  to  prove  that  nothing  but  abso- 
lute want  could  have  driven  a  large,  and  once  honest 
and  industrious,  body  of  the  people,  into  the  commission 
of  excesses  so  hazardous  to  themselves,  their  families, 
and  the  community.  At  the  time  to  which  I  allude, 
the  town  and  county  were  burthened  with  large  detach- 
ments of  the  military ;  the  police  was  in  motion,  the 
magistrates  assembled;  yet  all  the  movements,  civil  and 
military,  had  led  to — nothing.  Not  a  single  instance 
had  occurred  of  the  apprehension  of  any  real  delinquent 
actually  taken  in  the  fact,  against  whom  there  existed 
legal  evidence  sufficient  for  conviction.  But  the  police, 
however  useless,  were  by  no  means  idle  :  several  noto- 
rious delinquents  had  been  detected  ;  men,  liable  to 
conviction,  on  the  clearest  evidence,  of  the  capital  crime 
of  poverty :  men  who  had  been  nefariously  guilty  of 
lawfully  begetting  several  children,  whom,  thanks  to 
the  times  !  they  were  unable  to  maintain.  Considerable 
injury  has  been  done  to  the  proprietors  of  the  improved 
frames.  These  machines  were  to  them  an  advantage, 
inasmuch  as  they  superseded  the  necessity  of  employing 
a  number  of  workmen,  who  were  left  in  consequence 
to  starve.  By  the  adoption  of  one  species  of  frame  in 
particular,  one  man  performed  the  work  of  many,  and 
the  superfluous  labourers  were  thrown  out  of  employ- 
ment. Yet  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  work  thus 
executed  was  inferior  in  quality  ;  not  marketable  at 
home,  and  merely  hurried  over  with  a  view  to  exporta- 
tion. It  was  called,  in  the  cant  of  the  trade,  by  the 
name  of  "  Spider  work."  The  rejected  workmen,  in 
the  blindness  of  their  ignorance,  instead  of  rejoicing  at 
these  improvements  in  arts  so  beneficial  to  mankind, 
conceived  themselves  to  be  sacrificed  to  improvements 
in  mechanism.  In  the  foolishness  of  their  hearts  they 
imagined,  that  the  maintenance  and  well-doing  of  the 
industrious  poor  were  objects  of  greater  consequence 
than  the  enrichment  of  a  few  individuals  by  any  im- 
provement, in  the  implements  of  trade,  which  threw 
Ihe  workmen  out  of  employment,  and  rendered  the 
labourer  unworthy  of  his  hire.  And  it  must  be  con- 
incsiid  tha  although  the  adoption  of  the  enlarged  ma- 


chinery, in  that  state  of  our  commerce  which  the  court- 
try  once  boasted,  might  have  been  beneficial  to  the 
master  without  being  detrimental  to  the  servant ;  yet. 
in  the  present  situation  of  our  manufactures,  rotting  in 
warehouses,  without  a  prospect  of  exportation,  with 
the  demand  for  work  and  workmen  equally  diminished ; 
frames  of  this  description  tend  materially  to  aggravate 
the  distress  and  discontent  of  the  disappointed  sufferers. 
But  the  real  cause  of  these  distresses  and  consequent 
disturbances  lies  deeper.  When  we  are  told  that  these 
men  are  leagued  together  not  only  for  the  destruction 
of  their  own  comfort,  but  of  their  very  means  of  sub- 
sistence,  can  we  forget  that  it  is  the  bitter  policy,  the 
destructive  warfare  of  the  last  eighteen  years,  which 
has  destroyed  their  comfort,  your  comfort,  all  men's 
comfort?  That  policy  which,  originating  wilh  "  great 
statesmen  now  no  more,"  has  survived  the  dead  to  be- 
come a  curse  on  the  living,  unto  the  third  and  fourth 
generation !  These  men  never  destroyed  their  looms 
till  they  were  become  useless,  worse  than  useless  ;  till 
they  were  become  actual  impediments  to  their  exertions 
in  obtaining  their  daily  bread.  Can  you,  then,  wonder 
that  in  times  like  these,  when  bankruptcy,  convicted 
fraud,  and  imputed  felony  are  found  in  a  station  not 
far  beneath  that  of  your  lordships,  the  lowest,  though 
once  most  useful  portion  of  the  people,  should  forget 
their  duty  in  their  distresses,  and  become  only  less 
guilty  than  one  of  their  representatives  ?  But  while  the 
exalted  offender  can  find  means  to  baffle  the  law,  new 
capital  punishments  must  be  devised,  new  snares  of 
death  must  be  spread  for  the  wretched  mechanic,  who 
is  famished  into  guilt.  These  men  were  willing  to  d«g, 
but  the  spade  was  in  other  hands :  they  were  not 
ashamed  to  beg,  but  there  was  none  to  relieve  them : 
their  own  means  of  subsistence  were  cut  off,  all  other 
employments  pre-occupied,  and  their  excesses,  however 
to  be  deplored  and  condemned,  can  hardly  be  subject 
of  surprise. 

It  has  been  stated  that  the  persons  in  the  temporary 
possession  of  frames  connive  at  their  destruction  ;  if 
this  be  proved  upon  inquiry,  it  were  necessary  that  such 
material  accessaries  to  the  crime  should  be  principals 
in  the  punishment.  But  I  did  hope,  that  any  measure 
proposed  by  his  majesty's  government,  for  your  lord- 
ship's decision,  would  have  had  conciliation  for  its  basis; 
or,  if  that  were  hopeless,  that  some  previous  inquiry, 
some  deliberation  would  have  been  deemed  requisite; 
not  that  we  should  have  been  called  at  once  with- 
out examination,  and  without  cause,  to  pass  sentences 
by  wholesale,  and  sign  death-warrants  blindfold.  But 
admitting  that  these  men  had  no  cause  of  complaint ; 
that  the  grievances  of  them  and  their  employers  were 
alike  groundless  ;  that  they  deserved  the  worst ;  what 
inefficiency,  what  imbecility  has  been  evinced  in  the 
method  chosen  to  reduce  them !  Why  were  the  military 
called  out  to  be  made  a  mockery  of,  if  ,hey  were  to  be 
called  out  at  all  ?  As  far  as  the  difference  of  seasons 
would  permit,  they  have  merely  parodied  the  summer 
campaign  of  Major  Sturgeon;  and,  indeed,  the  whole 
proceedings,  civil  and  military,  seemed  on  the  mode  of 
those  of  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  of  Garratt. — Such 
marchings  and  counter-marchings  !  from  Nottingham 
to  Bullwell,  from  Bullwell  to  Banford,  from  Banford  to 
Mansfield  !  and  when  at  length  the  detachments  arrived 
at  their  destinations,  in  all  "  the  pride,  pomp,  ai-d  ci^- 


PARLIAMENTARY  SPEECHES. 


rumstance  of  glorious  war,"  they  came  just  in  time  lo 
witness  the  mischief  which  had  been  done,  and  ascertain 
the  escape  of  the  perpetrators,  to  collect  the  "  spolia 
trpima"  in  the  fragments  of  broken  frames,  and  return 
to  their  quarters  amidst  the  derision  of  old  women,  and 
the  hootings  of  children.  Now,  though  in  a  free  country, 
it  were  to  be  wished  that  our  military  should  never  be  too 
formidable,  at  least  to  ourselves,  I  cannot  see  the  policy  of 
placing  them  in  situations  where  they  can  only  be  made 
ridiculous.  As  the  sword  is  the  worst  argument  that  can 
be  used,  so  should  it  be  the  last.  In  this  instance  it  has 
been  the  first ;  but  providentially  as  yet  only  in  the 
scabbard.  The  present  measure  will,  indeed,  pluck  it 
from  the  sheath  ;  yet  had  proper  meetings  been  held  in 
the  earlier  stages  of  these  riots, — had  the  grievances  of 
these  men  and  their  masters  (for  they  also  had  their 
grievances)  been  fairly  weighed  and  justly  examined,  I 
do  think  that  means  might  have  been  devised  to  restore 
these  workmen  to  their  avocations,  and  tranquillity  to 
the  county.  At  present  the  county  suffers  from  the 
double  infliction  of  an  idle  military,  and  a  starving 
population.  In  what  state  of  apathy  have  we  been 
plunged  so  long,  that  now  for  the  first  time  the  House 
has  been  officially  apprized  of  these  disturbances !  All 
this  has  been  transacting  within  130  miles  of  London, 
and  yet  we,  "  good  easy  men,  have  deemed  full  sure 
our  greatness  was  a-ripening,"  and  have  sat  down  to 
enjoy  our  foreign  triumphs  in  the  midst  of  domestic 
calamity.  But  all  the  cities  you  have  taken,  all  the 
armies  which  have  retreated  before  your  leaders,  are 
but  paltry  subjects  of  self-congratulation,  if  your  land 
divides  against  itself,  and  your  dragoons  and  your  exe- 
cutioners must  be  let  loose  against  your  fellow-citizens. 
—You  call  these  men  a  mob,  desperate,  dangerous, 
and  ignorant ;  and  seem  to  think  that  the  only  way  to 
quiet  the  "  Bellua  mullorum  capitum  "  is  to  lop  off"  a 
few  of  its  superfluous  heads.  But  even  a  mob  may 
be  better  reduced  to  reason  by  a  mixture  of  concilia- 
tion and  firmness,  than  by  additional  irritation  and  re- 
doubled penalties.  Are  we  aware  of  our  obligations 
to  a  mob  ?  It  is  the  mob  that  labour  in  your  fields,  and 
serve  in  your  houses, — that  man  your  navy,  and  recruit 
your  army, — that  have  enabled  you  to  defy  all  the 
world,  and  can  also  defy  you  when  neglect  and  ca- 
lamity have  driven  them  to  despair.  You  may  call  the 
people  a  mob  ;  but  do  not  forget,  that  a  mob  too  often 
speaks  the  sentiments  of  the  people.  And  here  I 
must  remark,  with  what  alacrity  you  are  accustomed 
lo  fly  to  the  succour  of  your  distressed  allies,  leaving 
the  distressed  of  your  own  country  to  the  care  of  Provi- 
dence, or — the  parish.  When  the  Portuguese  suffered 
under  the  retreat  of  the  French,  every  arm  was  stretch- 
ed out,  every  hand  was  opened,  from  the  rich  man's 
largess  to  the  widow's  mite,  all  was  bestowed  to  enable 
ihem  to  rebuild  their  villages  and  replenish  their  gran- 
aries. And  at  this  moment,  when  thousands  of  misguided 
•jut  most  unfortunate  fellow-countrymen  are  strug- 
gling with  the  extremes  of  hardships  and  hunger,  as 
<our  charity  began  abroad,  it  should  end  at  home.  A 
4iuch  less  sum,  a  tithe  of  the  bounty  bestowed  on  Por- 
tugal, even  if  those  men  (which  I  cannot  admit  with- 
out inquiry)  could  not  have  been  restored  to  their  em- 
ployments, would  have  rendered  unnecessary  the  ten- 
der mercies  of  the  bayonet  and  the  gibbet.  But 
doubtless  our  friends  have  too  many  foreign  claims  to 
wid'.  i  orosnect  of  domestic  relief;  though  never  did 


such  objects  demand  it.  I  have  traversed  the  seat  of 
war  in  the  Peninsula,  I  have  been  in  some  of  the  most 
oppressed  provinces  of  Turkey,  but  never  under  the 
most  despotic  of  infidel  governments  did  I  behold  such 
squalid  wretchedness  as  I  have  seen  since  my  return 
in  the  very  heart  of  a  Christian  country.  And  what 
are  your  remedies  ?  After  months  of  inaction,  and 
months  of  action  worse  than  inactivity,  at  length  comes 
forth  (he  grand  specific,  the  never-failing  nostrum  o 
all  state  physicians,  from  the  days  of  Draco  to  the 
present  time.  After  feeling  the  pulse  and  shaking  the 
head  over  the  patient,  prescribing  the  usual  course  of 
warm  water  and  bleeding,  the  warm  water  of  your 
maukish  police,  and  th?  lancets  of  your  military,  these 
convulsions  must  termi  late  in  death,  the  sure  consum- 
mation of  the  prescrip1  ions  of  all  political  Sangrados. 
Setting  aside  the  palpable  injustice,  and  the  certain 
inefficiency  of  the  bill,  are  there  not  capital  punish- 
ments sufficient  in  your  statutes  ?  Is  there  not  blood 
enough  upon  your  penal  code,  that  more  must  be  poured 
forth  to  ascend  to  Heaven  and  testify  against  you  ? 
How  will  you  carry  the  bill  into  effect  ?  Can  you  com- 
mit a  whole  county  to  their  own  prison?  Will  you 
erect  a  gibbet  in  every  field,  and  hang  up  men  like 
scarecrows?  or  will  you  proceed  (as  you  must,  to 
bring  this  measure  into  effect)  by  decimation  ?  place 
the  country  under  martial  law  ?  depopulate  and  lay 
waste  all  around  you  ?  and  restore  Sherwood  Forest 
as  an  acceptable  gift  to  the  crown,  in  its  former  condi- 
tion of  a  royal  chase  and  an  asylum  for  outlaws?  Are 
these  the  remedies  for  a  starving  and  desperate  popu- 
lace ?  Will  the  famished  wretch  who  has  braved  your 
bayonets,  be  appalled  by  your  gibbets?  When  death 
is  a  relief,  and  the  only  relief  it  appears  that  you  will 
afford  him,  will  he  be  dragooned  into  tranquillity  ? 
Will  that  which  could  not  be  effected  by  your  grena- 
diers be  accomplished  by  your  executioners?  If  you 
proceed  by  the  forms  of  law,  where  is  your  evidence  ? 
Those  who  have  refused  to  impeach  their  accomplices, 
when  transportation  only  was  the  punishment,  will 
hardly  be  tempted  to  witness  against  them  when  death 
is  the  penalty.  With  all  due  deference  to  the  noble 
lords  opposite,  I  think  a  little  investigation,  some  pre- 
vious inquiry,  would  induce  even  them  to  change  their 
purpose.  That  most  favourite  state  measure,  so  mar 
vellously  efficacious  in  many  and  recent  instance? 
temporizing,  would  not  be  without  its  advantages  in 
this.  When  a  proposal  is  made  to  emancipate  or  re- 
lieve, you  hesitate,  you  deliberate  for  years,  you  tem- 
porize and  tamper  with  the  minds  of  men  ;  but  a  death- 
bill  must  be  passed  off  hand,  without  a  thought  of  the 
consequences.  Sure  I  am,  from  what  I  have  heard, 
and  from  what  I  have  seen,  that  to  pass  the  Bill  under 
all  the  existing  circumstances,  without  inquiry,  without 
deliberation,  would  only  be  to  add  injustice  to  irritation 
and  barbarity  to  neglect.  The  framers  of  such  a  Bit, 
must  be  content  to  inherit  the  honours  of  that  Athe- 
nian lawgiver  whose  edicts  were  said  to  be  written  nol 
in  ink,  but  in  blood.  But  suppose  it  past ;  suppose 
one  of  these  men,  as  I  have  seen  them, — meagre  with 
famine,  sullen  with  despai',  careless  of  a  life  whu.ii 
your  lordships  are  perhaps  about  to  value  at  some- 
thing less  than  the  price  of  a  stocking-frame  —  sup- 
pose this  man  surrounded  by  the  children  for  whom 
he  is  unable  to  procure  bread  at  the  hazard  of  b.*  ex- 
istence, about  to  be  torn  for  e\  er  from  a  fairu'y  v;htc* 


556 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ne  lately  supported  in  peaceful  industry,  and  which  it 
»  not  h  *  fault  th.it  he  can  ho  longer  so  support— sup- 
pose this  .nan,  and  there  are  ten  thousand  such  from 
whom  you  may  select  your  victims,  dragged  into 
court,  to  be  tried  for  this  new  offence,  by  this  new 
law ;  still,  there  are  two  things  wanting  to  convict 
and  condemn  him ;  and  these  are,  in  my  opinion, — 
twelve  Butchers  for  a  Jury,  and  a  Jefferies  for  a 
Judge ! 


DEBATE  ON  THE  EARL  OF  DOXOUGHMORE'S 
MOTION  FOR  A  COMMITTEE  OX  THE  ROMAN 
CATHOLIC  CLAIMS,  APRIL  21, 1812. 

MY  LORDS — the  question  before  the  House  has  been 
so  frequently,  fully,  and  ably  discussed,  and  never 
perhaps  more  ably  than  on  this  night,  that  it  would 
be  difficult  to  adduce  new  arguments  for  or  against  it. 
But  with  each  discussion  difficulties  have  been  removed, 
objections  have  been  canvassed  and  refuted,  and  some 
of  the  former  opponents  of  Catholic  Emancipation 
have  at  length  conceded  to  the  expediency  of  relieving 
the  petitioners.  In  conceding  thus  much,  however,  a 
new  objection  is  started ;  it  is  not  the  time,  say  they, 
or  it  is  an  improper  time,  or  there  is  time  enough  yet. 
In  some  degree  I  concur  with  those  who  say  it  is  not  the 
time  exactly ;  that  time  is  passed  ;  better  had  it  been 
for  the  country,  that  the  Catholics  possessed  at  this 
moment  their  proportion  of  our  privileges,  that  their 
nobles  hold  their  due  weight  in  our  councils,  than  that 
we  should  be  assembled  to  discuss  their  claims.  It  had 
indeed  been  better 

"  Non  tempore  tali 
Cogere  concilium  cum  rnuros  obsidct  hostis." 

The  enemy  is  without,  and  distress  within.  It  is  too  late 
to  cavil  on  doctrinal  points,  when  we  must  unite  in  de- 
fence of  things  more  important  than  the  mere  ceremo- 
nies of  religion.  It  is  indeed  singular,  that  we  are  called 
together  to  deliberate,  not  on  the  God  we  adore,  for  in 
that  we  are  agreed  ;  not  about  the  king  we  obey,  for  to 
him  we  are  loyal ;  but  how  far  a  difference  in  the 
ceremonials  of  worship,  how  far  believing  not  too  little, 
but  too  much  (the  worst  that  can  be  imputed  to  the 
Catholics),  how  far  too  much  devotion  to  their  God, 
may  incapacitate  our  fellow-subjects  from  effectually 
serving  their  king. 

Much  has  been  said,  within  and  without  doors,  of 
Church  and  State,  and  although  those  venerable  words 
have  been  too  often  prostituted  to  the  most  despica- 
ble of  party  purposes,  we  cannot  hear  them  too  often  ; 
all,  I  presume,  are  the  advocates  of  Church  and  State, 
the  Church  of  Christ,  and  the  State  of  Great  Britain  ; 
but  not  a  state  of  exclusion  and  despotism  ;  not  an  in- 
tolerant church  ;  not  a  church  militant,  which  renders 
ksell  liable  to  the  very  objection  urged  against  the 
Romish  communion,  and  in  a  greater  degree,  for  the 
Catholic  merely  withholds  its  spiritual  benediction 
(and  even  that  is  doubtful),  but  our  church,  or  rather 
our  churchmen,  not  only  refuse  to  the  Catholic  their 
spiritual  grace,  but  all  temporal  blessings  whatsoever. 
(•  wks  an  observation  of  the  great  Lord  Peterborough, 
•  made  within  these  walls,  or  wi'hm  the  walls  where  the 
1  ,ords  then  assembled,  that  he  was  for  a  "  parliamen- 
tary king  and  a  parliamentary  constitution,  but  not  a 
•»iir!iamentary  God  and  a  parliamentary  religion." 


The  interval  of  a  century  has  not  weakened  the  fon  •» 
of  the  remark.  It  is  indeed  time  that  we  should  leav« 
off  these  petty  cavils  on  frivolous  points,  these  Lilli- 
putian sophistries,  whether  our  •*  eggs  art  best  brokei. 
at  the  broad  or  narrow  end." 

The  opponents  of  the  Catholics  may  be  divided  into 
two  classes  ;  those  who  assert  that  the  Catholics  have 
too  much  already,  and  those  who  allege  that  the  lonei 
orders,  at  least,  have  nothing  more  to  require.  We  irn 
told  by  the  former,  that  the  Catholics  never  will  be  con- 
tented: by  the  latter,  that  they  are  already  too  nappy. 
The  last  paradox  is  sufficiently  refuted  by  the  present, 
as  by  all  past  petitions :  it  might  as  well  be  said,  that 
the  negroes  did  not  desire  to  be  emancipated — but  this 
is  an  unfortunate  comparison,  for  you  have  alrcudy  de- 
livered them  out  of  the  house  of  bondage  without  any 
petition  on  their  part,  but  many  from  their  task-masters 
to  a  contrary  effect ;  and  for  myself,  when  I  consider 
this,  I  pity  the  Catholic  peasantry  for  not  having  the 
good  fortune  to  be  born  black.  But  the  Catholics  are 
contented,  or  at  least  ought  to  be,  as  we  are  told  :  I  shall 
therefore  proceed  to  touch  on  a  few  of  those  circum- 
stances which  so  marvellously  contribute  to  their  ex- 
ceeding contentment.  They  are  not  allowed  the  free 
exercise  of  their  religion  in  the  regular  army  ;  the 
Catholic  soldier  cannot  absent  himself  from  the  service 
of  the  Protestant  clergyman,  and,  unless  he  is  quartered 
in  Ireland,  or  in  Spain,  where  can  he  find  eligible  op- 
portunities of  attending  his  own  ?  The  permission  of 
Catholic  chaplains  to  the  Irish  militia  regiments  was 
conceded  as  a  special  favour,  and  not  till  after  years  of 
remonstrance,  although  an  act,  passed  in  1793,  estab- 
ished  it  as  a  right.  But  are  the  Catholics  properly 
protected  in  Ireland?  Can  the  church  purchase  a  rood 
of  land  whereon  to  erect  a  chapel  ?  No ;  all  the  places 
of  worship  are  built  on  leases  of  trust  or  sufferance  from 
the  laity,  easily  broken  and  often  betrayed.  The  moment 
any  irregular  wish,  any  casual  caprice  of  the  benevolent 
landlord  meets  with  opposition,  the  doors  are  barred 
against  the  congregation.  This  has  happened  continual- 
ly, but  in  no  instance  more  glaringly,  than  at  the  town 
ofNewtown  Barry,  in  the  county  of  Wexford.  The 
C  atholics,  enjoying  no  regular  chapel,  as  a  temporary  ex- 
pedient, hired  two  barns,  which,  being  thrown  into  on», 
served  for  public  worship.  At  this  time,  there  was  quar- 
tered opposite  to  the  spot  an  officer,  whose  mind  appears 
to  have  been  deeply  imbued  with  those  prejudices  which 
the  Protestant  petitions,  now  on  the  table,  prove  to 
have  been  fortunately  eradicated  from  the  more  rational 
portion  of  the  people;  and  when  the  Catholics  were 
assembled  on  the  Sabbath  as  usual,  in  peace  and  good- 
will towards  men,  for  the  worship  of  their  God  and 
yours,  they  found  the  chapel  door  closed,  and  were 
told  that  if  they  did  not  immediately  retire  (and  they 
were  told  this  by  a  yeoman  officer  and  a  magistrate), 
the  riot  act  should  be  read,  and  the  assembly  dispersed 
at  the  point  of  the  bayonet !  This  was  complained  of  to 
the  middle-man  of  government,  the  secretary  at  the 
Castle  in  1806,  and  the  answer  was  (in  lieu  of  redress) 
that  he  would  cause  a  letter  to  be  written  to  the  colonel 
to  prevent,  if  possible,  the  recurrence  of  similar  dis- 
turbances. Upon  this  fact,  no  very  great  stress  need  be 
laid ;  but  it  tends  to  prove  that  while  the  Catholic  church 
has  not  power  to  purchase  land  for  its  chapels  to  stand 
upon,  the  laws  for  its  protection  are  of  no  avail.  In  the 
mean  time,  the  Catholics  are  at  mo  mercv  ot  ever» 


PARLIAMENTARY  SPEECHES. 


"pelting  potty  officer,"  who  may  choose  to  play  his 
"  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven,"  to  insult  his  God, 
and  injure  his  fellow-creatures. 

Every  school-boy,  any  foot-boy  (such  have  held  com- 
missions in  our  service),  any  foot -boy  who  can  exchange 
his  shoulder-knot  for  an  epaulet,  may  perform  all  this 
and  more  against  the  Catholic,  by  virtue  of  that  very 
authority  delegated  to  him  by  his  sovereign,  for  the 
express  purpose  of  defending  his  fellow-subjects  to  the 
last  drop  of  his  blood,  without  discrimination  or  dis- 
tinction between  Catholic  and  Protestant. 

Have  the  Irish  Catholics  the  full  benefit  of  trial  by 
jury  ?  They  have  not ;  they  never  can  have  until  they 
are  permitted  lo  share  the  privilege  of  serving  as 
sheriffs  and  under-sherifFs.  Of  this  a  striking  example 
occurred  at  the  last  Enniskillen  assizes.  A  yeoman  was 
arraigned  for  the  murder  of  a  Catholic  named  Mac- 
vournagh :  three  respectable  unconlradicted  witnesses 
deposed  that  they  saw  the  prisoner  load,  take  aim,  fire 
at,  and  kill  the  said  Macvournagh.  This  was  properly 
commented  on  by  the  judge  ;  but,  to  the  astonishment 
of  the  bar,  and  indignation  of  the  court,  the  Protestant 
juiy  acquitted  the  accused.  So  glaring  was  the  par- 
tiality, that  Mr.  Justice  Osborne  felt  it  his  duty  to  bind 
over  the  acquitted,  but  not  absolved  assassin,  in  large 
recognizances,  thus  for  a  time  taking  away  his  license 
to  kill  Catholics. 

Are  the  very  laws  passed  in  their  favour  observed  ? 
They  arc  rendered  nugatory  in  trivial  as  in  serious  cases. 
By  a  late  act,  Catholic  chaplains  are  permitted  in  jails, 
but  in  Fermanagh  county  the  grand  jury  lately  persisted 
in  presenting  a  suspended  clergyman  for  the  office, 
thereby  evading  the  statute,  notwithstanding  the  most 
pressing  remonstrances  of  a  most  respectable  magistrate, 
named  Fletcher,  to  the  contrary.  Such  is  law,  such  is 
justice,  for  the  happy,  free,  contented  Catholic ! 

It  has  been  asked  in  another  place,  why  do  not  the 
rich  Catholics  endow  foundations  for  the  education  of 
the  priesthood  ?  Why  do  you  not  permit  them  to  do  so  ? 
Why  are  all  such  bequests  subject  to  the  interference, 
the  vexatious,  arbitrary,  peculating  interference  of  the 
Orange  commissioners  for  charitable  donations  ? 

As  to  Maynooth  college,  in  no  instance,  except  at  the 
time  of  its  foundation,  when  a  noble  Lord  (Camden),  at 
ihe  head  of  the  Irish  administration,  did  appear  to  in- 
terest himself  in  its  advancement ;  and  during  the  gov- 
ernment of  a  noble  Duke  (Bedford),  who,  like  his 
ancestors,  has  ever  been  the  friend  of  freedom  and 
mankind,  and  who  has  not  so  far  adopted  the  selfish 
policy  of  the  day  as  to  exclude  the  Catholics  from  the 
number  of  his  fellow-creatures ;  with  these  exceptions, 
in  no  instance  has  that  institution  been  properly  en- 
couraged. There  was  indeed  a  time  when  the  Catholic 
•Jergy  were  conciliated,  while  the  Union  was  pending, 
«hat  Union  which  could  not  be  carried  without  them, 
while  their  assistance  was  requisite  in  procuring  ad- 
dresses from  the  Catholic  counties ;  then  they  were 
cajoled  and  caressed,  feared  and  flattered,  and  given  to 
understand  that  "  the  Union  would  do  every  thing  ;" 
«ut,  the  moment  it  was  passed,  they  were  driven  back 
with  contempt  into  their  former  obscurity. 

In  the  contempt  pursued  towards  Maynooth  college, 
•.very  thing  is  done  to  irritate  and  perplex— every  thing 
«s  de<ie  to  efface  the  slightest  impression  of  gratitude 
Catholic  mind  ;  the  very  hay  made  upon  the 


lawn,  the  fat  and  tallow  of  the  beef  and  mutton  allow-to- 
must  be  paid  for  and  accounted  upon  oath.  It  is  true. 
this  economy  in  miniature  cannot  be  sufficiently  com- 
mended, particularly  at  a  time  when  only  the  insect 
defaulters  of  the  Treasury,  your  Hunts  and  you/ 
Chinnerys,  when  only  these  "  gilded  bugs"  can  escape 
the  microscopic  eye  of  ministers.  But  when  you  com* 
forward  session  after  session,  as  your  paltry  pittance  t» 
wrung  from  you  with  wrangling  and  reluctance,  U 
boast  of  your  liberality,  well  might  the  Catholic  ex- 
claim,  in  the  words  of  Prior, — 

"To  John  I  owe  some  obligation, 

But  John  unluckily  thinks  fit 
To  publish  it  to  all  the  nation. 

So  John  and  I  are  more  than  quit." 

Somo  persons  have  compared  the  Ca'holics  to  th« 
beggar  ><a  Gil  Bias.  Who  made  them  beggars  ?  Who  are 
enriched  with  the  spoils  of  their  ancestors  ?  And  cannot 
you  relieve  the  beggar  when  your  fathers  have  made 
him  such?  If  you  are  disposed  to  relieve  him  at  all, 
cannot  you  do  it  without  flinging  your  farthings  in  his 
face  ?  As  a  contrast,  however,  to  this  beggarly  benev- 
olence, let  us  look  at  the  Protestant  Charter  Schools; 
to  them  you  have  lately  granted  41,0001. :  thus  are  they 
supported,  and  how  are  they  recruited  ?  Montesquieu 
observes,  on  the  English  constitution,  that  the  model 
may  be  found  in  Tacitus,  where  the  historian  describes 
the  policy  of  the  Germans,  and  adds,  "  this  beautiful 
system  was  taken  from  the  woods ;"  so  in  speaking  of 
the  charter  schools,  it  may  be  observed,  that  this  beau 
tiful  system  was  taken  from  the  gypsies.  These  schooli 
are  recruited  in  the  same  manner  as  the  Janizaries  at 
the  time  of  their  enrolment  under  Amurath,  and  the 
gypsies  of  the  present  day  with  stolen  children,  with 
children  decoyed  and  kidnapped  from  their  Catholic 
connexions  by  their  rich  and  powerful  Protestant  neigh- 
bours :  this  is  notorious,  and  one  instance  may  suffice 
to  show  in  what  manner.  The  sister  of  a  Mr.  Carthy  (a 
Catholic  gentleman  of  very  considerable  property)  died, 
leaving  two  girls,  who  were  immediately  marked  out  as 
proselytes,  and  conveyed  to  the  charter  school  of  Cool- 
greny.  Their  uncle,  on  being  apprized  of  the  fact,  which 
took  place  during  his  absence,  applied  for  the  restitution 
of  his  nieces,  offering  to  settle  an  independence  on 
these  relations ;  his  request  was  refused,  and  not  till 
after  five  years'  struggle,  and  the  interference  of  very 
bigh  authority,  could  this  Catholic  gentleman  obtain 
back  his  nearest  of  kindred  from  a  charity  charter 
school.  In  this  manner  are  proselytes  obtained,  ana 
mingled  with  the  offspring  of  such  Protestants  as  may 
avail  themselves  of  the  institution.  And  how  are  they 
taught  ?  A  catechism  is  put  into  their  hands  consisting 
of,  I  believe,  forty-five  pages,  in  which  are  three  ques- 
tions relative  to  the  Protestant  religion  ;  one  of  these 
queries  is,  "  Where  was  the  Protestant  religion  before 
Luther?"  Answer,  " In  the  Gospel."  The  remaining 
forty-four  pages  and  a  hah"  regard  the  damnable  iaoia 
Iry  of  Papists ! 

Allow  me  to  ask  our  spiritual  pastors  and  masters,  if 
his  training  up  a  child  in  the  way  which  he  should  go  ' 
[s  this  the  religion  of  the  gospel  before  the  time  <rf 
Luther?  that  religion  which  preaches  "  Peace  on  earth, 
and  glory  to  God  ?"  Is  it  bringing  up  infants  to  ts  nier, 
or  devils  ?  Better  would  it  be  to  send  them  any  wrert 
than  teach  them  such  doctrines  ;  lx  ttei  ss  id  thsnt  if 


558 


BYUON'S  WORKS. 


'hose  iian  I  >  •&  *<•«  Sooth  Seas,  where  they  might  more 
•Mmanery  tan.  10  become  cannibals ;  it  would  be  less 
•fagMSting  that  u>ey  were  brought  up  to  devour  the 
4tad,  than  persecute  the  living.  Schools  do  you  call 
•hem  ?  call  them  rather  dunghills,  where  the  riper  of 
intolerance  deposits  her  young,  that,  when  their  teeth 
ore  cut  and  their  poison  is  mature,  they  may  issue  forth, 
fclthy  and  venomous,  to  sting  the  Catholic.  But  are 
these  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England,  or  of 
churchmen  ?  No ;  the  most  enlightened  churchmen  are 
of  a  different  opinion.  What  says  Paley?  "  I  perceive 
no  reason  why  men  o(  different  religious  persuasions, 
should  not  sit  upon  the  same  bench,  deliberate  in  the 
tame  council,  or  fight  in  the  same  ranks,  as  well  as  men 
of  various  religious  opinions,  upon  any  controverted 
topic  of  natural  history,  philosophy,  or  ethics."  It  may 
be  answered  that  Paley  was  not  strictly  orthodox ;  I 
know  nothing  of  his  orthodoxy,  but  who  will  deny  that 
he  was  an  ornament  to  the  church,  to  human  nature, 
to  Christianity? 

I  shall  not  dwell  upon  the  grievance  of  tithes,  so 
severely  felt  by  the  peasantry,  but  it  mav  be  proper  to 
ooserve  that  there  is  an  addition  to  the  burthen,  a  per- 
centage to  the  gatherer,  whose  interest  it  thus  becomes 
to  rate  them  as  highly  as  possible,  and  we  know  that  in 
many  large  livings  in  Ireland,  the  only  resident  Prot- 
estants are  the  tithe  proctor  and  his  family. 

Among  many  causes  of  irritation,  too  numerous  for 
recapitulation,  there  is  one  in  the  militia  not  to  be 
passed  over,  I  mean  the  existence  of  Orange  lodges 
amongst  the  privates  ;  can  the  officers  deny  this  ?  And 
if  such  lodges  do  exist,  do  they,  can  they  tend  to  pro- 
mote harmony  amongst  the  men,  who  are  thus  indi- 
ridually  separated  in  society,  although  mingled  in  the 
ranks  ?  And  is  this  general  system  of  persecution  to  be 
permitted,  or  is  it  to  be  believed  that  with  such  a  system 
the  Catholics  can  or  ought  to  be  contented  ?  If  they  are, 
they  belie  human  nature ;  they  are  then,  indeed,  un- 
worthy to  be  any  thing  but  the  slaves  you  have  made 
them.  The  facts  stated  are  from  most  respectable  au- 
thority, or  I  should  not  have  dared  in  this  place,  or  an 
place,  to  hazard  this  avowal.  If  exaggerated,  there  are 
plenty,  as  willing  as  I  believe  them  to  be  unable,  to 
disprove  them.  Should  it  be  objected  that  I  never  was  in 
Ireland,  I  beg  leave  to  observe,  that  it  is  as  easy  to  know 
something  of  Ireland  without  having  been  there,  as  it  ap- 
pears with  some  to  have  been  born,  bred,  and  cherished 
there,  and  yet  remain  ignorant  of  its  best  interests. 

But  there  are,  who  assert  that  the  Catholics  have 
aiready  been  too  much  indulged:  see  (cry  they)  what 
has  been  done :  we  have  given  them  one  entire  college, 
•ve  allow  them  food  ana  raiment,  the  full  enjoyment  ol 
the  elcm^aits,  and  leave  to  fight  for  us  as  long  as  they 
have  limns  and  lives  to  offer ;  and  yet  they  are  never  to 
be  satisfied !  Generous  and  just  dcclaimers  !  To  this, 
and  to  this  only,  amount  the  whole  of  your  arguments, 
when  stript  of  their  sophistry.  These  personages  re- 
mind me  of  the  story  of  a  certain  drummer,  who  being 
railed  upon  in  the  course  of  duty  to  administer  punish- 
ment to  a  friend  tied  to  the  halberts,  was  requested  to 
Hog  high  ;  he  did — to  flog  low,  he  did — to  flog  in  the 
mid-lie,  he  did — high,  low,  down  the  middle,  and  up 
again,  but  all  in  vain,  the  patient  continued  his  com- 
ixaints  with  the  most  provoking  pertinacity,  until  the 
r,  exhausted  and  angry,  flung  down  his  scourge, 


exclaiming,  "the  devil  burn  you,  there 's  no  pleasing 
you,  flog  where  one  will !"  Thus  it  is,  you  have  flogged 
the  Catholic,  high,  low,  here,  there,  and  every  where, 
and  then  you  wonder  he  is  not  pleased.  It  is  true,  that 
time,  experience,  and  that  weariness  which  attends 
even  the  exercise  of  barbarity,  have  taught  you  to  floj 
a  little  more  gently,  but  still  you  continue  to  Jay  sn  the 
lash,  and  will  so  continue,  till  perhaps  the  rod  may  he 
wrested  from  your  hands,  and  applied  to  the  backs  oi 
yourselves  and  your  posterity. 

It  was  said  by  someb'xly  in  a  former  debate  (I  forget 
by  whom,  and  am  not  very  anxious  to  remember),  if  th« 
Catholics  are  emancipated,  why  not  the  Jews  ?  If  this 
sentiment  was  dictated  by  compassion  {or  the  Jews,  it 
might  deserve  attention,  but  as  a  sneer  against  the  Cath- 
olic, what  is  it  but  the  language  of  Shy  lock  transferred 
torn  his  daughter's  marriage  to  C  atholic  emancipation— 

"  Would  any  of  the  tribe  of  Barrabbas 
Should  have  il  rather  than  a  Christian." 

I  presume  a  Catholic  is  a  Christian,  even  in  the 
opinion  of  him  whose  taste  only  can  be  called  in  ques- 
tion for  his  preference  of  the  Jews. 

It  is  a  remark  often  quoted  of  Dr.  Johnson  (whom  I 
take  to  be  almost  as  good  authority  as  the  gentle  apostle 
of  intolerance,  Dr.  Duigenan),  that  he  who  could  enter- 
tain serious  apprehensions  of  danger  to  the  Church  in 
these  times,  would  have  "  cried  tire  in  the  deluge." 
This  is  more  than  a  metaphor,  for  a  remnant  of  these 
antediluvians  appear  actually  to  have  come  down  to  us, 
with  fire  in  their  mouths  and  water  in  their  brains,  to 
disturb  and  perplex  mankind  with  their  whimsical  out- 
cries. And  as  it  is  an  infallible  symptom  of  that  dis- 
tressing malady  with  which  I  conceive  them  to  be 
afflicted  (so  any  doctor  will  inform  your  Lordships)  for 
the  unhappy  invalids  to  perceive  a  flame  perpetually 
flashing  before  their  eyes,  particularly  when  their  eyes 
are  shut  (as  those  of  the  persons  to  whom  I  allude  have 
long  been),  it  is  impossible  to  convince  these  poor  crea- 
tures, that  the  fire  against  which  they  arc  perpetually 
warning  us  and  themselves,  is  nothing  but  an  ifnit 
r>jiuus  of  their  own  drivelling  imaginations.  What 
rhubarb,  senna,  or  "  what  purgative  drug  can  scour 
that  fancy  thence  ?" — It  is  impossible,  they  are  given 
over,  theirs  is  the  true 

"Caput  insanabile  tribus  Anticyris." 
These  are  your  true  Protestants.  Like  Bayle,  who  pro- 
tested against  all  sects  whatsoever,  so  do  they  protest 
against  Catholic  petitions,  Protestant  petitions,  all  re- 
dress, all  that  reason,  humanity,  policy,  justice,  and 
common  sense,  can  urge  against  the  delusions  of  then 
absurd  delirium.  These  are  the  persons  who  reverse 
the  fable  of  the  mountain  that  brought  forth  a  mouse ; 
they  are  the  mice  who  conceive  themselves  in  labour 
with  mountains. 

To  return  to  the  Catholics,  suppose  the  Irish  were 
actually  contented  under  their  disabilities,  suppose  them 
capable  of  such  a  bull  as  not  to  desire  deliverance,  ought 
we  not  to  wish  it  for  ourselves  ?  Have  we  nothing  to 
gain  by  their  emancipation  ?  What  resources  have  beep 
wasted !  What  talents  have  been  lost  by  the  selfish 
system  of  exclusion  !  You  already  luiow  the  value  of 
Irish  aid  ;  at  this  moment  the  defence  of  England  is 
entrusted  to  the  Irish  militia ;  at  this  moment,  whila 
the  starving  people  ar»'.  rising  in  th<;  fierceness  of  de- 


7  fi 


PARLIAMENTARY  SPEECHES. 


•p*ir,  the  Irish  are  faithful  to  their  trust.  But  till  equal 
energy  is  imparted  throughout  by  the  extension  of  free- 
Join,  you  cannot  enjoy  the  full  benefit  of  the  strength 
which  you  are  glad  to  interpose  between  you  and  do- 
ftructioa.  Ireland  has  done  much,  but  win  do  more. 
At  this  moment  the  only  triumph  obtained  through 
jong  years  of  continental  disaster  has  been  achieved 
oy  an  Irish  general ;  it  is  true  he  is  not  a  Catholic ;  had 
ae  been  so,  we  should  hare  been  deprived  of  his  exer- 
tions ;  but  I  presume  no  one  will  assert  that  his  religion 
would  hare  unpaired  his  talents  or  diminished  his  pa- 
triotism, though  in  that  case  he  must  have  conquered 
in  the  ranks,  for  he  never  could  hare  commanded  an 
army. 

But  while  he  is  fighting  the  battles  of  the  Catholics 
abroad,  his  noble  brother  has  this  night  advocated 
their  cause,  with  an  eloquence  which  I  shall  not  depre- 
ciate by  the  humble  tribute  of  my  panegyric,  whilst  a 
third  of  his  kindred,  as  unlike  as  unequal,  has  been 
combating  against  his  Catholic  brethren  in  Dublin,  with 
circular  letters,  edicts,  proclamations,  arrests,  and  dis- 
persions— all  the  vexatious  implements  of  petty  war- 
ewe  that  could  be  wielded  by  the  mercenary  guerillas 
of  government,  dad  in  the  rusty  armour  of  their  obso- 
lete statutes.  Tour  lordships  will,  doubtless,  divide  new 
honours  between  the  saviour  of  Portugal,  and  the  dis- 
penser of  delegates.  It  is  singular,  indeed,  to  observe 
the  difference  between  our  foreign  and  domestic  poli- 
cy ;  if  Catholic  Spam,  faithful  Portugal,  or  the  no  less 
Catholic  and  faithful  king  of  the  one  Sicily  (of  which, 
by  the  by,  you  hare  lately  deprived  him),  stand  in 
need  of  succour,  away  goes  a  fleet  and  an  army,  an 
ambassador  and  a  subsidy,  sometimes  to  fight  pretty 
hardly,  generally  to  negotiate  very  badly,  and  always 
to  pay  very  dearly  for  our  Popish  allies.  But  let  four 
minions  of  fellow-subjects  pray  for  relief,  who  fight 
and  pay  and.  labour  in  your  behalf,  they  must  be  treated 
as  aliens,  and  although  their  "  father's  boose  has  many 
mansions,"  there  is  no  resting-place  for  them.  Allow 
me  to  ask,  are  yon  not  fighting  for  the  emancipation 


of  Ferdinand  the  Seventh,  who  certainly  is  a  fool,  and 
consequently,  in  all  probability,  a  bigot ;  and  hare  you 
aiore  regard  for  a  foreign  sovereign  than  your  own 
feDow-cubjects,  who  are  not  fools,  for  they  know  your 
interest  better  than  yon  know  your  own ;  who  are  not 
bigots,  for  they  return  you  good  for  evil ;  but  who  are 
in  worse  durance  than  the  prison  of  an  usurper,  inas- 
much as  the  fetters  of  the  mind  are  more  galling  than 
those  of  the  body. 

Upon  the  consequences  of  your  not  acceding  to  the 
claims  of  the  petitioners,  I  shall  not  eipatiate ;  yon 
know  them,  you  wiH  fed  them,  and  your  children's 
children  when  you  are  passed  away.  Adieu  to  that 
Union  so  called,  as  u  LJ*M»  a  mm  baatdo,"  a  Union 
from  never  uniting,  which,  in  its  first  operation,  gave 
»  ticiih-biow  to  the  independence  of  Ireland,  and  in 
its  last  may  be  the  cause  of  her  eternal  separation  from 
Uiis  country.  If  it  must  he  called  a  Union,  it  is  the 
«uion  of  the  shark  with  his  prey ;  the  spoiler  swallows 
op  his  victim,  and  thus  they  become  one  and  indrri*- 
b!e.  Thus  has  Great  Britain  swallowed  up  the  par- 
iament,  the  constitution,  the  indeprcdenee  of  Ireland, 
ind  refuses  to  disgorge  even  a  aing?e  privilege,  although 
fcr  the  relief  of  her  swollen  and  distempered  body 
politic. 

Aud  now,  my  lords,  before  I  sit  down,  wifl  bis  maj- 


esty's minister*  permit  me  to  ray  a  few  words,  not  oa 
their  menu,  for  that  would  be  superfluous,  but  on  thr 
degree  of  estimation  in  which  they  are  held  by  the 
people  of  these  realms.  The  esteem  in  which  they  aw 
held  has  been  boasted  of  in  a  triumphant  tone  on 
late  occasion  within  these  walls,  and  a  comparison  m» 
stituted  between  their  conduct,  and  that  of  noble  lord 
on  this  side  of  the  house. 

What  portion  of  popularity  may  hare  fallen  to  t  w 
share  of  my  noble  friends  (if  such  I  may  presume  U 
caB  them),  I  shall  not  pretend  to  ascertain ;  but  thai 
of  bis  majesty's  ministers  it  were  rain  to  deny.  It  is-, 
to  be  sure,  a  hide  Eke  the  wind, w  no  one  knows  whence 
it  cometh  or  whither  it  goeth,"  but  they  fed  it,  they 
enjoy  it,  they  boast  of  it.  Indeed,  modest  and  unos- 
tentatious as  they  are,  to  what  part  of  the  kingdom, 
eren  the  most  remote,  can  they  flee  to  avoid  the  tri- 
umph which  pursues  them?  If  they  plunge  into  the' 
midland  counties,  there  they  wifl  be  greeted  by  the 
manufacturers,  with  spurned  petitions  in  their  hands, 
and  those  hahers  round  their  necks  recently  voted  in 
their  behalf;  imploring  blessings  on  the  heads  of  those 
who  so  simply,  yet  ingeniously  contrived  to  remove 
them  from  their  miseries  in  this  to  a  better  world.  If 
they  journey  on  to  Scotland,  from  Glasgow  to  Johnny 
Groat's,  every  where  will  they  receive  similar  marks  of 
approbation,  if  they  take  a  trip  from  Portpatrick  to 
Dona  ghaHee,  there  will  they  rush  at  once  into  the  em- 
braces of  four  Calholic  miHimm,  to  whom  their  rot* 
of  this  night  is  about  to  endear  them  for  ever.  Whan 
they  return  to  the  metropolis,  if  they  can  pass  undei 
Temple  Bar  without  unpleasant  sensations  at  the  sigh) 
of  the  greedy  niches  over  that  ominous  gateway,  the] 
cannot  escape  the  acclamations  of  the  livery,  and  UK 
more  tremulous,  but  cot  less  sincere,  applause,  the 
blessings  « not  load  bat  deep"  of  baakrnpt  merchants 
and  doubting  stockholders.  If  they  look  to  the  army, 
what  wreaths,  not  of  laurel,  but  of  nightshade,  are 
preparing  for  the  heroes  of  Wakheren!  It  is  true  there 
are  few  bring  deponents  left  to  testify  to  then- merits 
on  that  occasion ;  butaudoudof  witnesses''  are  gone 
above  from  that  gallant  army  which  they  so  generously 
and  piously  despatched,  to  recruit  the  "noble  army  of 
martyrs." 

What  H;  in  the  course  of  this  triumphal  career  (m 
which  they  win  gather  as  many  pebbles  as  Caligula's 
army  did  on  asimilar  triumph,  the  prototype  of their  own), 
they  do  not  perceive  any  of  those  memorials  which  a 
grateful  people  erect  in  honour  of  their  benefactors;  what 
although  not  eren  a  sign-post  will  condescend  to  depose 
the  Saracen's  bead  in  favour  of  the  likeness  of  the  con- 
querors of  Waleheren,  they  will  not  want  a  picture 
who  can  always  hare  a  caricature  ;  or  regret  the  ontts- 
of  a  statue  who  will  so  often  see  themselves  exalted 


But  their  popularity  is  not  limited  to  the 
narrow  bounds  of  an  island;  there  are  other  ectmtrie* 
where  their  measures,  and,  above  all,  their  conduct  U 
the  Catholics,  must  render  them  pre-eminently  pofiulai 
If  they  are  bdored  here,  in  France  they  must  be  adored 
There  is  no  measure  more  repugnant  to  the  designs  and 
feefings  of  Buonaparte  than  Caibooc  emancipation ;  no 
fine  of  conduct  more  propitious  to  bit  projects,  than 
that  which  has  been  puisued,  i»  pursuing,  and,  I  feat, 
win  be  pursued,  towards  Ireland.  What  s  Eng!W 
without  Ireland,  and  what  is  Ireland  without  the  C* 
tholics?  If  is  on  the  basis  of  your  tyraont 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


hopes  to  build  his  own.  So  grateful  must  oppression 
of  the  Catholics  be  to  his  mind,  that  doubtless  (as  he 
has  lately  permitted  some  renewal  of  intercourse)  the 
next  cartel  will  convey  to  this  country  cargoes  of  Sevres 
china  and  blue  ribands  (tilings  in  great  request,  and  of 
equal  value  at  this  moment),  blue  ribands  of  the  legion 
of  honour  for  Dr.  Duigenan  and  his  ministerial  disciples. 
Such  is  that  well-earned  popularity,  the  result  of  those 
extraordinary  expeditions,  so  expensive  to  ourselves, 
and  so  useless  to  our  allies  ;  of  those  singular  inquiries, 
so  exculpatory  to  the  accused,  and  so  dissatisfactory  to 
the  people  ;  of  those  paradoxical  victories,  so  honour- 
able, as  we  are  told,  to  the  British  name,  and  so  de- 
structive to  the  best  interests  of  the  British  nation : 
above  all,  such  is  the  reward  of  a  conduct  pursued  by 
ministers  towards  the  Catholics. 

1  have  to  apologize  to  the  House,  who  will,  I  trust, 
'  pardon  one,  not  often  in  the  habit  of  intruding  upon 
their  indulgence,  for  so  long  attempting  to  engage  their 
attention.  My  most  decided  opinion  is,  as  my  vote  will 
be,  in  favour  of  the  motion. 


DEBATE  ON  MAJOR  CARTWRtGHT'S  PETITION, 
JUNE  1,  1813. 

LORD  BYRON  rose  and  said: 

MY  LORDS,  the  Petition  which  I  now  hold  for  the 
purpose  of  presenting  to  the  House,  is  one  which  I 
humbly  conceive  requires  the  particular  attention  of 
your  lordships,  inasmuch  as,  though  signed  but  by  a 
single  individual,  it  contains  statements  which  (if  not 
disproved)  demand  most  serious  investigation.  The 
grievance  of  which  the  petitioner  complains  is  neither 
selfish  nor  imaginary.  It  is  not  his  own  only,  for  it 
has  been,  and  is  still  felt  by  numbers.  No  one  with- 
out these  walls,  nor  indeed  within,  but  may  to-morrow 
be  made  liable  to  the  same  insult  and  obstruction,  in  the 
discharge  of  an  imperious  duty  for  the  restoration  of  the 
true  constitution  of  these  realms  by  petitioning  for  reform 
in  parliament.  The  petitioner,  my  Lords,  is  a  man  whose 
long  life  has  been  spent  in  one  unceasing  struggle  for 
the  liberty  of  the  subject,  against  that  undue  influence 
which  has  increased,  is  increasing,  and  ought  to  be 
diminished  ;  and,  wnatever  difference  of  opinion  may 
exist  as  to  nis  political  tenets,  few  will  be  found  to 
question  the  integrity  of  his  intentions.  Even  now, 
oppressed  with  years,  and  not  exempt  from  the  infirm- 
ities attendant  on  his  age,  but  still  unimpaired  in  tal- 
ent, and  unshaken  in  spirit — ufrangas  non  Jfectes" — 
lie  has  received  many  a  wound  in  the  combat  against 
corruption  ;  and  the  new  grievance,  the  fresh  insult  of 
wftich  he  complains,  may  inflict  another  scar,  but  no 
dishonour.  Tne  petition  is  signed  by  John  Cartwright, 
and  it  was  in  behalf  of  the  people  and  parliament,  in 
the  lawful  pursuit  of  that  reform  in  the  representation 
winch  is  the  best  «srvice  to  be  rendered  both  to  parlia- 
ment and  people,  that  he  encountered  the  wanton  out- 
rage which  fon.is  the  subject  matter  of  his  petition'  to 
/our  lordships.  It  is  couched  in  firm,  yet  respectful 
.menage-  in  the  language  of  a  man,  not  regardless 
of  what  *  uue  to  himself,  but  at  the  same  time,  I  trust, 


equally  mindful  of  the  deference  to  be  paid  to  tnii 
House.  The  petitioner  slates,  amongst  other  matter 
of  equal,  if  not  greater  importance,  to  all  who  are 
British  in  their  feelings,  as  well  as  blood  and  birth, 
that  on  the  21st  January,  1813,  at  Huddersfield,  him- 
self and  six  other  persons,  who,  on  hearing  of  his  ar- 
rival, had  waited  on  him  merely  as  a  testimony  of  re- 
spect, were  seized  by  a  military  and  civil  force,  and 
kept  in  close  custody  for  several  hours,  subjected  to  gross 
and  abusive  insinuations  from  the  commanding  officer 
relative  to  the  character  of  the  petitioner;  that  he  (the 
petitioner)  was  finally  carried  before  a  magistrate  ;  and 
not  released  till  an  examination  of  his  papers  proved 
(hat  there  was  not  only  no  just,  but  not  even  statuta- 
ble  charge  against  him  ;  and  that,  notwithstanding  the 
promise  and  order  from  the  presiding  magistrates  of  a 
copy  of  the  warrant  against  your  petitioner,  it  was  after- 
wards withheld  on  divers  pretexts,  and  has  never 
until  this  hour  been  granted.  The  names  and  condi- 
'tion  of  the  parties  will  be  found  in  the  petition.  To 
the  other  topics  touched  upon  in  the  petition,  I  shall 
not  now  advert,  from  a  wish  not  to  encroach  upon  the 
time  of  the  House ;  but  I  do  most  sincerely  call  the  at- 
tention of  your  lordships  to  its  general  contents — it  is 
in  the  cause  of  the  parliament  and  people  that  the 
rights  of  this  venerable  freeman  have  been  violated, 
and  it  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  highest  mark  of  respect 
that  could  be  paid  to  the  House,  that  to  your  justice, 
rather  than  by  appeal  to  any  inferior  court,  he  now 
commits  himself.  Whatever  may  be  the  fate  of  his  re- 
monstrance, it  is  some  satisfaction  to  me,  though  mix- 
ed with  regret  for  the  occasion,  that  I  have  this  oppor- 
tunity of  publicly  stating  the  obstruction  to  which  the 
subject  is  liable,  in  the  prosecution  of  the  most  lawful 
and  imperious  of  his  duties,  the  obtaining  by  petition 
reform  in  parliament.  I  have  shortly  stated  his  com- 
plaint; the  petitioner  has  more  fully  expressed  h. 
Your  lordships  will,  I  hope,  adopt  some  measure  fully 
to  protect  and  redress  him,  and  not  him  alone,  but  the 
whole  body  of  the  people  insulted  and  aggrieved  in  his 
person  by  the  interposition  of  an  abused  civil,  and  un- 
lawful military  force  beUyeen  them  and  their  right  of 
petition  to  their  own  representatives. 

His  lordship  then  presented  the  petition  from  Major 
Cartwright,  tf  hich  was  read,  complaining  of  the  circum- 
stances at  Huddersfield,  and  of  interruptions  given  to  the 
right  of  petitioning,  in  several  places  in  the  northern 
parts  of  the  kingdom,  and  which  his  lordship  moved 
should  be  laid  on  the  table. 

Several  Lords  having  spoken  on  the  question, 
LORD  BYRON  replied,  that  he  had,  from  motives 
of  duty,  presented  this  petition  to  their  lordships'  con- 
sideration. The  noble  Earl  had  contended  that  it  was 
not  a  petition  but  a  speech  ;  and  that,  as  it  contained 
no  prayer,  it  should  not  be  received.  What  was  the 
necessity  of  a  prayer?  If  that  word  were  to  be  used  in 
its  proper  sense,  their  lordships  could  not  expect  that 
any  man  should  pray  to  others.  He  had  only  to  say 
that  the  petition,  though  in  some  parts  expressed  strongly 
perhaps,  did  not  contain  any  improper  mode  of  adiiress. 
but  was  couched  in  respectful  language  towards  chew 
lordships;  he  should  therefore  trust  the  r  lor«jj<iip» 
would  allow  the  petition  to  be  received . 


(     561      ) 


Son 


Difficile  est  proprie  communia  dicere. 

HOR.  Epist.  ad  Pisa*. 

Dost  them  think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more 
Cakes  and  Ale  ? — Yes,  by  St.  Anne ;  and  Ginger  shall  be  hot  i'  the 
mouth,  too.— Ticclft/i  Might;  or  What  i/ou—WOL— 

SHAKSPEARE. 


CANTO  I. 


i. 

1  WANT  a  hero: — an  uncommon  want, 

When  every  year  and  month  sends  forth  a  new  one, 
Till,  after  cloying  the  gazettes  with  cant, 

The  age  discovers  he  is  not  the  true  one; 
Of  such  as  these  I  should  not  care  to  vaunt, 

I  '11  therefore  take  our  ancient  friend  Don  Juan ; 
We  all  have  seen  him  in  the  pantomime 
Sent  to  the  devil  somewhat  ere  his  time. 

II. 
Vcrnon,  the  butcher,  Cumberland,  Wolfe,  Hawke, 

Prince  Ferdinand,  Granby,  Burgoyne,  Keppel,  Howe, 
Evil  and  good,  have  had  their  tithe  of  talk, 

And  fill'd  their  sign-posts  then,  like  Wellesley  now ; 
Each  in  their  turn  like  Banquo's  monarchs  stalk, 

Followers  of  fame,  "  nine  farrow"  of  that  sow : 
France,  too,  had  Buonaparte  and  Dumourier, 
Recorded  in  the  Moniteur  and  Courier. 

III. 
Barnave,  Brissot,  Condorcet,  Mirabeau, 

Petion,  Clootz,  Danton,  Marat,  La  Fayette, 
Were  French,  and  famous  people,  as  we  know ; 

And  there  were  others,  scarce  forgotten  yet, 
Joubcrt,  Hoche,  Marceaii,  Lannes,  Dessaix,  Moreau, 

With  many  of  the  military  set, 
Exceeding'.y  remarkable  at  times, 
But  not  at  all  adapted  to  my  rhymes. 

IV. 
Nelson  was  once  Britannia's  god  of  war, 

And  still  should  be  so,  but  the  tide  is  turn'd ; 
There 's  no  more  to  be  said  of  Trafalgar, 

'T  is  with  our  hero  quietly  inurn'd ; 
Because  the  army's  grown  more  popular,     • 

At  which  the  naval  people  are  concern'd : 
Besides,  the  prince  is  all  for  the  land-service, 
Forgetting  Duncan,  Nelson,  Howe,  and  Jervis. 

V. 

flrave  men  were  living  before  Agamemnon,1 
Vnd  since,  exceeding  valorous  and  sage, 
\  good  deal  like  him  too,  though  quite  the  same  none, 

Mut  then  they  shone  not  on  the  poet's  page, 
And  so  have  been  forgotten: — I  condemn  none, 

But  can't  find  any  in  the  present  age 
ft    for  my  poem  (that  is,  for  my  new  one); 
Bo,  as  I  said,  I  '11  take  my  friend  Don  Juan. 
3  A  76 


VI. 

Most  epic  poets  plunge  in  "medias  res" 

(Horace  makes  this  the  heroic  turnpike  road) 
And  then  your  hero  tells,  whene'er  you  please, 

What  went  before — by  way  of  episode, 
While  seated  after  dinner  at  his  ease, 

Beside  his  mistress  in  some  soft  abode, 
Palace  or  garden,  paradise  or  cavern, 
Which  serves  the  happy  couple  for  a  tavern. 

VII. 
That  is  the  usual  method,  but  not  mine — 

My  way  is  to  begin  with  the  beginning ; 
The  regularity  of  my  design 

Forbids  all  wandering  as  the  worst  of  sinning, 
And  therefore  I  shall  open  with  a  line 

(Although  it  cost  me  half  an  hour  in  spinning) 
Narrating  somewhat  of  Don  Juan's  father, 
And  also  of  his  mother,  if  you  'd  rather. 

VIII. 
In  Seville  was  he  born,  a  pleasant  city, 

Famous  for  oranges  and  women — he 
Who  has  not  seen  it  will  be  much  to  pity, 

So  says  the  proverb— and  I  quite  agree ; 
Of  all  the  Spanish  towns  is  none  more  pretty, 

Cadiz  perhaps,  but  that  you  soon  may  see  : — 
Don  Juan's  parents  lived  beside  the  river, 
A  noble  stream,  and  call'd  the  Guadalquivir. 

IX. 
His  father's  name  was  Jose — Don,  of  course, 

A  true  Hidalgo,  free  from  every  stain 
Of  Moor  or  Hebrew  blood,  he  traced  his  source 

Through  the  most  Gothic  gentlemen  of  Spain 
A  better  cavalier  ne'er  mounted  horse, 

Or,  being  mounted,  e'er  got  down  again, 
Than  Jose,  who  begot  our  hero,  who 
Begot — but  that 's  to  come — Well,  to  renew : 

X. 
His  mother  was  a  learned  lady,  famed 

For  every  branch  of  every  science  known— 
In  every  Christian  language  ever  named, 

With  virtues  equalled  by  her  wit  alone, 
She  made  the  cleverest  people  quite  ashamed, 

And  even  the  good  with  inward  envy  groan, 
Finding  themselves  so  very  much  exceeded 
In  their  own  way  by  all  the  things  that  she  did. 

XI. 
Her  memory  was  a  mine :  she  knew  by  heart 

All  Caideron  and  greater  part  of  Lope, 
So  that  if  any  actor  miss'd  his  part, 

She  could  have  served  him  for  the  prompters  cop » 
For  her  Feinagle  s  were  an  useless  ar«, 

And  he  himself  obliged  to  shut  up  shop  —ho 
Could  never  make  a  menu"*/  so  fine  -«s 
That  which  adorn'd  the  brain  nf  Donna  In<-7. 


,"32 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  i 


XII. 

Her  fatovnte  science  was  the  mathematical, 
Her  noblest  virtue  .vas  her  magnanimity, 

Her  wit  (jhe  spmetimes  tried  at  wit)  was  Attic  all, 
Hei   serious  sayings  darken'd  to  sublimity; 

In  short,  in  all  things  she  was  fairly  what  I  call 
A  prodig3f — her  morning  dress  was  dimity, 

Her  evening  silk,  or,  in  the  summer,  muslin, 

And  other  stuff's,  with  which  I  won't  stay  puzzling. 

XIII. 

She  1"  new  the  Latin — that  is,  "  the  Lord's  prayer," 
And  Greek,  the  alphabet,  I  'm  nearly  sure ; 

She  read  some  French  romances  here  and  there, 
Although  her  mode  of  speaking  was  not  pure: 

For  native  Spanish  she  had  no  great  care, 
At  least  her  conversation  was  obscure ; 

Her  thoughts  were  theorems,  her  words  a  problem, 

As  if  she  deem'd  that  mystery  would  ennoble  'em. 

XIV. 

She  liked  the  English  and  the  Hebrew  tongue, 
And  said  there  was  analogy  between  'em ; 

She  proved  it  somehow  out  of  sacred  song, 

But  I  must  leave  the  proofs  to  those  who  've  seen  'em; 

But  this  I  've  heard  her  say,  and  can't  be  wrong, 
And  all  may  think  which  way  their  judgments  lean  'em, 

•*  Tis  strange — the  Hebrew  noun  which  means  'lam,' 

llio  English  always  use  to  govern  d — n." 

XV. 

****** 


XVI. 

In  short,  she  was  a  walking  calculation, 

Miss  Edgeworth's  novels  stepping  from  their  covers, 
Or  Mrs.  Trimmer's  books  on  education, 

Or"CcElebs'  Wife"  set  out  in  quest  of  lovers, 
Morality's  prim  personification, 

In  which  not  Envy's  self  a  flaw  discovers  ; 
To  otViers'  share  let  "female  errors  fall," 
F  >r  she  had  not  even  one — the  worst  of  all. 

*  XVII. 
Oh !  she  was  perfect  past  all  parallel — 

Of  any  modern  female  saint's  comparison  ; 
So  far  above  the  cunning  powers  of  hell, 

He\  guardian  angel  had  given  up  his  garrison ; 
Even  her  minutest  motions  went  as  well 

As  those  of  the  best  time-piece  made  by  Harrison  : 
In  virtues  nothing  earthly  could  surpass  her, 
Save  thine  "incomparable  oil,"  Macassar  !2 

XVIII. 
Perfect  she  was,  but  as  perfection  is 

Insipid  in  this  naughty  world  of  ours, 
Where  our  first  parents  never  Icarn'd  to  kiss 

Till  they  were  exiled  from  their  earlier  bowers, 
tVH«r«s  all  was  peace,  and  innocence,  and  bliss 

(I  wonder  how  they  got  through  the  twelve  hours), 
l/iii  Jnse.  ike  a  lineal  son  of  Eve, 
A  put  plucking  various  fruit  without  her  leave. 


XIX. 

He  was  a  mortal  of  the  careless  kind, 

With  no  great  love  for  learning,  or  the  le&n'M, 

Who  chose  to  go  where'er  he  had  a  mind, 
And  never  dream'd  his  lady  was  concern'd  ; 

The  world,  as  usual,  wickedly  inclined 

To  see  a  kingdom  or  a  house  o'erturn'd, 

Whisper'd  he  had  a  mistress,  some  said  ttoot 

But  for  domestic  quarrels  one  will  do. 

XX. 

Now  Donna  Inez  had,  with  all  her  merit, 
A  great  opinion  of  her  own  good  qualities ; 

Neglect,  indeed,  requires  a  saint  to  bear  it, 
And  such  indeed  she  was  in  her  moralities; 

But  then  she  had  a  devil  of  a  spirit, 
And  sometimes  niix'd  up  fancies  with  realities. 

And  let  few  opportunities  escape 

Of  getting  her  liege  lord  into  a  scrape. 

XXI. 

This  was  an  easy  matter  with  a  man 

Ofl  in  the  wrong,  and  never  on  his  guard ; 

And  even  the  wisest,  do  the  best  they  can, 

Have  moments,  hours,  and  days,  so  unprepared, 

That  you  might  "  brain  them  with  their  lady's  fan  ;* 
And  sometimes  ladies  hit  exceeding  hard, 

And  fans  turn  into  falchions  in  fair  hands, 

And  why  and  wherefore  no  one  understands. 

XXII. 

'T  is  pity  learned  virgins  ever  wed 

With  persons  of  no  sort  of  education, 
Or  gentlemen  who,  though  well-born  and  bred, 

Grow  tired  of  scientific  conversation : 
I  don't  choose  to  say  much  upon  this  head, 

I  'm  a  plain  man,  and  in  a  single  station, 
But — oh !  ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual, 
Inform  us  truly,  have  they  not  hen-peck'd  you  all? 

XXIII. 
Don  Jose  and  his  lady  quarrell'd — why 

Not  any  of  the  many  could  divine, 
Though  several  thousand  people  chose  to  try, 

'T  was  surely  no  concern  of  theirs  nor  mine : 
I  loathe  that  low  vice  curiosity ; 

But  if  there 's  any  thing  in  which  I  shine, 
'T  is  in  arranging  all  my  friends'  affairs, 
Not  having,  of  my  own,  domestic  cares. 

XXIV. 
And  so  I  interfered,  and  with  the  best 

Intentions,  but  their  treatment  was  not  kind ; 
I  think  the  foolish  people  were  possess'd, 

For  neither  of  them  could  I  ever  tind, 
Although  their  porter  afterwards  confessed — 

But  that 's  no  matter,  and  the  worst 's  behind. 
For  little  Juan  o'er  me  threw,  down  stairs, 
A  pail  of  housemaid's  water  unawares. 

XXV. 
A  little  curly-headed,  good-for-nothing, 

And  mischief-making  monkey  from  his  birth ; 
His  parents  ne'er  agreed  except  in  doting 

Upon  the  most  unquiet  imp  on  earth ; 
Instead  of  quarrelling,  had  they  been  but  both  in 

Their  senses,  they 'd  have  sent  young  master  fotUi 
To  school,  or  had  him  wlnpp'd  at  home, 
To  teach  him  manners  for  the  time  to  come. 


(Vf.VTO  1. 


DON  JUAN. 


5(5.3 


XXVI. 
Don  Jose  and  the  Donna  Inez  _ed 

F«v  some  time  an  unhappy  sort  of  life, 
Wishing  each  other,  not  divorced,  but  dead  ; 

Thoy  lived  respectably  as  man  and  wife, 
Fheir  conduct  was  exceedingly  well-bred, 

And  gave  no  outward  signs  of  inward  strife, 
l^nti!  at  length  the  smother'd  fire  broke  out, 
And  put  the  business  past  all  kind  of  doubt. 

xxvn. 

For  Inez  call'd  some  druggists  and  physicians, 
And  tried  to  prove  her  loving  lord  was  mad, 

But  as  he  had  some  lucid  intermissions, 
She  next  decided  he  was  only  bud; 

Yet  when  they  askM  her  for  her  depositions, 
No  sort  of  explanation  could  be  had, 

Save  that  her  duty  both  to  man  and  God 

Required  this  conduct — which  seem'd  very  odd. 

XXVIII. 
She  kept  a  journal,  where  his  faults  wt/e  noted, 

And  open'd  certain  trunks  of  books  and  letters, 
All  which  might,  if  occasion  served,  be  quoted  ; 

And  then  she  had  all  Seville  for  abettors, 
Besides  her  good  old  grandmother  (who  doted)  ; 

The  hearers  of  her  case  became  repeaters, 
Then  advocates,  inquisitors,  and  judges, 
Some  for  amusement,  others  for  old  grudges. 

XXIX. 

An'l  then  this  best  and  meekest  woman  bore 
Vf  Uh  such  serenity  her  husband's  woes, 

Just  as  the  Spartan  ladies  did  of  yore, 

TV  ho  saw  their  spouses  kill'd,  and  nobly  chose 

Never  to  say  a  word  about  them  more — 
Calmly  she  heard  each  calumny  that  rose, 

And  saw  his  agonies  with  such  sublimity, 

That  all  the  world  exclaim'd,  •*  What  magnanimity !" 

XXX. 

No  doubt,  this  patience,  when  the  world  is  damning  us 

Is  philosophic  in  our  former  friends ; 
T  is  also  pleasant  to  be  deemed  magnanimous, 

The  more  so  in  obtaining  our  own  ends  ; 
And  what  the  lawyers  call  a  "malut  animus? 

Conduct  like  this  by  no  means  comprehends ; 
Revenge  in  person  's  certainly  no  virtue, 
But  then  't  is  not  my  fault  if  other*  hurt  you. 

XXXI. 

And  if  our  quarrels  should  rip  up  old  stories, 
And  help  them  with  a  lie  or  two  additional, 

I'm  not  to  blame,  as  you  well  know,  no  more  is 
Any  one  else — they  were  become  traditional ; 

Besides,  their  resurrection  aids  our  glories 

By  contrast,  which  is  what  we  just  were  wishing  all ; 

And  science  profits  by  this  resurrection — 

Dead  scandals  form  good  subjects   for  dissection. 

xxxn. 

fheir  friends  had  tried  at  reconciliation, 
Then  their  relations,  who  made  matters  worse 

(* T  were  hard  to  tell  upon  a  like  occasion 
To  whom  it  may  be  best  to  have  recourse — 
canrt  say  much  for  friend  or  yet  relation) : 
The  lavyers  did  their  utmost  for  divorce, 

But  scarce  a  fee  wai  paid  on  either  side 

Before,  unluckily,  Don  Jose  died. 


XXXIII. 
He  died :   and  most  unluckily,  because. 

According  to  all  hints  I  could  collec* 
From  counsel  learned  in  those  kinds   of  laws 

(Although  their  talk's  obscure  and  circunrspect 
His  death  contrived  to  spoil  a  charming  cans*  ; 

A  thousand  pities  also  with  respec* 
To  public  feeling,  which  on  this  occasion 
Was  manifested  in  a  great  sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But  ah  !   he  died  ;   and  buried  with  him  lay 
The  public  feeling  and  the  lawyers'  fees : 

His  house  was  sold,  his  servants  sent  away, 
A  Jew  took  one  of  his  two  mistresses, 

A  priest  the  other — at  least  so  they  say : 
I  ask'd  the  doctors  after  his  disease — 

He  died  of  the  slow  fever  called  the  tertian, 

And  left  his  widow  to  her  own  aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet  Jose  was  an  honourable  man, 

That  I  must  say,  who  knew  him  very  well; 

Therefore  his  frailties  I  '11  no  further  scan, 
Indeed  there  were  not  many  more  to  tell ; 

And  if  his  passions  now  and  then  outran 
Discretion,  and  were  not  so  peaceable 

As  Numa's   (who  was  also  named  Pompilius), 

He  had  been  ill  brought  up,  and  was  born  bilious. 

XXXVI. 

Whate'er  might  be  his  worthlessness  or  worth, 
Poor  fellow !  he  had  many  things  to  wound  him, 

Let 's  own,  since  it  can  do  no  good  on  earth ; 
It  was  a  trying  moment  that  which   found  him,    . 

Standing  alone  beside  his  desolate  hearth, 

Where  all  his  household  gods  lavshiver'd  round  him, 

No  choice  was  left  his  feelings  or  his  pride 

Save  death  or  Doctors'  Commons — so  he  died. 

XXXVII. 
Dying  intestate,  Juan  was  sole  heir 

To  a  chancery-suit,  and  messuages,  and  lands, 
Which,  with  a  long  minority  and  care, 

Promised  to  turn  out  well  in  proper  hands : 
Inez  became  sole  guardian,  which  was  fair, 

And  answer'd  but  to  nature's  just  demands; 
An  only  son  left  with  an  only  mother 
Is  brought  up  much  more  wisely  than  another. 

XXXVIII. 
Sagest  of  women,  even  of  widows,  she 

Resolved  that  Juan  should  be  quite  a  paragon* 
And  worthy  of  the  noblest  pedigree 

(His  sire  was  of  Castile,  his  dam  from  Arragoni 
Then  for  accomplishments  of  chiva'ry, 

In  case  our  lord  the  king  should  go  to  w 
He  leam'd  the  arts  of  riding,  fencing,  gunnery, 
And  how  to  scale  a  fortress— -or  a  nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But  that  which  Donna  Inez  most  desired, 
And  saw  into  herself  each  day  before  at 

The  learned  tutors  whom  for  him  she  hired, 
Was  that  his  breeding  should  be  strictly  mur 

Much  into  all  his  studies  she  inquired, 

And  so  they  were  submitted  first  to  her,  all. 

Arts,  sciences,  no  hrancn  was  made  a  mystir* 

To  Juan's  eyes,  excepting  natural  liL'loiv. 


564 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CASIO  1, 


XL. 

The  languages,  especially  the  dead, 
The  sciences,  and  irost  of  all  the  abstruse, 

The  arts,  at  least  all  such  as  could  be  said 
To  be  the  most  remote  from  common  use, 

In  all  these  he  was  much  and  deeply  read  ; 
But  not  a  page  of  any  thing  [that 's  loose, 

Or  hints  continuation  of  the  species, 

Was  ever  sufler'd,  lest  he  should  grow  vicious. 

XLI. 
His  classic  studies  made  a  little  puzzle, 

Because  of  filthy  loves  of  gods  and  goddesses, 
Who  in  the  earlier  ages  raised  a  bustle, 

But  never  put  on  pantaloons  or  boddiccs; 
His  reverend  tutors  had  at  times  a  tussle, 

And  for  their  JEncids,  Iliads,  and  Odysseys, 
Were  forced  to  make  an  odd  sort  of  apology, 
For  Donna  Inez  dreaded  the  mythology. 

XLII. 

Ovid  's  a  rake,  as  half  his  verses  show  him ; 

Anacreon's  morals  are  a  slill  worse  sample ; 
Catullus  scarcely  has  a  decent  poem ; 

1  don't  think  Sappho's  Ode  a  good  example, 
Although1  Longinus  tells  us  there  is  no  hymn 

Where  the  sublime  soars  forth  on  wings  more  ample ; 
But  Virgil's  songs  are  pure,  except  that  horrid  one 
Beginning  with  "  Formosum  pastor  Corydon." 

XLIII. 

Lucretius'  irreligion  is  too  strong 

For  early  stomachs,  to  prove  wholesome  food, 
I  can't  help  thinking  Juvenal  was  wrong, 

Although  no  doubt  his  real  intent  was  good, 
If  K  speaking  out  so  plainly  in  his  song, 

So  much  indeed  as  to  be  downright  rude ; 
And  then  what  proper  person  can  be  partial 
To  all  those  nauseous  epigrams  of  Martial  ? 

XLIV. 

Juan  was  taught  from  out  the  best  edition, 
Expurgated  by  learned  men,  who  place, 

Judiciously,  from  out  the  school-boy's  vision, 
The  grosser  parts ;   but,  fearful  to  deface 

Too  much  their  modest  bard  by  this  omission, 
And  pitying  sore  his  mutilated  case, 

They  only  add  them  all  in  an  appendix,* 

Which  saves,  in  fact,  the  trouble  of  an  index ; 

XLV. 

For  there  we  have  them  all  "  at  one  fell  swoop," 

Instead  of  being  scatter'd  through  the  pages  ; 
They  stand  forth  marshali'd  in  a  handsome  troop, 

To  meet  the  ingenuous  youth  of  future  ages, 
Till  some  less  rigid  editor  shall  stoop 

To  call  them  back  into  their  separate  cages, 
Instead  of  standing  staring  altogether, 
I  Jke  garden  gods — and  not  so  decent,  either. 

XLVI. 
7  he  MI.5sal  loo  (it  was  the  family  Missal) 

Was  ornamented  in  a  sort  of  way 
Which  ancient  mass-books  often  are,  and  this  all 

Kinds  of  grotesques  illumined  ;  and  how  they 
Who  saw  tuuse  figuies  on  the  margin  kiss  all, 

Could  turn  t^eir  optics  to  the  text  and  pray 
Is  more  than  1  ic.iow — but  Don  Juan's  mother 
Kept  Uiis  herself,  aiid  gave  her  son  another. 


XLVII. 

Sermons  he  read,  and  lectures  he  endured, 
And  homilies,  and  lives  of  all  the  saints ; 

To-  Jerome  and  to  Chrysostom  inured, 

He  did  not  take  such  studies  for  restraints : 

But  how  faith  is  acquired,  and  then  insured, 
So  well  not  one  of  the  aforesaid  paints 

As  Saint  Augustine,  in  his  fine  Confessions, 

Which  make  the  reader  envy  his  transgressions 

XLVIII. 

This,  too,  was  a  seal'd  book  to  little  Juan — 
I  can't  but  say  that  his  mamma  was  right, 

If  such  an  education  was  the  true  one. 

She  scarcely  trusted  him  from  out  her  sight ; 

Her  maids  were  old,  and  if  she  took  a  new  one 
You  might  be  sure  she  was  a  perfect  fright ; 

She  did  this  during  even  her  husband's  life- 

I  recommend  as  much  to  every  wife. 

XLIX. 

Young  Juan  wax'd  in  goodliness  and  grace : 
At  six  a  charming  child,  and  at  eleven 

With  all  the  promise  of  as  fine  a  face 

As  e'er  to  man's  maturcr  growth  was  given . 

He  studied  steadily  and  grew  apace, 
And  seem'd,  at  least,  in  the  right  road  to  heaven 

For  half  his  days  were  pass'd  at  church,  the  other 

Between  his  tutors,  confessor,  and  mother. 

L. 

At  six,  I  said  he  was  a  charming  child, 
At  twelve,  he  was  a  fine,  but  quiet  boy ; 

Although  in  infancy  a  little  wild, 

They  tamed  him  down  amongst  them :  to  destroy 

His  natural  spirit  not  in  vain  they  toil'd, 

At  least  at  seem'd  so ;    and  his  mother's  joy 

Was  to  declare  how  sage,  and  still,  and  steady, 

Her  young  philosopher  was  grown  already. 

LI. 

I  had  my  doubts,  perhaps  I  have  them  still, 
But  what  I  say  is  neither  here  nor  there ; 
I  knew  his  father  well,  and  have  some  skill 

In  character — but  it  would  not  be  fair 
From  sire  to  son  to  augur  good  or  ill: 

He  and  his  wife  were  an  ill-sorted  pair- 
But  scandal 's  my  aversion — I  protest 
Against  all  evil  speaking,  even  in  jest. 

LII. 

For  my  part  I  say  nothing — nothing — but 

Thit  I  will  say — my  reasons  are  my  own — 
That  if  I  had  an  only  son  to  put 

To  school  (as  God  he  praised  that  I  have  nonej 
'T  is  not  with  Donna  Inez  I  would  shut 

Him  up  to  learn  his  catechism  alone  ; 
No— no — I  'd  send  him  out  betimes  to  college, 
For  there  it  was  I  pick'd  up  my  own  knowledge. 

LIH. 
For  there  one  learns — 'tis  not  for  me  to  boast, 

Though  I  acquired — but  I  pass  over  that, 
As  well  as  all  the  Greek  I  since  have  .ost : 

I  say  that  there 's  the  place — but  ••  Verb-urn  »A 
I  think  I  pick'd  up,  too,  as  well  as  most, 

Knowledge  of  matters — but,  no  mailer  wna»— 
I  never  married — but  I  think,  I  know, 
That  sons  should  not  be  educated  so. 


<:  JJVTG  /. 


DON  JUAN. 


505 


LIV. 
Tonne  Juan  now  was  sixteen  years  of  age, 

Tall,  handsome,  slender,  but  well  knit ;  he  seem'd 
Active,  though  not  so  sprightly,  as  a  page; 

And  every  body  but  his  mother  deem'd 
Him  almost  man ;   but  she  flew  in  a  rage, 

And  bit  her  lips  (for  else  she  might  have  scream'd) 
If  any  said  so,  for  to  be  precocious 
Was  in  her  eyes  a  thing  the  most  atrocious. 

LV. 

Amongst  her  numerous  acquaintance,  all 

Selected  for  discretion  and  devotion, 
There  was  the  Donna  Julia,  whom  to  call 

Pretty  were  but  to  give  a  feeble  notion 
Of  many  charms,  in  her  as  natural 

As  sweetness  to  the  flower,  or  salt  to  ocean, 
Her  zone  to  Venus,  or  his  bow  to  Cupid 
(But  this  last  simile  is  trite  and  stupid). 

LVI. 

The  darkness  of  her  oriental  eye 

Accorded  with  her  Moorish  origin  : 
(Her  blood  was  not  all  Spanish,  by  the  by ; 

In  Spain,  you  know,  this  is  a  sort  of  sin). 
When  rjroud  Grenada  fell,  and,  forced  to  fly, 

Boabdil  wept,  of  Donna  Julia's  kin 
Some  went  to  Africa,  some  stay'd  in  Spain, 
Her  grjat-great-grandmamma  chose  to  remain, 

LVII. 

She  married  (I  forget  the  pedigree) 

With  an  Hidalgo,  who  transmitted  do-.vn 
Flis  blood  less  noble  than  such  blood  should  be : 

At  such  alliances  his  sires  would  frown, 
In  that  point  so  precise  in  each  degree 

That  they  bred  in  and  m,  as  might  be  shown, 
Marrying  their  cousins — nay,  their  aunts  and  nieces, 
Which  always  spoils  the  breed,  if  it  increases. 

LVIII. 
This  heathenish  cross  restored  the  breed  again, 

Ruin'd  its  blood,  but  much  improved  its  flesh ; 
For,  from  a  root,  the  ugliest  in  Old  Spain, 

Sprung  up  a  branch  as  beautiful  as  fresh ; 
The  sons  no  more  were  short,  the  daughters  plain : 

But  there's  a  rumour  which  I  fain  would  hush — 
T  is  said  that  Donna  Julia's  grandmamma 
Produced  her  Don  more  heirs  at  love  than  law. 

LIX. 
However  this  might  be,  the  race  went  on 

Improving  still  through  every  generation, 
Until  it  center'd  in  an  only  son, 

Who  left  an  only  daughter ;  my  narration 
May  have  suggested  that  this  single  one 

Could  be  but  Julia  (whom  on  this  occasion 
I  shall  have  much  to  speak  about),  and  she 
Was  married,  charming,  chaste,  and  twenty-three. 

LX. 
tier  eye  (I  'ra  very  fond  of  handsome  eyes) 

Was  large  and  dark,  suppressing  half  its  fire 
Cntil  she  spoke,  then  through  its  soft  diSguise 

Flash'd  an  expression  more  of  pride  than  ire, 
And  love  lhan  either;  and  there  would  arise 

A  sometnirg  in  them  which  was  not  desirf, 
But  would  have  been,  perhaps,  but  for  the  soul 


LXI. 

Her  glossy  hair  was  cluster'd  o'er  a  brow 
Bright  with  intelligence,  and  fair  and  smooth ; 

Her  eyebrow's  shape  was  like  the  aerial  bow, 
Her  cheek  all  purple  with  the  beam  of  youth. 

Mounting  at  times  to  a  transparent  giow, 

As  if  her  veins  ran  lightning ;   she,  in  sooth, 

Possess'd  an  air  and  grace  by  no  means  comma* 

Her  stature  tall — I  hate  a  dumpy  woman. 

LXII. 

Wedded  she  was  some  years,  and  to  a  man 
Of  fifty,  and  such  husbands  are  in  plenty ; 

And  yet,  I  think,  instead  of  such  a  O»E, 

'T  were  better  to  have  two  of  five-and-twenty, 

Especially  in  countries  near  the  sun : 
And  now  I  think  on  't,  "  mi  vien  in  mente," 

Ladies,  even  of  the  most  uneasy  virtue, 

Prefer  a  spouse  whose  age  is  short  of  thirty. 

LXIII. 
T  is  a  sad  thing,  I  cannot  choose  but  say, 

And  all  the  fault  of  that  indecent  sun 
Who  cannot  leave  alone  our  helpless  clay, 

But  will  keep  baking,  broiling,  burning  on, 
That,  howsoever  people  fast  and  pray, 

The  flesh  is  frail,  and  so  the  soul  undone : 
What  men  call  gallantry,  and  gods  adultery, 
Is  much  more  common  where  the  climate  's  sultry. 

LXIV. 
Happy  the  nations  of  the  moral  north ! 

Where  all  is  virtue,  and  the  winter  season 
Sends  sin  without  a  rag  on,  shivering  forth 

('T  was  snow  that  brought  Saint  Anthony  to  reason), 
Where  juries  cast  up  what  a  wife  is  worth, 

By  laying  whale' er  sum,  in  mulct,  they  please  on 
The  lover,  who  must  pay  a  handsome  price, 
Because  it  is  a  marketable  vice. 

LXV. 
Alfonso  was  the  name  of  Julia's  lord, 

A  man  well  looking  for  his  years,  and  who 
Was  neither  much  beloved  nor  yet  abhorr'd: 

They  lived  together  as  most  people  do, 
Suffering  each  others'  foibles  by  accord, 

And  not  exactly  either  one  or  two; 
Yet  he  was  jealous,  though  he  did  not  show  h. 
For  jealousy  dislikes  the  world  to  know  it. 

LXVI. 
Julia  was — yet  I  never  could  see  why — 

With  Donna  Inez  quite  a  favourite  friend : 
Between  their  tastes  there  was  small  sympathy, 

For  not  a  line  had  Julia  ever  penn'd : 
Some  people  whisper  (but  no  doubt  they  lie, 

For  malice  still  imputes  some  private  end) 
That  Inez  had,  ere  Don  Alfonso's  marriage, 
Forgot  with  him  her  very  prudent  carriage ; 

LXVII. 

And  that,  still  keeping  up  the  old  connexion, 
Which  time  had  lately  render'd  much  more  chasu 

She  took  his  lady  also  in  affection, 
And  certainly  this  course  was  much  the  best. 

She  flatter'd  Julia  with  her  sage"  protection, 
And  complimented  Don  Alfonso's  taste ; 

And  if  she  could  not  (who  can?)  silence  scandai. 


Which  struggled  through  and  chasten'd  down  the  whole,  (At  least  she  left  it  a  more  slender  handJo. 

\ 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CASTO  L 


LXVIII. 

can't  tell  whether  Julia  saw  the  affair 

With  oi  her  people's  eyes,  or  if  her  own 
Disco /enes  made,  but  none  could  be  aware 

Of  this,  at  least  no  symptom  e'er  was  shown ; 
Perhaps  she  did  not  know,  or  did  not  care, 

Indifferent  from  the  first  or  callous  grown  : 
I  'm  really  puzzled  what  to  think  or  say, 
She  kept  her  counsel  in  so  close  a  way. 

LXIX. 

Juan  she  saw,  and,  as  a  pretty  child, 

Caress'd  him  often,  such  a  thing  might  be 

Quite  innocently  done,  and  harmless  styled 
When  she  had  twenty  years,  and  thirteen  he ; 

But  I  am  not  so  sure  1  should  have  smiled 
When  he  was  sixteen,  Julia  twenty-three  : 

These  few  short  years  make  wondrous  alterations, 

Particularly  amongst  sun-burnt  nations. 

LXX. 

Wliate'er  the  cause  might  be,  they  had  become 
Changed  ;  for  the  dame  grew  distant,  the  youth  shy, 

Their  looks  cast  down,  their  greetings  almost  dumb, 
And  much  embarrassment  in  either  eye ; 

Ther*  surely  will  be  little  doubt  with  some 
That  Donna  Julia  knew  the  reason  why, 

But  as  for  Juan,  he*  had  no  more  notion 

Then  he  who  never  saw  the  sea  of  ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet  Julia's  very  coldness  still  was  kind, 

And  tremulously  gentle  her  small  hand 
Withdrew  itself  from  his,  but  left  behind 

A  little  pressure,  thrilling,  and  so  bland 
And  slight,  so  very  slight,  that  to  the  mind 

'T  was  but  a  doubt ;  but  ne'er  magician's  wand 
Wrought  change  with  all  Armida's  fiery  art 
Luke  what  this  light  touch  left  on  Juan's  heart. 

LXXII. 
And  if  she  met  him,  though  she  smiled  no  more, 

She  look'd  a  sadness  sweeter  than  her  smile, 
As  if  her  heart  had  deeper  thoughts  in  store 

She  must  not  own,  but  cherish  d  more  the  while, 
For  that  compression  in  its  burning  core ; 

Even  innocence  itself  has  many  a  wile, 
And  will  not  dare  to  trust  itself  with  truth, 
And  love  is  taught  hypocrisy  from  youth. 

LXXIII. 

But  passion  most  dissembles,  yet  betrays 

Even  by  its  darkness ;  as  the  blackest  sky 
Foretells  the  heaviest  tempest,  it  displays 

Its  workings  through  the  vainly-guarded  eye, 
And  in  whatever  aspect  it  arrays 

Itself,  't  is  still  the  same  hypocrisy ; 
Coldness  or  anger,  even  disdain  or  hate, 
Ate  masks  it  often  wears,  and  still  too  late. 

LXXIV. 
Tnen  there  were  sighs,  the  deeper  for  suppression, 

And  stolen  glances,  sweeter  for  the  theft, 
And  burning  blushes,  though  for  no  transgression, 

Tremblings  when  met,  and  restlessness  when  left : 
A!!  these  are  'ittlc  preludes  to  possession, 

Of  which  young  passion  cannot  be  bereft, 
And  mer  *,\y  end  to  show  how  greatly  love  is 
Cuioa.  ra*sM  «t  first  starting  with  a  novice. 


LXXV. 

Poor  Julia's  heart  was  in  an  awkward  state : 
She  felt  it  going,  and  resolved  to  make 

The  noblest  efforts  for  herself  and  mate, 

For  honour's,  pride's,  religion's,  virtue's  sake : 

Her  resolutions  were  most  truly  great, 

And  almost  might  have  made  a  Tarqum  quak 

She  pray'd  the  Virgin  Mary  for  her  grace, 

As  being  the  best  judge  of  a  lady's  case. 

LXXVI. 

She  vow'd  she  never  would  see  Juan  more, 
And  next  day  paid  a  visit  to  his  mother, 

And  look'd  extremely  at  the  opening  door, 
Which,  by  the  Virgin's  grace,  let  in  another ; 

Grateful  she  was,  and  yet  a  little  sore — 
Again  it  opens,  it  can  be  no  other, 

'T  is  surely  Juan  now — No !    I  'm  afraid 

That  night  the  Virgin  was  no  further  pray'd. 

LXXVII. 

She  now  determined  that  a  virtuous  woman 
Should  rather  face  and  overcome  temptation , 

That  flight  was  base  and  dastardly,  and  no  man 
Should  ever  give  her  heart  the  least  sensation ; 

That  is  to  say  a  thought,  beyond  the  common 
Preference  that  we  must  feel  upon  occasion 

For  people  who  are  pleasanter  than  others, 

But  then  they  only  seem  so  many  brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And  even  if  by  chance — and  who  can  tell  ? 

The  devil 's  so  very  sly — she  should  discover 
That  all  within  was  not  so  very  well, 

And  if,  still  free,  that  such  or  such  a  lover 
Might  please  perhaps,  a  virtuous  wife  can  quell 

Such  thoughts,  and  be  the  better  when  they  're  ove» 
And,  if  the  man  should  ask,  't  is  but  denial . 
I  recommend  young  ladies  to  make  trial. 

LXXIX. 
And  then  there  are  such  things  as  love  divine, 

Bright  and  immaculate,  unmix'd  and  pure, 
Such  as  the  angels  think  so  very  fine, 

And  matrons,  who  would  be  no  less  secure, 
Platonic,  perfect,  "just  such  love  as  mine ;" 

Thus  Julia  said — and  thought  so,  to  be  sure, 
And  so  I  'd  have  her  think,  were  I  the  man 
On  whom  her  reveries  celestial  ran. 

LXXX. 
Such  love  is  innocent,  and  may  exist 

Between  young  persons  without  any  dan?>:i  ; 
A  hand  may  first,  and  then  a  lip  be  kiss'd ; 

For  my  part,  to  such  doings  I  'm  a  stranger. 
But  hear  these  freedoms  for  the  utmost  list 

Of  all  o'er  which  such  love  may  be  a  ranger  • 
If  people  go  beyond,  't  is  quite  a  crime, 
But  not  my  fault — I  tell  them  all  in  time. 

LXXXI. 
Love,  then,  but  love  within  its  proper  limits, 

Was  Julia's  innocent  determination 
tn  young  D*n  Juan's  favour,  and  to  him  iis 

Exertion  might  be  useful  op  occasion 
And,  lighted  at  too  pure  a  shrine  to  dim    a 

Ethcrial  lustre,  with  what  sweet  persuasion 
He  might  be  taught,  by  love  and  ner  together- 
[  really  don't  know  what,  nor  Tu'  a  either. 


. 

or 
• 

I  zs  ; 

IS     KYKS  . 


CANTO  I. 


DON  JUAN. 


567 


LXXXII. 

Fraught  with  this  fine  intention,  and  well  fenced 

In   mail  of  proof— her  purity  of  soul, 
She,  for  the  future,  of  her  strength  convinced, 

And  that  her  honour  was  a  rock,  or  mole, 
Exceeding  sagely  from  that  hour  dispensed 

With  any  kind  of  troublesome  control. 
But  whether  Julia  to  the  task  was  equal 
Is  that  which  must  be  mention'd  in  the  sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her  plan  she  deem'd  both  innocent  and  feasible, 
And,  surely,  with  a  stripling  of  sixteen 

Not  scandal's  fangs  could  fix  on  much  that 's  seizable  ; 
Or,  if  they  did  so,  satisfied  to  mean 

Nothing  but  what  was  good,  her  breast  was  peaceable — 
A  quiet  conscience  makes  one  so  serene ! 

Christians  have  burned  each  other,  quite  persuaded 

That  all  the  apostles  would  have  done  as  they  did. 

LXXXIV. 

And  if,  in  the  mean  time,  her  husband  died, 
But  Heaven  forbid  that  such  a  thought  should  cross 

Her  brain,  though  in  a  dream,  (and  then  she  sigh'd!) 
Never  could  she  survive  that  common  loss ; 

But  just  suppose  that  moment  should  betide, 
I  only  say  suppose  it — inter  nos 

(This  should  be  enlre  nous,  for  Julia  thought 

[n  French,  but  then  the  rhyme  would  go  for  nought). 

LXXXV. 

t  only  say  suppose  this  supposition  : 

Juan,  being  then  grown  up  to  man's  estate, 
Would  fully  suit  a  widow  of  condition  ; 

Even  seven  years  hence  it  would  not  be  too  late ; 
And  in  the  interim  (to  pursue  this  vision) 

The  mischief,  after  all,  could  not  be  great, 
For  he  would  learn  the  rudiments  of  love, 
I  mean  the  seraph  way  of  those  above. 

LXXXVI. 
So  much  for  Julia.     Now  we  '11  turn  to  Juan. 

Poor  little  fellow !  he  had  no  idea 
Of  his  own  case,  and  never  hit  the  true  one ; 

In  feelings  quick  as  Ovid's  Miss  Medea, 
He  puzzled  over  what  he  found  a  new  one, 

But  not  as  yet  imagined  it  could  be  a 
Thing  quite  in  course,  and  not  at  all  alarming, 
Which,  with  a  little  patience,  might  grow  charming. 

LXXXVII. 
Silent  and  pensive,' idle,  restless,  slow, 

His  home  deserted  for  the  lonely  wood, 
Tormented  with  a  wound  he  could  not  know, 

His,  like  all  deep  grief,  plunged  in  solitude. 
I  'm  fond  myself  of  solitude  or  so, 

But  then  I  beg  it  may  be  understood 
By  solitude  I  mean  a  sultan's,  not 
A  hermit's,  with  a  haram  for  a  grot. 

LXXXVIII. 
*  Oh  love !   in  such  a  wilderness  as  this, 

Where  transport  and  security  entwine, 
.lore  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss, 

Am!  here  thoii  art  a  god  indeed  divine." 
The  bar!  I  quote  from  does  not  sing  amiss,* 

With  the  exception  ol  the  second  line, 
Ki>"  that  same  twining  "  transport  and  security " 
\  rr.  twisted .  to  a  uhrase  of  some  obscurity. 


LXXXIX. 

The  poet  meant,  no  doubt,  and  thus  appeals 
To  the  good  sense  and  senses  of  mankind, 

The  very  thing  which  every  body  feels, 
As  all  have  found  on  trial,  or  may  find, 

That  no  one  likes  to  be  disturb'd  at  meals 
Or  love: — I  <von't  gay  more  about  "entwined1' 

Or  "  transport,"  as  we  know  all  that  before, 

But  beg  "  security "  will  bolt  the  door. 

xc. 

Young  Juan  wander'd  by  the  glassy  brooks, 
Thinking  unutterable  things :  he  threw 

Himself  at  length  within  the  leafy  nooks 

Where  the  wild  branch  of  the  cork  forest  grrw 

There  poets  find  materials  for  their  books, 

And  every  now  and  then  we  lead  them  through, 

So  that  their  plan  and  prosody  are  eligible, 

Unless,  like  Wordsworth,  they  prove  unintelligible. 

XCI. 

He,  Juan,  (and  not  Wordsworth),  so  pursued 
His  self-communion  with  his  own  high  soul, 

Until  his  mighty  heart,  in  its  great  mood, 
Had  mifigated  part,  though  not  the  whole 

Of  its  disease  ;  he  did  the  best  he  could 
WTith  things  riot  very  subject  to  control, 

And  turn'd,  without  perceiving  his  condition, 

Like  Coleridge,  into  a  metaphysician. 

XCII. 

He  thought  about  himself,  and  the  whole  earth, 
Of  man  the  wonderful,  and  of  the  stars, 

And  how  the  deuce  they  ever  could  have  birth  ; 
And  then  he  thought  of  earthquakes  and  of  wars. 

How  many  miles  the  moon  might  have  in  girth, 
Of  air-balloons,  and  of  the  many  bars 

To  perfect  knowledge  of  the  boundless  skies  ; 

And  then  he  thought  of  Donna  Julia's  eyes. 

XC1II. 

In  thoughts  like  these  true  wisdom  may  discern 

Longings  sublime,  and  aspirations  high, 
Which  some  are  born  with,  but  the  most  part  learr 

To  plague  themselves  withal,  they  know  not  whv : 
'T  was  strange  that  one  so  young  should  thus  concern 

His  brain  about  the  action  of  the  sky ; 
If  you  think  't  was  philosophy  that  this  did, 
I  can't  help  thinking  puberty  assisted. 

XCIV. 
He  pored  upon  the  leaves,  and  on  the  flowers, 

And  heard  a  voice  in  all  the  winds ;   and  then 
He  thought  of  wood-nymphs  and  immortal  bowers, 

And  how  the  goddesses  came  down  to  men . 
He  miss'd  the  pathway,  he  forgot  the  hours, 

And,  when  he  look'd  upon  his  watch  again, 
He  found  how  much  old  Time  had  been  a  winner  - 
He  also  found  that  he  had  lost  his  dinner. 

xcv. 

Sometimes  he  turn'd  to  gaze  upon  his  book 

Boscan,  or  Garcilasso  ; — by  the  wind 
Even  as  the  page  is  rust'.ed  while  we  look. 

So  by  the  poesy  of  his  own  •mind 
Over  the  mystic  leaf  his  soul  was  shook. 

As  if 'twere  onewheicon  magicians  bind 
Their  spells,  and  give  them  to  the  passing  gale« 
According  to  some  pood  old  woman's  la'* 


568 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CMJV7  O 


XCVI. 

Thus  would  he  while  his  lonely  hours  away 

Dissatisfied,  nor  knowing  what  he  wanted ; 
Nor  glowing  reverie,  nor  poet's  lay, 

Could  yield  his  spirit  that  for  which  it  panted, — 
A  bosom  whereon  he  his  head  might  lay, 

And  hear  the  heart  beat  with  the  love  it  granted, 
With — several  other  things,  which  I  forget, 
Or  which,  at  least,  I  need  not  mention  yet. 

XCVII. 
Those  lonely  walks  and  lengthening  reveries 

Could  not  escape  the  gentle  Julia's  eyes ; 
She  saw  that  Juan  was  not  at  his  ease  ; 

But  that  which  chiefly  may  and  must  surprise, 
Is,  that  the  Donna  Inez  did  not  tease 

Her  only  son  with  question  or  surmise ; 
Whether  it  was  she  did  not  see,  or  would  not, 
Or,  like  all  very  clever  people,  could  not. 

XCVIII. 
This  may  seem  strange,  but  yet  't  is  very  common ; 

For  instance — gentlemen,  whose  ladies  take 
Leave  to  o'crstep  the  written  rights  of  woman, 

And  break  the — Which  commandment  is 't  they  break? 
(I  have  forgot  the  number,  and  think  no  man 

Should  rashly  quote,  for  fear  of  a  mistake). 
I  say,  when  these  same  gentlemen  are  jealous, 
They  make  some  blunder,  which  their  ladies  tell  us. 

XCIX. 
A  real  husband  always  is  suspicious, 

But  still  no  less  suspects  in  the  wrong  place, 
Jealous  of  some  one  who  had  no  such  wishes, 

Or  pandering  blindly  to  his  own  disgrace, 
By  harbouring  some  dear  friend  extremely  vicious ; 

The  last  indeed  's  infallibly  the  case : 
And  when  the  spouse  and  friend  are  gone  off  wholly, 
He  wonders  at  their  vice,  and  not  his  folly. 

C. 

Thus  parents  also  are  at  times  short-sighted; 

Though  watchful  as  the  lynx,  they  ne'er  discover, 
The  while  the  wicked  world  beholds,  delighted, 

Young  Hopeful's  mistress,  or  Miss  Fanny's  lover, 
Till  some  confounded  escapade  has  blighted 

The  plan  of  twenty  years,  and  all  is  over ; 
And  then  the  mother  cries,  the  father  swears, 
And  wonders  why  the  devil  he  got  heirs. 

CI. 
but  Inez  was  so  anxious,  and  so  clear 

Of  sight,  that  I  must  think  on  this  occasion, 
She  had  some  other  motive  much  more  near 

For  leaving  Juan  to  this  new  temptation ; 
But  what  that  motive  was,  I  shan't  say  here ; 

Perhaps  to  finish  Juan's  education, 
Perhaps  to  open  Don  Alfonso's  eyes, 
In  c.ase  he  thought  his  wife  too  great  a  prize. 

CII. 
It  was  upon  a  day,  a  summer's  day ; 

Summer 's  indeed  a  very  dangerous  season, 
And  so  is  spring  about  the  end  of  May ; 

The  sun,  no  doubt,  is  the  prevailing  reason; 
But  whatsoe'er  the  cause  is,  one  may  say, 

And  stand  convicted  of  more  truth  than  treason, 
That    there    are  months  which  nature  grows  more 

merry  in-- 
Marrh  nas  its  hures,  and  May  must  have  its  heroine. 


CHI. 

'T  was  on  a  summer's  day — the  sixth  of  June : 

I  like  to  be  particular  in  dates, 
Not  only  of  the  age,  and  year,  but  moon  ; 

They  are  a  sort  of  post-house,  where  the  Fates 
Change  horses,  making  history  change  its  tune, 

Then  spur  away  o'er  empires  and  o'er  states, 
Leaving  at  last  not  much  besides  chronology, 
Excepting  the  post-obits  of  theology. 

CIV. 

'T  was  on  the  sixth  of  June,  about  the  hour 
Of  half-past  six — perhaps  still  nearer  seven, 

When  Julia  sate  within  as  pretty  a  bower 
As  ere  huld  houri  in  that  heathenish  heaven 

Described  by  Mahomet,  and  Anacreon  Moore, 
To  whom  the  lyre  and  laurels  have  been  given, 

With  all  the  trophies  of  triumphant  song — 

He  won  then  well,  and  may  he  wear  them  long. 

CV. 

She  sate,  but  not  alone ;  I  know  not  well 
How  this  same  interview  had  taken  place. 

And  even  if  I  knew,  I  should  not  tell—- 
People should  hold  their  tongues  in  any  case ; 

No  matter  how  or  why  the  thing  befell, 

But  there  were  she  and  Juan  face  to  face — 

When  two  such  faces  are  so,  'twould  be  wise, 

But  very  difficult,  to  shut  their  eyes. 

CVL 

How  beautiful  she  look'd !  her  conscious  heart 

Glow'd  in  her  cheek,  and  yet  she  felt  no  wrong : 
Oh  love !  how  perfect  is  thy  mystic  art, 

Strengthening  the  weak  and  trampling  on  the  strong 
How  self-deceitful  is  the  sagest  part 

Of  mortals  whom  thy  lure  bath  led  along : 
The  precipice  she  stood  on  was  immense — 
So  was  her  creed  in  her  own  innocence. 

CVII. 
She  thought  of  her  own  strength,  and  Juan's  youth, 

And  of  the  folly  of  all  prudish  fears, 
Victorious  virtue,  and  domestic  truth, 

And  then  of  Don  Alfonso's  fifty  years : 
I  wish  these  last  had  not  occurr'd,  in  sooth, 

Because  that  number  rarely  much  endears, 
And  through  all  climes,  the  snowy  and  the  sunny, 
Sounds  ill  in  love,  whate'er  it  may  in  money. 

CVIII. 
When  people  say,  "  I  've  told  you  fifty  times," 

They  mean  to  scold,  and  very  often  do ; 
When  poets  say  "  I  've  written  fifty  rhymes," 

They  make  you  dread  that  they  '11  recite  them  loo ; 
In  gangs  of  fifty,  thieves  commit  (heir  crimes ; 

At  fifty,  love  for  love  is  rare,  't  is  true ; 
But  then,  no  doubt,  it  equally  as  true  is, 
A  good  deal  may  be  bought  for  fifty  Louis.. 

CIX. 
Julia  had  honour,  virtue,  truth,  and  love 

Ivor  Don  Alfonso ;  and  she  inly  swore, 
By  all  the  vows  below  to  powers  above, 

She  never  would  disgrace  the  ring  she  wore, 
Nor  leave  a  wish  which  wisdom  might  reprove . 

And  while  she  ponder'd  this,  besides  much  more, 
One  hand  on  Juan's  carelessly  was  thrown, 
Quite  by  mistake — she  thought  it  was  her  own ; 


DON  JUAN. 


56° 


ex. 

Unconsciously  she  lean'd  upon  the  other, 
Which  play'd  within  the  tangles  of  her  hair ; 

And  to  contend  with  thoughts  she  could  not  smother, 
She  seem'd,  by  the  distraction  of  her  air. 

'T  was  surely  very  wrong  in  Juan's  mother 
To  leave  together  this  imprudent  pair, 

She  who  tor  many  years  had  watch'd  her  son  so— 

I'm  veij  eertain  mine  would  not  have  done  so. 

CXI. 

The  hand  which  still  held  Juan's,  by  degrees 
Gently,  bat  palpably,  confirm'd  its  grasp, 

As  if  it  said  "  detain  me,  if  you   please  ;" 
Yet  there  's  no  doubt  she  only  meant  to  clasp 

His  fingers  with  a  pure  Platonic  squeeze : 

She  would  have  shrunk  as  from  a  toad  or  asp, 

Had  she  imagined  such  a  thing  could  rouse 

A  feeling  dangerous  to  a  prudent  spouse. 

CXII. 
I  cannot  know  what  Juan  thought  of  this, 

But  what  he  did  is  much  what  you  would  do ; 
His  young  lip  thank'd  it  with  a  grateful  kiss, 

And  then,  abash'd  at  his  own  joy,  withdrew 
In  deep  despair,  lest  he  had  done  amiss, 

Love  is  so  very  timid  when  'tis  new: 
She  blush'd  and  frown'd  not,  but  she  strove  to  speak, 
And  held  her  tongue,  her  voice  was  grown  so  weak. 

CXIII. 
The  sun  set,  and  up  rose  the  yellow  moon: 

The  devil 's  in  the  moon  for  mischief;  they 
Who  call'd  her  CHASTE,  methinks,  began  too  soon 

Their  nomenclature :  there  is  not  a  day, 
Tk.e  longest,  not  the  twenty-first  of  June, 

Sees  half  the  business  in  a  wicked  way 
On  which  three  single  hours  of  moonshine  smile — 
And  then  she  looks  so  modest  all  the  while. 

CXIV. 

There  is  a  dangerous  silence  in  that  hour, 
A  stillness  which  leaves  room  for  the  full  soul 

To  open  all  itself,  without  the  power 
Of  calling  wholly  back  its  self-control ; 

The  silver  light  which,  hallowing  tree  and  tower, 
Sheds  beauty  and  deep  softness  o'er  the  whole, 

Breathes  also  to  the  heart,  and  o'er  it  throws 

A  loving  languor,  which  is  not  repose. 

cxv. 

And  Julia  sate  with  Juan,  half  embraced, 
And  half  retiring  from  the  glowing  arm, 

Which  trembled  like  the  bosom  where  't  was  placed : 
Yet  still  she  must  have  thought  there  was  no  harm, 

Or  else  'I  were  easy  to  withdraw  her  waist ; 
But  then  the  situation  had  its  charm, 

And  then God  knows  what  next — I  can't  go  on  ; 

I  'm  almost  sorry  that  I  e'er  begun. 

CXVI. 

Oh,  Plato!  Plato!  you  have  paved  the  way, 
With  your  confounded  fantasies,  to  more 

Immoral  conduct  by  the  fancied  sway 
Your  system  feigns  o'er  the  controlless  core 

Of  human  hearts,  than  all  the  long  array 
Of  poets  and  romancers: — You're  a  bore, 

A.  cnarlatan,  a  coxcomb — and  have  been, 

At  best,  no  better  than  a  go-between. 
77 


CXVII. 

And  Julia's  voice  was  lost,  except  in  sighs, 
Until  too  late  for  useful  conversation ; 

The  tears  were  gushing  from  her  gentle  eyes, 
I   wish,  indeed,  they  had  not  had  occasion  ; 

But  who,  alas !  can  love,  and  then  be  wise  ? 
Not  that  remorse  did  not  oppose  temptation, 

A  little  still  she  strove,  and  much  repented, 

And  whispering  "I  will  ne'er  consent" — consented 

CXVIII. 

'Tis  said  that  Xerxes  offer'd  a  reward 

To  those  who  could  invent  him  a  new  pleasure  , 

Methinks  the  requisition's  rather  hard, 
And  must  have  cost  his  majesty  a  treasure : 

For  my  part,  I'm  a  moderate-minded  bard, 
Fond  of  a  little  love  (which  I  call  leisure) ; 

[  care  not  for  new  pleasures,  as  the  old 

Are  quite  enough  for  me,  so  they  but  hold. 

CXIX. 

Oh  Pleasure !  you  're  indeed  a  pleasant  thing, 
Although  one  must  be  damn'd  for  you,  no  doubt; 

I  make  a  resolution  every  spring 
Of  reformation  ere  the  year  run  out, 

But,  somehow,  this  my  vestal  vow  takes  wing, 
Yet  still,  I  trust,  it  may  be  kept  throughout: 

I'm  very  sorry,  very  much  ashamed, 

And  mean,  next  winter,  to  be  quite  reclaim'd. 

cxx. 

Here  my  chaste  muse  a  liberty  must  take — 

Start  not!  still  chaster  reader, — she'll  benicehenc*. 

Forward,  and  there  is  no  great  cause  to  quake : 
This  liberty  is  a  poetic  license 

Which  some  irregularity  may  make 
In  the  design,  and  as  I  have  a  high  sense 

Of  Aristotle  and  the  Rules,  't  is  fit 

To  beg  his  pardon  when  I  err  a  bit. 

CXXI. 

This  license  is  to  hope  the  reader  will 

Suppose  from  June  the  sixth  (the  fatal  day, 

Without  whose  epoch  my  poetic  skill, 

For  want  of  facts,  would  all  be  thrown  awayS 

But  keeping  Julia  and  Don  Juan  still 
In  sight,  that  several  months  have  pass'd  ;  we'll  no* 

'Twas  in  November,  but  I'm  not  so  sure 

About  the  day — the  era's  more  obscure. 

CXXII. 

We'll  talk  of  that  anon — 'Tis  sweet  to  hear, 

At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep, 
The  song  and  oar  of  Adria's  gondolier, 

By  distance  mellow'd,  o'er  the  waters  sweep , 
'Tis  sweet  to  see  the  evening  star  appear; 

'Tis  sweet  to  listen  as  the  night-winds  creep 
From  leaf  to  leaf;  't  is  sweet  to  view  on  high 
The  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky; 

CXXI1I. 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  vratch-dog'a  honest  bark 

Bay  deep-mouth'd  welcome  as  we  draw  near  ''cum 
'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 

Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come, 
'T  is  sweet  xo  be  awaken'd  by  'the  lark, 

Or  lull'd  by  falling  waters ;  sweet  the  hnni 
Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds, 
The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  <voHk 


570 


B\flON'S  \VO11KS. 


C.-LVTO 


cxxiv. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  the  showering  grape* 

la  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth 
Purple  and  gushing;  sweet  are  our  escape* 

From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth  ; 
Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps ; 

Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-bora's  birth; 
Sweet  is  revenge— especially  to  women. 
Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

cxxv. 

Sweet  it  a  legacy;  and  passing  sweet 
The  unexpected  death  of  some  old  lady 

Or  gentleman  of  seventy  years  complete, 

Who  're  made  u  us  youth"  wait  too— too  long  already 

For  an  estate,  or  cash   or  country-seat. 
Still  breaking,  but  with  stamina  so  steady, 

That  all  the  Israelites  are  fit  to  mob  its 

Next  owner,  for  their  double-damn'd  post-obits. 

CXXVL 

T«s  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  bow,  one's  laurels 
By  blood  or  ink;  'tis  sweet  to  pot  an  end 

To  strife ;  *tb  sometimes  sweet  to  have  our  quarrels, 
Particularly  with  a  tiresome  friend ; 

Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles-  ale  in  barrels ; 
Dear  is  the  helpless  crea/ure  we  defend 

Against  the  world ;  and  dear  the  school-boy  spot 

We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we  are  forgot. 

CXXVH. 
Bat  sweeter  still  than  this,  than  these,  than  all, 

Is  first  and  passionate  lore — it  stands  alone, 
Like  Adam's  recollection  of  his  faU; 

The  tree  of  knowledge  has  been  pluckM-sJFs  known- 
And  fife  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 

Worthy  jf  this  anirosiai  sin  so  shown, 
No  doubt  m  fable,  as  the  unforgiven 
Fire  which  Prometheus  Sch'd  for  as  from  heaven. 

cxxvra. 

Man's  a  strange  animal,  and  makes  strange  use 
Of  his  own  nature  and  the  various  arts, 

And  likes  particularly  to  produce 

Some  new  experiment  to  show  his  parts: 

This  a  tne  age  of  oddities  let  loose, 

Where  different  talects  find  their  different  marts; 

Tou'dbest  begin  with  truth,  and  when  you've  lost  your 

1  ibour,  there's  a  sore  market  for  imposture, 

CXXK. 

What  opposite  discoveries  we  have  seen! 

(Signs  tf  true  genius,  and  of  empty  pockets:) 
•  hie  makes  new  noses,  one  a  guillotine, 

One  breaks  your  bones,  one  sets  them  in  their  sockets; 
But  vaccination  certainly  has  been 
A  kind  antithesis  to  Congreve's  rockets, 


,        cxxx. 

Bread  has  been  made  (indifferent)  from  potatoes, 
Vnd  galvanism  has  set  some  corpses  grinning, 

But  has  not  answerM  like  the  apparatus 
<  >r  the  Humane  Society's  beginning , 

Bv  which  men  are  unsuffbcated  gratis; — 
XV  h»t  wondrous  new  machines  have  late  been  spinning 


CXXXI. 


CXXXH. 
This  is  the  patent  age  of  new  inventions 

For  killing  bodies  and  for  saving  souls. 
All  propagated  with  the  best  intentions : 

Sir  Humphry  Davy's  lantern,  by  which  coals 
Are  safely  mined  for  in  the  mode  he  mentions 

Tunbuctoo  travels,  voyages  to  the  Poles 
Are  ways  to  benefit  mankind,  as  true, 
Perhaps,  as  shooting  them  at  Waterloo. 

CXXXII1. 
Man's  a  phenomenon,  one  knows  not  what, 

And  wonderful  beyond  all  wondrous  measuie, 
'Tis  pity  though,  in  this  sublime  world,  that 

Pleasure 's  a  sin,  and  sometimes  sin  '*  a  pleasure  j 
Few  mortals  know  what  end  they  would  be  at, 

But  whether  glory,  power,  or  love,  or  treasure, 
The  path  is  through  perplexing  ways,  and  when 
The  goal  is  gain'd,  we  die,  you  know — and  then  • 

C  XXXIV. 
What  then? — I  do  not  know,  no  more  do  you— 

And  so  good  night. — Return  we  to  our  story: 
Twas  in  November,  when  fine  days  are  few, 

And  the  far  mountains  wax  a  little  hoary, 
And  clap  a  white  cape  on  their  mantles  blue ; 

And  the  sea  dashes  round  the  promontory. 
And  the  loud  breaker  boils  against  the  rock, 
And  sober  suns  must  set  at  five  o'clock. 

cxxxv. 

Twas,  as  the  watchmen  say,  a  cloudy  night; 

No  moon,  no  stars,  the  wind  was  low  or  loud 
By  gusts,  and  many  a  sparkling  hearth  was  bright 

Wi:h  the  piled  wood,  round  which  the  f-unilv  crowd  4 
There's  something  cheerful  in  that  sort  of  light, 

Even  as  a  summer  sky  's  without  a  cloud : 
I  'm  fond  of  fire,  and  crickets,  and  all  that, 
A  lobster  salad,  and  champagne,  and  chat 

C  XXXVI. 
'T  was  midnight — Donna  Julia  was  in  bed, 

Sleeping,  most  probably, — when  at  her  door 
Arose  a  clatter  might  awake  the  dead, 

If  they  had  never  been  awoke  before — 
And  that  they  have  been  so  we  all  have  read, 

And  are  to  be  so,  at  the  least,  once  more — 
The  door  was  fasten'd,  but,  with  voice  and  fist, 
First  knocks  were  heard,  then  "Madam — Madam — hist! 

CXXXVII. 
"For  God's  sake,  Madam — Madam — here's  my  mastet 

With  more  than  half  the  city  at  his  back — 
Was  ever  heard  of  such  a  cursed  disaster  ? 

Tis  not  my  fault — I  kept  good  watch — Alack' 
Do,  pray,  undo  the  bolt  a  little  faster — 

They're  on  the  stair  just  new,  and  ia  *  crac* 
Will  all  be  here ;  perhaps  he  yet  may  fly- 
Surely  the  window 's  iW  10  ttrti  bit  S  '" 


/. 


DON  JUAN. 


571 


CX3LXV1IL 
By  this  time  Don  Alfonso  was  arrived, 

With  torches,  fiends,  and  servants  in  great  number ; 
The  major  part  of  them  had  long  been  wived, 

And  therefore  paused  not  to  disturb  the  slumber 
Of  any  wicked  woman,  who  contrived 

By  stealth  her  husband's  temples  to  encumber : 
Examples  of  this  kind  are  so  contagious, 
Were  one  not  punish'd,  all  would  be  outrageous. 

CXXXLJL 
I  can't  teD  how,  or  why,  or  what  suspicion 

Could  enter  into  Don  Alfonso's  head, 
But  for  a  cavalier  of  his  condition 

It  sorely  was  exceedingly  ill-bred, 
Without  a  word  of  previous  admonition, 

To  hold  a  levee  round  his  lady's  bed, 
And  summon  lackeys,  arm'd  with  fire  and  sword, 
To  prove  himself  the  thing  he  most  abhorrM. 

CXL. 
Poor  Donna  Julia!   starting  as  from  sleep 

(Mind— that  I  do  not  say— rite  had  not  slept), 
Began  at  once  to  scream,  and  yawn,  and  weep ; 

Her  maid  Antonia,  who  was  an  adept, 
Contrived  to  fling  the  bed-clothes  in  a  heap, 

As  if  she  had  just  now  from  out  them  crept: 
I  can't  tell  why  she  should  take  all  this  trouble 
To  prove  her  mistress  had  been  sleeping  doable. 

CXLL 

A&ionia  maid 


But  Julia 

1      Appeard  like  two  poor  harmless 
Of  goblins,  but  still  more  of  men,  afraid, 

Had  thought  one  man  might  be  deterr'd  by  two, 
And  therefore  side  by  side  were  gently  laid, 

Until  the  hours  of  absence  «ho"H  ran  through. 
And  truant  husband  should  return,  and  say, 
uMy  dear,  I  was  the  first  who  came  away." 

.     CX1II. 
Now  Julia  found  at  length  a  voice,  and  cried, 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  Don  Alfonso,  what  d*  ye  mean? 
Has  madness  seized  you?  would  that  1  had  died 

Ere  such  a  monster's  victim  I  had  been! 
What  may  this  midnight  violence  betide, 

A  sudden  fit  of  drunkenness  or  spleen? 
Dare  you  suspect  me,  whom  the  thought  would  kill? 
Search,  then,  the  room !" — Alfonso  said,  "  I  win." 

CXLHL 
He  search'd,tfoy  search'd,  and  rummaged  every  where, 

Closet  and  ckxhes'-press,  chest  and  window-seat, 
And  found  much  linen,  lace,  and  several  pair 

Of  stockings,  slippers,  brushes,  combs,  complete, 
With  other  articles  of  ladies  fair, 

To  keep  them  beautiful,  or  leave  them  neat: 
Arras  they  prick'd  and  curtains  wkh  their  swords, 
And  wounded  several  shutters,  and  some  boards. 

CXLIV. 

Coder  tHe  bed  they  search'd,  and  there  they  found- 
No  matter  what — it  was  not  that  they  sought, 
Fbey  open'd  windows,  gazing  if  the  ground 

Had  signs  or  foot-marks,  but  the  earth  said  nought: 
And  then  they  stared  each  other's  faces  round: 

Tsf  odd,  not  one  of  aO  these  seekers  thought, 
And  seems  to  me  almost  a  sort  of  blunder, 
Of  looking  at  the  bed  as  TveD  as  under. 


CXLV. 
During  this  inquisition  Julia's  tongue 

Was  not  asleep — "Yes,  search  and  search,"  she  cried, 
"Insult  on  insult  heap,  and  wrong  on  wrong! 

It  was  for  this  that  I  became  a  bride! 
For  this  in  silence  I  have  suffer"  d  long 

A  husband  like  Alfonso  at  my  side ; 
But  now  111  bear  no  more,  nor  here  remain, 
If  there  be  law,  or  lawyers,  in  aB  Spain. 


"Yes,  Don  Alfa 


CXLVI. 

now  00  more, 


If  ever  yon  indeed  deserved  the  name, 
Is't  worthy  of  your  years  ? — you  have  threescore, 

Fifty,  or  sixty — k  is  all  the  same — 
Is 't  wise  or  fitting  causeless  to  explore 

For  facts  against  a  virtuous  woman's  fame? 
Ungrateful,  perjured,  barbarous  Don  Alfonso! 
How  dare  yoa  think  your  lady  would  go  on  so  ? 

CXLVIL 

"Is  it  for  this  I  have  disdain'd  to  bold 

The  common  privileges  of  my  sex? 
That  I  have  chosen  a  confessor  so  old 

And  deaf,  that  any  other  H  would  vex. 
And  never  once  be  has  had  cause  to  scold, 

Bui  lound  my  very  miy^cence  perp.^x 
So  much,  he  always  doubted  I  was  married — 
How  sorry  yoa  will  be  when  I '  ve  miscarried ! 

CXLVUL 
•Was  it  for  this  that  no  Cortejo  ere 

I  yet  have  chosen  from  oat  the  youth  of  SevOk? 
Is  it  for  this  I  scarce  went  any  where, 

Except  to  buB-figbts,  mass,  play,  rout,  and  revel  T 
Is  k  for  this,  whate'er  my  suitors  were, 

I  favoured  DODO — nay,  was  almost  uncivil? 
Is  it  for  this  that  General  Count  O'Reilly, 
Who  took  Algiers,  declares  I  used  him  vflejy?* 

CXLLX. 
"Did  not  the  Italian  Musico  Cazzani 

Sing  at  my  heart  six  months  at  least  in  Tain? 
Did  not  his  countryman,  Count  Corntani, 

Call  me  the  only  virtuous  wife  in  Spain? 
Were  there  not  also  Ruffians,  Engush,  many? 


The  Count  Strongstroganoff  I  put  in  pain, 
And  Lord  Mount  Coffeehouse,  the  Irish  peer, 
Who  bird  himself  for  lore  (with  wine)  last  year. 

CL. 
"Have  I  not  had  two  bishops  at  my  feet, 

The  Duke  of  Ichar,  and  Don  Fernan  Nunez? 
And  is  it  thus  a  faithful  wife  you  treat? 

I  wonder  in  what  quarter  now  the  moon  is. 
I  praise  your  vast  forbearance  not  to  beat 

Me  also,  since  the  time  so  opportune  is — 
Oh,  valiant  man!  with  sword  drawn  and  cocVd  triggw 
Now,  tell  me,  don't  you  cut  a  pretty  figure  ? 

CLL 
"  Was  it  for  this  yon  took  your  sudden  jomnet . 

Under  pretence  of  business  indispensable, 
With  that  sublime  of  rascals  your  attorney. 

Whom  I  see  standing  mere,  and  lookmg  sensuMr 
Of  having  phyM  the  fool?  though  both  I  spurn,  he 

Deserves  the  worst,  his  conduct 's  less  i\rrrim*mm 
Because,  no  doubt,  H  was  for  bis  dirty  fee. 
And  not  for  any  love  to  you  or  me. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  I 


CLIl. 

•»  If  he  comes  hei  <>  to  take  a  deposition, 
By  all  means  let  the  gentleman  proceed  ; 

You  've  made  the  apartment  in  a  fit  condition : 
There 's  pen  and  ink  for  you,  sir,  when  you  need — 

Let  every  thing  be  noted  with  precision, 

I  would  not  you  for  nothing  should  be  fee'd — 

But,  as  my  maid 's  undress'd,  pray  turn  your  spies  out." 

"Oh!"  sobb'd  Antonia,  "I  could  tear  their  eyes  out." 

CLIII. 

"  There  is  the  closet,  there  the  toilet,  there 
The  ante-chamber — search  them  under,  over : 

There  is  the  sofa,  there  the  great  arm-chair, 
The  chimney — which  would  really  hold  a  lover. 

I  wish  to  sleep,  and  beg  you  will  take  care 
And  make  no  further  noise  till  you  discover 

The  secret  cavern  of  this  lurking  treasure — 

And,  when't  is  found,  let  me,  too,  have  that  pleasure. 

CLIV. 
"  And  now,  Hidalgo !   now  that  you  have  thrown 

Doubt  upon  me,  confusion  over  all, 
Pray  have  the  courtesy  to  make  it  known 

Who  is  the  man  you  search  for  ?   how  d'  ye  call 
Him?   what 's  his  lineage  ?   let  him  but  be  shown — 

I  hope  he 's  young  and  handsome — is  he  tall  ? 
Tell  me — and  be  assured,  that  since  you  stain 
My  honour  thus,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain. 

CLV. 

"  At  least,  perhaps,  he  has  not  sixty  years — 

At  that  age  he  would  be  too  old  for  slaughter, 
Or  for  so  young  a  husband's  jealous  fears — 

(Antonia!  let  me  have  a  glass  of  water). 
I  am  ashamed  of  having  shed  these  tears, 

They  are  unworthy  of  my  father's  daughter ; 
My  mother  dream'd  not  in  my  natal  hour 
That  I  should  fall  into  a  monster's  power. 

CLVI. 
"  Perhaps 't  is  of  Antonia  you  are  jealous, 

You  saw  that  she  was  sleeping  by  my  side 
When  you  broke  in  upon  us  with  your  fellows : 

Look  where  you  please — we  've  nothing,  sir,  to  hide; 
Only  another  time,  I  trust,  you  '11  tell  us, 

Or  for  the  sake  of  decency  abide 
A  moment  at  the  door,  that  we  may  be 
DressM  to  receive  so  much  good  company. 

CLVII. 
u  And  now,  sir,  I  have  done,  and  say  no  more ; 

The  little  I  have  said  may  serve  to  show 
The  guileless  heart  in  silence  may  grieve  o'er 

The  wtongs  to  whose  exposure  it  is  slow: — 
I  leave  you  to  your  conscience  as  before, 

T  will  one  day  ask  you  why  you  used  me  so  ? 
God  grant  you  feel  not  then  the  bitterest  grief! — 
An'onia'   where 's  my  pocket-handkerchief  ?" 

CLVIII. 
She  ceased,  and  turn'd  upon  her  pillow ;  pale 

She  lay.  her  dark  eyes  flashing  through  their  tears 
LIKO  skiw  that  rain  and  lighten ;   as  a  veil 

Waved  ar*d  o'ershading  her  wan  cheek,  appears 
Her  streaming  hair ;    the  black  curls  strive,  but  fail, 

To  hide  tne  giossy  shoulder  which  uprears 
Its  sauw  through  al! ; — h<"  soft  lips  lie  apart, 
Anil  b->)er  than  her  breathing  beats  her  heart. 


CLJX. 

The  Senhor  Don  Alfonso  stood  confused  ; 

Antonia  bustled  round  the  ransack'd  room, 
AnH,  turning  up  her  nose,  with  looks  abused 

Her  master,  and  his  myrmidons,  of  whom 
Not  one,  except  the  attorney,  was  amused ; 

He,  like  Achates,  faithful  to  the  tomb, 
So  there  were  quarrels,  cared  not  for  the  cause, 
Snowing  they  must  be  settled  by  the  laws. 

CLX. 

With  prying  snub-nose,  and  small  eyes,  he  stood 
Following  Antonia's  motions  here  and  there, 

With  much  suspicion  in  his  attitude ; 
For  reputation  he  had  little  cars: 

So  that  a  suit  or  action  were  made  good, 
Small  pity  had  he  for  the  young  and  fair. 

And  ne'er  believed  in  negatives,  till  these 

Were  proved  by  competent  false  witnesses. 

CLXI. 

But  Don  Alfonso  stood  with  downcast  looks, 
And,  truth  to  say,  he  made  a  foolish  figure  ; 

When,  after  searching  in  five  hundred  nooks, 
And  treating  a  young  wife  with  so  much  rigour. 

He  gain'd  no  point,  except  some  self  rebukes, 
Added  to  those  his  lady  with  such  vigour 

Had  pour'd  upon  him  for  the  last  half  hour, 

Quick,  thick,  and  heavy — as  a  thunder-shower. 

CLXII. 

At  first  he  tried  to  hammer  an  excuse, 
To  which  the  sole  reply  were  tears  and  sobs, 

And  indications  of  hysterics,  whose 
Prologue  is  always  certain  throes  and  throbs, 

Gasps,  and  whatever  else  the  owners  choose: — 
Alfonso  saw  his  wife,  and  thought  of  Job's  ; 

He  saw,  too,  in  perspective,  her  relations, 

And  then  he  tried  to  muster  all  his  patience. 

cLxin.  - 

He  stood  in  act  to  speak,  or  rather  stammer, 

But  sage  Antonia  cut  him  short  before 
The  anvil  of  his  speech  received  the  hammer, 

With  "  Pray,  sir,  leave  the  room,  and  say  no  more. 
Or  madam  dies." — Alfonso  mutter'd  "  D n  her." 

But  nothing  else,  the  time  of  words  was  o'er  ; 
He  cast  a  rueful  look  or  two,  and  did, 
He  knew  not  wherefore,  that  which  he  was  bid. 

CLXIV. 
With  him  retired  his  "posse  comitatus," 

The  attorney  last,  who  linger'd  near  the  door, 
Reluctantly,  still  tarrying  there  as  late  as 

Antonia  let  him — not  a  little  sore 
At  this  most  strange  and  unexplam'd  "hiatus" 

In  Don  Alfonso's  facts,  which  just  now  wore 
An  awkward  look ;  as  he  revolved  the  case, 
The  door  was  fasten'd  in  his  legal  face. 

CLXV. 
No  sooner  was  it  bolted,  than — Oh  shame ! 

Oh  sin  !   oh  sorrow  !    and  oh  womankind  ! 
How  can  you  do  such  things  and  keep  your  fame, 

Unless  this  world,  and  t'  other  too,  be  blind  ? 
Nothing  so  dear  as  an  unfilch'd  good  name ! 

But  to  proceed — for  there  is  more  behind : 
With  much  heart-felt  reluctance  be  it  said, 
Young  Juan  slipp'd,  half-smother'd,  from  the  bed 


CANTO  I. 


DON  JUAN. 


573 


CLXVti 

He  had  been  hid — I  don't  pretend  to  say 
How,  nor  can  I  indeed  describe  the  where — 

Foung,  slender,  and  p&ck'd  easily,  he  lay, 
No  doubt,  in  little  compass,  round  or  square ; 

But  pity  him  I  neither  must  nor  may 
His  suffocation  by  that  pretty  pair  ; 

T  were  better,  sure,  to  die  so,  than  be  shut, 

With  maudlin  Clarence,  in  his  Malmsev  butt. 

CLXVII. 

And,  secondly,  I  pity  not,  because 
He  had  no  business  to  commit  a  sin, 

Forbid  by  heavenly,  fined  by  human  laws, — 
At  least  't  was  rather  early  to  begin  ; 

Hut  at  sixteen  the  conscience  rarely  gnaws 
So  much  as  when  we  call  our  old  debts  in 

At  sixty  years,  and  draw  the  accounts  of  evil, 

And  find  a  deuced  balance  with  the  devil. 

CLXVIII. 

Of  his  position  I  can  give  no  notion : 
'T  is  written  in  the  Hebrew  Chronicle, 

How  the  physicians,  leaving  pill  and  potion, 
Prescribed,  by  way  of  blister,  a  young  belle, 

When  old  King  David's  blood  grew  dull  in  motion, 
And  that  the  medicine  answer'd  very  well ; 

Perhaps  't  was  in  a  different  way  applied, 

For  David  lived,  but  Juai  nearly  died. 

CLXIX. 

What's  to  be  done?  Alfonso  will  be  back 

The  moment  he  has  sent  his  fools  away. 
Antonia's  skill  was  put  upon  the  rack, 

But  no  device  could  be  brought  into  play — 
And  how  to  parry  the  renew'd  attack  ? 

Besides,  it  wanted  but  few  hours  of  day : 
Antonia  puzzled  ;  Julia  did  not  speak, 
But  press'd  her  bloodless  lip  to  Juan's  cheek. 

CLXX. 
He  turn'd  his  lip  to  hers,  and  with  his  hand 

Call'd  back  the  tangles  of  her  wandering  hair; 
Even  then  their  love  they  could  not  all  command, 

And  half  forgot  their  danger  and  despair: 
Antonia's  patience  now  was  at  a  stand — 

"  Come,  come,  't  is  no  time  now  for  fooling  there," 
She  whisper'd  in  great  wrath — "  I  must  deposit 
This  pretty  gentleman  within  the  closet : 

CLXXI. 
14  Pray  keep  your  nonsense  for  some  luckier  night — 

JVho  can  have  put  my  master  in  this  mood  ? 
What  will  become  on  't  ? — I  'm  in  such  a  fright ! 

The  devil 's  in  the  urchin,  and  no  good — 
Is  this  a  time  for  giggling  ?   this  a  plight  ? 

Why,  don't  you  know  that  it  may  end  in  blood  ? 
Fou  '11  lose  your  life,  and  I  shall  lose  my  place, 
My  mistress  all,  for  that  half-girlish  face. 

CLXXII. 

*  Had  it  but  been  for  a  stout  cavalier 
Of  twenty-five  or  thirty — (come,  make  haste) 

dut  for  a  child,  what  piece  of  work  is  here ! 
I  really,  madam,  wonder  at  your  taste — 

•Come,  sir,  get  in) — my  master  must  be  near. 
There,  for  the  present  at  the  least  he 's  fast, 

And,  if  we  can  but  till  the  morning  keep 

Our  counsel — (Juan,  mind  you  must  not  sleep)." 
3B 


CLXXIII. 

Now,  Don  Alfonso  entering,  but  alone, 
Closed  the  oration  of  the  trusty  maid : 

She  loiter'd,  and  he  told  her  to  be  gone, 
An  order  somewhat  sullenly  obey'd  ; 

However,  present  remedy  was  none, 
And  no  great  good  seem'd  answer'd  if  she  stay'J 

Regarding  both  with  slow  and  sidelong  view, 

She  snuff'd  the  candle,  curtsied,  and  withdrew. 

CLXXIV. 

Alfonso  paused  a  minute — then  begun 
Some  strange  excuses  for  his  late  proceeding ; 

He  would  not  justify  what  he  had  done, 
To  say  the  best,  it  was  extreme  ill-breeding : 

But  there  were  ample  reasons  for  it,  none 
Of  which  he  specified  in  this  his  pleading : 

His  speech  was  a  fine  sample,  on  the  whole, 

Of  rhetoric,  which  the  leam'd  call  "  rigmarole." 

CLXXV. 

Julia  said  nought ;  though  all  the  while  there  rose 
A  ready  answer,  which  at  once  enables 

A  matron,  who  her  husband's  foible  knows, 
By  a  few  timely  words  to  turn  the  tables, 

Which,  if  it  does  not  silence,  still  must  pose, 
Even  if  it  should  comprise  a  pack  of  fables ; 

'T  is  to  retort  with  firmness,  and  when,  he 

Suspects  with  one,  do  you  reproach  with  three. 

CLXXVI. 

Julia,  in  fact,  had  tolerable  grounds, 

Alfonso's  loves  with  Inez  were  well  known  ; 
But  whether  't  was  that  one's  own  guilt  confounds— 

But  that  can't  be,  as  has  been  often  shown ; 
A  lady  with  apologies  abounds  : 

It  might  be  that  her  silence  sprang  alone 
From  delicacy  to  Don  Juan's  ear, 
To  whom  she  knew  his  mother's  fame  was  dear. 

CLXXVII. 
There  might  be  one  more  motive,  which  makes  two : 

Alfonso  ne'er  to  Juan  had  alluded, 
Mention'd  his  jealousy,  but  never  who 

Had  been  the  happy  lover,  he  concluded, 
Conceal'd  amongst  his  premises;  'tis  true, 

His  mind  the  more  o'er  this  its  mystery  brooded , 
To  speak  of  Inez  now  were,  one  may  say, 
Like  throwing  Juan  in  Alfonso's  way. 

CLXXVIII. 
A  hint,  in  tender  cases,  is  enough ; 

Silence  is  best,  besides  there  is  a  tact 
(That  modem  phrase  appears  to  me  sad  stuff, 

But  it  will  serve  to  keep  my  verse  compact) 
Which  keeps,  whin  push'd  by  questions  rather  rougti 

A  lady  always  distant  from  the  fact — 
The  charming  creatures  lie  with  such  a  grace, 
There's  nothing  so  becoming  to  the  face. 

CLXXIX. 

They  blush,  and  we  believe  iiem  ;   at  least  I 
Have  always  done  so ;   't  u  of  no  great  use. 

In  any  case,  attempting  a  reply, 

For  then  their  eloquence  grows  quite  profuse . 

And  when  at  length  they  're  out  of  breath,  they  sigi,, 
And  cast  theii  languid  eyes  down,  and  let  loose 

A  tear  or  two,  and  then  we  make  it  up  : 

And  then — acd  then — tad  then — sit  dov/n  ar.d  sm» 


574 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANT-)  L 


CLXXX. 

Alfons'  cl»«p<l  his  speech,  and  begg'd  her  pardon, 
Which  Jutia  half  withheld,  and  then  half  granted, 

A  nd  laid  conditions,  he  thought,  very  hard  on, 
Denying  several  little  things  he  wanted : 

He  stood,  like  Adam,  lingering  near  his  garden, 
With  us<less  penitence  perplex'd  and  haunted, 

Beseeching  she  no  further  would  refuse, 

When  lo !   he  stumbled  o'er  a  pair  of  shoes. 

CLXXXI. 

A  pair  of  shoes  ! — what  then?   not  much,  if  they 
Are  such  as  fit  with  lady's  feet,  but  these 

(No  one  can  tell  how  much  I  grieve  to  say) 
Were  masculine :   to  see  them  and  to  seize 

Was  but  a  moment's  act. — Ah !  well-a-day  ! 
My  teeth  begin  to  chatter,  my  veins  freeze — 

Alfonso  first  examined  well  their  fashion, 

And  then  flew  out  into  another  passion. 

CLXXXII. 

He  left  the  room  for  his  relinquish'd  sword, 

And  Julia  instant  to  the  closet  flew  ; 
44  Fly,  Juan,  fly  !   for  Heaven's  sake — not  a  word— 

The  door  is  open — you  may  yet  slip  through 
The  passage  you  so  often  have  explored — 

Here  is  the  garden-key — fly — fly — adieu  ! 
Haste — haste  ! — I  hear  Alfonso's  hurrying  feet — 
Day  has  not  broke — there 's  no  one  in  the  street." 

CLXXXIII. 
None  can  say  that  this  was  not  good  advice, 

The  only  mischief  was,  it  came  too  late ; 
Of  all  experience  't  is  the  usual  price, 

A  sort  of  income-tax  laid  on  by  fate : 
Juan  had  reach'd  the  room-door  in  a  trice, 

And  might  have  done  so  by  the  garden-gate, 
But  met  Alfonso  in  his  dressing-gown, 
Who  threaten'd  death — so  Juan  knock'd  him  down. 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire  was  the  scuffle,  and  out  went  the  light, 

Antonia  cried  out  "Rape!"  and  Julia  "Fire!" 
But  not  a  servant  stirr'd  to  aid  the  fight. 

Alfonso,  pommell'd  to  his  heart's  desire, 
Swore  lustily  he  'd  be  revenged  this  night ; 

And  Juan,  too,  blasphemed  an  octave  higher  ; 
His  blood  was  up  ;   though  young,  he  was  a  Tartar, 
And  not  at  all  disposed  to  prove  a  martyr. 

CLXXXV. 
Alfonso's  sword  had  dropp'd  ere  he  could  draw  it, 

And  they  continued  battling  hand  to  hand, 
For  Juan  very  luckily  ne'er  saw  it ; 

His  temper  not  being  under  great  command, 
If  at  that  moment  he  had  chanced  to  claw  it, 

Alfonso's  days  had  not  been  in  the  land 
Much  longer. — Think  of  husbands',  lovers'  lives 
A»d  how  you  may  be  doubly  widows — wives  ! 

CLXXXVI. 
Alfonso  grappled  to  detain  the  foe, 

And  Juan  throttled  him  to  get  away, 
Ami  blood  (/twas  from  the  nose)  began  to  flow; 

At  last,  as  they  more  faintly  wrestling  lay, 
Juan  contrived  to  give  an  awkward  blow, 

And  then  his  only  garment  quite  gave  way  ; 
Ho  flat,  like  Joseph,  leaving  it — but  there, 
I  iiniibt.  all  likeness  ends  between  the  pair. 


CLXXXVII. 

Lights  came  at  length,  and  men  and  maids,  who  found 
An  awkward  spectacle  their  eyes  ocfore  ; 

Antonia  in  hysterics,  Julia  swoon'd, 
Alfonso  leaning,  breathless,  by  the  door  ; 

Some  half-torn  drapery  scatter'd  on  the  ground, 
Some  blood,  and  seveial  footsteps,  but  no  more  : 

Juan  the   gate  gain'd,  turn'd  the  key  about, 

And,  liking  not  the  inside,  lock'd  the  out. 

CLXXXVIII. 
Here  ends  this  Canto. — Need  I  sing  or  say, 

How  Juan,  naked,  favour'd  by  the  night 
(Who  favours  what  she  should  not),  found  his  wt.jr 

And  reach'd  his  home  in  an  unseemly  plight  ? 
The  pleasant  scandal  which  arose  next  day, 

The  nine  days'  wonder  which  was  brought  to  lighi, 
And  how  Alfonso  sued  for  a  divorce. 
Were  in  the  English  newspapers,  of  course. 

CLXXX1X. 

If  you  would  like  to  see  the  whole  proceedings, 
The  depositions,  and  the  cause  at  full, 

The  names  of  all  the  witnesses,  the  pleadings 
Of  counsel  to  nonsuit  or  to  annul, 

There  's  more  than  one  edition,  and  the  readings 
Are  various,  but  they  none  of  them  are  dull, 

The  best  is  that  in  short-hand,  ta'en  by  Gurney, 

Who  to  Madrid  on  purpose  made  a  journey. 

cxc. 

But  Donna  Inez,  to  divert  the  train 

Of  one  of  the  most  circulating  scandals 
That  had  for  centuries  been  known  in  Spain, 

At  least  since  the  retirement  of  the  Vandals, 
First  vow'd  (and  never  had  she  vow'd  in  vain) 

To  Virgin  Mary  several  pounds  of  candles  ; 
And  then,  by  the  advice  of  some  old  ladies, 
She  sent  her  son  to  be  shipp'd  off  from  Cadiz. 

CXCI. 
She  had  resolved  that  he  should  travel  through 

All  European  climes  by  land  or  sea, 
To  mend  his  former  morals,  and  get  new, 

Especially  in  France  and  Italy, 
(At  least  this  is  the  thing  most  people  do;. 

Julia  was  sent  into  a  convent ;    she 
Grieved,  but  perhaps,  her  feelings  may  be  betta 
Shown  in  the  following  copy  of  her  letter : 

CXCII. 
"  Thjsy  tell  me  't  is  decided,  you  depart : 

'T  is  wise — 't  is  well,  but  not  the  less  a  pain 
I  have  no  further  claim  on  your  young  heart, 

Mine  is  the  victim,  and  would  be  again : 
To  love  too  much  has  been  the  only  art 

I  used  ; — 1  write  in  haste,  and  if  a  stain 
Be  on  this  sheet,  't  is  not  what  it  appears— 
My  eyeballs  burn  and  throb,  but  have  no  tears 

CXCIII. 
"  I  loved,  I  love  you  ;   for  this  love  have  lost 

State,  station,  heaven,  mankind's,  my  own  esu»  • 
And  yet  cannot  regret  what  it  hath  cost, 

So  dear  is  still  the  memory  of  that  dream  ; 
Yet,  if  I  name  my  guilt,  't  is  not  to  boast, — 

None  can  deem  harshlier  of  me  than  I  deem . 
I  trace  this  scrawl  because  I  cannot  rest — 
I've  nothing  to  reproach  or  to  request. 


CAXTO  I. 


DON  JUAN. 


ST.? 


CXCIV. 

•'Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart, 
T is  woman's  whole  existence;  man  may  range 

The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  the  mart ; 
Sword,  gown,  gain,  glory,  offer  in  exchange 

Pride,  fame,  ambition,  to  fill  up  his  heart, 

And  few  there  are  whom  these  cannot  estrange: 

Men  have  all  these  resources,  we  but  one — 

To  love  again,  and  be  again  undone. 

cxcv. 

"  You  will  proceed  in  pleasure  and  in  pride, 
Beloved  and  loving  many  ;  all  is  o'er 

For  me  on  earth,  except  some  years  to  hide 
My  shame  and  sorrow  deep  in  my  heart's  core : 

These  I  could  bear,  but  cannot  cast  aside 
The  passion,  which  still  rages  as  before, 

And  so  farewell — forgive  me,  love  me — No, 

That  word  is  idle  now — but  let  it  go. 

CXCVI. 

u  My  breast  has  been  all  weakness,  is  so  yet ; 

But  still,  I  think,  I  can  collect  my  mind ; 
My  blood  still  rushes  where  my  spirit 's  set, 

As  roll  the  waves  bofore  the  settled  wind ; 
My  heart  is  feminine,  nor  can  forget — 

To  all,  except  one  image,  madly  blind  : 
So  shakes  tne  needle,  and  so  stands  the  pole, 
As  vibrates  my  fond  heart  to  my  fix'd  soul. 

CXCVII. 
"I  have  no  more  to  say,  but  linger  still. 

And  dare  not  set  my  seal  upon  this  sheet, 
And  yet  I  may  as  well  the  task  fulfil, 

My  misery  cmn  scarce  be  more  complete : 
I  had  not  lived  till  now,  could  sorrow  kill ; 

Denth  shuns  the  wretch  who  fain  the  blow  would  meet. 
And  I  must  even  survive  this  last  adieu, 
And  bear  with  life,  to  love  and  pray  for  you!" 

CXCVIII. 
This  note  was  written  upon  gilt-edged  paper, 

With  a  neat  little  crow-quill,  slight  and  new : 
Her  small  white  hand  could  hardly  reach  the  taper, 

It  trembled  as  magnetic  needles  do, 
And  yet  she  did  not  let  one  tear  escape  her; 

The  seal  a  sun-flower ;   "  EUe  vous  tuii  parloui," 
The  motto  cut  upon  a  white  cornelian, 
The  wax  was  superfine,  its  hue  vermilion. 

CXCIX. 
This  was  Don  Juan's  earliest  scrape ;  but  whether 

I  shall  proceed  with  his  adventure  is 
Dependent  on  the  public  altogether: 

VVe  '11  see,  however,  what  they  say  to  this 
(Their  favour  in  an  author's  cap  's  a  feather, 

And  no  great  mischief's  done  by  their  caprice); 
And,  if  their  approbation  we  experience, 
Perhaps  they  'II  have  some  more  about  a  year  hence. 

cc. 

My  poem 's  epic,  and  is  meant  to  be 

Divided  in  twelve  books  ;   each  book  containing, 
Wiih  love,  and  war,  a  heavy  gale  at  sea, 

A  list  of  ships,  and  captains,  and  kings  reigning, 
New  characters ;  the  episodes  are  three  : 

A  panorama  view  of  hell 's  in  training, 
After  the  style  of  Virgil  and  of  Homer, 
So  ihat  my  name  of  Epic  'a  no  misnomer. 


CCI. 

All  these  things  will  be  specified  in  timu. 

With  strict  regard  to  Aristotle's  Rules, 
The  vode  mecum  of  the  true  sublime, 

Which  makes  so  many  poets  and  some  fools  t 
Prose  poets  like  blank- verse — I  'm  fond  of  rhytnr- 

Good  workmen  never  quarrel  with  their  tools 
I  've  got  new  mythological  machinery, 
And  very  handsome  supernatural  scenery. 

ecu. 

There 's  only  one  slight  difference  between 
Me  and  my  epic  brethren  gone  before, 

And  here  the  advantage  is  my  own,  I  ween, 
(Not  that  I  have  not  several  merits  more); 

But  this  will  more  peculiarly  be  seen  ; 
They  so  embellish,  that 't  is  quite  a  bore 

Their  labyrinth  of  fables  to  thread  through, 

Whereas  this  story  's  actually  true. 

CCIII. 

If  any  person  doubt  it,  I  appeal 

To  history,  tradition,  and  to  facts, 
To  newspapers,  whose  truth  all  know  and  feel, 

To  plays  in  five,  and  operas  in  three  acts ; 
All  these  confirm  my  statement  a  good  deal, 

But  that  which  more  completely  faith  exacts 
Is,  that  myself,  and  several  now  in  Seville, 
Sow  Juan's  last  elopement  with  the  devil. 

CCIV. 
If  evor  I  should  condescend  to  prose, 

I  '11  write  poetical  commandments,  which 
Shall  supersede  beyond  all  doubt  all  those  % 

That  went  before ;  in  these  I  shall  enrich 
My  text  with  many  things  that  no  one  knows, 

And  carry  precept  to  the  highest  pitch : 
I  '11  call  the  work  "  Longinus  o'er  a  Bottle, 
Or,  Every  Poet  his  own  Aristotle." 

ccv. 

Thou  shall  believe  in  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope : 

Thou  shall  not  set  up  Words  worth,  Coleridge,  Southc* 
Because  the  first  is  crazed  beyond  all  hope, 

The  second  drunk,  the  third  so  quaint  and  inouthey 
With  Crabbe  it  may  be  difficult  to  cope, 

And  Campbell's  Hippocrene  is  somewhat  drouthy  : 
Thou  shall  not  steal  from  Samuel  Rogers,  nor 
Commit — flirtation  with  the  muse  of  Moore : 

CCVI. 
Thou  shall  nol  covet  Mr.  Sotheby's  Muse, 

His  Pegasus,  nor  any  thing  that 's  his  : 
Thou  shall  not  bear  false  witness,  like  "  the  Bluft," 

(There 's  one,  at  least,  is  very  fond  of  this): 
Thou  shall  not  write,  in  short,  Hut  ^-hat  I  choose : 

This  is  true  criticism,  and  you  may  kiss — 
Exactly  as  you  please,  or  not — the  rod, 
But  if  you  don't,  I  '11  lay  it  on,  by  G-^-a ! 

ccvn. 

If  any  person  should  presume  In  assert 

The  story  is  not  moral,  first,  I  pray 
That  they  will  not  cry  out  before  ihey're  huu. 

Then  that  they  '11  read  it  o'er  again,  and  saj 
(Bu£,  doubtless,  nobody  will  be  so  pert) 

That  this  is  not  a  moral  tale,  though  gay ; 
Besides,  in  canto  twelfth,  I  mean  to  show 
The  very  place  where  wicked  people  fo. 


57G 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  L 


CCVIII. 

If,  after  all,  there  should  be  some  so  blind 
To  their  own  good  this  warning  to  despise, 

Led  by  some  tortuosity  of  mind, 
Not  to  believe  my  verse  and  their  own  eyes, 

And  cry  that  they  "the  moral  cannot  find," 
I  tell  him,  if  a  clergyman,  he  lies — 

Should  captains  the  remark,  or  critics,  make, 

They  also  lie  too— under  a  mistake. 

CCIX. 
The  public  approbation  I  expect, 

And  beg  they  '11  take  my  word  about  the  moral, 
Which  I  with  their  amusement  will  connect 

(So  children  cutting  teeth  receive  a  coral); 
Meantime,  they  '11  doubtless  please  to  recollect 

My  epical  pretensions  to  the  laurel : 
For  fear  some  prudish  reader  should  grow  skittish, 
I  Ve  bribed  my  grandmother's  review — the  British. 

ccx. 

I  sent  it  in  a  letter  to  the  editor, 
Who  thank'd  me  duly  by  return  of  post — 

I  'm  for  a  handsome  article  his  creditor; 
Yet,  if  my  gentle  Muse  he  please  to  roast, 

And  break  a  promise  after  having  made  it  her, 
Denying  the  receipt  of  what  it  cost, 

And  smear  his  page  with  gall  instead  of  honey, 

All  I  can  say  is — that  he  had  the  money. 

CCXI. 

I  think  that  with  this  holy  new  alliance 

I  may  insure  the  public,  and  defy 
AIL  other  magazines  of  art  or  science, 

Daily,  or  monthly,  or  three-monthly ;  I 
Have  not  essay'd  to  multiply  their  clients, 

Because  they  tell  me  't  were  in  vain  to  try, 
And  that  the  Edinburgh  Review  and  Quarterly 
Treat  a  dissenting  author  very  martyrly. 

CCXII. 

•  Non  ego  hoc  ferrem  calida  juventa 

Consult  Planco,"  Horace  said,  and  so 
Say  I,  by  which  quotation  there  is  meant  a 

Hint  that  some  six  or  seven  good  years  ago 
I  Long  ere  I  dreamt  of  dating  from  the  Brenta), 

I  was  most  ready  to  return  a  blow, 
And  would  not  brook  at  all  this  sort  of  thing 
In  my  hot  youth — when  George  the  Third  was  King. 

CCXIII. 
But  now,  at  thirty  years,  my  hair  is  gray— 

(I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like  at  forty  ? 
I  -i-^,,r.Ht  of  a  peruke  the  other  day,) 

;  .icart  is  not  much  greener ;   and,  in  short,  I 
Have  squander'd  my  whole  summer  while  't  was  May, 

And  feel  no  more  the  spirit  to  retort;  I 
Have  spent  my  life,  both  interest  and  principal, 
And  deem  not,  what  I  deetn'd,  my  soul  invincible. 

CCXIV. 
No  more — no  more — Oh  !  never  more  on  me 

The  freshness  of  the  heart  can  fall  like  dew, 
Whicn  out  of  all  the  lovely  things  we  see 

Extracts  emotions  beautiful  and  new, 
Hived  in  our  bosoms  like  the  bag  o'  the  bee : 

Think's'  thou  the  honey  with  those  objects  grew  ? 
Alas !  't  was  not  in  them,  but  in  thy  power, 
T}  double  even  the  sweetness  of  a  flower. 


ccxv. 

No  more — no  more — Oh!  never  more,  my  heart, 
Canst  thou  be  my  sole  world,  my  universe! 

Once  all  in  all,  but  now  a  thing  apart, 
Thou  canst  not  be  my  blessing  or  my  curse  < 

The  illusion 's  gone  for  ever,  and  thou  art 
Insensible,  I  trust,  but  none  the  worse  ; 

And  in  thy  stead  I  've  got  a  deal  of  judgment, 

Though  Heaven  knows  how  it  ever  found  a  lodgment. 

CCXVI. 

My  days  of  love  are  over — me  no  more  ' 
The  charms  of  maid,  wife,  and  still  less  of  widow 

Can  make  the  fool  of  which  they  made  before — 
In  short,  I  must  not  lead  the  life  I  did  do : 

The  credulous  hope  of  mutual  minds  is  o'er; 
The  copious  use  of  claret  is  forbid,  too ; 

So,  for  a  good  old  gentlemanly  vice, 

I  think  I  must  take  up  with  avarice. 

CCXVII. 

Ambition  was  my  idol,  which  was  broken 

Before  the  shrines  of  Sorrow  and  rf  Pleasure; 

And  the  two  last  have  left  me  many  a  token 
O'er  which  reflection  may  be  made  at  leisure : 

Now,  like  Friar  Bacon's  brazen  head,  1  've  sponen, 
"Time  is,  time  was, time's  past,"  a  chymic tr»tsure 

Is  glittering  youth,  which  I  have  spent  betimes— 

My  heart  in  passion,  and  my  head  on  rhymes. 

CC  XVIII. 

What  is  the  end  of  fame?  'tis  but  to  fill 
A  certain  portion  of  uncertain  paper  ; 

Some  liken  it  to  climbing  up  a  hill, 
Whose  summit,  like  all  hills,  is  lost  in  vapour ; 

For  this  men  write,  speak,  preach,  and  heroes  kill ; 
And  bards  burn  what  they  call  their  "midnight  taper," 

To  have,  when  the  original  is  dust, 

A  name,  a  wretched  picture,  and  worse  bust. 

CCXIX. 

What  are  the  hopes  ot  man  ?  old  Egypt's  king, 

Cheops,  erected  the  first  pyramid 
And  largest,  thinking  it  was  just  the  thing 

To  keep  his  memory  whole,  and  mummy  hid ; 
But  somebody  or  other,  rummaging, 

Burglariously  broke  his  coffin's  lid ; 
Let  not  a  monument  give  you  or  me  hopes, 
Since  not  a  pinch  of  dust  remains  of  Cheops. 

ccxx. 

But  I,  being  fond  of  true  philosophy, 

Say  very  often  to  myself,  "  Alas  ! 
All  things  that  have  been  born  were  born  to  din, 

And  flesh  (which  death  mows  down  to  hay)  is  gr  ASS 
You've  pass'd  your  youth  not  so  unpleasantly, 

And  if  you  had  it  o'er  again — 'twould  pass — 
So  thank  your  stars  that  matters  are  no  worse. 
And  read  your  Bible,  sir,  and  mind  your  purse." 

CCXXI. 
But  for  the  present,  gentle  reader !   and 

Still  gentler  purchaser !   the  bard — that 's  I— 
Must,  with  permission,  shake  you  by  the  hand, 

And  so  your  humble  servant,  and  good  by ' 
We1  meet  again,  if  we  should  understand 

Each  other ;  and  if  not,  I  shall  not  trv 
Your  patience  further  than  by  this  short  samf  f»  • 
'T  were  well  if  others  follow'd  my  ex»uu>'.-;. 


CANTO  ii. 


DON  JUAN. 


57 


CCXXII 

-  Go,  little  book,  from  this  my  solitude ! 

I  cast  thee  on  the  waters,  go  thy  ways ! 
And  if,  as  I  believe,  thy  vein  be  good, 

The  world  will  find  thee  after  many  days." 
When  Southey  's  read,  and  Wordswoi  th  understood, 

I  can't  help  putting  in  my  claim  to  praise — 
The  four  first  rhymes  are  Southey's,  every  line : 
For  God's  sake,  reader !  take  them  not  for  mine. 


CANTO  II. 


L 

OH  ye !   who  teach  the  ingenuous  youth  of  nations, 
Holland,  France,  England,  Germany,  or  Spain, 

I  pray  ye  flog  them  upon  all  occasions, 

It  mends  their  morals ;  never  mind  the  pain : 

The  best  of  mothers  and  of  educations, 
In  Juan's  case,  were  but  employ'd  in  vain, 

Since  in  a  way,  that 's  rather  of  the  oddest,  he 

Became  divested  of  his  native  modesty. 

II. 

riad  he  but  been  placed  at  a  public  school, 

In  the  third  form,  or  even  in  the  fourth, 
His  daily  task  had  kept  his  fancy  cool, 

At  least  had  he  been  nurtured  in  the  north ; 
Spain  may  prove  an  exception  to  the  rule, 

But  then  exceptions  always  prove  its  worth — 
A  lad  of  sixteen  causing  a  divorce 
Puzzled  his  tutors  very  much,  of  course. 

HI. 
I  can't  say  that  it  puzzles  me  at  all, 

If  all  things  be  consider'd :    first,  there  was 
His  lady  mother,  mathematical, 

A ,  never  mind  ;  his  tutor,  an  old  ass  ; 

A  pretty  woman — (that's  quite  natural, 

Or  else  the  thing  had  hardly  come  to  pass); 
A  husband  rather  old,  not  much  in  unity 
With  his  young  wife — a  time,  and  opportunity. 

IV. 
Well — well,  the  world  must  turn  upon  its  axis, 

And  all  mankind  turn  with  it,  heads  or  tails, 
\nd  live  and  die,  make  love,  and  pay  our  taxes, 

And  as  the  veering  wind  shifts,  shift  our  sails  ; 
Hie  king  commands  us,  and  the  doctor  quacks  us, 

The  priest  instructs,  and  so  our  life  exhales. 
A  little  breath,  love,  wine,  ambition,  fame, 
fighting,  devotion,  dust — perhaps  a  name. 

V. 

said,  that  Juan  had  been  sent  to  Cadiz — 

A  pretty  town,  I  recollect  it  well — 
"Tis  there  the  mart  of  the  colonial  trade  is 

(Or  was,  before  Peru  learn'd  to  rebel); 
And  such  sweet  girls — I  mean  such  graceful  ladies, 

Their  very  walk  would  make  your  bosom  swell ; 
*  can't  describe  it,  though  so  much  it  strike, 
Nor  liken  it — I  never  saw  the  like : 
3  n2  78 


VI. 


An  Arab  horse,  a  stately  stag,  a  barb 

New  broke,  a  cameleopard,  a  gazelle, 
No — none  of  these  will  do  ; — and  then  their  gatb! 

Their  veil  and  petticoat — Alas  !    to  dwell 
Upon  such  things  would  very  near  absorb 

A  canto— then  their  feet  and  ancles  ! — well, 
Thank  Heaven  I  've  got  no  met  jgjhor  quite  ready, 
(And  so,  my  sober  Muse — come'^et's  be  steady — 

VII. 

Chaste  Muse! — well,  if  you  must,  you  mus') — the  veil 
Thrown  back  a  moment  with  the  glancing  hand, 

While  the  o'erpowering  eye,  that  turns  you  pale, 
Flashes  into  the  heart: — all  sunny  land 

Of  love !   when  I  forget  you,  may  I  fail 
To        say  my  prayers — but  never  was  there  plannM 

A  dress  through  which  the  eyes  give  such  a  volley, 

Excepting  the  Venetian  Fazzioli. 

VIII. 

But  to  our  tale :    the  Donna  Inez  sent 

Her  son  to  Cadiz  only  to  embark; 
To  stay  there  had  not  answer'd  her  intent, 

But  why  ? — we  leave  the  reader  in  the  dark — 
'T  was  for  a  voyage  that  the  young  man  was  meant, 

As  if  a  Spanish  ship  were  Noah's  ark, 
To  wean  him  from  the  wickedness  of  earth, 
And  send  him  like  a  dove  of  promise  forth, 

IX. 

Don  Juan  bade  his  valet  pack  his  things 

According  to  direction,  then  received 
A  lecture  and  some  money :   for  four  springs 

He  was  to  travel ;   and,  though  Inez  grieved 
(As  every  kind  of  parting  has  its  stings), 

She  hoped  he  would  improve— perhaps  believed: 
A  letter,  loo,  she  gave  (he  never  read  it) 
Of  good  advice — and  two  or  three  of  credit. 

X. 

In  the  mean  time,  to  pass  her  hours  away, 

Brave  Inez  now  set  up  a  Sunday-school 
For  naughty  children,  who  would  rather  play 

(Like  truant  rogues)  the  devil  or  the  fool ; 
Infants  of  three  years  old  were  taught  that  day » 

Dunces  were  whipp'd  or  set  upon  a  stool : 
The  great  success  of  Juan's  education 
Spurr'd  her  to  teach  another  generation. 

XI. 
Juan  embark'd — the  ship  got  under  weigh, 

The  wind  was  fair,  the  water  passing  rough  ; 
A  devil  of  a  sea  rolls  in  that  bay, 

As  I,  who  've  cross'd  it  oft,  know  well  enough 
And,  standing  upon  deck,  the  dashing  spray 

Flies  in  one's  face,  and  makes  it  weather-tough 
And  there    le  stood  to  take,  and  take  again, 
His  first — perhaps  his  last — farewell  of  Spain. 

XII. 
I  can't  but  say  it  is  an  awkward  sight 

To  see  one's  native  land  receding  through 
The  growing  waters — it  unmans  one  quite  ; 

Especially  when  life  is  rather  new : 
I  recollect  Great   Britain's  coast  looks  white 

But  almost  every  other  country's  blue, 
When,  gazing  on  them,  mystified  bv  dis-'.ance. 
We  enter   on  our  nautical  existence 


0*3 


BYRON  S  WORKS. 


CAX70  II 


Xllt. 
8*  Jou.  SMMM  *cmlder*d  on  the  deck: 

TV  «t  A  P^.  cordage  strainY,  and  sailors  swore, 
And  tfesnncreak'd,  the  town  became  a  speck, 

From  w»*cr  ar  ay  so  fur  and  fast  they  bore, 
fhe  best  jf  lenwfies  is  a  beefsteak 

Against  sea-sickness  ;  try  it,  sir,  before 
To*  sneer,  and  I  assure  yua  this  is  true. 
For  I  have  fccnd  it  answer— so  may  yoo. 

xiv. 

Don  Juan  stand,  and,  gating  from  the  stem, 
BeheU  bis  native  Spain  reeedmgfkr: 

r  ITT!   T^**iiTii'>   *  >r".i   £   :  t**p  ;•"    r:  i  TV:  *  o   1  *r  JTT.  * 
Even  nations  fed  this  when  they  go  to  war  ; 

Tncre  0  &  sort,  of  uoexpress  d  ooooern^ 
A  kind  of  shock  that  sets  one's  heart  ajar: 

A*   .t£T;~j*  fvf-r.  U*.;1   TtKt>;   ::r<:  .t  .=  >.'."/.   v>cx~'.£ 
And  places,  oae  keep*  looking  at  the  steeple. 

XT. 
Bat  Joan  had  got  many  things  to  leave — 

HH  mother,  and  *  •mnesa,  and  no  wife, 
So  that  he  had  much  better  cause  to  grieve 

Than  many  persons  more  advanced  m  fife; 
And,  if  we  now  and  then  a  sigh  most  heave 

At  quitting  even  those  we  quit  in  strife, 
No  doubt  we  weep  for  those  the  heart  endears — 
That  is,  m  deeper  griefs  congeal  oar  tan. 

XVL 
So  Jnan  wept,  as  wept  the  eaptrra  Jews 

By  Babel's  water,  stil  uaaumlin'mg  Sion: 
I'd  weep,  bat  mine  is  not  a  weeping  muse, 

And  soch  Eght  griefs  are  not  a  thing  to  die  on; 
Toang  mca  shonU  travel,  if  but  to  amuse 

Themsehrcs;  and  the  nexttane  their  serrants  tie  on 
Piihwiii  their  carnages  their  new  portmanteau, 
Perhaps  it  any  be  fined  with  this  mj  canto. 

XVH. 
And  Jnan  wept,  and  much  he  sigh'd,  and  thooghl, 

Whie  his  aak  teandrapt  into  the  sak  sea, 
"Sweets  to  the  sweet;"  (I  nke  so  much  to  quote : 

Ton  most  excuse  this  extract,  *t  is  where  she, 
The4|neea  of  Denmark,  for  Opbe&a  broogHt 

Flowers  to  the  grave,)  and  sobbing  often,  he 


And  serioosly  resolved  on 

xnn. 

•r'areweu,  my  Spain!  a  fang  farewefi !"  he  cried, 
•Perhaps  I  may  revisit  thee  no  more, 

Bat  die,  as  many  an  exiled  heart  hath  died, 
Of  ks  own  thirst  to  see  again  thy  shore: 


FarpweO,  my  mother!  and,  since  al  is  o'er, 
F*tewefl.  too,  dearest  Jnfia!n— (here  be  drew 
flrr  fewer  out  again,  and  read  k  through.) 

XIX. 
•And  oh!  if  e'er  I  should  forget,  1 


Sooner  shal  this  bue  ocean  mek  to 
Sosner  shal  earth  resolve  ksctf  to  sea, 

Than  I  resign  thine  image,  oh!  my  fair! 
Or  think  of  any  thmg,  ciryptmg  thee ; 

Ami 
Bert  ir,e  i 


\\ 
*  Sooner  shaH  hearten  kiss  c«rth — (Here  he  fell  sio>*f 

Oh,  Juba!  what  is  every  other  vroc! — 
(For  God's  sake,  let  me  have  a  gtass  of  liquor — 

Pedro!   Battista!   help  me  down  bdow). 
Jofia,  my  love! — (you  rascal,  Pedro,  quicker) 

Oh,  JuHa! — (this  cursed  vessel  pitches  so)— 
Beloved  Julia!   hear  me  stiU  beseeching — 
(nere  he  giew  marticiuatQ  with  t etching). 

XXI. 
He  fek  that  duffing  heaviness  of  heart, 

Or  rather  stomach,  which,  alas !   attends, 
Beyond  the  best  apothecary's  art, 

The  loss  of  love,  the  treachery  of  friends, 
Or  death  of  those  we  doat  on,  when  a  part 

Of  us  dies  with  them,  as  each  food  hope  ends  : 
No  doubt  he  would  have  been  much  more  pathetic, 
Bat  the  sea  acted  as  a  strong  emetic. 

XXII. 
Love's  a  capricious  power;   IVe  known  tt  bold 

Out  through  a  (ever  caused  by  its  own  heat, 
Bat  be  much  puzzled  by  a  cough  and  cold. 

And  find  a  quinsy  very  hard  to  treat ; 
Against  an  noble  maladies  he's  bold, 

But  vulgar  mnesses  don't  like  to  meet, 
Nor  that  a  sneeze  should  interrupt  his  sigh; 
Nor  mfbmmations  redden  his  bond  eye. 

XXIII. 
But  worst  of  all  is  nausea,  or  a  pain 

About  the  lower  region  of  the  bowels ; 
Love,  who  heroically  breathes  a  vein, 

Shrinks  from  the  application  of  hot  towels, 
And  purgatives  are  dangerous  to  his  reign, 

Sea-sickness  death :    his  love  was  perfect,  how  e*j 
Could  Juan's  passion,  while  the  billows  roar, 
Resist  his  stomach,  ne'er  at  sea  before  1 

XXIV. 
The  ship,  called  the  most  holy  "Trinidada," 

Was  steering  duly  for  the  port  Leghorn ; 
For  there  the  Spanish  family  Moncada 

Were  settled  long  ere  Juan's  sire  was  born: 
They  were  relations,  and  for  them  be  had  a 

Letter  of  introduction,  which  the  morn 
Of  his  departure  had  been  sent  him  by 
Hk  Spanish  friends  for  those  in  Italy. 

XXV. 
His  sake  consisted  of  three  servants  and 

A  tutor,  the  licentiate  Pedriilo, 
Who  several  languages  did  understand, 

Bat  now  by  sick  and  speechless  on  his  p.Uow, 
And,  rocking  in  his  hammock,  long' d  for  land, 

His  head-ache  being  increased  by  every  billow ; 
And  the  waves  oozing  through  the  port-hole  made 
His  birth  a  liule  damp,  and  him  afraid. 

XXVI. 
Twas  not  without  some  reason,  for  the  wind 

Increased  at  night,  ur.til  it  blew  a  gale ; 
And  though  *t  was  not  much  to  a  naval  mind, 

Some  landsmen  *rould  have  lookM  t  little  pale, 
For  sailors  are,  in  fact,  a  different  kind : 

At  sunset  they  began  to  take  in  sa-L, 
For  the  sky  show'd  it  would  come  on  to  blow, 
And  carry  away,  perhaps,  a  mast  or  so. 


Tn  It. 


DON  JUA*l. 


579 


XXVII. 
At  toe  o'Hoek,  the  Triad  with 

Threw  the  chip  right,  art*  Ibe  tnotagh  of  the  sea, 
Wiieh  struck  her  afi,aad  made  aa  »wkw»rd  rift, 

Started  the  stern-post,  also  saanerM  the 
Whole  of  her  stem-fame,  and,  ere  die  eoaid  ml 

Herself  from  oat  her  presort  jeopardy, 


The  raddcr  tore  »waj:  'twas  tine  to 
Tbe  pomps,  ana  there  were  four  feet  water 

xxvn. 

One  gang  of  peop«  ouusdv  was  pot 
Upon  the  pamp»taad  the  rimimrtrr  set 

To  get  op  part  of  the  cargo,  aad  what  mat, 
Bat  they  eaatd  M*  came  at  the  leak  as  jet; 

At  tut  they  did  get  at  it  realy,  hot 
StiB  their  sarratioawas  aa  eve*  bet: 

The  water  rcab'd  through  m  a.  waj  qnile 

White  lhfeyOKigtri>c<a«,AwU,jartm,  hair*  of 

XXDL 

Into  the  opening;  hot  al  sodi  mgremeats 

Would  hare  been  Tain,  and  they  most  have  ftonc  dona 

Despite  of  aS  ibtir  effixts  and  expedient*, 
Bat  for  the  pumps:  I  'm  glad  to  Make  them  known 

To  aO  the  bntfber-iars  who  any  have  need  hence, 
For  fifty  toos  of  waler  were  npthrown 

By  then  per  boor,  aed  they  had  al  hem  undone 

Bat  Cor  the  anker,  Mr.  Man,  of  Loado*. 


As  day  advanced,  the  weather  seem'd  to  abate, 
And  then  the  leak  they  reekoa'd  to  redaee. 

And  keep  the  ship  afloat,  tboogb  three  feet  yet 
Kept  two  hand  and  one  chant  poop  sal  in 

Use  wind  blew  fredi  again:  as  it  grew  ble 
A  squall  came  on,  and,  whfie 

A  ftiut     nbiefc  afldeieripiwe  power  n  inn«mh 

Laid  with  one  blast  the  ship  on  her  beam-ends. 

XXXL 
There  she  Uy  iaiHin»lf«i,  and  seen^d  npset: 

Tbe  water  left  the  hold,  and  waat'd  the  decks, 
And  Made  a  scene  Hen  do  not  soon  forget; 

For  they  irajrmbrr  battles,  fees,  and  wrecks. 
Or  any  other  thing  that  brings  regret, 

Or  breaks  their  hopes,  or  hearts,  or  beads,  or  necks : 
Tbn*  drowning*  are  nmeb  taJk'd  of  by  the  divers 

^ 

XX3EB. 

were  cnt  awav, 

irst  the  nnenwcnt, 
felow'4:  bnt  the  ship  stii  lay 
loe.aod  banVdoor  inteo. 
owspritwere  cnt  down,  and  they 
Eased  her  at  last  (abboogh  we  never  Meant 
To  part  with  al  til  every  hope  was  bEgbted), 
And  then  with  violence  the  old  ship  righted. 

xxxnL 


To  lose  thek  Eves,  as  wd  as  spal  ibemr  diet; 
That  even  the  able  semen,  deciding  bis 

E^asr'.T  o  €r,  ^^fTj-"    ^   c^*-^"-*?^-    l:-   r>rX, 
tarswsl  ask 
drink  ram  from  the  cade. 


XXXIV 

There's  •e*gbt,no  do«bi,s»  OMUI  ibe  sfisw  culm. 
As  mm  and  tnw  reByon;  tbns  it  was, 


The  high  wind  nwde  **«  •r*Me,  snd  ns  bass 
The  hoarse  harsh  wawes  kept  time;  fiigfat  enred  tbr 


sea- sick  maws 


Of  i     iM  bJeUinj 


Cbmoor'd  in  chora*  to  the  roaring  ocean. 

XXXV. 
Perhaps  man  mbchief  bad  bean  done,  bat  iar 

Oar  Joan,  who,  with 
Got  to  the 

It  with  a  pair  of  pbtob;  and  their  fears, 
As  if  Death  were  anre  dreaonl  bybb  door 

Of  fire  than  water,  spile  of  oaths  aad  tears. 
Kept  stal  aloof  the  erew,  who,  ere  they  sank, 
Thought  itwoald  be  II iiit  to  die  draak. 

XXXVI. 

Give  as  awre  gmg,"  they  cried,  « far  *wfl  be 
Al  oae  aa  hoar  beace."   Jaaa  aaswer'd.  -  No 
Tb  true  mat  death  awaits  both  yoa  aad  UK, 
Bat  let  as  die  hke  mea,aot  sink  below 


aWi  to 

And  even  Pedriaa,hb 
Wasfbr  

xxxvn. 


\^-  made  i.  laal  u^: 
Bepeated  al  hb  cms,  aad  amde  a  last 

IflCffOCattbV    wW    <•    tCaWVtttMmly 

Nothmg  shoaU  tempt  Ima  amre  (fhb  peri 
To  oil  1 


of  the  efamie  finhanan, 
To  Mow  Joan's  wake  ike  Saad 
XXXVUJ. 

Bat  now  there  came  a  fa*  of  hope 
Day  brake,  aad  the  wmd  WFd  :  the  m 

The  leak  incieased ;  sboab  roand  her,  bat 
Tbe  vessel  swam,  yet  stsl  she  heU  her 

They  tried  the  pamps  again,  aad 

sperale  efibrfs  seem'd  al  nadeas 

A  J,rrnii|    i   of  iiiinn'ir  set  some  haads  to 

The  stronger  pmapM,  the  weaker  rhi  amii'd 


a  sal. 


TJader  the  wand's  had  the  nal  was  paar'd, 
Aad  far  me  moment  it  had  aaaa  efleetj 

Bat  with  aleak,and  aot  a  stick  of  mast 
Sar  rag  af  canvas,  what  eoaU  they  espeet? 

Bat  sol  lie  best  to  ttrogele  to  me  bat, 
Tb  aever  too  late  to  be  whaty  wreek»d: 

Aad  tboaghtb  tree 

Ta  ti-y, 


XL. 
hndhmrd 


v**j  n«\  mvj 


•y; 


F;«r  v^-r^i--   EavaJ  ait  r.^-r.-r  H 
re.  aaaietaay 
Oa  which  they  anight  repose,  or 

A  jaiy  mill  or  ladder,  or  emid  say 
The  dap  wodd  swan  aa  hoar,  which,  hj  gaod 
•M  exaedr  »a  a  dara. 


A80 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  I) 


XLI. 

The  wind,  in  fact,  perhaps  was  rather  less, 

But  the  ship  labour'd  so,  they  scarce  could  hope 

To  weather  out  much  longer ;  the  distress 
Was  also  great  with  which  they  had  to  cope, 

For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid  mess 
Was  scant  enough ;    in  vain  the  telescope 

Was  used — nor  sail  nor  shore  appear'd  in  sight, 

Nought  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming  night. 

XLII. 

Again  the  weather  threaten'd, — again  blew 
A  gale,  and  in  the  fere  and  after  hold 

Water  appear'd  ;  yet,  though  the  people  knew 
All  this,  the  most  were  patient,  and  some  bold, 

Until  the  chains  and  leathers  were  worn  through 
Of  all  our  pumps: — a  wreck  complete  she  roll'd, 

At  mercy  of  the  waves,  whose  mercies  are 

Like  human  beings  during  civil  war. 

XLIII. 

Then  came  the  carpenter,  at  last,  with  tear*, 
In  his  rough  eyes,  and  told  the  captain  he 

Could  do  no  more ;  he  was  a  man  in  years, 
And  long  had  voyaged  through  many  a  stormy  sea, 

And  if  he  wept  at  length,  they  were  not  fears 
That  made  his  eyelids  as  a  woman's  be, 

But  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a  wife  and  children, 

Two  things  for  dying  people  quite  bewildering. 

XLIV. 

The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now 

Fast  by  the  head ;   and,  all  distinction  gone, 

Some  went  to  prayers  again,  and  made  a  vow 
Of  candles  to  their  saints — but  there  were  none 

To  pay  them  with ;   and  some  look'd  o'er  the  bow ; 
Some  hoisted  out  the  boats :   and  there  was  one 

That  begg'd  Pedrillo  for  an  absolution, 

Who  told  him  to  be  damn'd — in  his  confusion. 

XLV. 
Some  lash'd  them  in  their  hammocks,  some  put  on 

Their  best  clothes  as  if  going  to  a  fair; 
Some  cursed  the  day  on  which  they  saw  the  sun, 

And  gnash'd  their  teeth,  and,  howling,  tore  their  hair  ; 
And  others  wenv  on,  as  they  had  begun, 

Getting  the  beats  out,  being  well  aware 
rhat  a  tight  boat  will  live  in  a  rough  sea, 
Unless  with  breakers  ciose  beneath  her  lee. 

XLVI. 
The  worst  of  all  was,  that  in  their  condition, 

Having  been  several  days  in  great  distress, 
*T  was  difficult  to  get  out  such  provision 

As  now  might  render  their  long  suffering  less: 
Men,  even  when  dying,  dislike  inanition ; 

Their  stock  was  damaged  by  the  weather's  stress : 
Two  casks  of  biscuit  and  a  keg  of  butter 
Were  all  that  could  be  thrown  into  the  cutter. 

XLVII. 
But  in  the  long-boat  they  contrived  to  stow 

Some  pounds  of  bread,  though  injured  by  the  wet ; 
Water,  a  twenty-gallon  cask  or  so ; 

Sut  flasks  of  wine  •   and  they  contrived  to  get 
<»  portion  of  their   oeef  up  from  below, 

And  with  a  piece  of  pork,  moreover,  met, 
Hut  scarce  enough  to  serve  them  for  a  luncheon ; 
Thtu  there  was  rum,  eight'  gallons  in  a  puncheon. 


XLVIII. 

The  other  boats,  the  yawl  and  pinnace,  had 
Been  stove  in  the  beginning  of  the  gale : 

And  the  long-boat's  condition  was  but  bad, 
As  there  were  but  two  blankets  for  a  sail, 

And  one  oar  for  a  mast,  which  a  young  lad 
Threw  in  by  good  luck  over  the  ship's  rail ; 

And  two  boats  could  not  hold,  far  less  be  stored, 

To  save  one  half  the  people  then  on  board. 

XLIX. 

'T  was  twilight,  for  the  sunless  day  went  down 
Over  the  waste  of  waters ;   like  a  veil, 

Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  thfi  frown 
Of  one  whose  hate  is  inask'd  but  to  assail; 

Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown, 
And  grimly  darkled  o'er  their  faces  pale 

And  the  dim  desolate  deep  ;  twelve  days  had  Fear 

Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

L. 

Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft, 
With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 

A  sort  of  thing  at  which  one  would  have  laugh'd, 
If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be, 

Unless  with  people  who  too  much  have  quaff'd, 
And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee, 

Half  epileptical,  and  half  hysterical : 

Their  preservation  would  have  been  a  miracle. 

LI. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hen-coops,  spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast  loose, 

That  still  could  keep  afloat  the  struggling  tars, 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great  use: 

There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a  few  stars ; 
The  boats  put  off  o'ercrowded  with  their  crews ; 

She  gave  a  hesl,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port, 

And,  going  down  head-foremost — sunk,  in  short. 

LII. 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell ! 

Then  shriek'd  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave*; 
Then  some  leap'd  overboard  with  dreadful  yell, 

As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave ; 
And  the  sea  yawn'd  around  her  like  a  hell, 

And  down  she  suck'd  with  her  the  whirling  wave. 
Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 
And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

LIII. 
And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rush'd, 

Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 
Of  echoing  thunder ;   and  then  all  was  hush'd, 

Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 
Of  billows ;    but  at  intervals  there  gush'd, 

Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 
A  solitary  shriek — the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 

LIV. 
The  boats,  as  slated,  had  got  off  before, 

And  in  them  crowded  several  of  the  crew ; 
And  yet  their  present  hope  was  hardly  more 

Than  what  it  had  been,  for  so  strong  it  blew, 
There  was  slight  chance  of  reaching  any  shore ; 

And  then  they  weie  too  many,  thougn  so  few- 
Nine  in  the  cutter,  thirty  in  the  bcal, 
Were  counted  in  them  whet  they  gol  afloat 


n. 


DON  JUAN. 


581 


LV. 

All  the  rest  perish'd  ;   near  two  hundred  souls 

Had  left  their  bodies  ;  and,  what 's  worse,  alas  ! 
Wnen  over  Catholics  the  ocean  rolls, 

The}  mus*.  wait  several  weeks,  before  a  mass 
Takes  off  one  peck  of  purgatorial  coals, 

Because,  till  people  know  what 's  come  to  pass, 
They  won't  lay  out  their  money  on  the  dead- 
It  costs  three  francs  for  every  mass  that 's  said. 

LVI. 

Juan  got  into  the  long-boat,  and  there 
Contrived  to  help  Pedrillo  to  a  place  ; 

It  seem'd  as  if  they  had  exchanged  their  care, 
For  Juan  wore  the  magisterial  face 

Which  courage  gives,  while  poor  Pedrillo's  pair 
Of  eyes  were  crying  for  their  owner's  case  ; 

Battista  (though  a  name  call'd  shortly  Tita) 

Was  lost  by  getting  at  some  aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro,  his  valet,  too,  he  tried  to  save  ; 

But  the  same  cause,  conducive  to  his  loss, 
Left  him  so  drunk,  he  jump'd  into  the  wave, 

As  o'er  the  cutter's  edge  he  tried  to  cross, 
And  so  he  found  a  wine-and-watery  grave : 

They  could  not  rescue  him,  although  so  close, 
Because  the  sea  ran  higher  every  minute, 
And  for  the  boat — the  crew  kept  crowding  in  it. 

LVIII. 

A  small  old  spaniel, — which  had  been  Don  Jose's, 

His  father's,  whom  he  loved,  as  ye  may  think, 
For  on  such  things  the  memory  reposes 

With  tjnderness, — stood  howling  on  the  brink, 
Knowing,  (dogs  have  such  intellectual  noses!) 

No  doubt,  the  vessel  was  about  to  sink ; 
And  Juan  caught  him  up,  and,  ere  he  stepp'd 
Off,  threw  him  in,  then  after  him  he  leap'd. 

LIX. 
He  also  stuff'd  his  money  where  he  could 

About  his  person,  and  Pedrillo's  too, 
Who  let  him  do,  in  fact,  whate'er  he  would, 

Not  knowing  what  himself  to  say  or  do, 
As  every  rising  wave  his  dread  renew'd  ; 

But  Juan,  trusting  they  might  still  get  through, 
And  deeming  there  were  remedies  for  any  ill, 
Thus  re-embark'd  his  tutor  and  his  spaniel. 

LX. 
'T  was  a  rough  night,  and  blew  so  stiffly  yet, 

That  the  sail  was  becalm'd  between  the  seas, 
Though  on  the  wave's  high  top  too  much  to  set, 

They  dared  not  take  it  in  for  all  the  breeze ; 
Each  sea  curl'd  o'er  the  stern,  and  kept  them  wet, 

And  made  them  bale  without  a  moment's  ease, 
So  that  themselves  as  well  as  hopes  were  damp'd, 
And  the  poor  little  cutter  quickly  swamp'd. 

LXI. 
Nine  souls  more  w3nt  in  her:   the  long-boat  still 

Kept  above  water,  with  an  oar  for  mast, 
Two  blankets  stitch'd  together,  answering  ill 

Instead  of  sail,  were  to  the  oar  made  fast ; 
Though  every  wave  roll'd  menacing  to  fill, 

And  present  peril  all  before  surpass'd, 
They  grieved  for  those  who  perish'd  with  the  cutter, 
And  also  for  the  biscuit-casks  and  butter. 


LXII. 
The  sun  rose  red  and  fiery,  a  sure  sign 

Of  the  continuance  of  the  gale :  to  run 
Before  the  sea,  until  it  should  grow  fine, 

Was  all  that  for  the  present  could  be  done : 
A  few  tea-spoonfuls  of  their  rum  .and  wine 

Was  served  out  to  the  peop^j,  who  begun 
To  faint,  and  damaged  bread  wet  through  the  bags 
And  most  of  them  had  little  clothes  but  rags. 

us 

They  counted  thirty,  crowded  in  a  space 

Which  left  scarce  room  for  motion  or  exertion : 

They  did  their  best  to  modify  their  case, 

One  half  sate  up,  though  numb'd  with  the  immersi->n» 

While  t'  other  half  were  laid  down  in  their  place, 
At  watch  and  watch  ;  thus,  shivering  like  the  tertian 

Ague  in  its  cold  fit,  they  fill'd  their  boat, 

With  nothing  but  the  sky  for  a  great-coat. 

LXIV. 

'T  is  very  certain  the  desire  of  life 

Prolongs  it ;    this  is  obvious  to  physicians, 

When  patients,  neither  plagued  with  friends  nor  w'fe. 
Survive  through  very  desperate  conditions, 

Because  they  still  can  hope,  nor  shines  the  knife 
Nor  shears  of  Atropos  before  their  visions  : 

Despair  of  all  recovery  spoils  longevity, 

And  makes  men's  miseries  of  alarming  brevity. 

LXV. 

'T  is  said  that  persons  living  on  annuities 

Are  longer  lived  than  others, — God  knows  why 
Unless  to  plague  the  grantors, — yet  so  true  it  is. 

That  some,  I  really  think,  do  never  die  ; 
Of  any  creditors  the  worst  a  Jew  it  is, 

And  that 's  their  mode  of  furnishing  supply : 
In  my  young  days  they  lent  me  cash  that  way, 
Which  I  found  very  troublesome  to  pay. 

LXVI. 
'Tis  thus  with  people  in  an  open  boat, 

They  live  upon  the  love  of  life,  and  bear 
More  than  can  be  believed,  or  even  thought, 

And  stand,  like  rocks,  the  tempest's  wear  and  tear ; 
And  hardship  still  has  been  the  sailor's  lot, 

Since  Noah's  ark  went  cruising  here  and  there-- 
She had  a  curious  crew  as  well  as  cargo, 
Like  the  first  old  Greek  privateer,  the  Argo. 

LXVII. 
But  man  is  a  carnivorous  production, 

And  must  have  meals,  at  least  one  meal  a  day  • 
He  cannot  live,  like  woodcocks,  upon  suction,         * 

But,  like  the  shark  and  tiger,  must  have  prey : 
Although  his  anatomical  construction 

Bears  vegetables  in  a  grumbling  way, 
Your  labouring  people  think,  beyond  all  question, 
Beef,  veal,  and  mutton,  better  for  digestion. 

LXVIII. 
And  thus  it  was  with  this  our  hapless  crew ; 

For  on  the  third  day  there  came  on  a  cann, 
And  though  at  first  their  strength  it  might  renfii* 

And,  lying  on  their  weariness  like  balm, 
Lull'd  them  like  turtles  sleeping  on  'he  blue 

Of  ocean,  when  thoy  woke  they  tell  a  qualm. 
And  fell  all  ravenously  on  their  provision, 
Instead  of  hoarding  it  with  due  precision . 


>S-2 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ro  it. 


LHX. 

I/SsS  OQB9B(jpEMMCC 

They  ate  ns>al  they  had  ai^  drank  their  wiae, 
la  spile  of  al  remoasinneeK,  aad  then 

OB  what,  in  feet,  next  day  woe  they  to  dme? 
Thr;  hoped  the  wmd  wooU  nse,  these  fodfeh  men ! 

Aad  carry  them  to  shore;  these  hopes  were  fine, 
Bat.astheyhadbataBcoar,and  that  bridle, 
It 


The  foarth  day  came,  tat  Mt 

And  ocean    li    I     »d  fte  an  mnrean'd  chad: 
The  fifth  day,  aad  their  boat  lay  noatmg  there, 

The  ML  and  sky  were  Moe,  and  dear,  and  ntfd- 
With  the*  one  oar  (I  wish  they  had  had  a  pair) 
What coaM  they  do?  aad 'mafei  iVi  rage  grewwfld: 

•aid,  spite  of  hk  mnralmg, 
kSFd,  aaa  porooo'd  oat  tor  present  eatmg. 


Oa  the  HUh  dav  they  fed  apon  hk  hide, 


Warn 


Hthoagh  first  denied). 


As  a  great  favour, 
Which  he  abided  warn  Pedriao,  wh» 
Devoid  4,  longing  fir  the  other  km 

f.TTn. 
1W  terratk  day,  aad  BO  mmt    Ihu  B 


BbsterM  and  scorchM;  and, stagnant  oa  the  sea, 
they  Say  ike  taiiam.i ;  aad  hope 
ia  the  breeze  that 

each 
Wi~ 
Theha^ngi  of  the 

ant)  ia  their  wolfish  eyes. 


Ti 

And  oat  they  spoke  of  lots  for  fesh  and  blood, 
Aad  who  aaoaU  das  to  he  las  felows*  food. 

uorr. 

to  this,  they  that  day  shared 

r- <*  • 


At  kagtb  the  tots  ware  torn  BB  aad  prepared, 
Bat  «TBBlerBb  that  aaatf.  shock  ihe  aaae 
Haviag  BO  paper,  tor  the  was*  of  better, 
TVrtook  by  farce  fiwaJoaa  Jaia's  fetter. 

Laccr. 

TVe  ion  were  aiBBf.iailBiiifc'd.  aad  aaVd,  aad 

la  • 
UN 


uocn. 

He  bat  requested  to  be  bied  to  death : 

The  surgeon  had  his  imMnnmats  and  bled 

PedriBo,  aad  so  geatiy  ebb'd  his  breath, 
Ton  hardy  cooid  perceive  when  he  vj 

He  died  as  bora,  a  Catholic  in  faith, 

Like  most  in  the  belief  in  which  they 're  breo, 

And  first  a  finle  crucifix  he  lossM, 

And  then  held  oat  his  jugular  and  wrist. 

Lxxvn. 

The  suigeua,  as  there  was  no  other  foe, 

Had  hb  first  choice  of  morsels  for  his  pains; 

Bat  being  thirstiest  at  the  moment,  he 

Prefofd  a  draught  from  the  fast-flowing  Tens: 

Part  was  divided,  part  thrown  in  the  sea, 
Aad  sad*  things  as  the  entrails  and  the  Drains 

Regaled  two  sharks,  who  foBow'd  o'er  the  bilfew— 

The  salon  ate  the  rest  of  poor  Pednflo. 

Lxxvm. 

The  sailors  ate  ban,  al  save  three  or  foar. 
Who  were  not  mate  so  fond  of  animal  food  J 

l~     *._"  tt5-6    **':L?     c.--~L  J"J2Jj.  Ttr.O.    r-t'Z'TC 

\r-",fT.r   r.;-   ;WT.   ?:-ar..v'..  harc^r  cc-'j'.a 
Feel  now  ins  appetite  increased  much  mr  e; 

Twas  not  to  be  expected  that  be  should, 
Even  m  exbvjmay  of  then*  disaster, 
Dine  with  them  on  lax  pastor  and  his  master. 


Twas  better  that  he  did  not,  far,  to  fact, 
The  consequence  was  awfbi  in  the  extreme: 

For  Aey,  who  were  most  ravenous  in  the  act, 
Went  raging  mad— Lord!  how  they  did  biaspbeiae! 

And  feaai  aad  rofl,  with  strange  conTokaozts  rack  d. 
Drinking  saltwater  Eke  a  anaatain-stream, 
i1  M  iag,  aad  gnaaaag,  howfing,  sereechmg,  swearmg, 

And,  with  hyena  laughter,  died  despairing. 

LXXX. 

tiimn'd  by  tins  mfBction, 
Aad  al  the  rest  were  ihin  enough,  Heaven  knows  ; 
ad  some  of  diem  had  lost  their  reeoBection, 
Happier  thaa  they  who  sd  perceived  their  woes ; 
Bat  others 


As  if  not  wanf  d  soffioenliy  by  those 
Who  had  already  perished,  suffering  madly, 
For  having  ased  their  appetites  so  sadly. 

LXXXJ. 
And  next  they  thought  upon  the  master's  orate, 

As  fattest;  bat  he  saved  himseX;  because, 

esides  btsag  roach  averse  front  such  a  fate 

There  were  some  other  reasons:    the  first  was 
He  had  been  rad>er  indisposed  of  lale, 

Aad  that  which  chiefly  proved  his  saving  dans* 
Was  a  smal  present  made  to  him  at  Cadiz, 
By  general  inbsuintina  of  the  la  dies. 

LXJLJUL 
Of  poor  Pedriao  something  stiS  remained, 

Bat  it  was  ased  sparingly,— come  were  afraid. 
And  others  stall  their  appetites  ooMraia'd, 

Or  bat  at  times  a  Etde  soppei  made; 
Al  except  Joan,  who  throughout  abstained, 

Chewiag  a  pieee  of  bamboo,  and  some  If  ao 
At  length  theyeaagbt  two  boobies  and  a  r*dfy 
And  then  ther  left  off  eating  uW  dea^  bod» 


CAXTO  II. 


DON  JUAN. 


585 


r  vvxiii. 

And  if  PedriBo's  fate  should  shocking  he, 

To  ea.  tse  bead  of  his  arch-enemy 

The  moment  after  he  pofiteiy  ends 
His  tale;  iffbeibefbodmhefi,atsea 

Tis  surely  fair  to  dme  upon  our  friends. 
When  shipwreck's  short  allowance  grows  too  scanty. 
Without  bemg  much  more  horrible  than  Dante. 

LXXXIV. 
And  the  same  night  own  fel  a  shower  of  ram. 

For  which  their  months  gaped.  Eke  the  cracks  of  earth 
When  dried  to  summer  dust;  al  taught  by  pain, 

Men  reaBy  know  not  what  good  water  's  worth: 
If  you  had  been  in  Turkey  or  in  Spain, 

Orwmhafamish'd  boat's-crew  had  your  mrth. 
Or  in  the  desert  beard  the  earners  bel, 
F«Td  wish  yourself  where  Truth  is— m  a  weL 

LXXXT. 
It  poor'd  down  torrents,  but  they  were  no  richer, 

Until  they  found  a  ragged  piece  of  sheet, 
Which  served  mem  as  a  sort  of  spongy  pitcher, 

They nag  k  out,  and,  though  a  thirsty  dkeher 

Might  not  have  thought  the  scanty  draught  no  sweet 
As  a  fbfl  pot  of  porter,  to  their  thinking 
They  ne'er  hi  now  had  known  the  joys  of  drmkmg. 

LXXXVL 

And  their  baked  fipc,  wkh  many  a  bioody  crack, 
Sock'd  in  the  moisture,  which  like  nectar  stream'd ; 
ofc  tangoes  were  black. 


As  the  rich  man's  in  bel,  who  Tandy  screamM 
To  beg  the  beggar,  who  could  not  rain  back 

A  drop  of  dew,  when  every  drop  had  seem'd 
To  taste  of  hearon — if  this  be  one,  indeed, 
Some  Christians  have  a  comfortable  creed, 

•          LXXXVn. 

There  were  two  fathers  in  this  ghastly  crew, 
And  with  them  their  two  sons,  of  whom  the  one 

•Vas  mujo  niliunl  and  naiuy  to  the  Tiew, 
Bnt  he  died  early;  and  when  he  was  gone, 

ffis  nearest  ••»«>!  •*!»  toU  his  sire,  who  threw 
One  glance  on  him,  and  said,  "  Heaven's  wnl  be  done! 

I  can  do  nothing!"  and  he  saw  him  thrown 

Into  the  deep,  without  a  tear  or  groan. 

Lxxxvm. 

The  other  father  had  aweakier  chid, 
Of  a  soft  cheek,  and  aspect  debate; 

Bat  the  boy  bore  op  long,  and  with  a  mud 
And  patient  spirit,  beil  aloof  his  fete; 

Lktle  he  said,  and  now  and  then  he  smned, 
As  if  to  win  a  part  from  oft"  the  weight 

He  saw  increasing  on  his  father's  heart, 

With  die  deep  deadly  thought,  that  they  mnst  part. 

LXXXIX. 
And  o'er  him  bent  his  sire,  and  never  raised 

His  eyes  from  off  his  face,  bat  wiped  the  foam 
From  his  pale  lips,  and  erer  on  him  gued; 

And  when  the  wish'd-ior  shower  at  length  was  come. 
And  the  bey's  eyes,  which  the  dm*  mm  half  glazed, 

.va'-i,  *cd  far  a  uunmnt  seem'd  to  roam, 
He  stiueezen  6-*»  <•*  a  rag;  some  drops  of  rain 
IL*O  hee  dyvj 


XC. 
The  boyezpwed-the  father  held  the  day. 

And  iook'd  upon  k  long,  and  when  at  bst 
Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  dead  burthen  lay 

Stiff  oo  his  heart,  and  puke  and  hope  were 
He  watched  k  wistfully,  unti  awmV 

T  was  borne  by  the'rude  wave  waerem  h  was  . 
Then  he  mm** sunk  down,al< 
And  gave  no  signs  of  fife,  save  his 

XCI. 

Now  over-head  a  rainbow,  bunting  through 
The  scattering* 


Resting  its  bright  base  en  the  qmvermg  fame: 
And  al  within  fes  arch  appear  d  to  he 

Clearer  than  that  without,  and  its  wide  hue 
Wax'd  broad  and  wavm*  Eke  a  kumer  fee, 

Then  changed  Eke  to  a  bow  that's  bent,  and  tnos 

Forsook  the  dim  eyes  of  these  sfaipwreck'd  men, 

xcn. 

b  changed,  of  course;  a  heavenly  chameleon. 
The  airy  chid  of  vapour  and  the  ton. 

Brought  firth  in  purple,  cradled  •  i  rimBinu, 
Baptized  in  molten  gold,  and  swashed  in  dun, 

Glittering  Eke  crescents  o'er  a  Turk's  paviion, 


boxwkkont  the  mufle), 

XCUL 
Our  shipwreck'd  seamen  thought  k  a  good  oma 

It  is  asweS  to  think  so, now  and  then; 
Twas  an  old  custom  of  the  Greek  and  Roman, 

And  may  riBtomc  of  great  advantage  when 
Fob  are  discouraged;  and  most  surely  no  men 

Had  greater  need  to  nerve  thcumJm.  again 
Than  mew,  and  so  this  ranmow  looVd  Ske  hope 


JLCIF. 

•  bme,a  beautnul  whne  bud. 

*  \  Cm^lOOtBOuj  WOt,    mmmmwC     ft  OOVt     ••    SQC 

And  pmmage  (probablyk  might  have  erHd 
Upon  its  course),  pass'd  oft  benre  their  eyes, 

And  tried  to  perch,  akbough  k  saw  and  heard 
The  men  within  the  boat,  and  m  this  guise 

It  came  and  went,  and  iutterM  round  them  til 

Night  fcB:—  imsseemM  a  better  omen  stiL 
XCV. 

But  in  this  sxse  I  aim  mnst  remark, 
Twaswei  thb  bird  of  pronose  did  not  perch, 

Because  die  tackle  of  oar  shaiterM  bark 


And  had  k  been  the  doce  from  Noah's  ark, 

Retuning  there  from  her  successful  search, 
Winch  in  then-  way  mat  miiininl  chanced  to  ill, 
They  wmmd  have  eat  her,  onve-branch  and  aE. 

xcn. 

Wkh  twmght  k  again  came  on  to  blow, 
But  not  wkh  violence  ;  the  stars  shoae  out, 

The  boat  made  way  ;  yet  now  they  were  so  ln*» 
They  knew  not  where  nor  what  they  were  abowl, 

Some  fancied  they  saw  land.  and  some  sari  -No'" 
The  nauntut  fa^banks  gave  them  < 

.game  swore  that  they  heard  breakers,  otn^r 

And  al  undook  about  the  otter  once. 


584 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  11 


XCVII. 

As  morning  broke,  the  light  wind  died  away, 
When  he  who  had  the  watch^sung  out.,  and  swore 

If  't  was  not  land  that  rose  with  the  sun's  ray 
He  wish'J  that  land  he  never  might  see  more : 

And  the  res'  rubb'd  their  eyes,  and  saw  a  bay, 
Or  thought  they  ?aw,  and  shaped  their  course  for 
shore ; 

For  shore  it  was,  and  gradually  grew 

Distinct  and  high,  and  palpable  to  view. 

XCVIII. 

And  then  of  these  some  part  burst  into  tears, 
And  others,  looking  with  a  stupid  stare, 

Could  not  yet  separate  their  hopes  from  fears, 
And  seem'd  as  if  they  had  no  further  care ; 

While  a  few  pray'd — (the  first  time  for  some  years) — 
And  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  three  were 

Asleep ;  they  shook  them  by  the  hand  and  head, 

And  tried  to  awaken  them,  but  found  them  dead. 

XCIX. 

The  day  before,  fast  sleeping  on  the  water, 

They  found  a  turtle  of  the  hawk's-bill  kind, 
And  by  good  fortune,  gliding  softly,  caught  her, 

Which  yielded  a  day's  life,  and  to  their  mind 
Proved  even  still  &  more  nutritious  matter, 

Because  it  left  encouragement  behind: 
They  thought  that  in  such  perils,  more  than  chance 
Had  sent  them  this  for  their  deliverance. 

C. 
The  land  appear'd,  a  high  and  rocky  coast, 

And  higher  grew  the  mountstins  as  they  drew, 
Set  by  a  current,  toward  it :  they  were  loi t 

In  various  conjectures,  for  none  knew 
To  what  part  of  the  earth  they  had  been  toss'd, 

So  changeable  had  been  the  winds  that  blew ; 
Some  thought  it  was  Mount  jEtna,  some  the  highlands 
Of  Candia,  Cyprus,  Rhodes,  or  other  islands. 

CI. 
Meantime  tke  current,  with  a  rising  gale, 

Still  set  them  onwards  to  the  welcome  shore, 
Like  Charon's  bark  of  spectres,  dull  and  pale: 

Their  living  freight  was  now  reduced  to  four ; 
And  three  dead,  whom  their  strength  could  not  avail 

To  heave  into  the  deep  with  those  before, 
Though  the  two  sharks  still  follow'd  them,  and  dash'd 
The  spray  into  their  faces  as  they  splash'd. 

CII. 
Famine,  despair,  cold,  thirst,  and  heat  had  done 

Their  work  on  them  by  turns,  and  thinn'd  them  to 
Such  things,  a  mother  had  not  known  her  son 

Amidst  the  skeletons  of  that  gaunt  crew ; 
By  night  chill'd,  by  day  scorch'd,  thus  one  by  one 

They  perish'd,  until  wither'd  to  these  few, 
But  chiefly  by  a  species  of  self-slaughter, 
In  washing  down  Pedrillo  with  salt  water. 

CHI. 
A.«  they  drew  nigh  the  land,  which  now  was  seen, 

Unequal  in  its  aspect  here  and  there, 
They  felt  t)>e  freshness  of  its  g-owing  green, 

That  waved  in  forest  tops,  and  smooth'd  the  air, 
And  fell  upon  their  glazed  eyes  as  i  screen 

From  glistening  waves,  and  skies  so  hot  and  bare — 
I  .ovely  seem'd  any  object  that  should  sweep 
/t  .rv.-  the  vast.  salt,  dread,  eternal  deep. 


CIV. 

The  shore  look'd  wild,  without  the  trace  uf  map, 
And  girt  by  formidable  waves  ;  but  they 

Were  mad  for  land,  and  thus  their  course  they  ran. 
Though  right  ahead  the  roaring  breakers  lay  • 

A  reef  between  them  also  now  began 

To  show  its  boiling  surf  and  bounding  spray. 

But,  finding  no  place  for  their  landing  better, 

They  ran  the  boat  for  shore,  and  overset  her. 

CV. 

But  in  his  native  stream,  the  Guadalquivir, 
Juan  to  lave  his  youthful  limbs  was  wont ; 

And,  having  learn'd  to  swim  in  that  sweet  river. 
Had  often  turn'd  the  art  to  some  account. 

A  better  swimmer  you  could  scarce  see  ever, 
He  could,  perhaps,  have  pass'd  the  Hellespont, 

As  once  (a  feat  on  which  ourselves  we  prided) 

Leander,  Mr.  Ekenhead,  and  I  did. 

CVI 

So,  here,  though  faint,  emaciated,  and  stark, 
He  buoy'd  his  boyish  limbs,  and  strove  to  ply 

With  the  quick  wave,  and  gain,  ere  it  was  dark, 
The  beach  which  lay  before  him,  high  and  dry : 

The  greatest  danger  here  was  from  a  shark, 
That  carried  off  his  neighbour  by  the  thigh ; 

As  for  the  other  two,  they  could  not  swim, 

So  nobody  arrived  on  shore  but  him. 

CVII. 

Nor  yet  had  he  arrived  but  for  the  oar, 
Which,  providentially  for  him,  was  wash'd 

Just  as  his  feeble  arms  could  strike  no  more, 
And  the  hard  wave  o'erwhelm'd  him  as  't  was  dash'd 

Within  his  grasp ;  he  clung  to  it,  and  sore 
The  waters  beat  while  he  thereto  was  lash'd  ; 

At  last,  with  swimming,  wading,  scrambling,  he 

Roll'd  on  the  beach,  half  senseless,  from  the  sea : 

CVIII. 

There,  breathless,  with  his  digging  nails  he  clung 

Fast  to  the  sand,  lest  the  returning  wave, 
From  whose  reluctant  roar  his  life  he  wrung, 

Should  suck  him  back  to  her  insatiate  grave: 
And  there  he  lay,  full-length,  where  he  was  flung, 

Before  the  entrance  of  a  cliff-worn  cave, 
With  just  enough  of  life  to  feel  its  pain, 
And  deem  that  it  was  saved,  perhaps  in  vain. 

CIX. 
With  slow  and  staggering  effort  he  arose, 

But  sunk  again  upon  his  bleeding  knee 
And  quivering  hand  ;   and  then  he  look'd  for  thoso 

Who  long  had  been  his  mates  upon  the  sea, 
But  none  of  them  appear'd  to  share  his  woes, 

Save  one,  a  corpse  from  out  the  famish'd  three. 
Who  died  two  days  before,  and  now  had  found 
An  unknown  barren  beach  for  burial  ground. 

ex. 

And,  as  he  gazed,  his  dizzy  brain  spun  fast, 
And  down  he  sunk,  and,  as  he  sunk,  the  sand 

Swam  round  and  round,  and  all  his  senses  pass'd : 
He  fell  upon  his  side,  and  his  stretch'd  hand 

Droop'd  dripping  on  the  oar   (their  jury-mast), 
And,  like  a  wither'd  lily,  on  the  land 

His  slender  frame  and  pallid  aspect  lay, 

As  fair  a  thing  as  e'er  was  form'd  of  clay. 


CANTO  II. 


DON  JUAN. 


585 


CXI. 

How  long  in  his  damp  trance  young  Juan  lay 
He  knew  not,  for  the  earth  was  gone  for  him, 

And  time  had  nothing  more  of  night  nor  day 
For  his  congealing  blood,  and  senses  dim : 

\nd  how  this  heavy  faintness  pass'd  away 
He  knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse  and  limb, 

And  tingling  vein,  seem'd  throbbing  back  to  life, 

far  Death,  though  vanquish'd,  still  retired  with  strife. 

CXII. 
Elis  eyes  he  open'd,  shut,  again  unclosed, 

For  all  was  doubt  and  dizziness:  he  thought 
He  still  was  in  the  boat,  and  had  but  dozed, 

And  felt  again  with  his  despair  o'erwrought, 
And  wish'd  it  death  in  which  he  had  reposed ; 

And  then  once  more  his  feelings  back  were  brought, 
And  slowly  by  his  swimming  eyes  was  seen 
A  lovely  female  face  of  seventeen. 

CXIII. 

'Twas  bending  close  o'er  his,  and  the  small  mouth 
Seem'd  almost  prying  into  his  for  breath  ; 

And  chafing  him,  the  soft  warm  hand  of  youth 
Recall  his  answering  spirits  back  from  death: 

And,  bathing  his  chill  temples,  tried  to  soothe 
Each  pulse  to  animation,  till  beneath 

Vs  gentle  touch  and  trembling  care,  a  sigh 
lb  these  kind  efforts  made  a  low  reply. 

CX1V. 

fhen  was  fhe  cordial  pour'd,  and  mantle  flung 
Around  his  scarce-clad  limbs ;  and  the  fair  arm 

Raised  higher  the  faint  head  which  o'er  it  hung ; 
And  hci  tidrisparent  cheek,  all  pure  and  warm, 

Pillow'd  his  death-like  forehead ;  then  she  wrung 
His  dewy  curls,  long  drench'd  by  every  storm  ; 

And  watch'd  with  eagerness  each  throb  that  drew 

A  sigh  from  his  heaved  bosom — and  hers  too. 

cxv. 

And  lifting  him  wi«h  care  into  the  cave, 
The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant,— one 

Young  yet  her  elder,  and  of  brow  less  grave, 
And  more  robust  of  fig1  ire, — then  begun 

To  kindle  fire,  and  as  the  new  flames  gave 

Light  to  the  rocks  which  rooPd  them,  which  the  sun 

Had  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe'er 

She  was,  appear'd  distinct,  and  tall,  and  fair. 

CXVI. 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold, 

That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair, 
Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  roll'd 

In  braids  behind,  and,  though  her  stature  were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould, 

They  nearly  reach'd  her  heel ;  and  in  her  air 
There  was  a  something  which  bespoke  command, 
As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 

CXVII. 
Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn  ;  but  her  eyes 

Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue, 
Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 

Deepest  attraction,  for  when  to  the  view 
Forth  from   its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies, 

Ne'er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew ; 
Tis  as  the  snake,  late  coil'd,  who  pours  his  length, 
And  hurls  at  once  his  venom   and  his  strength. 
3C  79 


CXVII1. 
Her  brow  was  white  and  low,  her  cheeks'  pute  <iy-; 

Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  sot  sun  ; 
Short  upper  lip — sweet  lips !   that  make  us  sigh 

Ever  to  have  seen  such ;   for  she  *as  one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary  ^J 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors,  when  all's  done— 
I  've  seen  much  liner  women,  ripe  and  real, 
Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal). 

CXIX. 

I  'II  tell  you  why  I  say  so,  for  't  is  just 

One  should  not  rail  without  a  decent  cause  : 

There  was  an  Irish  lady,  to  whose  bust 
I  ne'er  saw  justice  done,  and  yet  she  was 

A  frequent  model ;  and  if  e'er  she  must 

Yield  to  stern  Time  and  Nature's  wrinkling  laws, 

They  will  destroy  a  face  which  mortal  thought 

Ne'er  compass'd,  nor  less  mortal  chisel  wrought. 

cxx. 

And  such  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  cave : 

Her  dress  was  very  different  from  the   Spanish, 

Simpler,  and  yet  of  colours  not  so  grave ; 

For,  as  you  know,  the  Spanish  women  banish 

Bright  hues  when  out  of  doors,  and  yet,  while  wave 
Around  them  (what  I   hope  will  never  vanish) 

The  basquina  and  the  mantilla,  they 

Seem  at  the  same  time  mystical  and  gay. 

CXXI. 

But  with  our  damse!  this  was  not  the  case : 
Her  dress  was  many-colour'd,  finely  spun ; 

Her  locks  curl'd  negligently  round  her  face, 

But  through  them  gold  and  gems  profusely  shone 

Her  girdle  sparkled,  and  the  richest  lace 
Flow'd  in  her  veil,  and  many  a  precious  stone 

Flash'd  on  her  little  hand  ;   but,  what  was  shocking, 

Her  small  snow  feet  had  slippers,  but  no  stocking. 

CXXII. 

The  other  female's  dress  was  not  unlike, 

But  of  inferior  materials :  she 
Had  not  so  many  ornaments  to  strike : 

Her  hair  had  silver  only,  bound  to  be 
H€r  dowry ;  and  her  veil,  in  form  alike, 

Was  coarser ;   and  her  air,  though  firm,  less  free  ; 
Her  hair  was  thicker,  but  less  long ;  her  eyes 
As  black,  but  quicker,  and  of  smaller  size. 

CXXJ II. 

And  these  two  tended  him,  and  cheer'd  him  both 

With  food  and  raiment,  and  those  soft  attentions. 
Which  are  (as  I  must  own)   of  female  growth, 

And  have  ten  thousand  delicate  inventions; 
They  made  a  most  superior  mess  of  broth, 

A  thing  which  poesy  but  seldom  mentions, 
But  the  best  dish  that  e'er  was  cook'd  siryce  Heroes** 
Achilles  order'd  dinner  for  new  comers. 

CXXIV. 
I'll  tell  you  who  they  were,  this  female  pau, 

Lest  they  should  seem  princesses  in  disguise  , 
Besides  I  hate  all  mystery,  and  that  air 

Of  clap-trap,  which  your  recent  poets  prize  j 
And  so,   in  short,   the  girls  they  really  were 

They  shall  appear  before  your  curious  eyes* 
Mistress  and  maid  ;   the  first  was  only  daughter 
Of  an  old  man  who  lived  upon  the  water 


58G 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  n 


cxxv. 

A  fisherman  he  had  been  in  his  youth, 
And  still  a  sort  of  fisherman  was  he; 

But  other  speculations  were,  in  sooth, 
Added  to  his  connexion  with  the  sea, 

Psrhaps,  not  so  respectable,  in  truth  : 
A  little  smuggling,  and  some  piracy, 

Left  him,  at  last,  the  sole  of  many  masters 

Of  an  ill-gotten  million  of  piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A  fisher,  therefore,  was  he — though  of  men, 
Like  Peter  the  Apostle, — and  he  fish'd 

For  wandering  merchant-vessels,  now  and  then, 
And  sometimes  caught  as  many  as  he  wish'd ; 

The  cargoes  he  confiscated,  and  gain 

He  sought  in  the  slave-market  too,  and  dish'd 

Full  many  a  morsel  for  that  Turkish  trade, 

By  which,  no  doubt,  a  good  deal  may  be  made. 

C  XX  VII. 

He  was  a  Greek,  and  on  his  isle  had  built 
(One  of  the  wild  and  smaller  Cyclades) 

A  very  handsome  house  from  out  his  guilt, 
And  there  he  lived  exceedingly  at  ease ; 

Heaven  knows  what  cash  he  got,  or  blood  he  spilt, 
A  sad  old  fellow  was  he,  if  you  please, 

But  this  I  know,  it  was  a  spacious  building, 

Full  of  barbaric  carving,  paint,  and  gilding. 

CXXVIII. 

He  had  an  only  daughter  call'd  Haidee, 
The  greatest  heiress  of  the  Eastern  isles  ; 

Besides  so  very  beautiful  was  she, 

Her  dowry  was  as  nothing  to  her  smiles: 

Still  in  her  teens,  and   like  a  lovely  tree 
So  grew  to  womanhood,  and  between  whiles 

Rejected  several  suitors,  just  to  learn 

How  to  accept  a  better  in  his  turn. 

CXXIX. 

And  walking  out  upon  the  beach  below 

The  cliff,  towards  sunset,  on  that  day  she  found, 
Insensible, —  not  dead,  but  nearly  so,— 

Don  Juan,  almost  famish'd,  and  half  drown'd  ; 
But,  being  naked,  she  was  shock'd,  you  know, 

Yet  deem'd  herself  in  common  pity  bound, 
As  far  as  in  her  lay,  "  to  take  him  in, 
A  stranger,"  dying,  with  so  white  a  skin. 

CXXX. 
But  taking  him  into  her  father's  house 

Was  not  exactly  the  best  way  to  save, 
But  like  conveying  to  the  cat  the  mouse, 

Or  people  in  a  trance  into  their  grave ; 
liecause  the  good  old  man  had  so  much  "vouj," 

Unlike  the  honest  Arab  thieves  so  brave, 
He  would  have  hospitably  cured  the  stranger, 
And  sold  him  instantly  when  out  of  danger. 

CXXXI. 
And  therefore,  with  hei   maid,  she  thought  it  best 

(A  virgin  always  on  her  maid  relies) 
f'o  place  him  in  the  cave  for  present  rest: 

And  when,  at  last,  he  open'd  his  black  eyes, 
Their  charity  increased  about  their  guest : 

And  their  compassion  grew  to  such  a  size, 
It  opnn'd  half  the  turnpike  gates  to  heaven — 
<Saiii'  I'au'  says  Vs  the  toll  which  must  be  given) 


C  XXXII. 

They  made  a  fire,  but  such  a  fire  as  they 
Upon  the  moment  could  contrive  with  such 

Materials  as  were  cast  up  round  the  bay, 

Some  broken  planks  and  oars,  that  to  the  touch 

Were  nearly  tinder,  since  so  long  they  lay, 
A  mast  was  almost  crumbled  to  a  crutch  ; 

But,  by  God's  grace,  here  wrecks  were  in  such  plenty 

That  there  was  fuel  to  have  furnish'd  twenty. 

CXXXlII. 
He  had  a  bed  of  furs  and  a  pelisse, 

For  Haidee  stripp'd  her  sables  off  to  make 
His  couch;   and  that  he  might 'be  more  at  ease, 

And  warm,  in  case  by  chaoce  he  should  awake, 
They  also  gave  a  petticoat  apiece, 

She  and  her  maid,  and  promised  by  day-break 
To  pay  him  a  fresh  visit,  with  a  dish, 
For  breakfast,  of  eggs,  coffee,  bread,  and  fish. 

C  XXXIV. 

And  thus  they  left  him  to  his  lone  repose : 
Juan  slept  like  a  top,  or  like  the  dead, 

Who  sleep  at  last,  perhaps   (God  only  knows), 
Just  for  the  present,  and  in  his  lull'd  head 

Not  even  a  vision  of  his  former  woes 

Throbb'd  in  accursed  dreams,  which  sometimes  spread 

Unwelcome  visions  of  our  former  years, 

Till  the  eye,  cheated,  opens  thick  with  tears. 

cxxxv. 

Young  Juan  slept  all  dreamless : — but  the  maid 
Who  smooth'd  his  pillow,  as  she  left  the  den, 

Look'd  back  upon  him,  and   a  moment  stay'd, 
And  turn'd,  believing  that  he  call'd  again. 

He  slumber'd  ;   yet  she  thought,  at  least  she  said 
(The   heart  will   slip  even  as  the  tongue  and  pen)i 

He  had  pronounced  her  name — but  she  forgot 

That  at  this  moment  Juan  knew  it  not. 

C  XXXVI. 

And  pensive  to  her  father's  house  she  went, 

Enjoining  silence  strict  to  Zoe,  who 
Better  than  her  knew  what,  in  fact,  she  meant, 

She  being  wiser  by  a  year  or  two : 
A  year  or  two 's  an  age  when  rightly  spent, 

And  Zoe  spent  hers  as  most  women  do, 
In  gaining  all  that  useful  sort  of  knowledge 
Which  is  acquired  in  nature's  good  old  colleges. 

CXXXVII. 
The  morn  broke,  and  found  Juan  slumbering  still 

Fast  in  his  cave,  and  nothing  clash'd  upon 
His  rest ;  the  rushing  of  the  neigbouring  rill, 

And  the  young  beams  of  the  excluded  sun, 
Troubled  him  not,  and  he  might  sleep  his  fill ; 

And  need  he  had  of  slumber  yet,  for  none 
Had  sufier'd  more — his  hardships  were  comparative 
To  those  related  in  my  grand-dad's  narrative. 

CXXXVIII. 
Not  so  Haidee ;  she  sadly  toss'd  and  tumbled, 

And  started  from  her  sleep,  and,  turning  o'er, 
Dream'd  of  a  thousand  wrecks,  o'er  which  she  stummed 

And  handsome  corpses  strew'd  upon'  the  shore ; 
And  woke  her  maid  so  early  thai   she  grumbled. 

And  call'd  her  father's  old  slaves  up,  who  swrro 
In  several  oaths — Armenian,  ?  ark,  and  Greek, — 
They  knew  not  what  to  think  ol   ;ucb  a  freak. 


n. 


DON  JUAN. 


587 


CXXXJK. 

But  up  she  got,  and  up  she    nade  them  get,    < 
With  some  pretence  abouv   the  sun,  that  makes 

Sweet  skies  just  when  he  rises,  or  is  set ; 
And  't  is,  no  doubt,  a  sight  to  see  when  breaks 

Bright  Phoebus,  while  the  mountains  still  are  wet 
With  mist,  and  every  bird  with  him  awakes, 

And  night  is  flung  off  like  a  mourning  suit 

Worn  for  a  husband,  or  some  other  brute. 

CXL. 

I  say,  the  sun  is  a  most  glorious  sight, 
I  've  seen  him  rise  full  oft,  indeed  of  late 

I  have  sat  up  on  purpose  all  the  night, 

Which  hastens,  as  physicians  say,  one's  fate  ; 

And  so  all  ye,  who  would  be  in  the  right 
In  health  and  purse,  begin  your  day  to  date 

From  day-break,  and  when  coffin'd  at  fourscore, 

Engrave  upon  the  plate,  you  rose  at  four. 

CXLI. 

And  Haidee  met  the  morning  face  to  face  ; 

Her  own  was  freshest,  though  a  feverish  flush 
Had  dyed  it  with  the  headlong  blood,  whose  race 

From  heart  to  cheek  is  curb'd  into  a  blush. 
Like  to  a  torrent  which  a  mountain's  base, 

That  overpowers  some  Alpine  river's  rush, 
Checks  to  a  lake,  whose  waves  in  circles  spread, 
Or  the  Red  Sea — but  the  sea  is  not  red. 

CXLII. 

And  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came, 

And  near  the  cave  her  quick  light  footsteps  drew, 

While  the  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first  flame, 
And  young  Aurora  kiss'd  her  lips  with  dew, 

Taking  her  for  a  sister ;  just  the  same 

Mistake   you  would  have  made  on  seeing  the  two, 

Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair, 

Had  all  the  advantage  too  of  not  being  air. 

CXLIII. 

And  when  into  the  cavern  Haidee  stepp'd, 

All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 
That  like  an  infant  Juan  sweetly  slept : 

And  then  she  stopp'd,  and  stood  as  if  in  awe 
(For  sleep  is  awful),  and  on  tiptoe  crept 

And  wrapp'd  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw, 
Should  reach  his  blood ;  then  o'er  him,  still  as  death, 
Bent  with  hush'd  lips  that  drank  his  scarce-drawn  breath. 

CXLIV. 
And  thus,  like  to  an  angel  o'er  the  dying 

Who  die  in  righteousness,  she  lean'd  ;    and  there 
All  tranquilly  the  shipwreck'd  boy  was  lying, 

As  o'er  him  lay  the  calm  and  stirlcss  air : 
But  Zoe  the  meantime  some  eggs  was  frying, 

Since,  after  all,  no  doubt  the  youthful  pair 
Must  breakfast,  and  betimes — lest  they  should  ask  it, 
She  drew  out  her  provision  from  the  basket. 

CXLV. 
She  knew  that  the  best  feelings  must  have  victual, 

And  that  a  shipwreck'd  youth  would  hungry  be  ; 
ft  nicies,  being  less  in  love,  she  yawn'd  a  little, 

A'"l  foil  her  veins  ohill'd  by  the  neighbouring  sea  ; 
Ami  so,  she  cook'd  their  breakfast  to  a  tittle  ; 

1  can't  say  that  she  gave  them  any  tea, 
But  there  wero  egg*,  fruit,  coffee,  bread,  fish,  honey, 
Wilt   rviu  wine, — and  all  for  love,  not  money. 


CXLVI. 

And  Zoe,  when  the  eggs  were  ready,  and 

The  coffee  made,  would  fain  have  waken'd  Juan  •, 

But  Haidee  stopp'd  her  with  her  quick  small  namL 
And  without  word,  a  sign  hep  finger  drew  on 

Her  lip,  which  Zoe  needs  musrunderstand ; 

And,  the  first  breakfast  spoil'd,  prepared  a  new  one. 

Because  her  mistress  would  not  let  her  break 

That  sleep  which  seem'd  as  it  would  ne'er  awake. 

CXLVII. 

For  still  he  lay,  and  on  his  thin  worn  cheek, 
A  purple  hectic  play'd,  like  dying  day 

On  the  snow  tops  of  distant  hills  ;    the  streak 
Of  sufferance  yet  upon   his  forehead  lay, 

Where  the  blue  veins  look'd  shadowy,  shrunk,  and  weak , 
And  his  black  curls  were  dewy  with  the  spray, 

Which  weigh'd  upon  them  yet,  all  damp  and  salt, 

Mix'd  with  the  stony  vapours  of  the  vault. 

CXLVIII. 

And  she  bent  o'er  him,  and  he  lay  beneath, 
Hush'd  as  the  babe  upon  its  mother's  breast, 

Droop'd  as  the  willow  when  no  winds  can  breathe, 
Lull'd  like  the  depth  of  ocean  when  at  rest, 

Fair  as  the  crowning  rose  of  the  whole  wreath, 
Soft  as  the  callow  cygnet  in  its  nest ; 

In  short,  he  was  a  very  pretty  fellow, 

Although  his  woes  had  turn'd  him  rather  yellow. 

CXLIX. 

He  woke  and  gazed,  and  would  have  slept  again, 
But  the  fair  face  which  met  his  eyes,  forbade 

Those  eyes  to  close,  though  weariness  and,  pain 
Had  further  sleep  a  further  pleasure  made  ; 

For  woman's  face  was  never  form'd  in  vain 
For  Juan,  so  that  even  when  ho  pray'd, 

He  turn'd  from  grisly  saints,  and  martyrs   hairy, 

To  the  sweet  portraits  of  the  Virgin  Mary. 

CL. 

And  thus  upon  his  elbow  he  arose, 

And  look'd  upon  the  lady  in  whose  cheek 
The  pale  contended  with  the  purple  rose, 

As  with  an  effort  she  began  to  speak ; 
Her  eyes  were  eloquent,  her  words  would  pose, 

Although  she  told  him  in  good  modern  Greek 
With   an  Ionian  accent,  low  and   sweet, 
That  he  was  faint,  and  must  not  talk,  but  eat. 

CLI. 
Now  Juan  could  not  understand  a  word, 

Being  no  Grecian ;   but  he  had  an  ear, 
And  her  voice  was  the  warble  of  a  bird, 

So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  delicately  clear, 
That  finer,  simpler  music  ne'er  was  heard  ; 

The  sort  of  sound  we  echo  with  a  tear, 
Without  knowing  why — an  overpowering  tonn, 
Whence  melody  descends,  as  from  a  throne. 

CLII. 
And  Juan  gazed,  as  one  who  is  awoka 

By  a  distant  organ,  doub'v^g  if  he  H» 
Not  yet  a  dreamer,  till  the  spe'u  is  brok«>. 

By  the  watchman,  or  some  such  reality. 
Or  by  one's  early  valet's  cursed  knock  . 

At  least  it  is  a  heavy  sound  to  me, 
Who  like  a  morning  slumber — for  the  mgni 
Shows  stars  and  wonv"  w»  a  better  light. 


588 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO 


CLIII. 

And  Juan,  toe   was  help'd  out  from  his  dream, 
Or  sj^ep,  or  n'latsoe'er  it  was,  by  feeling 

A  most  prodif.  Ions  appetite :    the  steam 
Of  Zoe's  cookery  no  doubt  was  stealing 

Upon  his  senses,  and  the  kindling  beam 
Of  the  new  fire  which  Zoe  kept  up,  kneeling 

To  stir  her  viands,  made  him  quite  awake 

And  long  for  food,  but  chiefly  a  beef-steak. 

•  CLIV. 

But  beef  is  rare  within  these  oxless  isles  ; 

Goats'  flesh  there  is,  no  doubt,  and  kid,  and  mutton, 
And  when  a  holiday  upon  them  smiles, 

A  joint  upon  their  barbarous  spits  they  put  on : 
But  this  occurs  but  seldom,  between  whiles, 

For  some  of  these  are  rocks  with  scarce  a  hut  on, 
Others  are  fair  and  fertile,  among  which, 
This,  though  not  large,  was  one  of  the  most  rich. 

CLV. 

I  say  that  beef  is  rare,  and  can't  help  thinking 
That  the  old  fable  of  the  Minotaur — 

From  which  our  modern  morals,  rightly  shrinking, 
Condemn  the  royal  lady's  taste  who  wore 

A  cow's  shape  for  a  mask — was  only  (sinking 
The  allegory)  a  mere  type,  no  more, 

That  Pasiphae  promoted  breeding  cattle, 

To  make  the  Cretans  bloodier  in  battle. 

CLVI. 

For  we  all  know  that  English  people  are 
Fed  upon  beef — I  won't  say  much  of  beer, 

Because  'tis  liquor  only,  and  being  far 
From  this  my  subject,  has  no  business  here  :— 

We  know,  too,  they  are  very  fond  of  war, 
A  pleasure — like  all  pleasures — rather  dear  ; 

So  were  the  Cretans — from  which  I  infer 

That,  beef  and  battles  both  were  owing  to  her. 

CLVII. 

But  to  resume.     The  languid  Juan  raised 

His  head  upon  his  elbow,  and  he  saw 
A  s^>ht  on  which  he  had  not  lately  gazed, 

A»  all  his  latter  meals  had  been  quite  raw, 
Three  or  four  things  for  which  the  Lord  he  praised, 

And,  feeling  still  the  famish'd  vulture  gn?w, 
He  fell  upon  whate'er  was  offer'd,  like 
A  priest,  a  shark,  an  alderman,  or  pike. 

CLVIII. 
He  ate,  and  he  was  well  supplied  ;  and  she, 

Who  watch'd  him  like  a  mother,  would  have  fed 
Him  past  all  bounds,  because  she  smiled  to  see 

Such  appetite  in  one  she  had  deem'd  dead : 
But  Zoe,  being  older  than  Haidee, 

Knew  (by  tradition,  for  she  ne'er  had  read) 
That  famish'd  people  must  be  slowly  nursed, 
And  fed  by  spoonfuls,  else  they  always  burst. 

CLIX. 
And  so  she  took  the  liberty  to  state, 

Rather  by  deeds  than  words,  because  the  case 
Was  urgent,  that  the  gentleman,  whose  fate 

Had  made  her  mistress  quit  her  bed  to  trace 
The  sea-shore  at  this  hour,  must  leave  his  plate, 

Unless  he  wish'd  to  die  upon  the  place — 
She  snatch'd  it,  and  refused  another  morsel, 
Saving.  1>«,  ha. I  gorged  enough  to  make  a  horse  ill. 


CLX. 

Next  they — he  being  naked,  save,  \  "af'.er'd 
Pair  of  scarce  decent  trowge./  -  jvcnt  to  work; 

And  in  the  fire  his  recent  rajs  *hr,y  sc:.tter'd, 
And  dress'd   him,  for  the  present,  like  a  Turk, 

Or  Greek — that  is,  although  it  not  much  matter'd, 
Omitting  turban,  slippers,  pistols,  dirk, — 

They  furnish'd  him,  entire  except  some  stitches, 

With  a  clean  shirt,  and  very  spacious  breecnes. 

CLXI. 

And  then  fair  Haidee  tried  her  tongue  at  speaking 
But  not  a  word  could  Juan  comprehend, 

Although  he  listen'd  so  that  the  young  Greek  in 
Her  earnestness  would  ne'er  have  made  an  end  f 

And,  as  he  interrupted  not,  went  eking 
Her  speech  out  to  her  protege  and  friend, 

Till,  pausing  at  the  last  her  breath  to  take, 

She  saw  he  did  not  understand  Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And  then  she  had  recourse  to  nods,  and  signs, 
And  smiles,  and  sparkles  of  the  speaking  eye, 

And  read  (the  only  book  she  could)  the  lines 
Of  his  fair  face,  and  found,  by  sympathy,        * 

The  answer  eloquent,  where  the  soul  shines 
And  darts  in  one  quick  glance  a  Ion"  reply  ; 

And  thus  in  every  look  she  saw  expr»ws'd 

A  world  of  words,  and  things  at  which  she  guess'd. 

CLXIII. 

And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers  and  of  eyes, 
And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took 

A  lesson  in  her  tongue  ;    but  by  surmise, 

No  doubt,  less  of  her  language  than   her  look  :         / 

As  he  who  studies  fervently  the  skies 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book, 

Thus  Juan  learn'd  his  alpha  beta  better 

From  Haidee's  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

CLXIV. 

'T  is  pleasing  to  be  school'd  in  a  strange  tongue 

By  female  lips   and  eyes — that  is,  I  mean, 
When  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are  young. 

As  was  the  case,  at  least,  where  I  have  been  ; 
They  smile  so  when  one  's  right,  and  when  one 's  wrong 

They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  intervene 
Pressure  of  hnnds,  perhaps  even  a  chaste  kiss  ;— 
I  learn'd  the  little  that  I  know  by  this : 

CLXV. 
That  is,  some  words  of  Spanish,  Turk,  or  Greek, 

Italian  not  at  all,  having  no  teachers, 
Much  English  I  cannot  pretend  to  speak, 

Learning  that  language  chiefly  from  its  preachers. 
Barrow,  South,  Tillotson,  whom  every  week 

I  study,  also  Blair,  the  highest  reachers 
Of  eloquence  in  piety  and  prose — 
I  hate  your  poets,  so  read  none  of  those. 

CLX  VI. 
As  for  the  ladies,  I  have  nought  to  say, 

A  wanderer  from  the  British  world  of  fashion, 
Where  I,  like  other  "  dogs,  have  had  my  day," 

Like  other  men,  too,  may  have  had  my  passion- 
But  that,  like  other  things,  has  pass'd  away  : 

And  all   her  fools  whom  I  could  lay  the  lasn  on, 
Foes,  friends,  men,  women,  now  are  nought  to  mo 
But  dreams  of  what  has  been,  no  more  to  be. 


Mi   &  C  E)  E 


7*. 


DON  JUAN. 


CLXVil. 

Return  we  to  Don  Juan.     He  begun 
To  hear  new  words,  and  to  repeat  them ;  but 

Some  feelings,  universal  as  the  sun, 
Were  such  as  could  not  in  his  breast  be  shut 

More  than  within  the  bosom  of  a  nun: 
He  was  in  love — as  you  would  be,  no  doubt, 

With  a  young  benefactress, — so  was  she 

Just  in  the  way  we  very  often  see. 

CLXVIII. 

And  every  day  by  day-break — rather  early 
For  Juan,  who  was  somewhat  fond  of  rest — 

She  came  into  the  cave,  but  it  was  merely 
To  see  her  bird  reposing  in  his  nest ; 

And  she  would  softly  stir  his  locks  so  curly, 
Without  disturbing  her  yet  slumbering  guest, 

Breathing  all  gently  o'er  his  cheek  and  mouth, 

As  o'er  a  bed  of  roses  the  sweet  south. 

CLXIX. 

And  every  morn  his  colour  frushlier  came, 
And  every  day  help'd  on  his  convalescence, 

'T  was  well,  DC-cause  health  in  the  human  frame 
Is  pleasant,  besides  being  true  love's  essence, 

For  health  and  idleness  to  passion's  flame 
Are  oil  and  gunpowder ;   and  some  good  lessons 

Are  also  learnt  from  Ceres  and  from  Bacchus, 

VVithout  whom  Venus  will  not  long  attack  us. 

CLXX 

»Vhile  Venus  fills  the  heart  (without  heart  really 
Love,  though  good  always,  is  not  quite  so  good), 

Ceres  presents  a  plate  of  vermicelli, 
For  love  must  be  sustain'd  like  flesh  and  blood. — 

While  Bacchus  pours  out  wine,  or  hands  a  jelly: 
Eggs,  oysters  too,  are  amatory  food  ; 

But  who  is  their  purveyor  from  above 

Heaven  knows, — it  may  be  Neptune,  Pan,  or  Jove. 

CLXXI. 

When  Juan  woke,  he  found  some  good  things  ready, 

A  bath,  a  breakfast,  and  the  finest  eyes 
That  ever  made  a  youthful  heart  less  steady, 

Besides  her  maid's,  as  pretty  for  their  size ; 
But  I  have  spoken  of  all  this  already — 

And  repetition's  tiresome  and  unwise,— 
Well — Juan,  after  bathing  in  the  sea, 
Came  always  back  to  coffee  and  Haidee. 

CLXXII. 
Both  were  so  young,  and  one  sa  innocent, 

That  bathing  pass'd  for  nothing ;  Juan  seem'd 
To  her,  as  't  were  the  kind  of  being  sent. 

Of  whom  these  two  years  she  had  nightly  dream'd, 
A  something  to  be  loved,  a  creature  meant 

To  be  her  happiness,  and  whom  she  deem'd 
To  render  happy  ;  all  who  joy  would  win 
Must  share  it, — happiness  was  born  a  twin. 

CLXXIII. 
tt  was  such  pleasure  to  behold  him,  such 

Enlargement  of  existence  to  partake 
Nature  with  him,  to  thrill  beneath  his  touch, 

To  welch  him  slumbering,  and  to  ice  him  wake. 
I  o  live  with  him  for  ever  w»re  too  much ; 

But  then  the  thought  of  parting  ma^.e  her  quake : 
tie  was  her  OWE,  her  ocean  treasure,  cast 
Like  a  rich  wrerk — he:  first  iov<>,  an-1  her  last. 
3  =2 


CLXXIV. 

And  thus  a  moon  roll'd  on,  and  fair  Haides 
Paid  daily  visits  to  her  boy,  and  took 

Such  plentiful  precautions,  that  still  he 

Remain'd  unknown  within  his  craggy  nook: 

At  last  her  father's  prows  put  out  to  sea, 
For  certain  merchantmen  upon  the  look, 

Not  as  of  yore  to  carry  off  an  lo, 

But  three  Ragusan  vessels,  bound  for  Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then  came  her  freedom,  for  she  had  no  mother, 

So  that,  her  father  being  at  sea,  she  was 
Free  as  a  married  woman,  or  such  other 

Female,  as  where  she  likes  may  freely  pass, 
Without  even  the  encumbrance  of  a  brother, 
.    The  freest  she  that  ever  gazed  on  glass  : 
I  speak  of  Christian  lands  in  this  comparison, 
Where  wives,  at  least,  are  seldom  kept  in  garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now  she  prolong'd  her  visits  and  her  talk 

(For  they  must  talk),  and  he  had  learnt   to  say 

So  much  as  to  propose  to  take  a  walk, — 
For  little  had  he  wander'd  since  the  day 

On  which,  like  a  young  flower  snapp'd  from  the  slati 
Drooping  and  dewy  on  the  beach  he  lay, — 

And  thus  they  walk'd  out  in  the  afternoon, 

And  saw  the  sun  set  opposite  the  moon. 

CLXXVII. 

It  was  a  wild  and  breaker-beaten  coast, 

With  cliffs  above,  and  a  broad  sandy  shore, 

Guarded  by  shoals  and  rocks  as  by  a  host, 

With  here  and  there  a  creek,  whose  aspect  wore 

A  better  welcome  to  the  tempest-toss'd  ; 

And  rarely  ceased  the  haughty  billows'  roar, 

Save  on  the  dead  long  summer  days,  which  inaks 

The  outstretch'd  ocean  glitter  like  a  lake. 

CLXXVIII. 

And  the  small  ripple  spilt  upon  the  beach 

Scarcely  o'erpass'd  the  cream  of  your  champagiw, 
When  o'er  the   brim  the  sparkling  bumpers  reach, 

That  spring-dew  of  the  spirit !  the  heart's  rain ! 
Few  things  surpass  old  wine :   and  they  may  preach 

Who  please, — the  more  because  they  preach  in  vain,— 
Let  us  have  wine  and  women,  mirth  and  laughter, 
Sermons  and  soda-water  the  day  after. 

CLXXIX. 
Man,  being  reasonable,  must  get  drunk ; 

The  best  of  life  is  but  intoxication : 
Glory,  the  grape,  love,  gold,  in  these  are  sunk 

The  hopes  of  all  men,  and  of  every  nation  ; 
Without  their  sap,  how  branchless  were  the  trunk 

Of  IHe's  strange  tree,  so  fruitful  on  occasion: 
But  to  return, — get  very  drunk ;  and  when 
You  wake  with  head-ache,  you  shall  see  what  then. 

CLXXX. 

Ring  for  your  valet — bid  him  quickly  bring 

Some  hock  and  soda-water,  th<;n  you  "11  know 

A  pleasure  worthy  Xerxes  the  great  king ; 

For  not  the  blest  sherbet,  sublimed  with  snow. 

Nor  the  first  sparkle  of  the  desert-spring. 
Nor  Burgundy  in  all  its  sunset  gluw. 

After  long  travel,  ennui,  love,  or  slaughtei , 

Vie  with  that  draught  of  hock  and  sodn-watm . 


VjO 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


n 


CLXXXI. 

The  coast--!  think  it  was  the  coast  that  1 

Was  just  depcribing — Yes,  it  was  the  coast — 
Lay  at  this  period  quiet  as  the  sky, 

The  sands  untuinbled,  the  blue  waves  untoss'd, 
And  all  was  stillness,  save  the  sea-bird's  cry, 

And  dolphin's  leap,  and  little  billow  cross'd 
By  some  low  rock  or  shelve  that  made  it  fret 
Against  the  boundary  it  scarcely  wet. 

CLXXXII. 
And  forth  they  wander'd,  her  sire  being  gone, 

As  I  have  said,  upon  an  expedition  ; 
And  mother,  brother,  guardian,  she  had  none, 

Save  Zoe,  who,  although  with  due  precision 
She  waited  on  her  lady  with  the  sun, 

Though  daily  service  was  her  only  mission, 
Bringing  warm  water,  wreathing  her  long  tresses, 
And  asking  now  and  then  for  cast-off  dresses. 

CLXXXI1I. 
It  was  the  cooling  hour,  just  when  the  rounded 

Red  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  azure  hill, 
Which  then  seems  as  if  the  whole  earth  it  bounded, 

Circling  all  nature,  hush'd,  and  dim,  and  still, 
With  the  far  mountain-crescent  half  surrounded 

On  one  side,  and  the  deep  sea  calm  and  chill 
Upon  the  other,  and  the  rosy  sky, 
With  one  star  sparkling  through  it  like  an  eye. 

CLXXXI  V. 
And  thus  they  wander'd  forth,  and  hand  in  hand, 

Over  the  shining  pebbles  and  the  shells, 
Glided  along  the  smooth  and  harden'd  sand, 

And  in  the  worn  and  wild  receptacles 
Work'd  by  the  storms,  yet  work'd  as  it  were  plann'd, 

In  hollow  halls,  with  sparry  roofs  and  cells, 
They  turn'd  to  rest ;  and,  each  clasped  by  an  arm, 
Yielded  to  the  deep  twilight's  purple  charm. 

CLXXXV. 
They  look'd  up  to  the  sky,  whose  floating  glow 

Spread  like  a  rosy  ocean,  vast  and  bright ; 
They  gazed  upon  the  glittering  sea  below, 

Whence  the  broad  moon  rose  circling  into  sight; 
They  heard  the  waves  splash,  a«d  the  wind  so  low, 

And  saw  each  other's  dark  eyes  darting  light 
Into  each  other — and,  beholding  this, 
Their  lips  drew  near,  and  clung  into  a  kiss ; 

CLXXXVI. 
A  long,  long  kiss,  a  kiss  of  youth,  and  love, 

And  beauty,  all  concentrating,  like  rays 
Into  one  focus  kindled  from  above ; 

Such  kisses  as  belong  to  early  days, 
Wl>erc  neart,  and  soul,  and  sense,  in  concert  move, 

And  the  blood 's  lava,  and  the  pulse  a  blaze, 
Each  kiss  a  heart-quake, — for  a  kiss's  strength, 
I  think  it  must  be  reckon'd  by  its  length. 

CLXXXVII. 
By  length  I  mean  duration';  theirs  endured 

Heaven    knows  how  long — no  doubt    they  never 

reckon'd ; 
And  if  they  had,  they  could  not  have  secured 

The  sum  of  their  sensations  to  a  second: 
Thi:y  had  not  spoken  ;  but  they  felt  allured, 

As  if  their  souls  and  lips  each  other  beckon'd, 
WInr.li,  bciiig  jom'd,  like  swarming  bees  they  clung — 
Tlietr  hearts  tne  flowers  from  whence  the  honey  sprung. 


CLXXXVIII. 

They  were  alone,  yet  not  alone  as  they 
Who,  shut  in  chambers,  think  it  .oneliness ; 

The  silent  ocean,  and  the  star-light  bay, 

The  twilight  glow,  which  momently  grew  less, 

The  voiceless  sands,  and  dropping  caves,  that  lay 
Around  them,  made  them  to  each  other  press, 

As  if  there  were  no  life  beneath  the  sky 

Save  theirs,  and  that  their  life  could  never  die. 

CLXXXIX. 

They  fear'd  no  eyes  nor  ears  on  that  lone  beach, 
They  felt  no  terrors  from  the  night,  they  were 

All  in  all  to  each  other:   though  their  speech 

Was  broken  words,  they  thought  a  language  there,— 

And  all  the  burning  tongues  the  passions  teach 
Found  in  one  sigh  the  best  interpreter 

Of  nature's  oracle — first  love, — that  all 

Which  Eve  has  left  her  daughters  since  her  fall. 

cxc. 

Haidee  spoke  not  of  scruples,  ask'd  no  vows, 
Nor  offer' d  any;  she  had  never  heard 

Of  plight  and  promises  to  be  a  spouse, 
Or  perils  by  a  loving  maid  incurr'd ; 

She  was  all  which  pure  ignorance  allows, 

And  flew  to  her  young  mate  like  a  young  bird ; 

And,  never  having  dreamt  of  falsehood,  she 

Had  not  one  word  to  say  of  constancy. 

CXCI. 

She  loved,  and  was  beloved — she  adored, 

And  she  was  worshipp'd ;   after  nature's  fashion, 

Their  intense  souls,  into  each  other  pour'd, 

If  souls  could  die,  had  perish'd  in  that  passion, — 

But  by  degrees  their  senses  were  restored, 
Again  to  be  o'ercomc,  again  to  dash  on ; 

And,  beating  'gainst  Ms  bosom,  Haidee's  heart 

Felt  as  if  never  more  to  beat  apart. 

CXCII. 

Alas  !   they  were  so  young,  so  beautiful, 

So  lonely,  loving,  helpless,  and  the  hour 
Was  that  in  which  the  hear*  is  always  full, 

And,  having  o'er  itself  no  further  power, 
Prompts  deeds  eternity  cannot  annul, 

But  pays  ofT  moments  in  an  endless  sho«vei 
Of  hell-fire — all  prepared  for  people  giving 
Pleasure  or  pain  to  one  another  living. 

CXCIII. 
Alas !  for  Juan  and  Haidee  !   they  were 

So  loving  and  so  lovely — till  then  never, 
Excepting  our  first  parents,  such  a  pair 

Had  run  the  risk  of  being  damn'd  for  ever  ; 
And  Haidee,  being  devout  as  well  as  fair, 

Had,  doubtless,  heard  about  the  Stygian  river, 
And  hell  and  purgatory — but  forgot 
Just  in  the  very  crisis  she  should  not. 

CXCIV. 
They  look  upon  each  other,  and  their  eyes 

Gleam  in  the  moon-light ;   and  her  white  arm  cl&spt 
Round  Juan's  head,  and  his  around  hers  lies 

Half  buried  in  the  tresses  which  it  grasps ; 
She  sits  upon  his  knee,  and  drinks   his  sighs, 

He  hers  until  they  end  in  broken  gasps ; 
And  thus  they  form  a  group  that's  quu<<  antiue. 
Half  naked,  loving,  natural,  and  Greek. 


CAXTO  II. 


J)ON  JUAN. 


cxcv. 

And  when  those  deep  and  burning  moments  pass'd, 
And  Juan  sunk  to  sleep  within   her  arms, 

She  slept  not,  but  all  tenderly,  though  fast, 
Sustain  d  his  head  upon  her  bosom's  charms, 

And  now  and  then  her  eye  to  neaven  is  cast, 

And  then  on  the  pale  cheek  her  breast  now  warms, 

Pillow'd  on  her  o'erflowing  neart,  which  pants 

With  all  it  granted,  and  with  a"  it  grants. 

CXCVI. 

An  infant  when  it  gazes  on  a  light, 

A  child  the  moment  when  it  drains  the  breast, 
A  devotee  when  soars  the  host  in  sight, 

An  Arab  with  a  stranger  for  a  guest, 
A  sailor,  when  the  prize  ha3  struck  in  fight, 

A  miser  filling  his  most  hoarded  chest, 
Feel  rapture ;   but  not  such  true  joy  are  reaping 
As  they  who  watch  o'er  what  they  love  while  sleeping. 

CXCVII. 

For  there  it  lies  so  tranquil,  so  beloved, 
All  that  it  hath  of  life  with  us  is  living ; 

So  gentle,  stirless,  helpless,  and  unmoved, 
And  all  unconscious  of  the  joy  't  is  giving, 

All  it  hath  felt,  inflicted,  pass''d,  and  proved, 

Hush'd  into  depths  beyond  the  watcher's  diving  ; 

There  lies  the  thing  we  love  with  all  its  errors, 

And  all  its  charms,  like  death  without  its  terrors. 

CXCVIII. 

The  lady  watch'd  her  lover — and  that  hour 

Of  Love's,  and  Night's,  and  Ocean's  solitude, 
O'erflow'd  her  soul  with  their  united  power ; 

Amidsi  the  barren  sand  and  rocks  so  rude 
She  an«i  her  wave-worn  love  had  made  their  bower, 

Where  nought  upon  their  passion  could   intrude, 
And  all  the  stars  that  crowded  the  blue  space 
Saw  nothing  happier  than  her  glowing  face. 

CXCIX. 
Alas  !  the  love  of  women !   it  is  known 

To  be  a  lovely  and  a  fearful  thing  ; 
For  all  of  theirs  upon  that  die  is  thrown, 

And  if  't  is  lost,  life  hath  no  more  to  bring 
To  them  but  mockeries  of  the  past  alone, 

And  their  revenge  is  as  the  tiger's  spring, 
Deadly,  and  quick,  and  crushing  ;  yet  as  real 
Torture  is  theirs — what  they  inflict  they  feel. 

CC. 
They're  right;  for  man,  to  man  so  oft  unjust, 

Is  always  so  to  women  ;    one  sole  bond 
Awaits  them,  treachery  is  all  their  trust ; 

Taught  to  conceal,  their  bursting  hearts  despond 
Over  their  idol,  till  some  wealthier  lust 

Buys  them  in  marriage — and  what  rests  beyond? 
A  thankless  husband,  next  a  faithless  lover, 
Then  dressing,  nursing,  praying,  and  all 's  over. 

CCI. 

Some  take  a  lover,  some  take  drams  or  prayers, 
Some  mind  their  household,  others  dissipation, 

Some  run  away,  and  but  exchange  their  cares, 
Losing  the  advantage  of  a  virtuous  station  ; 

Few  changes  e'er  can  better  their  affairs, 
Theirs  being  an  unnatural  situation, 

From  tne  uisll  palace  to  tl.e  dirty  hovel : 

Some  play  the  devil,  and  then  write  a  novel. 


ecu. 

Haidee  was  nature's  bride,  and  knew  not  this 
Haidee  was  passion's  child   born  where  the  sun 

Showers  triple  light,  «?id  scorches  even  the  kiss 
Of  his  gazelle-eyed- 'daughters  ;    she  was  one 

Made  but  to  love,  to  feel  that  she  was  his 
Who  was  her  chosen  :   what  was  said  or  done 

Elsewhere  was  nothing — She  had  nought  to  fear, 

Hope,  care,  nor  love  beyond,  her  heart  beat  here. 

ccm. 

And  oh  !    that  quickening  of  the  heart,  that  beat ' 
How  much  it  costs  us !    yet  each  rising  throb 

Is  in  its  cause  as  its  effect  so  sweet, 
That  wisdom,  ever  on  the  watch   to  rob 

Joy  of  its  alchymy,  and  to  repeat 

Fine  truths  ;   even  conscience,  too,  has  a  tough  jo> 

To  make  us  understand  each  good  old  maxim, 

So  good — I  wonder  Casllereagh  don't  tax  'em. 

CCIV. 

And  now  'twas  done — on  the  lone  shore  were  plighted 
Their  hearts  ;  the  stars,  their  nuptial  torches,  shed 

Beauty  upon  the  beautiful  they  lighted  : 

Ocean  their  witness,  and  the  cave  their  bed, 

By  their  own  feelings  hallow'd  and  united, 
Their  priest  was  solitude,  and   they  were  wed  : 

And  they  were  happy,  for  to  their  young  eyes 

Each  was  an  angel,  and  earth  paradise. 

ccv. 

Oh  love  !   of  whom  great  Caesar  was  the  suitor, 

Titus  the   master,  Antony  the  slave, 
Horace,  Catullus,  scholars,  Ovid  tutor, 

Sappho  the  sage  blue-stocking,  in  whose  grave 
All  those  may  leap  who  rather  would  be  neuter — 

(Leucadia's  rock  still  overlooks  the  wave) — 
Oh  Love  !    thou  art  the  very  god  of  evil, 
For,  after  all,  we  cannot  call  thee  devil. 

CCVI. 
Thou  makest  the  chaste  connubial  state  precarious, 

And  jestest  with  the  brows  of  mightiest  men : 
Caesar  and  Pompey,  Mahomet,  Belisarius, 

Have  much  employ'd  the  muse  of  history's  pen  ; 
Their  lives  and  fortunes  were  extremely  various, — 

Such  worthies  time  will  never  see  again : — 
Yet  to  these  four  in  three  things  the  same  luck  holds, 
They  all  were  heroes,  conquerors,  and  cuckolds. 

CCVII. 
Thou  makest  philosophers  :    there  's  Epicurus 

And  Aristippus,  a  material  crew  ! 
Who  to  immoral  courses  would  allure  us 

By  theories,  quite  practicable  too  ; 
If  only  from  the  devil  they  would  insure  us 

How  pleasant  were  the  maxim  (not  quite  new), 
"  Eat,  drink,  and  love,  what  can  the  rest  avail  us  /' 
So  said  the  royal  sage,  Sardanapalus. 

CCVIII. 

But  Juan  !    had  he  quite  forgotten  Julia  ? 

And  should  he  have  ibrgotten  her  so  soon? 
I  can't  but  say  it  seems  t  >  me  most  truly  a 

Perplexing  question  ;   but,  «o  doubt,  the  moon 
Does  these  tlrngs  for  us,  and  whenever  new.y  a 

Palpitation  rises,  't  is   her   boon, 
Else  how  the  devil  '<s  't  that  fresh  features 
1  Have  such  a  charm  for  u»   ooor  hurran  creature*  • 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CAMTO  J. 


CCIX. 

1  hate  inconstancy — I  loathe,  detest, 
Abhor,  condemn,  abjure  the  mortal  made 

Of  such  quicksilver  clay  that  in  his  breast 
No  permanent  foundation  can  be  laid ; 

Love,  constant  love,  has  been  my  constant  guest, 
And  yet  last  night,  being  at  a  masquerade, 

I  saw  the  prettiest  creature,  fresh  from  Milan, 

Which  gave  me  some  sensations  like  a  villain. 

ccx. 

But  soon  philosophy  came  to  my  aid, 

And  whispcr'd,  "  think  of  every  sacred  tie  !" 

"  I  will,  my  dear  philosophy  !"  I  said, 

"  But  then  her  teeth,  and  then,  oh  heaven  !  her  eye ! 

1  '11  just  inquire  if  she  be  wife  or  maid, 
Or  neither— out  of  curiosity." 

"Stop!"  cried  philosophy,  with  air  so  Grecian 

(Though  she  was  mask'd  then  as  a  fair  Venetian)— 

CCXI. 

"  Stop  !"  so  I  stopp'd. — But  to  return :  that  which 
Men  call  inconstancy  is  nothing  more 

Than  admiration  due  where  nature's  rich 
Profusion  with  young  beautv  covers  o'er 

Some  favour'd  object ;   and  as  in  the  niche 
A  lovely  statue  we  almost  ar'ore, 

This  sort  of  adoration  of  the  rial 

Is  but  a  heightening  of  the  "  beau  ideal." 

CCXII. 
'Tis  the  perception  of  the  beautiful, 

A  fine  extension  of  the  faculties, 
Platonic,  universal,  wonderful, 

Drawn  from  the  stars,  and  filter'd  through  the  skies, 
Without  which  life  would  be  extremely  dull ; 

In  short,  it  is  the  use  of  our  own  eyes, 
With  one  or  two  small  senses  added,  just 
To  hint  that  flesh  is  form'd  of  fiery  dust. 

CCXIII. 

Yet  't  is  a  painful  feeling,  and  unwilling, 

For  surely  if  we  always  could  perceive 
In  the  same  object  graces  quite  as  killing 

As  when  she  rose  upon  us  like  an  Eve, 
'T  would  save  us  many  a  heart-ache,  many  a  shilling 

(For  we  must  get  them  any  how,  pr  grieve), 
Whereas,  if  one  sole  lady  pleased  for  ever, 
How  pleasant  for  the  heart,  as  well  as  liver ! 

CCXIV. 
The  heart  is  like  the  sky,  a  part  of  heaven, 

But  changes  night  and  day  too,  like  the  sky  ; 
Now  o'er  it  clouds  and  thunder  must  be  driven, 

And  darkness   and  destruction  as  on  high ; 
But  when  it  hath  been  scorch'd,  and  pierced,  and  riven, 

Its  scorms  expire  in  water-drops ;  the  eye 
Pours  forth  at  last  tne  heart's  blood  turn'd  to  tears, 
Which  make  the  English  climate  of  our  years. 

ccxv. 

The  liver  is  the  lazaret  of  bile, 

But  very  rarely  executes  its  function, 
For  the  first  passion  stays  there  such  a  while 

That  all  the  rest  creep  in  and  form  a  junction, 
I  .ike  knois  of  vipers  on  a  dunghill's  boil, 

Rage,  fear,  hate,  jealousy,  revenge,  compunction, 
^o  that  all  mischiefs  spring  up  from  this  entrail, 
take  earthquakes  from  the  hidden  fire  call'd  "  central." 


CCXVI. 

In  the  mean  time,  without  proceeding  more 
In  this  anatomy,  I  've  finish'd  now 

Two  hundred  and  odd  stanzas  as  before, 
That  being  about  the  number  I  '11  allow 

Each  canto  of  the  twelve,  or  twenty-four  ; 
And,  laying  down  my  pen,  I  make  my  bow, 

Leaving  Don  Juan  and  Haidee,  to  plead 

For  them  and  theirs  with  all  who  deign  to  read. 


CANTO  m. 


I. 

HAIL,  Muse  !  et  ccelera. — We  left  Juan  sleeping, 
Pillow'd  upon  a  fair  and  happy  breast, 

And  watch'd  by  eyes  that  never  yet  knew  weeping, 
And  loved  by  a  young  heart  too  deeply  bless'd 

To  feel  the  poison  through  her  spirit   ,reeping, 
Or  knew  who  rested  there ;   a  foe  >o  rest 

Had  soil'd  the  current  of  her  sinless  years, 

And  turn'd  her  pure  heart's  purest  blood  to  tears. 

II. 

Oh,  love !  what  is  it  in  this  world  of  ours 

Which  makes  it  fatal  to  be  loved  ?   Ah,  why 
With  cypress  branches  hast  thou  wreathed  thy  bowers 

And  ir.ade  thy  best  interpreter  a  sigh  ? 
As  those  who  doat  on  odours  pluck  the  flowers, 

And  place  them  on  their  breast — but  place  to  die — 
Thus  the  frail  beings  we  would  fondly  cherish 
Are  laid  within  our  bosoms  but  to  perish. 

III. 
In  her  first  passion  woman  loves  her  lover, 

In  all  the  others  all  she  loves  is  love, 
Which  grows  a  habit  she  can  ne'er  get  over, 

And  fits  her  loosely — like  an  easy  glove, 
As  you  may  find,  whene'er  you  like  to  prove  her : 

One  man  alone  at  first  her  heart  can  move ; 
She  then  prefers  him  in  the  plural  number, 
Not  finding  that  the  additions  much  encumber. 

IV. 
I  know  not  if  the  fault  be  men's  or  theirs  ; 

But  one  thing 's  pretty  sure  ;   a  woman  planted 
(Unless  at  once  she  plunge  for  life  in  prayers), 

After  a  decent  time  must  be  gallanted ; 
Although,  no  doubt,  her  first  of  love  affairs 

Is  that  to  which  her  heart  is  wholly  granted  ; 
Yet  there  are  some,  they  say,  who  have  had  none, 
But  those  who  have  ne'er  end  with  only  one. 

V. 
'T  is  melancholy,  and  a  fearful  sign 

Of  human  frailty,  folly,  also  crime, 
That  love  and  marriage  rarely  can  combine, 

Although  they  both  are  born  in  the  sami!  f  imt  . 
Marriage  from  love,  like  vinegar  from  wine 

A  sad,  sour,  sober  beverage — by  time 
Is  sharpen'd  from  its  high  celestial  flavour 
Down  to  a  very  homely  household  savour. 


•:ANTO  in. 


DON  JUAN. 


503 


VI. 

There 's  something  of  antipathy,  as  't  were, 
Between  their  present  and  their  future  state; 

A  kind  of  flattery  that 's  hardly  fair 

Is  used,  until  the  truth  arrives  too  late — 

Yet  what  can  people  do,  except  despair  ? 
The  same  things  change  their  names  at  such  a  rate  j 

For  instance — passion  in  a  lover's  glorious, 

But  in  a  husband  is  pronounced  uxorious. 

VII. 

Men  grow  ashamed  of  being  so  very  fond ; 

They  sometimes  also  get  a  little  tired 
(But  that,  of  course,  is  rare),  and  then  despond: 

The  same  things  cannot  always  be  admired, 
Yet 't  is  "  so  nominated  in  the  bond," 

That  both  are  tied  till  one  shall  have  expired. 
Sad  thought !  to  lose  the  spouse  that  was  adorning 
Our  days,  and  put  one's  servants  into  mourning. 

VIII. 

There 's  doubtless  something  in  domestic  doings 
Which  forms,  in  fact,  true  love's  antithesis ; 

Romances  paint  at  full  length  people's  wooings, 
But  only  give  a  bust  of  marriages ; 

For  no  one  cares  for  matrimonial  cooings, 
There's  nothing  wrong  in  a  connubial  kiss: 

Think  you,  if  Laura  had  been  Petrarch's  wife, 

He  would  have  written  sonnets  all  his  life? 

IX. 

All  tragedies  are  finish'd  by  a  death, 
All  comedies  are  ended  by  a  marriage ; 

The  future  states  ofboth  are  left  to  faith, 
For  authors  fear  description  might  disparage 

The  worlds  to  come  of  both,  or  fall  beneath, 

And  then  both  worlds  would  punish  their  miscarriage, 

So  leaving  each  their  priest  and  prayer-book  ready, 

They  say  no  more  of  Death  or  of  the  Lady. 

X. 

The  only  two  that  in  my  recollection 

Have  sung  of  heaven  and  hell,  or  marriage,  are 
Dante  and  Milton,  and  of  both  the  affection 

Was  hapless  in  their  nuptials,  for  some  bar 
Of  fault  or  temper  ruiu'd  the  connexion— 

(Such  things,  in  fact,  it  don't  ask  much  to  mar)  ; 
But  Dante's  Beatrice  and  Milton's  Eve 
Were  not  drawn  from  their  spouses,  you  conceive. 

XL 

Some  persons  say  that  Dante  meant  theology 

By  Beatrice,  and  not  a  mistress — I, 
Although  my  opinion  may  require  apology, 

Deem  this  a  commentator's  phantasy, 
Unless  indeed  it  was  from  his  own  knowledge  he 

Decided  thus,  and  show'd  good  reason  why ; 
1  think  that  Dante's  more  abstruse  ecstatics 
Meant  to  personify  the  mathematics. 

XII. 

Haidee   and  Juan  were  not  married,  but 
The  fault  was  theirs,  not  mine :   it  is  not  fair, 

Chaste  reader,  then,  in  any  way  to  put 
The  blame  on  me,  unless  you  wish  they  were ; 

Then,  if  you  'd  have  them  wedded,  please  lo  shut 
The  book  which  treats  of  this  erroneous  pair, 

fieforo  the  consequences  grow  too  awful — 

T  is  dangerous  to  read  of  loves  unlawful. 
80 


XIII. 

Yet  they  were  happy, — happy  in  the  illicit 
Indulgence  of  their  innocent  desires  ; 

But,  more  imprudent  grown  with  everv  visit. 
Haidee  forgot  the  island  was  her  sire's ; 

When  we  have  wh$£we  like, 'tis  hard  to  miss  if. 
At  least  in  the  beginning,  ere  one  tires ; 

Thus  she  came  often,  not  a  moment  losing, 

Whilst  her  piratical  papa  was  cruising. 

XIV. 

Let  not  his  mode  of  raising  cash  seem  strange, 
Although  he  fleeced  the  flags  of  every  nation, 

For  into  a  prime  minister  but  change 
His   title,  and  't  is  nothing  but  taxation  ; 

But  he,  more  modest,  took  an  humbler  range 
Of  life,  and  in  an  honester  vocation 

Pursued  o'er  the  high  seas  his  watery  journey, 

And  merely  practised  as  a  sea-attorney. 

XV. 

The  good  old  gentleman  had  been   detain'd 

By  winds  and  waves,  and  some  important  capture* 

And,  in  the  hope  of  more,  at  sea  remained, 

Although  a  squall  or  two  had  damped  his  raptures 

By  swamping  one  of  the  prizes;  he  had  chain'd 
His  prisoners,  dividing  them  like  chapters, 

In  number'd  lots ;   they  all  had  cuffs  and  collars, 

And  averaged  each  from  ten  to  a  hundred  dollais 

XVL 

Some  he  dispcsed  of  off  Capo  Matapan, 

Among  his  friends  the  Mainots  ;  some  he  sold 

To  his  Tunis  correspondents,  save  one  man 
Toss'd  overboard  unsaleable    (being  old) ; 

The  rest — save  here  and  there  some  richer  one, 
Reserved  for  future  ransom  in  the  hold, — 

Were  link'd  alike  j  as  for  the  common  people,  he 

Had  a  large  order  from  the  Dey  of  Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The  merchandise  was  served  in  the  same  way, 
Pieced  out  for  different  marts  in  the  Levant, 

Except  some  certain  portions  of  the  prey, 
Light  classic  articles  of  female  want, 

French  stuffs,  lace,  tweezers,  toothpicks,  teapot  tray, 
Guitars  and   castanets  from  Alicant, 

All  which  selected  from  the  spoil  he  gathers, 

Robb'd  for  his  daughter  by  the  best  of  fathers. 

XVIII. 
A  monkey,  a  Dutch  mastiff,  a  mackavv. 

Two  parrots,  with  a  Persian  cat  and   kill-;:ifl 
He  chose  from  several  animals  he  saw — 

A  terrier  too,  which  once  had  been  a  Briton's, 
Who  dying  on  the  coast  of  Ithaca, 

The  peasants  gave  the  poor  dumb  thing  a  pittance ; 
These   to  secure  in  this  strong  blowing  weather, 
He  caged  in  one  huge  hamper  altogether. 

XIX. 
Then  having  settled  his  marine  affairs, 

Despatching  single  cruisers  here  anu   there, 
His  vessel  having  need  of  some  repairs, 

He  shaped  his  course  to  where  his  daughter  fair 
Continued  still  her  hospitable  cares ; 

But  that  part  of  the  coast  being  shoal   *nd  '>arn. 
And  rough  with  reefs  which   ran  out  many  a  mile. 
His  port  lay  on  the  other  side  o'  the  isio 


694 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  111 


XX. 


A.nd  .here  he  went  r.shore  without  delay, 
Having  no  custom-house  or  quarantine 

To  ask  him  awkwa  d  questions  on  the  way 
About  the  time  and  place  where  he  had  been : 

He  left  his  ship  to  be  hove  down  next  day, 
With  orders  to  the  people  to  careen ; 

So  that  all  hands  were  busy  beyond  measure, 

In  getting  out  goods,  ballast,  guns,  and  treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving  at  the  summit  of  a  hill 

Which  overlook'd  the  white  walls  of  his  home, 
He  stopp'd. — What  singular  emotions  fill 

Their  bosoms  who  have  been  induced  to  roam ! 
With  fluttering  doubts  if  all  be  well  or  ill — 

With  love  for  many,  and  with  fears  for  some  ; 
All  feelings  which  o'erleap  the  years  long  lost, 
And  bring  our  hearts  back  to  their  starting-post. 

XXII. 
The  approach  of  home  to  husbands  and  to  sires, 

After  long  travelling  by  land  or  water, 
Most  naturally  some  small  doubt  inspires — 

A  female  family 's  a  serious  matter  ; 
(None  trusts  the  sex  more,  or  so  much  admires — 

But  they  hate  flattery,  so  I  never  flatter) ; 
Wives  in  their  husbands'  absences  grow  subtler, 
And  daughters  sometimes  run  ofT  with  the  butler. 

XXIII. 

An  honest  gentleman  at  his  return 

May  not  have  the  good  fortune  of  Ulysses : 

Not  all  lone  matrons  for  their  husbands  mourn, 
Or  show  the  same  dislike  to  suitors'  kisses ; 

The  odds  are  that  he  finds  a  handsome  urn 

To  his  memory,  and  two  or  three  young  misses 

Born  to  some  friend,  who  holds  his  wife    and  riches, 

And  that  his  Argus  bites  him  by — the  breeches. 

XXIV. 

If  single,  probably  his  plighted  fcir 

Has  in  his  absence  wedded  some  rich  miser ; 

Hut  all  the  better,  for  the  happy  pair 

May  quarrel,  and  the  lady  growing  wiser, 

He  may  resume  his  amatory  care 
As  cavalier  servente,  or  despise  her ; 

And,  that  his  sorrow  may  not  be  a  dumb  one, 

Write  odes  on  the  inconstancy  of  woman. 

XXV. 

And  oh !  ye  gentlemen  who  have  already 

Some  chaste  liaison  of  the  kind — I  mean 
An  honest  friendship  with  a  married  lady — 

The  only  thing  of  this  sort  ever  seen 
To  last — of  all  connexions  the  most  steady, 

And  the  true  Hymen  (the  first's  but  a  screen) — 
Yet  for  all  that  keep  not  too  long  away  ; 
I  've  known  the  absent  wrong'd  four  times  a-day. 

XXVI. 
Latnbro,  o\ir  sea-solicitor,  who  had 

Much  less  experience  of  dry  land  than  ocean, 
On  seeing  his  own  chimney  smoke,  felt  glad ; 

But  nut  knowing  metaphysics,  had  no  notion 
Ot  tne  true  reason  of  his  not  being  sad, 

Or  that  of  any  other  strong  emotion  ; 
He  Wed  *>is  child,  and  would  have  wept  the  loss  of  her, 
But  Knew  cn«  cause  no  more  than  a  philosopher. 


XXVII. 

He  saw  his  white  walls  shining  in  the  sun, 
His  garden  trees  all  shadowy  and  green  ; 

He  heard  his  rivulet's  light  bubbling  run, 

The  distant  dog-bark;   and  perceived  between 

The  umbrage  of  the  wood,  so  cool  and  dun, 
The  moving  figures  and  the  sparkling  sheen 

Of  arms  (in  the  East  all  arm),  and  various  dye 

Of  colour'd  garbs,  as  bright  as  butterflies. 

XXVIII. 
And  as  the  spot  where  they  appear  he  nears, 

Surprised  at  these  unwonted  sighs  of  idling, 
He  hears — alas !   no  music  of  the  spheres, 

But  an  unhallow'd,  earthly  sound  of  fiddling! 
A  melody  which  made  him  doubt  his  ears, 

The  cause  being  past  his  guessing  or  unriddling 
A  pipe  too  and  a  drum,  and,  shortly  after, 
A  most  unoriental  roar  of  laughter. 

XXIX. 

And  still  more  nearly  to  the  place  advancing, 

Descending  rather  quickly  the  declivity, 
Through  the  waved  branches,  o'er  the  greensward 
glancing, 

'Midst  other  indications  of  festivity, 
Seeing  a  troop  of  his  domestics  dancing 

Like  dervises,  who  turn  as  on  a  pivot,  he 
Perceived  it  was  the  Pyrrhic  dance  so  martial, 
To  which  the  Levantines  are  very  partial. 

XXX. 
And  further  on  a  group  of  Grecian  girls, 

The  first  and  tallest  her  white  kerchief  waving, 
Were  strung  together  like  a  row  of  pearls ; 

Link'd  hand  in  hand,  and  dancing  ;  each  too  having 
Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn  curls — 

(The  least  of  which  would  set  ten  poets  raving)  , 
TheL   leader  sang — and  bounded  to  her  son^ 
With  coral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin  throng. 

XXXI. 
And  here,  assembled  cross-legg'd  round  trtiir  trays, 

Small  social  parties  just  begun  to  dine ; 
Pilaus  and  meats  of  all  sorts  met  the  gaze, 

And  flasks  of  Simian  and  of  Chian  wine, 
And  sherbet  cooling  in  the  porous  vase ; 

Above  them  their  desert  grew  on  its  vine, 
The  orange  and  pomegranate,  nodding  o'er, 
Dropp'd  in  their  laps,  scarce  pluck'd,  their  mellow  store. 

XXXII. 
A  band  of  children,  round  a  snow-white  ram, 

There  wreathe  his  venerable  horns  with  flowers ; 
While  peaceful  as  if  still  an  unwean'd  lamb, 

The  patriarch  of  the  flock  all  gently  cowers 
His  sober  head  majestically  tame, 

Or  eats  from  out  the  palm,  or  playful  lowers 
His  brow  as  if  in  act  to  butt,  and  then, 
Yielding  to  their  small  hands,  draws  back  again. 

XXXIII. 
Their  classical  profiles,  an^  glittering  dresses, 

Their  large  black  eyes,  and  soft  seraphic  cheeks, 
Crimson  as  cleft  pomegranates,  their  long  tresses, 

The  gesture  which  enchants,  the  eye  that  speaks. 
The  innocence  which  happy  childhood  blesses, 

Made  quite  a  picture  of  these  little  Greeks ; 
So  that  the  philosophical  beholder 
Sigh'd  for  their  sakes — that  they  should  e'er  grs>  it  olae». 


CANTO  III. 


DON  JUAN 


XXXIV. 

Afar,  a  dwarf  buffoon  stood  telling  tales 
To  a  sedate   jrray  circle  of  old  smokers, 

Of  secret  treasures  found  in  hidden  vales, 
Of  wonderful  replies  from  Arab  jokers, 

Of  charms  to  make  good  gold  and  cure  bad  ails, 
Of  rocks  bewitched  that  open  to  the  knockers, 

Of  magic  ladies,  who,  by  one  sole  act, 

Transforni'd  their  lords  to  beasts  (but  that's  a  fact), 

XXXV. 

Here  was  no  lack  of  innocent  diversion 

For  the  imagination  or  the  senses, 
Song,  dance,  wine,  music,  stories  from  the  Persian, 

All  pretty  pastime  in- which  no  offence  is; 
But  Lainbro  saw  all  these  things  with  aversion, 

Perceiving  in  his  absence  such  expenses, 
Dreading  that  climax  of  all  human  ills, 
The  inflammation  of  his  weekly  bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah !   what  is  man  ?  what  perils  still  environ 
The  happiest  mortals  even  after  dinner — 

A  day  of  gold  from  out  an  age  of  iron 
Is  all  that  life  allows  the  luckiest  sinner; 

Pleasure  (whene'er  she  sings,  at  least)  's  a  siren, 
That  lures  to  flay  alive  the  young  beginner ; 

Lambro's  reception   at  his  people's  banquet 

Was  such  as  fire  accords  to  a  wet  blanket. 

XXXVII. 

He — being  a  man  who  seldom  used  a  word 
Too  much,  and  wishing  gladly  to  surprise 

(In  general  he  surprised    men  with  the  sword) 
His  daughter — had  not  sent  before  to  advise 

Of  his  arrival,  so  that  no  one  stirr'd ; 

And  long  he  paused  to  reassure  his  eyes, 

In  fact  much  more  astonish'd  than  delighted 

To  find  so  much  good  company  invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He  did  not  know — (alas !   how  men  will  lie) — 

That  a  report — (especially  the  Greeks) — 
Avouch'd  his  death   (such  people  never  die), 

And  put  his  house  in  mourning  several  weeks. 
But  now  their  eyes  and  also  lips  were  dry ; 

The  bloom  too  had  return'd  to  Haidee's  cheeks ; 
Her  tears  too  being  relurn'd  into  their  fount, 
She  now  kept  house  upon  her  own  account. 

XXXIX. 
Hence  all  this  rice,  meat,  dancing,  wine,  and  fiddling, 

Which  turn'd  the  isle  into  a  place  of  pleasure ; 
The  servants  all  were  getting  drunk  or  idling, 

A  life  which  made  them  happy  beyond  measure. 
Her  father's  hospitality  seem'd  middling, 

Compared  with  what  Haidee  did  with  his  treasure ; 
T  was  wonderful  how  things  went  on  improving, 
While  she  had  not  one  hour  to  spare  from  loving. 

XL. 
Perhaps  you  think,  in  stumbling  on  this  feast 

He  flew  into  a  passion,  and  in  fact 
1  liere  was  no  mighty  reason  to  be  pleased  ; 

Perhaps  you  prophesy  some  sudden  act, 
Tl.>  whip,  the  rack,  or  dungeon  at  the  least, 

1<»  teach  his  people  to  be  more  exact, 
And  that,  proceeding  at  a  very  high  rate, 
do  show'd  ths  royal  penchant*  of  a  pirate. 


XLI. 

You  're  wrong. — He  was  the  mildest-manner'd  ma» 
That  ever  scuttled  ship  or  cut  a  throat; 

With  such  true  breeding  of  a  gentleman, 
You  never  couU  divine  his  real  thought; 

No  co  irtier  could,:und  scarcely  woman  can 
Gird  more  deceit  within  a  petticoat ; 

Pity  he  loved  adventurous  life's  variety, 

He  was  so  great  a  loss  to  good  society. 

XLII. 

Advancing  to  the  nearest  dinner-tray, 

Tapping  the  shoulder  of  the  nighest  guest, 

With  a  peculiar  smile,  which,  by  the  way, 
Boded  no  good,  whatever  it  express'd, 

He  ask'd  the  meaning  of  this  holiday? 

The  vinous  Greek  to  whom  he  had  address'd 

His  question,  much  too  merry  to  divine 

The  questioner,  fill'd  up  a  glass  of  wine, 

XLIII. 

And,  without  turning  his  facetious  head, 
Over  his  shoulder,  with  a  Bacchant  air, 

Presented  the  o'erflowing  cup,  and  said, 

1  Talking 's  dry  work,  I  have  no  time  to  spare.  • 

A  second  hiccup'd,  "Our  old  master 's  dead, 

You  'd  better  ask  our  mistress,  who  's  Ins  heir." 
Our  mistress!"  quoth  a  third:  "  Our  mistress! — pooh! 

You  mean  our  master — not  the  old,  but  new." 

XLIV. 

These  rascals,  being  new  comers,  knew  not  whom 
They  thus  address'd — and  Lambro's  visage  fell — 

And  o'er  his  eye  a  momentary  gloom 

Pass'd,  but  he  strove  quite  courteously  to  quell 

The  expression,  and,  endeavouring  to  resume 
His  smile,  requested  one  of  them  to  teU 

The  name  and  quality  of  his  new  patron, 

Who  seem'd  to  have  turn'd  Haidee  into  a  matron. 

XLV. 

"  I  know  not,"  quoth  the  fellow,  "  who  or  what 
He  is,  nor  whence  he  came — and   little  care , 

But  this  I  know,  that  this  roast  capon  's  fal, 
And  that  good  wine  ne'er  wash'd  down  better  fare 

And  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  that, 

Direct  your  questions  to  my  neighbour  there ; 

He  '11  answer  all  for  better  or  for  worse, 

For  none  likes  more  to  hear  himself  converse."1 
XLVI. 

I  said  that  Lambro  was  a  man  of  patience, 
And  certainly  he  show'd  the  best  of  breeding, 

Which  scarce  even  France,  the  paragon  of  nations. 
E'er  saw  her  most  polite  of  sons  exceeding ; 

He  bore  these  sneers  against  his  near  relations, 
His  own  anxiety,  his  heart  too  bleeding, 

The  insults  too  of  every  servile  glutton, 

tVho  all  the  time  were  eating  up  his  mutton. 
XLVII. 

Sow  in  a  person  used  to  muo.h  command- 
To  bid  men   come,  and  go,  and  come  again  — 
To  see  his  orders  done  too  out  of  hand — 

Whether  the  word  was  death,  or  but  the  chaiu- 

t  may  seem  strange   to  find  his  manners  bland  • 

Yet  such  things  are,  .vhich  I  cannot  explain, 
Though  doubtless  he  who  can  comma  nd  himself 

s  good  to  govern — almost  as  a  Guelf 


>96 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  III 


XLVIII. 

Not  that  he  was  not  sometimes  rash  o.'  so, 
But  never  in  his  real  and  serious  mood  ; 

Then  calm,  concentrated,  and  still,  and  slow, 
He  lay  coil'd  like  the  boa  in  the  wood ; 

With   him  it  never  was  a  word  and  blow. 

His  angry  word  once  o'er,  he  shed  no  blood, 

But  in  his  silence  there  was  much  to  rue, 

And  his  one  blow  left,  little  work  for  two. 

XLIX. 
He'ask'd  no  further  questions,  and  proceeded 

On  to  the  house,  but  by  a  private  way, 
So  that  the  few  who  met  him  hardly  heeded, 

So  little  they  expected  him  that  day ; 
If  love  paternal  in  his  bosom  pleaded 

For  Haidee's  sake,  is  more  than  I  can  say, 
But  certainly  to  one,  deem'd  dead,  returning, 
This  revel  seem'd  a  curious  mode  of  mourning. 

L. 

If  all  the  dead  could  now  return  to  life, 

(Which  God  forbid!)  or  some,  or  a  great  many; 

For  instance,  if  a  husband  or  his  wife 
(Nuptial  examples  are  as  good  as  any), 

No  doubt  whate'er  might  be  their  former  strife, 
The  present  weather  would  be  much  more  rainy — 

Tears  shed  into  the  grave  of  the  connexion 

Would  share  most  probably  its  resurrection. 

LI. 
He  enter'd  in  the  house  no  more  his  home, 

A  thing  to  human  feelings  the  most  trying, 
And  harder  for  the  heart  to  overcome 

Perhaps,  than  even  the  mental  pangs  of  dying ; 
To  find  our  hearthstone  turn'd  into  a  tomb, 

And  round  its  once  warm  precincts  palely  lying 
The  ashes  of  our  hopes,  is  a  deep  grief, 
Beyond  a  single  gentleman's  belief. 

LII. 

He  enter'd  in  the  house — his  home  no  more, 

For  without  hearts  there  is  no  home — and  felt 
The  solitude  of  passing  his  own  door 

Without  a  welcome ;  there  he  long  had  dwelt, 
There  his  few  peaceful  days  Time  had  swept  o'er, 

There  his  worn  bosom  and  keen  eye  would  melt 
Over  the  innocence  of  that  sweet  child, 
His  only  shrine  of  feelings  undented. 

LIII. 
He  was  a  man  of  a  strange  temperament, 

Of  mild  demeanour  though  of  savage  mood, 
Moderate  in  all'  his  habits,  and  content 

With  temperance  in  pleasure  as  in  food, 
Quick  to  perceive,  and  strong  to  bear,  and  meant 

For  something  better,  if  not  wholly  good  ; 
His  country's  wrongs  and  his  despair  to  save  her 
Had  stung  him  from  a  slave  to  an  enslaver. 

LIV. 
The  .eve  of  power,  and  rapid  gain  of  gold, 

The  hardness  by  long  habitude  produced 
The  dangerous  life  in  which  he  had  grown  old, 

The  mercy  he  had  granted  oft  abused, 
Tlic  eights  he  was  accustom'd  to  behold, 

T!ie  wild  seas  and  wilu  men  with  whom  he  cruised, 
Had  cost  his  enemies  a  long  repentance, 
And  ina 'if;   nim  a  food  frier.d,  but  bad  acquaintance. 


LV. 

But  something  of  the  spirit  of  old  Greece 
Flash'd  o'er  his  soul  a  few  heroic  rays, 

Such  as  lit  onward  to  the  golden  fleece 
His  predecessors  in  the  Colchian  days : 

'T  is  true  he  had  no  ardent  love  for  peace ; 
Alas !  his  country  show'd  no  path  to  praise : 

Hate  to  the  world  and  war  with  every  nation 

He  waged,  in  vengeance  of  her  degradation. 

LVI. 

Still  o'er  his  mind  the  influence  of  the  clime 
Shed  its  Ionian  elegance,  which  show'd 

Its  power  unconsciously  full  many  a  time, — 
A  taste  seen  in  the  choice  of  his  abode, 

A  love  of  music  and  of  scenes  sublime, 

A  pleasure  in  the  gentle  stream  that  flow'd 

Past  him  in  crystals,  and  a  joy  in  flowers, 

Bedew'd  his  spirit  in  his  calmer  hours. 

LVII. 

But  whatsoe'er  he  had  of  love,  reposed 
On  that  beloved  daughter ;  she  had  been 

The  only  thing  which  kept  his  heart  unclosed 
Amidst  the  savage  deeds  he  had  done  anf1  sc^n, 

A  lonely  pure  affection  unopposed: 

There  wanted  but  the  loss  of  this  to  wean 

His  feelings  from  all  milk  of  human  kindness, 

And  turn  him,  like  the  Cyclops,  mad  with  blindnes*. 

LVIII. 

The  cubless  tigress  in  her  jungle  raging 
Is  dreadful  to  the  shepherd  and  the  flock ; 

The  ocean  when  its  yeasty  war  is  waging 
Is  awful  to  the  vessel  near  the  rock : 

But  violent  things  will  sooner  bear  assuaging — 
Their  fury  being  si><"     'jy  its  own  shock, — 

Than  the  stern,  single,  aeep,  and  wordless  ire 

Of  a  strong  human  heart,  and  in  a  sire. 

LIX. 

It  is  a  hard,  although  a  common  case, 

To  find  our  children  running  restive — they 
In  whom  our  brightest  days  we  would  retrace, 

Our  little  selves  reform'd  in  finer  clay; 
Just  as  old  age  is  creeping  on  apace. 

And  clouds  come  o'er  the  sunset  of  our  day 
They  kindly  leave  us,  though  not  quite  alone, 
But  in  good  company — the  gout  and  stone. 

LX. 
Yet  a  fine  family  is  a  fine  thing, 

(Provided  they  don't  come  in  after  dinner); 
'Tis  beautiful  to  see  a  matron  bring 

Her  children  up  (if  nursing  them  don't  thin  he*  t 
Like  cherubs  round  an  altar-piece  they  cling 

To  the  fireside  (a  sight  to  touch  a  sinner). 
A  lady  with  her  daughter  or  her  nieces 
Shine  5ke  a  guinea  and  seven-shilling  pieces. 

LXI. 
Old  Lambro  pass'd  unseen  a  private   gate, 

And  stood  within  his  hall  at  eventide; 
Meantime  the  lady  and  her  lover  sate 

At  wassail  in  their  beauty  and  their  pride: 
An  ivory  inlaid  table  spread  with  state 

Before  them,  and  fair  slaves  on  every  side ; 
Gems,  gold,  and  silver,  form'd  the  service  most » 
Mother-of-pearl  and  coral  the  less  costiv 


CANTO  111. 


DON  JUAN. 


597 


LXII. 
The  dinner  made  about  a  hundred  dishes  ; 

Lamb  anu  pistachio-nuts — in  short,  all  meats, 
And  saffron  soups,  and  sweetbreads  ;   and  the  fishes 

Were  of  the  finest  that  e'er  flounced  in  nets, 
Dress'd  to  a  Sybarite's  most  pamper'd  wishes ; 

The  beverage  was  various  sherbets 
Of  raisin,  orange,  and  pomegranate  juice, 
Squeezed  through  the  rind,  which  makes  it  best  for  use. 

LXIII. 

These  were  ranged  round,  each  in  its  crystal  ewer, 
And  fruits  and  date-bread  loaves  closed  the  repast, 

And  Mocha's  berry,  from  Arabia  pure, 

In  small  fine  China  cups  came  in  at  last — 

Gold  cups  of  filigree,  made  to  secure 

The  hand  from  burning,  underneath  them  placed  ; 

Cloves,  cinnamon,  and  saffron  too,  were  boil'd 

Up  with  the  coffee,  which   (I  think)  they  spoil'd. 

LXIV. 

The  hangings  of  the  room  were  tapestry,  made 
Of  velvet  panels,  each  of  different  hue, 

And  thick  with  damask  flowers  of  silk  inlaid : 
And  round  them  ran  a  yellow  border  too ; 

The  upper  border,  richly  wrought,  display'd, 
Embroider'd  delicately  o'er  with  blue, 

Soft  Persian  sentences,  in  lilac  letters, 

From  poets,  or  the  moralists  their  betters. 

LXV. 

These  oriental  writings  on  the  wall, 

Quite  common  in  those  countries,  are  a  kind 

Of  monitors,  adapted  to  recall, 

Like  skulls  at  Memphian   banquets,  to  the  mind 

The  words  which  shook  Be'.shazzar  in  his  hall, 
And  took  his  kingdom  from  him. — You  will  find, 

Though  sages  may  pour  out  their  wisdom's  treasure, 

There  is  no  sterner  moralist  than  pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A  beauty  at  the  season's  close  grown  hectic, 

A  genius  who  has  drunk  himself  to  death, 
A  rake  turn'd  methodistic  or  eclectic — 

(For  that's  the  name  they  like  to  pray  beneath) — 
But  most,  an  alderman  struck  apoplectic, 

Are  things  that  really  take  away  the  breath, 
And  show  that  late  hours,  wine,  and  love,  are  able 
To  do  not  much  less  damage  than  the  table. 

LXVII. 
Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 

On  crimson  satin,  border'd  with  pale  blue ; 
Their  sofa  occupied  three  parts  complete 

Of  the  apartment — and  appeal 'd  quite  new; 
The  velvet  cushions — (for  a  throne  more  meet) — 

Were  scarlet,  from  whose  glowng  centre  grew 
A  sun  emboss'd  in  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 
Meridian-like,  were  seen  all  light  'o  issue. 

LXVIII. 
Crystal  and  marble,  plate  and  porcelain, 

Had  done  their  work  of  splendour,  Indian  mats 
And  Persian  carpets,  which  the  heart  bled  to  stain, 

Over  tlie  floors  were  spread ;   gazelles  and  cats, 
And  dwarfs  and  blacks,  and  such  like  thinffs,  that  gain 

Their  bread  as  ministers  and  favourites — (that's 
To  say,  by  degradation) — mingled  there 
As  plentiful  as  in  a  court  or  fair. 
3D 


LXIX. 

There  was  no  want  of  lofty  mirrors,  and 

The  tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 
With  mother-of-pearl  or  ivory,  stood  at  hand, 

Or  were  of  tortoise-shell  or  rare  woods  made, 
Fretted  with  gold  or^- silver:  by  command, 

The  greater  part  of  these  were  ready  sprea* 
With  viands,  and  sherbets  in  ice,  and  wine — 
Kept  for  all  comers,  at  all  hours  to  dine. 

LXX. 

Of  all  the  dresses  I  select  Haidee's: 

She  wore  two  jelicks — one  was  of  pale  yellow  ; 

Of  azure,  pink,  and  white,  was  her  chemise — 
'Neath  which  her  breast  heaved  like  a  little  billow  , 

With  buttons  form'd  of  pearls  as  large  as  peas. 
All  gold  and  crimson  shone  her  jelick's  fellow, 

And  the  striped  white  gauze  baracan  that  bound  her, 

Like  fleecy  clouds  about  the  moon,  flow'd  round  her 

LXXI. 

One  large  gold  bracelet  clasp'd  each  lovely  arm, 
Lockless — so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 

That  the  hand  stretch'd  and  shut  it  without  harm, 
The  limb  which  it  adorn'd  its  only  mould ; 

So  beautiful — its  very  shape  would  charm, 
And  clinging  as  if  loth  to  lose  its  hold, 

The  purest  ore  inclosed  the  whitest  skin 

That  e'er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in.1 

LXXII. 

Around,  as  princess  of  her  father's  land, 
A  like  gold  bar,  above  her  instep  roll'd,3 

Announced  her  rank  ;  twelve  rings  were  on  her  hand 
Her  hair  was  starr'd  with  gems  ;  har  veil's  fine  *ola 

Below  her  breast  was  fasten'd  with  a  band 
Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce  be  tola ; 

Her  orange  silk  full  Turkish  trowsers  furl'd 

About  the  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world. 

LXXIII. 

Her  hair's  long  auburn  waves  down  to  her  heel 

Flow'd  like  an  Alpine  torrent  which  the  sun 
Dyes  with  his  morning  light, — and  would  conceal 

Her  person  *  if  allow'd  at  large  to  run ; 
And  still  they  seem  resentfully  to  feel 

The  silken  fillet's  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 
Their  bonds  whene'er  some  zephyr  caught  began 
To  offer  his  young  pinion  as  her  fan. 

LXXIV. 
Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life, 

The  very  air  seem'd  lighter  from  her  eyes, 
They  were  so  soft  and  beautiful,  and  rife 

With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies, 
And  pure  as  Psyche  ere  she  grew  a  wife — 

Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties  ; 
Her  overpowering  presence  made  "cu  feel 
It  would  not  ue  idolatry  to  kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her  eyelashes,  though  dark  as  night,  were  tingtAi 
(It  is  the  country's  custom),  but  in  vain; 

Frr  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly  frinpeo, 
The  glossy  rebels  mock'd  the  jetty  stain, 

And  in  their  native  beauty  stood  avenged . 

Her  nails  were  touch'd  with  henna ;  but  again 

The  power  of  art  was  turn'd  to  nothing,  for 

They  co< ild  not  look  more  rosy  tb in  oefor* 


598 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


LANTO  11} 


LXXVI. 

The  henna  should  be  deep!/  dyed  to  make 

The  skin  relieved  appear  more  fairly  fair  : 
She  had  no  need  of  this — day  ne'er  will  break 

On  mountain  tops  more  heavenly  white  than  her : 
The  eye  might  doubt  if  it  were  well  awake, 

She  was  so  like  a  vision  ;   I  might  err, 
But  Shakspeare  also  says  'tis  very  silly 
"To  gild  refined  gold,  or  paint  the  lily." 

LXXVII. 
Juan  had  on  a  shawl  of  black  and  gold, 

But  a  white  baracan,  and  so  transparent, 
The  sparkling  gems  beneath  you  might  behold, 

Like  small  stars  through  the  milky  way  apparent ; 
His  turban,  furl'd  in  many  a  graceful  fold, 

An  emerald  aigrette  with  Haidee's  hair  in  't 
Surmounted  as  its  clasp — a  glowing  crescent, 
Whose  rays  shone  ever  trembling,  but  incessant. 

LXXVIII. 

And  now  they  were  diverted  by  their  suite, 
Dwarfs,  dancing  girls,  black  eunuchs,  and  a  poet, 

Which  made  their  new  establishment  complete  ; 
The  last  was  of  great  fame,  and  liked  to  show  it : 

His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet — 
And  for  his  theme — he  seldom  sung  below  it, 

He  being  paid  to  satirize  or  flatter, 

As  the  psalm  says,  "  inditing  a  good  matter." 

LXXIX. 

He  praised  the  present  and  abused  the  past, 
Reversing  the  good  custom  of  old  days, 

An  eastern  anti-jacobin  at  last 
He  turn'd,  preferring  pudding  to  no  praise — 

For  some  few  years  his  lot  had  been  o'ercast 
By  his  seeming  independent  in  his  lays, 

But  now  he  sung  the  Sultan  ana  the  Pacha, 

With  truth  like  Southey,  and  with  verse  like  Crashaw. 

LXXX. 

He  was  a  man  who  had  seen  many  changes, 

And  always  changed  as  true  as  any  needle, 
His  polar  star  being  one  which  rather  ranges, 

And  not  the  fix'd — he  knew  the  way  to  wheedle : 
So  vile  he  'scaped  the  doom  which  oft  avenges  ; 

And  being  fluent  (save  indeed  when  fee'd  ill), 
He  lied  with  such  a  fervour  of  intention — 
There  was  no  doubt  he  earn'd  his  laureate  pension. 

LXXXI. 
But  he  had  genius — when  a  turncoat  has  it 

The  "  vales  irritabilis "  takes  care 
That  without  notice  few  full  moons  shall  pass  it ; 

Even  good  men  like  to  make  the  public  stare: — 
But  to  my  subject — let  me  see — what  was  it  ? 

Oh  ! — the  third  canto — and  the  pretty  pair — 
Tnoir  loves,  and  feasts,  and  house,  and  dress,  and  mode 
Oi  living  in  their  insular  abode. 

LXXXII. 

Their  noet.  a  sad  trimmer,  but  no  less 

In  company  a  very  pleasant  fellow, 
Had  been  the  favourite  of  full  many  a  mess 

Ot' men,  and  made  them  speeches  when  half  mellow; 
And  though  his  meaning  they  could  rarely  guess, 

Y».t  sun  they  deign'd  to  hiccup  or  to  bellow 
I'hr  gtonous  meed  of  popular  applause, 
'•f  winch  the  first  ne'er  knows  the  second  cause. 


Lxxxni 

But  now  being  lifted  into  high  scj-.-ty, 

And  having  pick'd  up  se/erzJ   jdds  and  ends 

Of  free  thoughts  in  his  travels,  for  variety, 

He  deem'd,  being  in  a  lone  isle  among  fiiends, 

That  without  any  danger  of  a  riot,  hs 

Might  for  long  lying  make  himself  amends  , 

And,  singing  as  he  sung  in  his  warm  youth, 

Agree  to  a  short  armistice  with  truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He  had  travell'd  'monostlhe  Arabs,  Turks,  and  Franks, 
And  knew  the  self-loves  of  the  different  nations  . 
And,  having  lived  with  people  of  all  ranki, 

Had  something  ready  upon  most  occasions—- 
Which got  him  a  few  presents  and  some  thanks. 

He  varied  with  some  skill  his  adulations  ; 
To  "  do  at  Rome  as  Romans  do,"  a  piece 
Of  conduct  was  which  he  observed  in  Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus,  usually,  when  he  was  ask'd  to  sins, 

He  gave  the  different  nations  something  national ; 

'T  was  all  the  same  to  him — "  God  save  the  King," 
Or  "  Ca  i'ro,"  according  to  the  fashion  all ; 

His  muse  made  increment  of  any  thing, 
From  the  high  lyrical  to  the  low  rational : 

If  Pindar  sang  horse-races,  what  should  hinder 

Himself  from  being  as  pliable  as  Pindar  ? 

LXXXVI. 

In  France,  for  instance,  he  would  write  a  chanson  ; 

In  England,  a  six-canto  quarto  tale ; 
In  Spain,  he  'd  make  a  ballad  or  romance  on 

The  last  war — much  the  same  in  Portugal ; 
In  Germany,  the  Pegasus  he  'd  prance  on 

Would  be  old  Goethe's — (see  what  says  de  StaS  I 
In  Italy,  he 'd  ape  the  "  Trecentist! ;" 
In  Greece,  he  'd  sing  some  sort  of  hymn  like  this  t'  ye 

The  isles  of  Greece  !   the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved   and  sung,— 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Bless  d." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  drcam'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free  ; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis  • 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 
And  men  in  nations  ; — all  were  his  ! 

He  counted  tnem  at  break  of  day — 
And  when  thr  sun  set,  where  were  th»f1 


t'.JNTO  III. 


DON  JUAN. 


And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?  On  thy  voiceless  shore 

Tht  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face  ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  bless'd  ? 

Must  we  but  blush? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth!  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae. 

What,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah!  no; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come  ! " 
'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain — in  vain :  strike  other  chords ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these ! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine : 

He  served — but  served   Polycrates — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend ; 
That   tyrant  was  Miltiades ! 

Oh  !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the   Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  mijjht  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells. 

fn  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hop'   of  courage  dwells  ; 


But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  rf^ce  beneath  the  shade 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine , 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep — 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die : 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine! 


LXXXVII. 

Thus  sung,  or  would,  or  could,  or  should  have  sung, 
The  modern  Greek,  in  tolerable  verse ; 

If  not  like  Orpheus  quite,  when  Greece  was  young, 
Yet  in  these  times  he  might  have  dene  much  worse : 

His  strain  display'd  some  feeling — right  or  wrong ; 
And  feeling,  in  a  poet,  is  the  source 

Of  others'  feeling ;   but  they  are  such  liars, 

And  take  all  colours — like  the  hands  of  dyers. 

LXXXVIII. 

But  words  are  things,  and  a  small  drop   of  ink 

Falling  like  dew  upon   a  thought,  produces 
That  which  makes  thousands,  perhaps  millions,  think 

'T  is  strange,  the  shortest  letter  which  man  uses, 
Instead  of  speech,  may  form  a  lasting  link 

Of  ages  ;  to  what  straits  old  Time  reduces 
Frail  man,  when  paper — even  a  rag  like  this, 
Survives  himself,  his  tomb,  and  all  that 's  his. 

LXXXIX. 
And  when  his  bones  are  dust,  his  grave  a  blank, 

His  station,  generation,  even  his  nation, 
Become  a  thing,  or  nothing,  save  to  rank 

In  chronological   commemoration, 
Some  dull  MS.  oblivion  long  has  sank, 

Or  graven  stone  found  in  a   barrack's  station, 
In  digging  the  foundation  of  a  closet, 
May  turn  his  name  up  as  a  rare  deposit. 

XC. 

And  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile ; 

'T  is  something,  nothing,  words,  illusion,  wind- 
Depending  more  upon  the  historian's  style 

Than  on  the  name  a  person  leaves  behind: 
Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist  owes  to  Hoyle ; 

The  present  century  was  growing  blind 
To  the  great  Marl  borough's  skill  in  giving  knock*, 
Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeaco.i  Coxe. 

XCI. 
Milton  's  the  prince  of  poets — so  we  say  ; 

A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine ; 
An  independent  being  in  ms  day — 

Learn'd,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and  wine  , 
But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way, 

We're  told  this  great  high  uriest  of  ail  tho  Nirw 
Was  whipt  at  college — a  harsh  sire — odd  spouse. 
For  the  first  Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house. 


BOO 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  7/1 


XC1I. 

All  thjse  are,  certes,  entertaining  facts, 

Like  Shakspeare's  stealing  deer,  Lord  Bacon's  bribes; 
Like  Titus'  youth,  and  Caesar's  earliest  acts ; 

LiKe  Burns  (whom  Doctor  Currie  well  describes) ; 
Like  Cromwell's  pranks ; — but  although  truth  exacts 

These  amiable  descriptions  from  the  scribes, 
As  most  essential  to  their  hero's  story, 
They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 

XCIII. 

AH  are  not  moralists  like  Southey,  when 
He  prated  to  the  world  of  "  Pantisocracy ;" 

Or  Wordsworth  unexcised,  unhired,  who  then 
Season'd  his  pedlar  po".ms  with  democracy ; 

Or  Coleridge,  long  before  his  flighty  pen 
Let  to  the  Morning  Post  its  aristocracy ; 

When  he  and  Southey,  following  the  same  path, 

Espoused  two  partners   (milliners  of  Bath). 

XCIV. 
Such  names  at  present  cut  a  convict  figure, 

Tnc  very  Botany  Bay  in  moral  geography ; 
Their  loyal  treason,  renegado  vigour, 

Are  good  manure  for  their  more  bare  biography. 
Wordsworth's  last  quarto,  by  the  way,  is  bigger 

Than  any  since  the  birth-day  of  typography : 
\  clumsy  frowzy  poem,  call'd  the  "  Excursion," 
\Vrit  in  a  manner  which  is  my  aversion. 

xcv. 

He  there  builds  up  a  formidable  dyke 

Between  his  own  and  others'  intellect; 
But  Wordsworth's  poem,  and  his  followere,  like 

Joanna  Southcote's  Shiloh  and  her  sect, 
Are  things  which  in  this  century  don't  strike 

The  public  mind,  so  few  are  the  elect ; 
And  the  new  births  of  both  their  stale  virginities 
Have  proved  but  dropsies  taken  for  divinities. 

XCV'I. 
But  let  me  to  my  story :  I  must  own, 

If  I  have  any  fault,  it  is  digression ; 
Leaving  my  people  to  proceed  alone, 

While  I  soliloquize  beyond  expression; 
But  these  are  my  addresses  from  the  throne, 

Which  put  off  business  to  the  ensuing  session: 
Forgetting  each  omission  is  a  loss  to 
The  world,  not  quite  so  great  as  Ariosto. 

XCVII. 

I  kiiow  that  what  our  neighbours  call  "longueurs" 

(We've  not  so  good  a  word,  but  have  the  thing 
In  that  complete  perfection  which  insures 

An  epic  from   Bob  Southey  every  spring) — 
Form  not  the  true  temptation  which  allures 

The  reader;  but 'twould  not  be  hard  to  bring 
Some  tine  examples  of  the  6pap6e, 
Io  piovu  its  grand  ingredient  is  ennui. 

XCVIII. 
\Ve  leam  from  Horace,  Homer  sometimes  sleeps ; 

We  feel  without  him,  Wordsworth  sometimes  wakes 
To  show  with  what  complacency  he  creeps, 

vVith  his  dear  "Waggoners,"  around  his  lakes; 
He  wishes  for  "a  boat"  to  sail  the  deeps — 

Ol  ocean? — no,  of  air;  and  then  he  makes 
Another  ouicrv  for  "  a  little  boat," 
And  drive's  stas  to  set  it  well  afloat. 


XCIX. 

f  he  must  fain  sweep  o'er  the  ethereal  plain, 
And  Pegasus  runs  restive  in  his  "  waggon," 
ould  he  not  beg  the  loan  of  Charles's  wain? 
Or  pray  Medea  for  a  single  dragon  ? 

)r  if,  too  classic  for  his  vulgar  brain, 

He  fear'd  his  neck  to  venture  such  a  nag  on, 
And  he  must  needs  mount  nearer  to  the  moon, 
ould  not  the  blockhead  ask  for  a  balloon? 

C. 

'Pedlars,"  and  "boats,"  and  "waggons ! "  Oh !  ye  shade* 
Of  Pope  and  Dryden,  are  we  come  to  this? 

That  trash  of  such  sort  not  alone  evades 
Contempt,  but  from  the  bathos'  vast  abyss 

Tloats  scum-like  uppermost,  and  these  Jack  Cades 
Of  sense  and  song  above  your  graves  may  hiss- 

Phe  "  little  boatman  "  and  his  "  Peter  Bell " 
sneer  at  him  who  drew  "  Achitophel !" 

CI. 

T'  our  tale. — The  feast  was  over,  the  slaves  gone, 
The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all  retired ; 

The  Arab  lore  and  poet's  song  were  done, 
And  every  sound  of  revelry  expired  ; 

The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone, 

The  rosy  flood  of  twilight  sky  admired  ; — 

Ave  Maria !  o'er  the  earth  and  sea, 

That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worthiest  theel 

CII. 

Ave  Maria!  blessed  be  the  hour! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower, 

Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seem  stirr'd  with  prayer 

cm. 

Ave  Maria !  't  is  thx;  hour  of  prayer ! 

Ave  Maria !  't  is  the  hour  of  love ! 
Ave  Maria !  may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above! 
Ave  Maria !  oh  that  face  so  fair ! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  almighty  dove- 
What  though  't  is  but  a  pictured  image  strike — 
That  painting  is  no  idol,  'tis  too  like. 

CIV. 
Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  to  say, 

In  nameless  print — that  I  have  no  devotion ; 
But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to  pray, 

And  you  shall  see  who  has  the  properest  notion 
Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way ; 

My  altars  are  the  mountains  and  the  ocean, 
Earth,  air,  stars, — all  that  springs  from  the  great  whole, 
Who  hath  produced,  and  will  receive  the  soUi. 

cv. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight ! — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 

Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 

Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flow'd  o'er, 

To  where  the  last  Caesarean  fortress  stood, 
Ever-green  forest !   which  Boccaccio's  lore 

And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 

How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thefe! 


DON  JUAN. 


GO 


CVI. 

The  slirill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 

Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine, 
And  vesper-bell's  that  rose  the  boughs  along  ; 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Gnesu's  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng, 

Which  learn'd  from  this  example  not  to  fly 

From  a  true  lover,  shadow'd  my  mind's  eye. 

CVII. 

Oh  Hesperus  !*   thou  bringest  all  good  things — 
%  Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 
To  the  young  bird  ihe  parent's  brooding  wings, 

The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'eilabour'd  steer; 
Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  rearthstone  clings, 

Whate'er  our  household  gol-t  protect  of  dear, 
Are  gather'd  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 
Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  fo  the  mother's  breast. 

CVII1. 

Soft  hour  !6  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 

When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart ; 
Or  fitls  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way, 

As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 
Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay  ; 

Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns  ? 

Ah  !    surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns  ! 

CIX. 

When  Nero  perish'd  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroy'd, 

Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Rome, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  overjoy'd, 

Some  hands  unseen  strew'd  flowers  upon  his  tomb  :' 
Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a  heart  not  void 

Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when  power 

Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 

ex. 

But  I  'm  digressing :  what  on  earth  has  Nero, 

Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons, 
To  do  with  the  transactions  of  my  hero, 

More  than  such  madmen's  fellow-man — the  moon's? 
Sure  my  invention  must  be  down  at  zero, 

And  I  grown  one  of  many  "  wooden  spoons  " 
Of  verse  (the  name  with  which  we  Cantabs  please 
To  dub  the  last  of  honours  in  degrees). 

CXI. 
I  feel  this  tediousness  will  never  do — 

'T  is  being  too  epic,  and  I  must  cut  down 
(In  copying)  this  long  canto  into  two  : 

They  '11  never  find  it  out,  unless  I  own 
The  fact,  excepting  some  experienced  few ; 

And  ihcn  as  an  improvement  'twill  be  shown: 
I  '11  prove  that  such  the  opinion  of  the  critic  is, 
From  Aristotle  passim. — See  TIoiijTiKijs. 


3u2 


81 


CANTO  IV. 


i. 

NOTHING  so  difficult  as  a  beginning 

In  poesy,  unless  perhaps  the  end : 
For  oftentimes  when  Pegasus  seems  winning 

The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down  we  tend, 
Like  Lucifer  when  hurlM  from  heaven  for  sinning ; 

Our  sin  the  same,  and  hard  as  his  to  mend, 
Being  pride,  which  leads  the  mind  to  soar  too  far, 
Till  our  own  weakness  shows  us  what  we  are. 

II. 
But  time,  which  brings  all  beings  to  their  level, 

And  sharp  adversity,  will  teach  at  last 
Man, — and,  as  we  would  hope, — perhaps  the  devil, 

That  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast : 
While  youth's  hot  wishes  in  our  red  veins  revel, 

We  know  not  this — the  blood  flows  on  too  fast , 
But  as  the  torrent  widens  towards  the  ocean, 
We  ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion. 

III. 

As  boy,  I  thought  myself  a  clever  fellow, 

And  wish'd  that  others  held  the  same  opinion  • 

They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more  mellow, 
And  other  minds  acknowledged  my  dominion : 

Now  my  sere  fancy  "  falls  into  the  yellow 
Leaf,"  and  imagination  droops  her  pinion, 

And  the  sad  truth  which  hovers  o'er  my  desk 

Turns  what  was  once  romantic  to  burlesque. 

rv. 

And  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing, 

'T  is  that  I  may  not  weep ;  and  if  I  weep, 
'T  is  that  our  nature  cannot  always  bring 

Itself  to  apathy,  which  we  must  steep 
First  in  the  icy  depths  of  Lethe's  spring, 

Ere  what  we  least  wish  to  behold  will  sleep , 
Thetis  baptized  her  mortal  son  in  Styx; 
A  mortal  mother  would  on  Lethe  fix. 

V. 
Some  have  accused  me  of  a  strange  design 

Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the  land, 
And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line  : 

I  don't  pretend  that  I  quite  understand 
My  own  meaning  when  I  would  be  very  fine  ; 

But  the  fact  is  that  I  have  nothing  plann'd, 
Unless  it  was 'to  be  a  moment  meiry, 
A  novel  word  in  my  vocabulary. 

VI. 

To  the  kind  reader  of  our  sober  clime 
This  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic ; 

Pulci  was  sire  of  the  half-serious  rhyme, 
Who  sung  when  chivalry  was  more  Quixotit , 

And  reveil'd  in  the  fancies  of  the  time, 

True  knights,  chaste  dames,  huge  giants,  kings  *•« 
potic ; 

But  all  these,  save  the  last,  being  obsolete, 

1  chose  a  modern  subject  as  more  meet. 


002 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


VII. 

How  I  have  treated  it,  I  do  not  know — 

Perhaps  no  better  than  they  have  treated  me 

Who  have  imputed  such  designs  as  show, 

Not  what  they  saw,  but  what  they  wish'd  to  see  ; 

Ujt  if  it  gives  them  pleasure,  be  it   so, — 
T  lis  is  a  liberal  age,  and  thoughts   are  free : 

Meantime  Apollo  plucks  me  by  the  ear, 

And  tells  me  to  resume  my  story  here. 

VIII. 

Young  Juan  and  his  lady-love  were  left 
To  their  own  hearts'  most  sweet  society; 

Even  Time  the  pitiless  in  sorrow  cleft 

With  his  rude  scythe  such  gentle  bosoms  ;    he 

Si<Th'd  to  behold  them  of  their  hours  bereft, 
Though  foe  to  love  ;   and  yet  they  could  not  be 

Meant  to  grow  old,  but  die  in  happy  spring, 

Before  one  charm  or  hope  had  taken  wing. 

IX. 

Their  faces  were  not  made  for  wrinkles,  their 

Pure  blood  to  stagnate,  their  great  hearts  to  fail ; 

The  blank  gray  was  not  made  to  blast  their  hair, 
But,  like  the  climes  that  know  nor  snow  nor  hail, 

They  were  all  summer :  lightning  might  assail 
And  shiver  them  to  ashes,  but  to  trail 

A  long  and  snake-like  life  of  dull  decay 

Was  not  for  them — they  had  too  little  clay. 

X. 

They  were  alone  once  more  ;   for  them  to  be 
Thus  was  another  Eden  ;   they  were  never 

Weary,  unless  when  separate  :    the  tree 

Cut  from  its  forest  root  of  years — the  river 

Damm'd  from  its  fountain — the  child  from  the  knee 
And  breast  maternal  wean'd  at  once  for  ever, 

Would  wither  less  than   these  two  torn  apart ; 

Alas!    there  is  no  "instinct  like  the  heart — 

XI. 

The  heart — which  may  be  broken  :   happy  they  ! 

Thrice  fortunate  !    who,  of  that  fragile  mould, 
The  precious  porcelain  of  human  clay, 

Break  with  the  first  fall :   they  can  ne'er  behold 
'1  he  long  year  link'd  with  heavy  day  on  day, 

And  all  which  must  be  borne,  and  never  told ; 
While  life's  strange  principle  will  often  lie 
Deepest  in  those  who  long  the  most  to  die. 

XII. 
"  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young,"  was  said  of  yore,1 

And  many  deaths  do  they  escape  by  this : 
The  death  of  friends,  aivl,  that  which  slays  even  more — 

The  death  of  friendship,  love,  youth,  all  that  is, 
Except  mere  breath  ;  and  since  the  silent  shore 

Awaits  at  last  even  those  whom  longest  miss 
The  old  archer's  shafts,  perhaps  the  early  grave 
Which  men  weep  over  may  be  meant  to  save. 

XIII. 
Haidec  and  Juan  thought  not  of  the  dead  ; 

The  heavens,  uid  earth,  and  air,  seem'd  made  for  them: 
^  hey  found  no  fault  with  time,  save  that  he  fled  ; 

They  saw  not  in  themselves  aught  to  condemn: 
P.ach  was  tne  other's  mirror,  and  but  read 

Joy  sparking  in  their  dark  eyes  like  a  gem, 
And  knew  such  brightness  was  but  the  reflection 
Of  tt.oir  exchanging  glances  of  affection. 


xrv. 

The  gentle  pressure,  and  the  thrilling  touch, 
The  least  glance  better  understood  than  worus. 

Which  still  said  all,  and  ne'er  could  say  too  much  , 
A  language,  too,  but  like  to  that  of  birds, 

Known  but  to  them,  at  least  appearing  sucn 
As  but  to  lovers  a  true  sense  affords ; 

Sweet  playful  phrases,  which  would  seem  absurd 

To  those  who  have  ceased  to  hear  such,  or  ne'er  heard 

XV. 

All  these  were  theirs,  for  they  were  children  still, 
And  children  still  they  should  have  ever  been  ; 

They  were  not  made  in  the  real  world  to  fill 
A  busy  character  in  the  dull  scene  ; 

But  like  two  beings  born  from  out  a  rill, 
A  nymph  and  her  beloved,  all  unseen 

To  pass  their  lives  in  fountains  and  on  flower*, 

And  never  know  the  weight  of  human  hours. 

*XVI. 

Moons  changing  had  roll'd  on,  and  changeless  found 
Those  their  bright  rise  had  lighted  to  such  joys 

As  rarely  they  beheld  throughout  their  round  : 
And  these  were  not  of  the  vain  kind  which  cloyi ; 

For  theirs  were  buoyant  spirits,  never  bound 
By  the  mere  senses ;  and  that  which  destroys 

Most  love,  possession,  unto  them  appear'd 

A  thing  which  each  endearment  more  endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh  beautiful !    and  rare  as  beautiful ! 

But  theirs  was  love  in  which  the  mind  delights 
To  lose  itself,  when  the  whole  world  grows  dull, 

And  we  are  sick  of  its  hack  sounds  and  sights, 
Intrigues,  adventures  of  the  common  school, 

Its  petty  passions,  marriages,  and  flights, 
Where  Hymen's  torch  but  brands  one  strumpet  more, 
Whose  husband  only  knows  her  not  a  wh — re. 

XVIII. 
Hard  words  ;  harsh  truth  ;   a  truth  which  many  know. 

Enough. — The  faithful  and  the  fairy  pair, 
Who  never  found  a  single  hour  too  slow, 

What  was  it  made  them  thus  exempt  from  care  ? 
Young  innate  feelings  all  have  felt  below, 

Which  perish  in  the  rest,  but  in  them  were 
Inherent;   what  we  mortals  call  romantic, 
And  always  envy,  though  we  deem  it  frantic. 

XIX. 
This  is  in  othei-s  a  factitious  state, 

An  opium  dream  of  too  much  youth  and  reading, 
But  was  in  them  their  nature  or  their  fate ; 

No  novels  e'er  had  set  their  young  hearts  bleeding, 
For  Haidee's  knowledge  was  by  no  means  great, 

And  Juan  was  a  boy  of  saintly  breeding, 
So  that  there  was  no  reason  for  their  loves, 
More  than  for  those  of  nightingales  or  doves. 

XX. 
They  gazed  upon  the  sunset;   'tis  an  hour 

Dear  unto  all,  but  dearest  to  their  eyes, 
For  it  had  made  them  'vhat  they  were  :    the  powet 

Of  love  had  first  o'erwhelm'd  them  from  such  skies 
When  happiness  had  been   their  only  dower. 

And  twilight  saw  them  link'd  in  pa>t,  on's  tics  ; 
Charm'd  with  each  other,  all  things  charm'd  that  brought 
The  past  still  well  ome  as  the  present  though*. 


CAXTO  IV 


DON  JUAN. 


60.S 


XXI. 

1  know  not  why,  but  in  that  hour  to-night, 
Even  as  they  gazed,  a  sudden  tremor  came, 

And  swept,  as  'l  were,  across  their  hearts'  delight, 
Like  the  wind  o'er  a  harp  string,  or  a  flame, 

When  one  is  shook  in  sound,  and  one  in  sight ; 
And  thus  some  boding  flash'd   through  either  frame, 

And  call'd  from  Juan's  breast  a  faint  low  sigh, 

While  one  new  tear  arose  in  Haidee's  eye. 

XXII. 

That  large  black  prophet  eye  seem'd  to  dilate 

And  follow  far  the  disappearing  sun, 
As  if  their  last  day  of  a  happy  date 

With  his  broad,  bright,  and  dropping  orb  were  gone ; 
Juan  gazed  on  her  as  to  ask  his  fate — 

He  felt  a  grief,   but  knowing  cause  for  none, 
His  glance  inquired  of  hers  for  some  excuse 
For  feelings  causeless,  or  at  least  abstruse. 

XXIII. 

She  turn'd  to  him,  and  smiled,  but  in  that  sort 
Which  makes  not  others  smile  ;  then  inrn'd  aside : 

Whatever  feeling  shook  her,  it  seem'd  short, 
And  master'd  by  her  wisdom  or  her  pride ; 

When  Juan  spoke,  too— it  might  be  in  sport — 
Of  this  their  mutual  feeling,  she  replied — 

"  If  it  should  be  so, — but — it  cannot  be — 

Or  I  at  least  snail  not  survive  to  see." 

XXIV. 

Jjan  would  question  further,  but  she  press'd 
His  lips  to  hers,  and  silenced  him  with  this, 

And  then  dismiss'd  the  omen  from  her  breast, 
Defying  augury  with   that  fond  kiss ; 

And  no  doubt  of  all  methods  'tis  the  best: 
Some  people  prefer  wine — 't  is  not  amiss : 

[  have  tried  both  ;  so  those  who  would  a  part  take 

May  choose  between  the  head-ache  and  the  heart-ache. 

XXV. 

One  of  the  two,  according  to  your  choice, 

Women  or  wine,  you  'II   have  to  undergo  ; 
Both  maladies  are  ta.xes  on  our  joys  : 

But  which  to  choose:  I  really  hardly  know ; 
And  if  I  had  to  give  a  casting  voice, 

For  both  sides  I  could  many  reasons  show, 
And  then  decide,  without  great  wrong  to  either, 
It  were  much  belter  to  have  both  than  neither. 

XXVI. 
Juan  and  Haidee  gazed  upon  each  other, 

With  swimming  looks  of  speechless  tenderness, 
Which  mix'd  all  feelings,  friend,  child,  lover,  brother, 

All  that  the  best  can  mingle  and  express, 
When  two  pure  hearts  are  pour'd  in  one  another, 

And  love  too  much,  and  yet  can  not  love  less ; 
But  almost  sanctify  the  sweet  excess 
By  the  immortal  wish  and  power  to  bless. 

XXVII. 
Mix'd  in  each  other's  arms,  and  heart  in  heart, 

Why  did  they  n^  t^en  die  ? — they  .had  lived  too  long, 
Should  an  hour  comt  «.o  bid  them  breathe  apart; 

Years  could  but  bring  them  cruel  things  or  wrong, 
The  world  was  not  for  them,  nor  the  world's  art 

Fu*  beings  passionate  as  Sappho's  song; 
Love  was  born   with  them,  in  them,  so  intense, 
f.  >vas  (heir  very  spirit — not  a  sense. 


XXVIII. 

They  should  have  lived  together  deep  in  woods 

Unseen  as  sings  the  nightingale  ;  they  were 
Unfit  to  mix  in  these->thick  solitudes 

Call'd  social,  where  all  vice  and  hatred  are: 
How  lonely  every  freeborn  creature  broods  ! 

The  sweetest  song-birds  nestle  in  a  pair ; 
The  eagle  soars  alone ;  the  gull  and  crow 
Flock  o'er  their  carrion,  just  as  mortals  do. 

XXIX. 
Now  pillow'd,  cheek  to  cheek,  in  loving  sleep, 

Haidee  and  Juan  their  s^sta  took, 
A  gentle  slumber,  but  it  was  not  deep, 

For  ever  and  anon  a  something  shook 
Juan,  and  shuddering  o'er  his  frame  would  creep  ; 

And  Haidee's  sweet  lips  murmur'd  like  a  brook 
A  wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 
Stirr'd  with  her  dream  as  rose-leaves  with  the  air : 

XXX. 

Or  as  the  stirring  of  a  deep  clear  stream 

Within  an  Alpine  hollow,  when  the  wind 
Walks  over  it,  was  she  shaken  by  the  dream, 

The  mystical  usurper  of  the  mind — 
O'erpowering  us  to  be  whate'er  may  seem 

Good  to  the  soul  which  we  no  more  can  bind , 
Strange  state  of  being !   (for  't  is  still  to  be) 
Senseless  to  feel,  and  with  seal'd  eyes  to  see. 

XXXI. 
She  dream'd  -of  being  alone  on  the  sea-shore, 

Chain'd  to  a  rock;   she  knew  not  how,  but  stu 
She  could  not  from  the  spot,  and  the  loud  roar 

Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threatening  her  • 
And  o'er  her  upper  lip  they  seem'd  to  pour, 

Until  she  sobb'd  for  breath,  and  soon  they  were 
Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and  high 
Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not  die. 

XXXII. 
Anon — she  was  released,  and  then  she  stray'd 

O'er  the  sharp  shingles  with  her  bleeding  feet, 
And  stumbled  almost  every  step  she  made ; 

And  something  roll'd  before  her  in  a  sheet, 
Which  she  must  still  pursue  howe'er  afraid  ; 

'T  was  white  and   indistinct,  nor  stopp'd  to  met 
Her  glance  nor  grasp,  for  still  she  gazed  and  grasp'd, 
And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 
The  dream  changed :   in  a  cave  she  stood,  its  walls 

Were  hung  with  marble  icicles  ;   the  work 
Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls, 

Where  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might  bretd  and 

lurk  ; 
Her  hair  was  dripping,  and  the  very  balls 

Of  her  black  eyes  seem'd  turn'd  to  tears,  and  rnu»* 
The  sharp  rocks  look'd  below  each  drop  they  caught, 
Which  froze  to  marble  as  it  fell,  she  thought. 

XXXIV. 
And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless  at  her  feet, 

Pale  as  the  foam  that  froth'd  on  his  dead  brow, 
Which  she  essay'd  in  vain  to  clear,  (how  sweet 

Were  once  her  cares,  how  idle  seem'd  they  now  '  i 
Lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  renew  the  beat 

Of  his  quench'd  heart ;   and  the  sea-dirges  low 
Rang  in  her  «ad  ears  like  a  mermaid's  song. 
And  that  brief  dream  appcar'd  a  life  too  IMIJ. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANltf 


XXXV. 

And  gazing  on  the  dead,  she  thought  his  face 
Faded,  or  al'er'd  into  something  new — 

Like  to  her  father's  features,  till  each  trace 
More  like  and  like  to  Lambro's  aspect  grew — 

With  all  his  keen  worn  look  and  Grecian  grace ; 
And   starting,  she  awoke,  and  what  to  view  ! 

Oh !  Powers  of  Heaven !  what  dark  eye  meets  she  there? 

'T  is — 't  is  her  father's — fix'd  upon  the  pair ! 

XXXVI. 

Then  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking  fell, 
With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to  see 

Him  whom  she  deem'd  a  habitant  where  dwell 
The  ocean-buried,  risen  from  death,  to  be 

Perchance  the  death  of  one  she  loved  too  well ; 
Dear  as  her  father  had  been  to  Haidee, 

It  was  a  moment  of  that  awful  kind 

I  have  seen  such — but  must  not  call  to  mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up  Juan  sprung  to  Haidee's  bitter  shriek, 
And  caught  her  falling,  and  from  off  the  wall 

Snatch'd  down  his  sabre,  in  hot  haste  to  wreak 
Vengeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of  all: 

Then  Lambro,  who  till  now  forbore  to  speak, 
Smiled  scornfully,  and  said,  "  Within  my  call 

A  thousand  scimitars  await  the  word ; 

Put  up,  young  man,  put  up  your  silly  sword." 

XXXVIII. 

And  Haidee  clung  around  him  ;  "  Juan,  't  is — 
'T  is  Lambro— 't  is  my  father !   Kneel  with  me — 

He  will  forgive  us — yes — it  must  be — yes. 
Oh  !   dsarest  father,  in  this  agony 

Of  pleasure  and  of  pain — even  while  I  kiss 
Thy  garment's  hem  with  transport,  can  it  be 

That   doubt  should  mingle  with  my  filial  joy  ? 

Deal  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  spare  this  boy." 

XXXIX. 

Hip.h  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood, 

Calm  in  his  voice,  and  calm  within  his  eye — 
Not  always  signs  with  him  of  calmest  mood : 

He  look'd  upon  her,  but  gave  no  reply ; 
Then  turned  to  Juan,  in  whose  cheek  the  blood 

Oft  came  and  went,  as  there  resolved  to  die ; 
In  arms,  at  least,  he  stood,  in  act  to  spring 
On  the  first  foe  whom  Lambro's  call  might  bring. 

XL. 
"Young  man,  your  sword ;"  so  Lambro  once  more  said: 

Juan  replied,  "Not  while  this  arm  is  free." 
The  old  man's  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not  with  dread, 

And  drawing  from  his  belt  a  pistol,  he 
Replied,  "Your  blood  be  then  on  your  own  head." 

Ther.  look'd  close  at  the  flint,  as  if  to  see 
T  was  fresh — for  he  had  lately  used  the  lock — 
And  next  proceeded  quietly  to  cock. 

XLI.  . 

It  has  a  strange  quick  jar  upon  the  ear, 

Thai  cocking  of  a  pistol,  when  you  know 
A  moment  more  will  bring  the  sight  to  bear 

Upon  vour  person,  twelve  yards  off,  or  so ; 
A  gentlemanly  distance,  not  too  near, 

If  you  have  got  a  former  friend  for  (be ; 
Hat  afte-  being  fired  at  once  or  twice, 
TW  ear  becomes  more  Irish,  and  less  nice. 


XLII. 

Lambro  presented,  and  one  instant  more 

Had  stopp'd  this  canto,  and  Don  Juan's  breatn, 

When  Haidee  threw  herself  her  boy  before, 

Stern  as  her  sire:   "  On  me,"  she  cried,  " let  dcati 

Descend — the  fault  is  mine  ;   this  fatal  shore 

He  found — but  sought  not.    I  have  pledged  my  faith; 

I  love  him — I  will  die  with  him :  I  knew 

Your  nature's  firmness — know  your  daughter's  too." 

XLIII. 

A  minute  past,  and  she  had  been  all  tears, 
And  tenderness,  and  infancy :  but  now 

She  stood  as  one  who  champion'd  human  fears — 
Pale,  statue-like,  and  stern,  she  woo'd  the  blow  ; 

And  tall  beyond  her  sex  and  their  compeers, 
She  drew  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show 

A  fairer  mark  ;   and  with   a  fix'd  eye  scann'd 

Her  father's  face — but  never  stopp'd  his  hand. 

XLIV. 

He  gazed  on  her,  and  she  on  him ;  't  was  strange 
How  like  they  look'd  !  the  expression  was  the  samej 

Serenely  savage,  with  a  little  change 

In  the  large  dark  eye's  mutual-darted  flame ; 

For  she  too  was  as  one  who  could  avenge, 
If  cause  should  be — a  lioness,  though  tame  : 

Her  father's  blood  before  her  father's  face 

Boil'd  up,  and  proved  her  truly  of  his  race. 

XLV. 

I  said  they  were  alike,  their  features  and 
Their  stature  differing  but  in  sex  and  years; 

Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their  hands 

There  was  resemblance,  such  as  true  blood  wears; 

And  now  to  see  them,  thus  divided,  stand 
In  fix'd  ferocity,  when  joyous  tears, 

And  sweet  sensations,  should  have  welcomed  both, 

Show  what  the  passions  are  in  their  full  growth. 

XLVI. 

The  father  paused  a  moment,  then  withdrew 

His  weapon,  and  replaced  it;  but  stood  still, 
And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look  her  through, 

"  Not  7,"  he  said,  "  have  sought  this  stranger's  ill ; 
Not  1  have  made  this  desolation  :  few 

Would  bear  such  outrage,  and  forbear  to  kill ; 
But  I  must  do  my  duly — how  thou  hast 
Done  thine,  the  present  vouches  for  the  past. 

XLVII. 
"  Let  him  disarm  ;   or,  by  my  father's  head, 

His  own  shall  roll  before  you  like  a  ball !" 
He  raised  his  whistle,  as  the  word  he  said, 

And  blew ;  another  answer'd  to  the  call, 
And  rushing  in  disorderly,  though  led, 

And  arm'd  from  boot  to  turban,  one  and  all, 
Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on  rank ; 
He  gave  the  word,  "  Arrest  or  slay  the  Frank." 

XLVHI. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he  withdrew 

His  daughter ;   while  compress'd  within  his  grasp, 
'Twist  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew; 

In  vain  she  struggled  in  her  father's  grasp, — 
His  arms  were  like  a  [serpent's  coil :  then  flew 

Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp, 
The  file  of  pirates ;  sare  the  foremost,  who 
Had  fallen,  with  his  right  shoulder  half  cut  through. 


L'ANTO  IV. 


DON  JUAN. 


XLIX. 
The  second  had  his  cheek  laid  open ;   but 

The  third,  a  wary,  cool  old  sworder,  took 
The  blow*  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 

His  own  well  in :  so  well,  ere  you  could  look, 
His  man  was  floor'd,  and  helpless  at  his  foot, 

With  the  blood  running  like  a  little  brook 
From  two  smart  sabre  gashes,  deep  and  red — 
One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 

L. 

And  then  they  bound  him  where  he  fell,  and  bore 
Juan  from  the  apartment:  with  a  sign 

Old  Lambro  bade  them  take  him  to  the  shore, 
Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  to  sail  at  nine. 

They  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied  the  oar 

Until  they  reach'd  some  galliots,  placed  in  line ; 

On  board  of  one  of  these,  and  under  hatches, 

They  stow'd  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the  watches. 

LI. 

The  world  i?  full  of  strange  vicissitudes, 
And  here  was  one  exceedingly  unpleasant : 

A  gentleman  so  rich  in  the  world's  goods, 

Handsome  and  young,  enjoying  all  the  present, 

Just  at  the  very  time  when  he  least  broods 
On  such  a  thing,  is  suddenly  to  sea  sent, 

Wounded  and  chain'd,  so  that  he  cannot  move, 

And  all  because  a  lady  fell  in  love. 

LII. 

Here  I  n.ust  leave  him,  for  I  grow  pathetic, 
Moved  by  the  Chinese  nymph  of  «.ears,  green  tea! 

Than  whom  Cassandra  was  not  more  prophetic ; 
For  if  my  pure  libations  exceed  three, 

I  feel  my  heart  become  so  sympathetic, 

That  I  must  have  recourse  to  black  Bohea: 

'T  is  pity  wine  should  be  so  deleterious, 

For  tea  and  coffee  leave  us  much  more  serious. 

MIL 

Unless  when  qualified  with  thee,  Cognac! 

Sweet  Naiad  of  the  Phlegethontic  rill ! 
f> 

Ah !   why  the  liver  wilt  thou  thus  attack, 

And  make,  like  other  nymphs,  thy  lovers  ill  1 
I  would  take  refuge  in  weak  punch,  but  rack 

(In  each  sense  of  the  word),  whene'er  I  fill 
My  mild  and  midnight  beakers  to  the  brim, 
Wakes  me  next  morning  with  its  synonym. 

LIV. 
I  leave  Don  Juan  for  the  present  safe — 

Not  sound,  poor  fellow,  but  severely  wounded  ; 
Yet  could  his  corporal  pangs  amount  to  half 

Of  those  with  which  his  Haidee's  bosom  bounded  1 
She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,  and  chafe, 

And  then  give  way,  subdued  because  surrounded  ; 
tier  mother  was  a  Moorish  maid,  from  Fez, 
Where  all  is  Eden,  or  a  wilderness. 

LV. 
.There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store 

In  marble  fonts ;  there  grain,  and  flower,  and  fruit, 
Gush  from  the  earth  until  the  land  runs  o'er  ; 

But  there  too  many  a  poison-tree  has  root, 
And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion's  roar, 

And  long,  kng  deserts  scorch  the  camel's  foot, 
Or  heaving  whelm  the  helpless  caravan, 
ind  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man. 


LVI. 

Afric  is  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth 
Her  human  clay  is^  kindled :  full  of  power 

For  good  or  evil,  bur-'Sng  from  its  birth. 

The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's  hour, 

And  like  the  soil  beneath  it  will  bring  forth  : 
Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee's  mother's  dower : 

But  her  large  dark   eye  show'd  deep  passion's  force. 

Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 

LVII. 

Her  daughter,  temper'd  with  a  milder  ray, 

Like  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and  fair, 

Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder  they  display 
Terror  to  earth,  and  tempest  to  the  air, 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way ; 
But,  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair, 

The  fire  bursl  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins, 

Even  as  the  simoom  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 

LVIII. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan's  gore, 
And  he  himself  o'ormaster'd  and  cut  down  ; 

His  blood  was  running  a-,  the  very  floor 

Where  late  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her  own : 

Thus  much  she  vie.w'd  an  instant  and  no  more^— 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive  groan  ; 

On  her  sire's  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 

Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a  cedar  fell'd. 

LIX. 

A  vein  had  burst,*  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure  dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran  o'er  ; 

And  her  head  droop'd  as  when  the  lily  lies 

O'ercharged  with  rain:  her  summon'd  handmaids,  DCM 

Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes  ; 

Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store. 

But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 

Like  one  Kfe  could  not  hold,  nor  death  destroy. 

LX. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  stain  unchanged,  though  chill, 

With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red  ; 
She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seem'd   absent  still ; 

No  hideous  sign  proclaim'd  her  surely  dead  ; 
Corruption  came  not  in  each,  mind  to  kill 

All  hope;  to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 
New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seem'd  full  of  soul, 
She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the  whole. 

LXI. 
The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 

When  exquisitely  chisell'd,  still  lay  there, 
But  fix'd  as  marble's  unchanged  aspect  throws 

O'er  the  fair  Venus,  but  for  ever  fair  ; 
O'er  the  Laocoon's  all  eternal  throes, 

And  ever-dying  Gladiators  air, 
Their  energy  like  life  forms  all  their  fame, 
Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the  same. 

LXII. 
She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake. 

Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seem'd  something  ne*, 
A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 

Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 
Struck  not  on  memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 

Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat  still  tries 
Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the  causa. 
For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 


m. 


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Jin.  i    KB    suiaii    i;*i' 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  I\ 


xci. 

They  heard,  next  day,  that  in  the  Dardanelles, 

Waiting  for  his  sublimity's  firman — 
T!iC  most  imperative  of  sovereign  spells, 

Which  every  body  does  without  who  can, — 
More  to  secure  them  in  their  naval  cells, 

Lady  to  lady,  well  as  man  to  man, 
Were  to  be  chained  and  lotted  out  per  couple 
For  the  slave-market  of  Constantinople. 

XCI1. 

It  seems  when  this  allotment  was  made  out, 

There  chanced  to  be  an  odd  male  and  odd  female, 

Who  (after  some  discussion  and  some  doubt 
If  the  soprano  might  be  doom'd  to  be  male, 

They  placed  him  o'er  the  women  as  a  scout) 
Were  link'd  together,  and  if  happen'd  the  male 

Was  Juan,  who — an  awkward  thing  at  his  age — 

I'air'd  off  with  a  Bacchante's  blooming  visage. 

XCIII. 

With  Raucocanti  lucklessly  was  chain'd 
The  tenor  ;  these  two  hated  with  a  hate 

Found  only  on  the  stage,  and  each  more  pain'd 
With  this  his  tuneful  neighbour  than  his  fate  ; 

Sad  strife  arose,  for  they  were  so  cross-grain'd, 
Instead  of  bearing  up  without  debate, 

That  each  pull'd  different  ways  with  many  an  oath, 

"  Arcades  ambo,"  id  esl — blackguards  both. 

XCIV. 

Juan's  companion  was  a  Romagnole, 

But  bred  within  the  March  of  old  Ancona, 

With  eyes  that  look'd  into  the  very  soul, 
(And  other  chief  points  of  a  "  bella  donna"), 

Bright — and  as  black  and  burning  as  a  coal ; 
And  through  her  clear  brunette  complexion  shone  a 

Great  wish  to  please — a  most  attractive  dower, 

Especially  when  added  to  the  power. 

xcv. 

But  all  that  power  was  wasted  upon  him, 

For  sorrow  o'er  each  sense  held  stern  command ; 
Her  eye  might  flash  on  his,  but  found  it  dim ; 

And  though  thus  chain'd,  as  natural  her  hand 
rouch'd  his,  nor  that — nor  any  handsome  limb 

(And  she  had  some  not  easy  to  withstand) 
Could  stir  his  pulse,  or  make  his  faith  feel  brittle  ; 
Perhaps  his  recent  wounds  might  help  a  little. 

XCVI. 
No  matter ;  we  should  ne'er  too  much  inquire, 

But  facts  are  facts, — no  knight  could  be  more  true, 
And  firmer  faith  no  ladye-love  desire  ; 

We  will  omit  the  proofs,  save  one  or  two. 
Tis  said  no  one  in  hand  "can  hold  a  fire 

By  thought  of  frosty  Caucasus,"  but  few 
I  really  think ;   yet  Juan's  then  ordeal 
Was  more  triumphant,  and  not  much  less  real. 

XCVII. 
Ilt-re  i  might  enter  on  a  chaste  description, 

Having  withstood  temptation  in  my  youth, 
But  hear  that  several  people  take  exception 

At  the  first  two  oooks  having  too  much  truth ; 
Therefore  I '"  make  Don  Juan  leave  the  ship  soon, 

Because  'the  publisher  declares,  in  sooth, 
Iliroueh  needles'  eyes  it  easier  for  the  camel  is 
lo  pass,  than  .hose  two  cantos  into  families. 


XCVIII. 
'Tis  all  the  same  to  rm>,  I'm  fond  of  yielding, 

And  therefore  leave  them  lo  the  purer  page 
Of  Smollet,  Prior,  Ariosto,  Fielding, 

Who  say  strange  things  for  so  correct  an  age ; 
I  once  had  great  alacrity  in  wielding 

My  pen,  and  liked  poetic  war  to  wage, 
And  recollect  the  time  when  all  this  cant 
Would  have  provoked  remarks  which  now  it  shan* 

XCIX. 

As  boys  love  rows,  my  boyhood  liked  a  squabble , 
But  at  this  hour  I  wish  to  part  in  peace, 

Leaving  such  to  the  literary  rabble. 
Whether  my  verse's  fame  be  doom'd  to  cease 

While  the  right  hand  which  wrote  it  still  is  able, 
Or  of  some  centuries  to  take  a  lease, 

The  grass  upon  my  grave  will  grow  as  long, 

And  sigh  to  midnight  winds,  but  not  to  song. 

C. 

Of  poets,  who  come  down  to  us  through  distance 
Of  time  and  tongues,  the  foster-babes  "f  fame, 

Life  seems  the  smallest  portion  of  existence ; 
Where  twenty  ages  gather  o'er  a  name, 

"T  is  as  a  snowball  which  derives  assistance 
From  every  flake,  and  yet  rolls  on  th"  same, 

Even  ti'.l  an  iceberg  it  may  chance  to  grow, — 

But  after  all  't  is  nothing  but  cold  snow. 

CI. 

And  so  great  names  are  nothing  more  than  nominal, 
And  love  of  glory 's  but  an  airy  lust, 

Too  often  in  its  fury  overcoming  all 

Who  would,  as  't  were,  identify  their  dust 

From  out  the  wide  destruction,  which,  entombing  all 
Leaves  nothing  till  the  coming  of  the  just — 

Save  change :  I  've  stood  upon  Achilles'   tomb, 

And  heard  Troy  doubted  ;  time  will  doubt  of  Rome. 

CII. 

The  very  generations  of  the  dead 

Are  swept  away,  and  tomb  inherits  tomb, 
Until  the  memory  of  an  age  is  fled, 

And,  buried,  sinks  beneath   its  offspring's  doom . 
Where  are  the  epitaphs  our  fathers  read? 

Save  a  few  glean'd  from  the  sepulchral  gloom, 
Which  once-named  myriads  nameless  he  beneath, 
And  lose  their  own  in  universal  death. 

CHI. 
I  canter  by  the  spot  each  afternoon 

Where  perish 'd  in  his  fame  the  hrro-boy, 
Who  lived  too  long  for  men,  but  dicJ  too  soon 

For  human  vanity,  the  young  De  Foix ! 
A  broken  pillar  not  uncouthly  hewn, 

But  which  neglect  is  hastening  to  destroy, 
Records  Ravenna's  carnage  on  its  face, 
While  weeds  and  ordure  rankle  -ound  the  base.4 

CIV. 
I  pass  each  day  where  Dante's  bones  are  laid ; 

A  little  cupola,  more  neat  tl  an  solemn, 
Protects  his  dust,  but  reverence  here  is  paid 

To  the  bard's  tomb,  and  not  the  warrior's  column. 
The  time  must  come  when  both,  alike  decay'u, 

The  chieftain's  trophy  and  the  poet's  volume. 
Will  sink  where  lie  the  songs  and  w.'irs  of  cans. 
Before  Pelides'  death  or  Homer's  b,'  th. 


CANTO  IV. 


DON  JUAN. 


609 


cv. 

With  human  blood  that  column  was  cemented, 
With  human  filth  that  column  is  defiled, 

As  if  the  peasant's  coarse  contempt  were  vented, 
To  show  his  loathing  of  the  spot  he  spoil'd ; 

Thus  is  the  trophy  used,  and  thus  lamented 
Should  ever  be  those  blood-hounds,  from  whose  wild 

Instinct  of  gore  and  glory  earth  has  known 

Those  sufferings  Dante  saw  in  hell  alone. 

CVI. 

Yet  there  will  still  be  bards ;  though  fame  is  smoke, 
Its  fumes  are  frankincense  to  human  thought; 

And  the  unquiet  feelings,  which  first  woke 

Song  in  the  world,  will  seek  what  then  they  sought ; 

As  on  the  beach  the  waves  at  last  are  broke, 
Thus  to  their  extreme  verge  the  passions  brought, 

Dash  into  poetry,  which  is  but  passion, 

Or  at  least  was  so  ere  it  grew  a  fashion. 

CVII. 

[f  in  the  course  of  such  a  life  as  was 
At  once  adventurous  and  contemplative, 

Men  who  partake  all  passions  as  they  pass, 
Acquire  the  deep  and  bitter  power  to  give 

Their  images  again,  as  in  a  glass, 
And  in  such  colours  that  they  seem  to  live ; 

You  may  do  right  forbidding  them  to  show  'em, 

But  spoil  (I  think)  a  very  pretty  poem. 

CVIII. 

Oh !  ye,  who  make  the  fortunes  of  all  books ! 

Benign,  ceruleans  of  the  second  sex ! 
Who  advertise  new  poems  by  your  looks, 

Your  "imprimatur"  will  ye  not  annex? — 
What,  must  I  go  to  the  oblivious  cooks, — 

Those  Cornish  plunderers  of  Parnassian  wrecks? 
Ah !  must  I  then  the  only  minstrel  be 
Proscribed  from  tasting  your  Castalian  tea? 

CIX. 

What,  can  I  prove  "  a  lion "  then  no  more  ? 

A  ball-room  bard,  a  foolscap,  hot-press  darling, 
To  bear  the  compliments  of  many  a  bore, 

And  sigh  "  I  can't  get  out,"  like  Yorick's  starling. 
Why  then  I  '11  swear,  as  poet  Wordy  swore 

(Because  the  world  won't  read  him,  always  snarling), 
That  taste  is  gone,  that  fame  is  but  a  lottery, 
Drawn  by  the  blue-coat  misses  of  a  coterie. 

CX. 

Oh !  "  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue," 

As  some  one  somewhere  sings  about  the  sky, 

And  I,  ye  learned  ladies,  say  of  you ; 
They  say  your  stockings  are  so  (Heaven  knows  why 
have  examined  few  pair  of  that  hue) ; 
Blue  as  the  garters  which  serenely  lie 

Round  the  patrician  left-iegs,  which  adorn 

The  festal  midnight  and  the  levee  morn. 

CXI. 

Yc    aome  of  you  are  most  seraphic  creatures — 
But  limes  are  alter'd  since,  a  rhyming  lover, 

You  read  my  stanzas,  and  I  read  your  features: 
And — but  no  matter,  all  those  thing?  are  over ; 

Still  I  have  no  dislike  to  learned  natures, 
For  sometimes  such  a  world  of  virtues  cover; 

I  Know  one  woman  of  that  purple  school, 

The  loveliest,  chastest,  best,  but — quite  a  fool. 
3E  82 


CXII. 

lumbo  dt,  "  the  first  of  travellers,"  but  not 
The  last,  if  late  accounts  be  accurate, 

nvented,  by  some  mime  I  have  forgot, 
As  well  as  the  suU'me  discovery's  date, 

\n  airy  instrument,  with  which  he  sought 
To  ascertain  the  atmospheric  state, 

Jy  measuring  "  the  intensity  of  blue  .•" 

)h,  Lady  Daphne  !  let  me  measure  you  ! 

CXIII. 

Jut  to  the  narrative. — The  vessel  bound 
With  slaves  to  sell  off  in  the  capital, 
After  the  usual  process,  might  be  found 
At  anchor  under  the  seraglio  wall ; 
ler  cargo,  from  the  plague  being  safe  and   SOUIIL', 

Were  landed  in  the  market,  one  and  all, 
And  there,  with  Georgians,  Russians,  and  Circassians, 
Sought  up  for  different  purposes  and  passions. 

CXIV. 

Some  went  off  dearly :   fifteen  hundred  dollars 
For  one  Circassian,  a  sweet  girl,  were  given, 

rVarranted  virgin ;   beauty's  brightest  colours 
Had  deck'd  her  out  in  all  the  hues  of  heaven: 

ler  sale  sent  home  some  disappointed  bawlers, 
Who  bade  on  till  the  hundreds  rsach'd  eleven; 

But  when  the  offer  went  beyond,  they  knew 

T  was  for  the  sultan,  and  at  once  withdrew. 

cxv. 

Twelve  negresses  from  Nubia  brought  a  price 
Which  the  West-Indian  market  scarce  would  bring ; 

Though  Wilberforce,  at  last,  has  made  it  twice 
What 'twas  ere  abolition;   and  the  thing 
eed  not  seem  very  wonderful,  for  vice 
Is  always  much  more  splendid  than  a  king: 

The  virtues,  even  the  most  exalted,  charity, 

Are  saving — vice  spares  nothing  for  a  rarity. 

CXVI. 

But  for  the  destiny  of  this  young  troop, 
How  some  were  bought  by  pachas,  some  by  Jews, 

How  some  to  burdens  were  obliged  to  stoop, 
And  others  rose  to  the  command  of  crews 

As  renegadoes ;  while  in  hapless  group, 
Hoping  no  very  old.  vizier  might  choose, 

The  females  stood,  as  one  by  one  they  pick'd  'em. 

To  make  a  mistress,  or  fourth  wife,  or  victim. 

CXVII. 

All  this  must  be  reserved  for  further  song; 

Also  our  hero's  lot,  howe'er  unpleasant, 
(Because  this  canto  has  become  too  long), 

Must  be  postponed  discreetly  for  the  present ; 
I  ':n  sensible  redundancy  is  wrong. 

But  could  not  for  the  muse  of  me  put  less  ji  p 
And  now  delay  the  progress  of  Don  Juan, 
Till  what  is  call'd  in  Ossian  the  fifth  Duan. 


610 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


r. 


CANTO  V. 


i. 

WHEX  amatory  poets  sing  their  lores 

In  I'quid  1  nes  mellifluously  bland, 
And  praiie  Jieir  rhymes  as  Venus  yokes  her  doves, 

They  little  think  what  mischief  is  in  hand ; 
The  greater  their  success  the  worse  it  proves, 

As  Ovid's  verse  may  make  you  understand ; 
Even  Petrarch's  self,  if  judged  with  due  severity, 
Is  the  Platonic  pimp  of  all  posterity. 

II. 
[  therefore  do  denounce  all  amorous  writing, 

Except  in  such  a  way  as  not  to  attract ; 
Plain — simple — short,  and  by  no  means  inviting, 

But  with  a  moral  to  each  error  tack'd, 
Form'd  rather  for  instructing  than  delighting, 

And  with  all  passions  in  their  turn  attack'd ; 
Now,  if  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  shod  ill, 
This  poem  will  become  a  moral  model. 

III. 
The  European  with  the  Asian  shore 

Sprinkled  with  palaces ;  the  ocean  stream,' 
Ilere  and  there  studded  with  a  seventy-four ; 

Sophia's  cupola  with  golden  gleam  ; 
The  cypress  groves;  Olympus  high  and  hoar; 

The  twelve  isles,  and  the  more  than  I  could  dream, 
F;ir  less  describe,  present  the  very  view 
Which  charm'd  the  charming  Mary  Montagu. 

IV. 

I  have  a  passion  for  the  name  of  "  Mary," 

For  once  it  was  a  magic  sound  to  me, 
And  still  it  half  calls  up  the  realms  of  fairy, 

Where  I  beheld  what  never  was  to  be ; 
A  d  foelings  changed,  bat  this  was  last  to  vary, 

A  spell  from  which  even  yet  I  am  not  quite  free: 
But  I  grow  sad — and  let  a  tale  grow  cold, 
Which  must  not  be  pathetically  told. 

V. 
The  wind  swept  down  the  Euxine  and  the  wave 

Broke  foaming  o'er  the  blue  Symplegades, 
Tts  a  grand  sight,  from  oft'  "  the  Giant's  Grave,"* 

To  watch  the  progress  of  those  rolling  seas 
Between  the  Bosphorus,  as  they  lash  and  lave 

Europe  and  Asia,  you  being  quite  at  ease ; 
There's  not  a  sea  the  passenger  e'er  pukes  in 
Turns  up  more  dangerous  breakers  than  the  Euxine. 

VI. 
T  wa»  a  raw  day  of  Autumn's  bleak  beginning, 

When  nights  are  equal,  but  not  so  the  days; 
Che  Parcse  then  cut  short  the  further  spinning 

Of  seamen's  fates,  and  the  loud  tempests  raise 
The  waters,  and  repentance  for  past  sinning 

In  all  who  o'er  the  great  deet>  take  their  ways: 
They  vow  10  amend  their  lives,  and  yet  they  don't ; 
Because  if  drown'd,  they  can't — if  spared,  they  won't. 


VII. 

A  crowd  if  shivering  slaves  of  every  nation, 
And  age,  and  sex,  were  in  the  market  ranged ; 

Each  bevy  with  the  merchant  in  his  station : 

Poor  creatures !  their  good  looks  were  sadly  change  1 

All  save  the  blacks  seem'd  jaded  with  vexation, 
From  friends,  and  home,  and  freedom  far  estranged  t 

The  negroes  more  philosophy  display'd, — 

Used  to  it,  no  doubt,  as  eels  are  to  be  flay'd. 

VIII. 

Juan  was  juvenile,  and  thus  was  full, 

As   most   at  his  age  are,  of  hope,  and  he&Ith  ; 

Yet  I  must  own  he  look'd  a  little  dull, 
And  now  and  then  a  tear  stole  down  by  stealth; 

Perhaps  his  recent  loss  of  blood  might  pull 
His  spirit  down ;  and  then  the  loss  of  wealth, 

A   mistress,  and  such  comfortable  quarters, 

To  be  put  up  for  auction  amongst  Tartars, 

IX. 

Were  things  to  shake  a  stoic ;  ne'ertheless, 
Upon  the  whole  his  carriage  was  serene: 

His  figure,  and  the  splendour  of  his  dress, 

Of  which  some  gilded  remnants  still  were  seen, 

Drew  all  eyes  on  him,  giving  them  to  guess 
He  was  above  the  vulgar  by  his  mien  ; 

And  then,  though  pale,  he  was  so  very  handsome ; 

And  then — they  calculated  on  liis  ransom. 

X. 

Like  a  backgammon-board  the  place  was  dotted 

With  whites  and  blacks,  in  groups  on  show  for  sale! 

Though  rather  more  irregularly  spotted : 

Some  bought  the  jet,  while  others  chose  the  pale. 

It  chanced,  amongst  the  other  people  lotted, 
A  man  of  thirty,  rather  stout  and  hale, 

V\  ith  resolution  in  his  dark-gray  eye, 

Next  Juan  stood,  till  some  might  choose  to  buy. 

XI. 

He  had  an  English  IOOK  ;  that  is,  was  square 

In  make,  of  a  complexion  white  and  ruddy, 
Good  teeth,  with  curling  rather  dark-brown  hair, 

And,  it  might  be  from  thought,  or  toil,  or  study, 
An  open  brow  a  little  mark'd  with  care  : 

One  arm  had  on  a  bandage  rather  bloody ; 
And  there  he  stood  with  such  sang-froid,  that  greatet 
Could  scarce  be  shown  even  by  a  mere  spectator. 

XII. 
But  seeing  at  his  elbow  a  mere  lad, 

Of  a  high  spirit  evidently,  though 
At  present  weioh'd  down  by  a  doom  which  had 

O'erthrown  even   men,  he  soon  b^gan  to  show 
A  kind  of  blunt  compassion  for  the  sad 

Lot  of  so  young  a  partner  in  the  woe, 
Which  for  himself  he  seem'd  to  deem  no  worse 
Than  any  other  scrape,  a  thing  of  course. 

XIII. 
"Mybov!" — said  he,  "amidst  this  motley  crew 

Of  Georgians,  Russian?,  Nubians,  and  vhi.t  not, 
All  ragamuffins  differing  but  in  hue. 

With  whom  it  is  our  luck  to  cast  our  lot, 
The  only  gentlemen  seem  I  and  you, 

So  let  us  be  acquainted,  as  we  oug',  t : 
If  I  could  yield  you  any  consolation, 
'T  would  give  me  pleasure.  — Pray,  what  is  yi  wr  naiio*)7* 


CAXfO  V. 


DOX  JUAN. 


61 


XIV. 

When  Juan  answer' d  "Spanish!"  he  replied, 
44  I  thought,  in  fact,  you  could  not  be  a  Greek ; 

Those  servile  dogs  are  not  so  proudly  eyed : 
Fortune  has  play'd  you  here  a  pretty  freak, 

Hut  that's  her  way  with  all  men  til!  they're  tried: 
But  never  mind, — she  "J  turn,  perhaps,  next  week ; 

She  has  served  me  also  much  the  same  as  you, 

Except  that  I  have  found  it  nothing  new." 

XV. 

u  Pray,  sir,"  said  Juan,  "  if  I  may  presume, 

IVhat  brought  you  here?" — "Oh!  nothing  very  rare — 

Six  Tartars  and  a  drag-chain " — "  To  this  doom 

By  what  conducted,  if  the  question 's  fair, 

Is  that  which  I  would  learn." — "  I  served  for  some 
Months  with  the  Russian  army  here  and  there, 

And  taking  lately,  by  Suwarrow's  bidding, 

A  town,  was  ta'en  myself  instead  of  Widin." 

XVL 

"Have  you  no  friends?  " — "I  had — but,by  God's  blessing, 
Have  not  been  troubled  with  them  lately.     Now 

(  have  answer'd  all  your  questions  without  pressing, 
And  you  an  equal  courtesy  should  show." — 

"Alas!"  said  Juan,  " 't  were  a  tale  distressing, 
And  long  besides." — "  Oh  !  if  't  is  really  so, 

You  're  right  on  both  accounts  to  hold  your  tongue  ; 

A  sad  tale  saddens  doubly  when  't  is  long. 

XVII. 
"  But  droop  not :  Fortune,  at  your  lime  of  life, 

Although  a  female  moderately  fickle, 
Will  hardly  leave  you  (as  she  's  not  your  wife) 

For  any  length  of  days  in  such  a  pickle. 
To  strive  too  with  our  fate  were  such  a  strife 

As  if  the  corn-sheaf  should  oppose  the  sickle : 
Hen  are  the  sport  of  circumstances,  when 
The  circumstances  seem  the  sport  of  men." 

XVIII. 
44  'T  is  not,"  said  Juan,  "  for  my  present  doom 

I  mourn,  but  for  the  past; — I  loved  a  maid:" 
He  paused,  and  his  dark  eye  grew  full  of  gloom  ; 

A  single  tear  upon  his  eyelash  staid 
A  moment,  and  then  dropp'd  ;  u  but  to  resume, 

'T  is  not  my  present  lot,  as  I  have  said, 
Which  I  deplore  so  much  ;  for  J  have  borne 
Hardships  which  hare  the  hardiest  overworn, 

XIX. 
44  On  the  rough  deep.     But  this  last  blow — "  and  here 

He  stopp'd  again,  and  turn'd  awa\»  his  face. 
*  Ay,"  quoth  his  friend,  "  I  thought  it  would  appear 

That  there  had  been  a  lady  in  the  case ; 
And  these  are  things  which  ask  a  tender  tear, 

Such  as  I  too  would  shed,  if  in  your  place : 
I  cried  upon  my  first  wifS's  dying  day, 
And  also  when  my  second  ran  away : 

XX. 
44  My  ihird" — "Your  third !"  quoth  Juan,  turning  round ; 

"  You  scarcely  can  be  thirty :  have  you  three  ?" 
44  No — only  two  at  present  above  ground  : 

Surelv  't  is  nothing  wonderful  to  see 
One  person  thrice  in  holy  wedlock  bound  !" 

"  Wei!,  then,  your  third,"  said  Juan ;  "  what  did  she? 
She  did  nox  tun  away,  too,  did  she,  sir?" 
»No,  faith."— "  What  then?"— "I  ran  away  from  her." 


XXI. 


"  You  take  things  coolly,  sir,"  said  Juan.     »  Why," 

Replied  the  other,  "  what  ra  n   i  man  do  7 
There  still  are  many  r»:nhows  :n  your  SKY. 

But  rnb:e  ha^e  va/.ish'd.     All,  when  life  is  new, 
Commence  wit&Seeiings  warm  and  prospects  higfc ; 

But  time  strips  our  illusions  of  their  hue. 
And  one  by  one  in  turn,  some  grand  mistake 
Casts  off  its  bright  skin  yearly,  like  the  snake. 

XXII. 
"  'T  is  true,  it  gets  another  bright  and  fresh, 

Or  fresher,  brighter  ;  but,  the  year  gone  through, 
This  skin  must  go  the  way  too  of  all  flesh, 

Or  sometimes  only  wear  a  week  or  two ; — 
Love 's  the  first  net  which  spreads  its  deadly  mesh , 

Ambition,  avarice,  vengeance,  giory,  glue 
The  glittering  lime-twigs  of  our  latter  days, 
Where  still  we  flutter  on  for  pence  or  praise." 

XXIIL 
u  All  this  is  very  fine,  and  may  be  true," 

Said  Juan  ;  "  but  I  really  don't  see  how 
It  betters  present  times  with  me  or  you." 

"  No  ! "  quoth  the  other  ;  "  yet  you  win  allow, 
By  setting  things  in  their  right  point  of  view, 

Knowledge,  at  least,  is  gain'd  ;  for  instance,  now, 
We  know  what  slavery  is,  and  our  disasters 
May  teach  us  better  to  behave  when  masters." 

XXIV. 
u  Would  we  were  masters  now,  if  but  to  try 

Their  present  lessons  on  our  pagan  friends  here," 
Said  Juan — swallowing  a  heart-burning  sigh  : 

"  Heav'n  help  the  scholar  whom  his  fortune  send* 

here  1" 
"  Perhaps  we  shall  be  one  day,  by  and  by," 

Rejom'd  the  other,  "  when  our  bad  luck  mends  here. 
Meantime  (von  old  black  eunuch  seems  to  eye  us) 
I  wish  to  G-d  that  somebody  would  buy  us ! 

XXV. 
"  But  after  all,  what  is  our  present  state  ? 

'T  is  bad,  and  may  be  better — all  men's  lot . 
Most  men  cr«  slaves,  none  more  so  than  the  great, 

To  their  own  whims  and  passions,  and  what  nut ; 
Society  itself,  which  should  create 

Kindness,  destroys  what  little  we  had  got : 
To  feel  for  none  is  the  true  social  art 
Of  the  worH's  stoics — men  without  a  heart  " 

XXVL 
Just  now  %  black  old  neutral  personage 

Of  thf  third  sex  stepp'd  up,  and  peering  over 
The  captives,  seemM  to  mark  their  looks,  and  age, 

And  capabilities,  as  to  discover 
If  they  were  fitted  for  the  purposed  cage : 

No  lady  e'er  is  ogled  by  a  lover, 
Horse  by  a  blackleg,  broadcloth  by  a  tailor. 
Fee  by  a  counsel,  feloa  by  a  jailor, 

XXVII. 
As  is  a  slave  by  his  intended  bidder. 

*T  is  pleasant  purchasing  our  fellow-creature* , 
And  ali  are  to  be  sold,  if  you  consider 

Their  passions,  and  are  dext'rous  ;  some  by  feature* 
Are  bought  up,  others  by  a  warlike  leader, 

Some  by  a  place — as  tend  their  years  cr  naturw  •, 
The  most  by  readv  cash — but  all  have  prices, 
From  crowns  to  kicks,  according  to  their  now. 


612 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  V 


XXVIII. 

The  eunuch  having  eyed  them  o'er  with  care, 
Turn'd  to  the  merchant,  and  began  to  bid 

First  but  for  one,  and  after  for  the  pair ; 
They  haggled,  wrangled,  swore,  too— so  they  did ! 

A*  though  they  were  in  a  mere  Christian  fair, 
Cheapening  an  ox,  an  ass,  a  lamb,  or  kid  ; 

So  that  their  bargain  sounded  like  a  battle 

For  this  superior  yoke  of  human  cattle. 

XXIX. 

At  last  they  settled  into  simple  grumbling, 
And  pulling  out  reluctant  purses,  and 

Turning  each  piece  of  silver  o'er,  and  tumbling 
Some  down,  and  weighing  others  in  their  hand, 

And  by  mistake  sequins  with  paras  jumbling, 
Until  the  sum  was  accurately  scann'd, 

And  then  the  merchant,  giving  change  and  signing 

Receipts  in  full,  began  to  think  of  (lining. 

XXX. 

I  wonder  if  his  appetite  was  good ; 

Or,  if  it  were,  if  also  his  digestion. 
Methinks  at  meals  some  odd  thoughts  might  intrude, 

And  conscience  ask  a  curious  sort  of  question, 
About  the  right  divine  how  far  we  should 

Sell  flesh  and  blood.  When  dinner  has  oppress'd  one, 
I  think  it  is  perhaps  the  gloomiest  hour 
Which  turns  up  out  of  the  sad  twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire  says  "No;"  he  tells  you  that  Candide 
Found  life  most  tolerable  after  meals  ; 

lie 's  wrong — unless  man  was  a  pig,  indeed, 
Repletior.  rather  adds  to  what  he  feels ; 

Unless  he's  drunk,  and  then  no  doubt  he's  freed 
From  his  own  brain's  oppression  while  it  reels. 

Of  food  I  think  with  Philip's  son.  or  rather 

Ammon's  (ill  pleased  with  one  world  and  one  father); 

XXXII. 

I  think  with  Alexander,  that  the  act 

Of  eating,  with  another  act  or  two, 
Makes  us  feel  our  mortality  in  fact 

Redoubled  ;  when  a  roast  and  a  ragout, 
And  fish  and  soup,  by  some  side  dishes  back'd, 

Cu.n  give  us  either  pain  or  pleasure,  who 
Would  pique  himself  on  intellects,  whose  use 
Depends  so  much  upon  the  gastric  juice? 

XXXIII. 

The  other  evening  ('t  was  on  Friday  last) — 

This  is  a  fact,  and  no  poetic  fable — 
Just  as  my  great  coat  was  about  me  cast, 

My  hat  and  gloves  still  lying  on  the  table, 
I  heard  a  shot — 'twas  eight  o'clock  scarce  past — 

And  running  out  as  fast  as  I  was  able,3 
>  loutiit  the  military  commandant 
b'retch'd  in  tne  street,  and  able  scarce  to  pant. 

XXXIV. 
Poor  fellow !  for  some  reason,  surely  bad, 

They  had  slain  him  with  five  slugs  ;  and  left,  him  there 
i'o  parish  on  the  pavement:  so  I  had 

Him  borne  into  the  house  and  up  'he  stair, 
And  stripp'd,  and  look'd  to But  why  should  I  add 

More  circumstances  ?  vain  was  every  care  ; 
the  man  was  gone :  in  some  Italian  quarrel 
Kill  il  by  five  buLels  from  an  old  gun-barrel.4 


XXXV. 

I  gazed  upon  him,  for  I  knew  him  well ; 

And,  though  I  have  seen  many  corpses,  never 
Saw  one,  whom  such  an  accident  befell, 

So  calm ;   though  pierced  through  stomach,  heart 

and  liver, 
He  seem'd  to  sleep,  for  you  could  scarcely  tell 

(As  he  bled  inwardly,  no  hideous  river 
Of  gore  divulged  the  cause)  that  he  was  dead: — 
So  as  I  gazed  on  him,  I  thought  or  said — 

XXXVI. 
"Can  this  be  death?  then  what  is  life  or  death? 

Speak!"  but  he  spoke  not:  "wake!"  but  still  he  slept: 
But  yesterday,  and  who  had  mightier  breath  ? 

A  thousand  warriors  by  his  word  were  kept 
In  awe:  he  said,  as  the  centurion  saith, 

1  Go,'  and  he  goeth ;  *  come,'  and  forth  he  stepp'd. 
The  trump  and  bugle  till  he  spake  were  dumb — 
And  now  nought  left  him  but  the  muffled  drum." 

XXXVII. 

And  they  who  waited  once  and  worshipp'd — they 

With  their  rough  faces  throng'd  about  the  bed, 
To  gaze  once  more  on  the  commanding  clay 

Which  for  the  last  though  not  the  first  time  bled ; 
And  such  an  end !  that  he  who  many  a  day 

Had  faced  Napoleon's  foes  until  they  fled, — 
The  foremost  in  the  charge  or  in  the  sally, 
Should  now  be  butcher'd  in  a  civic  alley. 

XXXVIII. 
The  scars  of  his  old  wounds  were  near  his  new, 

Those  honourable  scars  which  brought  him  fame ; 
And  horrid  was  the  contrast  to  the  view — 

But  let  me  quit  the  theme,  as  such  things  claim 
Perhaps  even  more  attention  than  is  due 

From  me  :  I  gazed  (as  oft  I  have  gazed  the  same) 
To  try  if  I  could  wrench  aught  out  of  death, 
Which  should  confirm,  or  shake,  or  make  a  faith ; 

XXXIX. 
But  it  was  all  a  mystery.     Here  we  are, 

And  there  we  go  : — but  ishere  1  five  bits  of  lead, 
Or  three,  or  two,  or  one,  send  very  far ! 

And  is  this  blood,  then,  form'd  but  to  be  shed  ? 
Can  every  element  our  elements  mar? 

And  air — earth — water — fire  live — and  we  dead  ? 
We,  whose  minds  comprehend  all  things  ?    No  more  . 
But  let  us  to  the  story  as  before. 

XL. 
The  purchaser  of  Juan  and  acquaintance 

Bore  off  his,  bargains  to  a  gilded  boat, 
Embark'd  himself  and  them,  and  off  they  went  thence 

As  fast  as  oars  could  pull  and  water  float ; 
They  look'd  like  persons  being  led  to  sentence, 

Wondering  what  next,  till  the  caique  was  brought 
Up  in  a  little  creek  below  a  wall 
O'ertopp'd  with  cypresses  dark-green  and  tall. 

XLI. 
Here  their  conductor  tapping  at  the  wicket 

Of  a  small  iron  door,  't  was  open'd,  and 
He  led  them  onward,  first  through  a  low  thicket 

Flank'd  by  large  groves  which  tower'd  on  either  haml- 
They  almost  lost  their  way,  and   had   to  pick  it— 

For  night  was  closing  ere  they  came  to  la»^ 
The  eunuch  made  a  sign  to  those  on  board. 
Who  row'd  off,  leaving  them  without  a  w  <rc 


6ANTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


613 


XLII. 

As  they  were  plodding  on  their  winding  way, 
Through  orange  bowers,  and  jasmine,  and  so  forth, 

(Of  which  I  might  have  a  good  deal  to  say, 
There  being  no  such  profusion  in  the  North 

Of  oriental  plants,  "  et  caetera," 

But  that  of  late  your  scribblers  think  it  worth 

Their  while  to  rear  whole  hotbeds  in  their  works, 

Because  one  poet  travell'd  'mongst  the  Turks)  : 

XLin. 

As  they  were  threading  on  their  way,  there  came 
Into  Don  Juan's  head  a  thought,  which  he 

Whisper'd  to  his  companion  : — 't  was  the  same 
Which  might  have  then  occurr'd  to  you  or  me. 

'  Methinks," — said  he — "it  would  be  no  great  shame 
If  we  should  strike  a  stroke  to  set  us  free  ; 

Let 's  knock  that  old  black  fellow  on  the  head, 

And  march  away — 'twere  easier  done  than  said." 

XLIV. 

*  Yes,"  said  the  other,  "  and  when  done,  what  then  ? 

How  get  out  ?   how  the  devil  got  we  in  ? 
And  when  we  once  were  fairly  out,  and  when 

From  Saint  Bartholomew  we  have  saved  our  skin, 
To-morrow  'd  see  us  in  some  other  den, 

And  worse  off  than  we  hitherto  have  been ; 
Besides,  I  'm  hungry,  and  just  now  would  take, 
Like  Esau,  for  my  birthright,  a  beef-steak. 

XLV. 

tt  We  must  be  near  some  place  of  man's  abode ; 

For  the  old  negro's  confidence  in  creeping, 
With  his  two  captives,  by  so  queer  a  road, 

Shows  that  he  thinks  his  friends  have  not  been  sleeping; 
A  single  cry  would  bring  them  all  abroad  : 

'T  is  therefore  better  looking  before  leaping — 
And  there,  you  see,  this  turn  has  brought  us  through. 
By  Jove,  a  noble  palace  ! — lighted  too." 

XLVI. 

"t  was  indeed  a  wide  extensive  building 
Which  open'd  on  their  view,  and  o'er  the  front 

There  seem'd  to  be  besprent  a  deal  of  gilding 
And  various  hues,  as  is  the  Turkish  wont, — 

A  gaudy  taste  ;    for  they  are  little  skill'd  in 

The  arts  of  which  these  lands  were  once  the  font  : 

Each  villa  on  the  Bosphorus  looks  a  screen 

New  painted,  or  a  pretty  opera-scene. 


And  nearer  as  they  came,  a  genial  savour 

Of  certain  stews,  and  roast-meats,  and  pilaus, 
Things  which  in  hungry  mortals'  eyes  find  favour, 

Made  Juan  in  his  harsh  intentions  pause, 
And  put  himself  upon  his  good  behaviour : 

His  friend,  too,  adding  a  new  saving  clause, 
Said,  "  In  Heaven's  name  let 's  get  some  supper  now 

And  then  I  'm  with  you,  if  you  're  for  a  row." 

XLYIII. 

Some  talk  of  an  appeal  unto  some  passion, 
Some  to  men's  feelings,  others  to  their  reason  ; 

The  last  of  these  was  never  much  the  fashion, 
For  reason  thinks  all  reasoning  out  of  season. 

Some  speakers  whine,  and  others  lay  the  lash  on, 
But  more  or  less  continue  still  to  tease  on, 

With  arguments  according  to  their  "forte;" 

Bui  no  one  ever  dreams  of  being  short. 
3x2 


XLIX. 

But  I  digress :   of  all  appeals,— although 
I  grant  the  power  of  pathos,  and  of  gold, 

Of  beauty,  flattery,  threats,  a  shilling, — no 

Method 's  mor«%sure  at  moments  to  take  hokl 

Of  the  best  feelings  of  mankind,  which  grow 
More  tender,  as  we  every  day  behold, 

Than  that  all-softening,  o'erpowering  knell, 

The  tocsin  of  the  soul — the  dinner-bell. 

L.  , 

Turkey  contains  no  bells,  and  yet  men  dine 

And  Juan  and  his  friend,  albeit  they  heard 
No  Christian  knoll  to  table,  saw  no  line 

Of  lacqueys  usher  to  the  feast  prepared, 
Yet  smelt  roast-meat,  beheld  a  huge  fire  shine, 

And  cooks  in  motion  with  their  clean  arms  barcA 
And  gazed  around  them  to  the  left  and  right 
With  the  prophetic  eye  of  appetite. 

LI. 

And  giving  up  all  notions   of  resistance, 

They  foilow'd  close  behind  their  sabje  guide, 

Who  little  thought  that  his  own  crac*'d  existence 
Was   on  the  point  of  being  set  aside  : 

He  motion'd  them  to  stop  at  some  small  distance, 
And  knocking  at  the  gate,  't  was  open'd  mde, 

And  a  magnificent  large  hall  display'd 

The  Asian  pomp  of  Ottoman  parade,. 

LH. 

I  won't  describe  ;    description  is  my  forte, 
But  every  fool  describes  in  these  bright  days 

His  wond'rous  journey  to  some  foreign  court. 
And  spawns  his  quarto,  anu  demands  your  praise 

Death  to  his  publisher,  to  him  'tis  sport; 
While  nature,  tortured  twenty  thousand  ways, 

Resigns  herself  with  exemplary  patience 

To  guide-books,  rhymes,  tours,  sketches,  illustrations 

LIII. 

Along  this  hall,  and  up  and  down,  some,  squatted 

Upon  their  hams,  were  occupied  at  chess  ; 
Others  in  monosyllable  talk  chatted, 

And  some  seem'd  much  in  love  with  their  own  dress. 
And  divers  smoked  superb  pipes  decorated 

With  amber  mouths  of  greater  price  or  less ; 
And  several  strutted,  others  slept,  and  some 
Prepared  for  supper  with  a  glass  of  rum.* 

LIV. 
As  the  black  eunuch  enter'd  with  his  brace 

Of  purchased  infidels,  some  raised  their  eyes 
A  moment  without  slackening  from  their  pace ; 

But  those  who  sate  ne'er  stirr'd  in  any  wise : 
One  or  two  stared  the  captives  in  the  face, 

Just  as  one  views  a  horse  to  guess  his  price ; 
Some  nodded  to  the  negro  from  their  station, 
But  no  one  troubled  him  with  conversation. 

LV. 
He  leads  them  through  the  hall,  and,  without  stopping 

On  through   a  farther  range  of  goodly  rooms, 
Splendid  but  silent,  save  in  one,  where,  dropping, 

A  marble  fountain  echoes  through  the  glooms 
Of  night,  which  robe  the  chamber,  or  where  penning 

Some  female  head  most  curiously  piesumes 
To  thrust  its  black  eyes  through  the  door  01  .a 
As  wondering  what  the  devil  noise  that  is. 


CI4 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  V. 


LVI. 

Some  faint  lamps  gleaming  from  the  lofty  walls 
Gave  light  enough  to  hint  their  farther  way, 

But  not  enough  to  show  the  imperial  halls 
In  all  the  flashing  of  their  full  array  ; 

Perhaps  there 's  nothing — I  '11  not  say  appals, 
But  saddens  more  by  night  as  well  as  day, 

Than  an  enormous  room  without  a  soul 

To  break  the  lifeless  splendour  of  the  whole. 

LVII. 

Two  or  three  seem  so  litVle,  one  seems  nothing : 
In  deserts,  forests,  crowds,  or  by  the  shore, 

There  solitude,  we  know,  has  her  full  growth  in 
The  spots  which  were  her  realms  for  evermore: 

But  in  a  mighty  hall  or  gallery,  both  in 
More  modern  buildings  and  those  built  of  yore, 

A  kind  of  death  comes  o'er  us  all  alone, 

Seeing  what 's  meant  for  many  with  but  one. 

LVIII. 

A.  neat,  snug  study  on  a  winter's  night, 
A  book,  friend,  single  lady,  or  a  glass 

Of  claret,  sandwich,  and  an  appetite, 
Are  things  which  make  an  English  evening  pass  ; 

Though  certes  by  no  means  so  grand   a  sight 
As  is  a  theatre  lit  up  by  gas. 

I  pass  my  evenings  in  long  galleries  solely, 

A  nd  that 's  the  reason  I  'm  so  melancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas  !  man  makes  that  great  which  makes  him  little: 
I  grant  you  in  a  church  'tis  very  well : 

What  speaks  of  Heaven  should  by  no  means  be  brittle, 
But  strong  and  lasting,  till  no  tongue  can  toll 

Their  names  who  rear'd  it ;  but  huge  houses  fit  ill — 
And  huge  tombs  worse — mankind,  since  Adam  fell : 

Metliinks  the  story  of  the  tower  of  Babel 

Might  teach  them  this  much  better  than  I'm  able. 

LX. 

Babel  was  Nimrod's  hunting-seat,  and  then 
A  town  of  gardens,  walls,  and  wealth  amazing, 

Where  Nabuchadonoso'r,  king  of  men, 
Reign'd,  till  one  summer's  Jay  he  took  to  grazing, 

And  Daniel  tamed  the  lions  in  their  den, 
The  people's  awe  and  admiration  raising ; 

T  was  famous,  too,  for  Thisbe  and  for  Pyramus, 

And  the  calumniated  Queen  Semiramis. 
LXI. 


LXH. 

Bix  to  resume, — should  there  be  (what  may  not 
Be  in  these  days  ? )   some  infidels,  who  don't, 

Because  they  can't  find  out  the  very  spot 
Of  that  same    Babel,  or  because  they  won't 

lThou<;h  C.audius  Rich,  esquir  ,  some  bricks  has  get, 
And  written  laiely  two  memoirs  upon  't), 

Believe  the  Jews,  those  unbelievers,  who 

Must  bf  be.ievecl,  though  they  believe  not  you  : — 


LXIII. 

Yet  let  them  think  that  Horace  has  express'U 
Shortly  and  sweetly  the  masonic  folly 

Of  those,  forgetting  the  great  place  of  rest, 
Who  give  themselves  to  architecture  wholly 

We  know  where  things  and  men  must  end  at  .as* 
A  moral  (like  all  morals)  melancholy, 

And  "  Et  scpulcri  immemor  struis  domos" 

Shows  that  we  build  when  we  should  but  entomb  us 

LX1V. 

At  last  they  reach'd  a  quarter  most  retired, 
*Vhere  echo  woke  as  if  from  a  long  slumber : 

Though  full  of  all  things  which  could  be  desired, 
One  wonder'd  what  to  do  with  such  a  number 

Of  articles  which  nobody  required  ; 

Here  wealth  had  done  its  utmost  to  encumber 

With  furniture  an  exquisite  apartment, 

Which  puzzled  nature  much  to  know  what  art  meant. 

LXV. 

It  seem'd  however,  but  to  open  on 

A  range  or  suite  of  further  chambers,  which 

Might  lead  to  heaven  knows  where ;  but  in  th  ^  one 
The  moveables  were  prodigally  rich  ; 

Sofas  't  was  half  a  sin  to  sit  upon, 

So  costly  were  they  ;   carpets  every  stitch 

Of  workmanship  so  rare,  that  made  you  wish 

You  could  glide  o'er  them  like  a  golden  fish. 

LXVI. 

The  black,  however,  without  hardly  deigning 

A  glance  at  that  which  wrapt  the  slaves  in  wonaer. 

Trampled  what  they  scarce  trod  for  fear  of  staining, 
As  if  the  milky  way  their  feet  was  under 

With  all  its  stars  :    and  with  a  stretch  attaining 
A  certain  press  or  cupboard,  niched  in  yonder 

In  that  remote  recess  which  you  may  see — 

Or  if  you  don't,  the  fault  is  not  in  me  : 

LXVII. 

I  wish  to  be  perspicuous :    and  the  black, 

I  say,  unlocking  the  recess,  pull'd  forth 
A  quantity  of  clothes  fit  for  the  back 

Of  any  Mussulman,  whate'er  his  worth  ; 
And  of  variety  there  was  no  lack — 

And  yet,  though  I  have  said  there  was  no  dearth 
He  chose  himself  to  point  out  what  he  thought 
Most  proper  for  the  Christians  he  had  bought. 

LXVIII. 
The  suit  he  thought  most  suitable  to  each 

Was,  for  the  elder  and  the  stouter,  first 
A  Candiote  cloak,  which  to  the  knee  might  reach, 

And  trowsers  not  so  tight  that  they  would  burs' 
But  such  as  fit  an  Asiatic  breech ; 

A  shawl,  whose  folds  in  Cashmire  had  been  nursl 
Slippers  of  saffron,  dagger  rich  and  handy ; 
In  short,  all  things  which  form  a  Turkisk  dandy. 

LXIX. 
While  he  was  dressing,  Baba,  their  black  friend. 

Hinted  the  vast  advantages  which  they 
Might  probably  attain  both  in  the  end. 

If  they  would  but  pursue  the  proper  way 
Which  fortune  plainly  seem'd  to  recommend  ; 

And  then  he  added,  that  he  needs  must  say, 
"  'T  would  greatly  tend  to  better  their  condJ'  ton, 
If  they  would  condescend  to  circumcision. 


CM.YTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


LXX. 

"  For  his  own  part,  he  really  should  rejoice 

To  see  them  true  believers,  but  no  less 
Would  leave  his  proposition  to  their  choice." 

The  other,  thanking  him  for  this  excess 
Of  goodness  in  thus  leaving  them  a  voice 

In  such  a  trifle,  scarcely  could  express 
"  Sufficiently  (he  said)  his  approbation 
Of  ill  the  customs  of  this  polish' d  nation. 

LXXI. 
44  For  his  own  share — he  saw  but  small  objection 

To  so  respectable  an  ancient  rite, 
And  after  swallowing  down  a  slight  refection, 

For  which  he  own'd  a  present  appetite, 
He  doubted  not  a  few  hours  of  reflection 

Would  reconcile  him  to  the  business  quite."— 
14  Will  it  ?"  said  Juan,  sharply  ;  "  Strike  me  dead, 
Jlut  they  as  soon  shall  circumcise  my  head — 

LXXII. 
tc  Cut  ofFa  thousand  heads,  before " — "  Now  pray," 

Replied  the  other,  "  do  not  interrupt : 
You  put  me  out  in  what  I  had  to  say. 

Sir ! — as  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  have  supp'd, 
I  shall  perpend  if  your  proposals  may 

Be  such  as  I  can  properly  accept : 
Provided  always  your  great  goodness  still 
Remits  the  matter  to  our  own  free-wilL" 

LXXIII. 
Baba  eyed  Juan,  and  said  "  Be  so  good 

As  dress  yourself — "  and  pointed  out  a  suit 
In  which  a  princess  with  great  pleasure  would 

Array  her  limbs  ;  but  Juan  standing  mute, 
As  not  being  in  a  masquerading  mood, 

Gave  it  a  slight  kick  with  his  Christian  foot; 
And  when  the  old  negro  told  him  to  "  Get  ready," 
Replied,  "  Old  gentleman,  I  'm  not  a  lady." 

LXXIV. 
44  What  you  may  be,  I  neither  know  nor  care," 

Said  Baba,  "  but  pray  do  as  I  desire, 
I  have  no  more  time  nor  many  words  to  spare." 

44  At  least,"  said  Juan,  "  sure  I  may  inquire 
The  cause  of  this  odd  travesty?" — "Forbear," 

Said  Baba,  "  to  be  curious  :  't  will  transpire, 
No  doubt,  in  proper  place,  and  time,  and  season : 

have  no  authority  to  tell  the  reason." 

LXXV 
«  Then  if  I  do,"  said  Juan,  "  I  '11  be "  "  Hold !" 

Rejoin'd  the  negro,  "  pray  be  not  provoking ; 
This  spirit 's  well,  but  it  may  wax  too  bold, 

And  you  will  find  us  not  too  fond  of  joking." 
44  What,  sir,"  said  Juan,  44  shall  it  e'er  be  told 

That  I  unsex'd  my  dress  ?"  But  Baba,  stroking 
The  things  down,  said — "Incense  me,  and  I  call 
Those  who  will  leave  you  of  no  sex  at  all. 

LXXVI. 
•4 1  offer  you  a  handsome  suit  of  clothes : 

A  woman's,  true  ;   but  then  there  is  a  cause 
Why  you  should  wear  them." — "  What,  though   my 
soul  loathes 

The  effeminate  garb?" — Thus,  after  a  short  pause, 
SighM  .luan,  muttering  also  some  slight  oaths, 

••What  the  devil  shall  I  do  with  all  this  gauze?" 
Thus  he  profanely  term'd  the  finest  lace 
Which  «'cr  se'.  ofT  &  marriage-morning  face.  , 


LXXVII. 

And  then  he  swore ;  and,  sighing,  on  he  slipp  d 

A  pair  of  trowsers  of  flesh-colour'd  silk  ; 
Next  with  a  virgin  zone  he  was  equipp'd, 

Which  girt  a^light  chemise  as  white  as  milk  ; 
But,  tugging  on  his  petticoat,  he  tripp'd, 

Which — as  we  say — or  as  the  Scotch  say,  whilk 
(The  rhyme  obliges  me  to  this: — sometimes 
Kings  arc  not  more  imperative  than  rhymes) — 

LXXVIII. 
Whilk,  which  (or  what  you  please)  was  owing  to 

His  garment's  novelty,  and  his  being  awkward ; 
And  yet  at  last  he  managed  to  get  through 

His  toilet,  though  no  doubt  a  little  backward  ; 
The  negro  Baba  help'd  a  little  too, 

When  some  untoward  part  of  raiment  stuck  hard  j 
And,  wrestling  both  his  arms  into  a  gown, 
He  paused  and  took  a  survey  up  and  down. 

LXXIX. 

One  difficulty  still  remam'd, — his  hair 

Was  hardly  long  enough ;  but  Baba  found 
So  many  false  long  tresses  all  to  spare, 

That  soon  his  head  was  most  completely  etc .vn'd, 
After  the  manner  then  in  fashion  there; 

And  this  addition  with  such  gems  was  bound 
As  suited  the  ensemble  of  his  toilet, 
While  Baba  made  him  comb  his  head  and  oil  it. 

LXXX. 
And  now  being  femininely  all  array'd, 

With    some    small   aid   from   scissors,   paint,   and 

tweezers, 
He  look'd  in  almost  all  respects  a  maid, 

And  Baba  smilingly  exclaim'd,  "You  see,  si.s, 
A  perfect  transformation  here  display'd  ; 

And  now,  then,  you  must  come  along  with  me,  sirs, 
That  is — the  lady:" — clapping  his  hands  twice. 
Four  blacks  were  at  his  elbow  in  a  trice. 

LXXXI. 
44  You,  sir,"  said  Baba,  nodding  to  the  one, 

"Will  please  to  accompany  those  gentlemen 
To  supper ;  but  you,  worthy  Christian  nun, 

Will  follow  me  :  no  trifling,  sir :  for  when 
I  say  a  thing,  it  must  at  once  be  done. 

What  fear  you  ?  think  you  this  a  lion's  den  ? 
Why  'tis  a  palace,  where  the  truly  wise 
Anticipate  the  Prophet's  paradise. 

LXXXII. 
"  You  fool !   I  tell  you   no  one  means  you  harm.' 

41  So  much  the  better,"  Juan  said,  "for  them: 
Else  they  shall  feel  the  weight  of  this  my  arm, 

Which  is  not  quite  so  light  as  you  may  deem. 
I  yield  thus  far  ;   but  soon  will  break  the  charm, 

If  any  take  rne  for  that  which  I  seem ; 
So  that  I  vrust,  for  every  body's  sake, 
That  this  disguise  may  lead  to  no  mistake." 
LXXXIII. 

Blockhead  !   come  on,  and  see,"  quoth  Baba  ;   wnM 

Don  Juan,  turning  to  his  comrade,  who, 
Though  somewhat  grieved,  could  scarce  forbear  a  (*»»• 

Upon  the  metamorphosis  in  view, 

Farewell !"  they  mutually  exclaim'd  :   "  this  soil 

Seems  fertile  in  adventures  strange  and  new; 
One's  turn'd  half  Mussulman,  and  one  a  maid. 
By  this  old  black  enchanter's  unsought  aid." 


BYRUiS'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  V. 


LXXXIV. 

«•  t  arewell .     said  Juan ;  "  should  we  meet  no  more, 
I  svish  you  a  good  appetite." — "Farewell!" 

Replied  the  other ;  "  though  it  grieves  me  sore ; 
When  we  next  meet  we '11  have  a  tale  to  tell; 

We  needs  must  follow  when  Fate  puts  from  shore. 
Keep  your  good  name;  though  Eve  herself  once  fell." 

"Nay,"  quoth  the  maid,  "the  Sultan's  self  shan't  carry  me, 

Unless  his  highness  promises  to  marry  me." 

LXXXV. 

And  thus  they  parted,  each  by  separate  doors  ; 

Baba  led  Juan  onward,  room  by  room, 
Through  glittering  galleries  and  o'er  marble  floors, 

Till  a  gigantic  portal  through  the  gloom, 
Haughty  and  huge,  along  the  distance  towers  ; 

And  \\ afted  far  arose  a  rich  perfume : 
It  seem'J  as  though  they  came  upon  a  shrine, 
P  or  all  was  vast,  still,  fragrant,  and  divine. 

LXXXVI. 

The  giant  door  was  broad,  and  bright  and  high, 
Of  gilded  bronze,  and  carved  in  furious  guise ; 

Warriors  thereon  were  battling  furiously ; 

Here  stalks  the  victor,  there  the  vanquish'd  lies ; 

There  captives  led  in  triumph  droop  the  eye, 
And  in  perspective  many  a  squadron  flies : 

It  seems  the  work  of  times  before  the  line 

OI  Rome  transplanted  fell  with  Constantine. 

LXXXVII. 

This  massy  portal  stood  at  the  wide  close 
Of  a  huge  hall,  and  on  its  either  side 

Two  little  dwarfs,  the  least  you  could  suppose, 
Were  sate,  like  ugly  imps,  as  if  allied 

In  mockery  to  the  enormous  gate  which  rose 
O'er  them  in  almost  pyramidic  pride: 

The  gate  so  splendid  was  in  all  its  features,'' 

You  never  thought  about  these  little  creatures, 

LXXXVIII. 

Until  you  nearly  trod  on  them,  and  then 
You  started  back  in  horror  to  survey 

The  wondrous  hideousness  of  those  small  men, 
Whose  colour  was  not  black,  nor  white,  nor  gray, 

But  an  extraneous  mixture,  \vhich  no  pen 
Can  trace,  although  perhaps  the  pencil  may ; 

They  were  misshapen  pigmies,  deaf  and  dumb — 

Monsters,  who  cost  a  no  less  monstrous  sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their  duty  was — for  they  were  strong,  and  though 
They  look'd  so  little,  did  strong  things  at  times — 

Tr  ope  this  door,  which  they  could  really  do, 
The  hinges  being  as  smooth  as  Rogers'  rhymes  ; 

Ami  now  and  then,  with  tough  strings  of  the  bow, 
As  is  the  custom  of  those  eastern  climes, 

To  give  some  rebel  Pacha  a  cravat ; 

For  mutes  are  generally  used  for  that. 

xc. 

Phey  spoke  by  signs — that  is,  not  spoke  at  all : 
And.  looking  like  two  incubi,  they  glared 

As  Baba  with  his  fingers  made  them  fall 
To  heaving  back  the  portal  folds  :   it  scared 

luan  a  moment,  as  this  pair  so  small 
With  shrinking  serpent  optics  on  him  stared ; 

It  was  as  if  their  little  looks  could  poison 

>>c  fascinate  whome'er  they  fix'd  their  eyes  on. 


XCI. 

Before  they  enter'd,  Baba  paused  to  hint 

To  Juan  some  slight  lessons  as  his  guide : 
"  If  you  could  just  contrive,"  he  said,  "to  sUnt 

That  somewhat  manly  majesty  of  stride, 
'T  would  be  as  well,  and — (though  there  's  not  much 
in  't)— 

To  swing  a  little  less  from  side  to  side, 
Which  has  at  times  an  aspect  of  the  oddest ; 
And  also,  could  you  look  »  little  modest, 

XCII. 
'T  would  be  convenient ;  for  these  mutes  have  eyes 

Like  needles,  which  might  pierce  those  petticoats ; 
And  if  they  should  discover  your  disguise, 

You  know  how  near  us  the  deep  Bosphorus  floats  , 
And  you  and  I  mav  chance,  ere  morning  rise, 

To  find  our  way  to  Marmora  without  boats, 
Stitch'd  up  in  sacks — a  mode  of  navigation 
A  good  deal  practised  here  upon  occasion." 

XCIII. 

With  this  encouragement,  he  led  the  way 

Into  a  room  still  nobler  than  the  last ; 
A  rich  confusion  form'd  a  disarray 

In  such  sort,  that  the  eye  along  it  cast 
Could  hardly  carry  any  thing  away, 

Object  on  object  flash'd  so  bright  and  fast ; 
A  dazzling  mass  of  gems,  and  gold  nd  glitter, 
Magnificently  mingled  in  a  litter. 

XCIV. 
Wealth  had  done  wonders — taste  not  mucn ;  such  things 

Occur  in  orient  palaces,  and  even 
In  the  more  chasten'd  domes  of  western  kings, 

(Of  which  I  've  also  seen  some  six  or  seven), 
Where  I  can't  say  or  gold  or  diamond  flings 

Much  lustre,  there  is  much  to  be  forgiven ; 
Groups  of  bad  statues,  tables,  chairs,  and  pictures, 
On  which  I  cannot  pause  to  make  my  strictures. 

xcv. 

In  this  imperial  hall,  at  distance  lay 

Under  a  canopy,  and  there  reclined 
Quite  in  a  confidential  queenly  way, 

A  lady.     Baba  stopp'd,  and  kneeling,  sigu'd 
To  Juan,  who,  though  not  much  used  to  pray, 

Knelt  down  by  instinct,  wondering  in  his  mind 
What  all  this  meant :  while  Baba  bow'd  and  bended 
His  head,  until  the  ceremony  ended. 

XCVI. 
The  lady,  rising  up  with   such  an  air 

As  Venus  rose  with  from  the  wave,  on  them 
Bent  like  an  antelope  a  Paphian  pair 

Of  eyes,  which  put  out  each  surrounding  gem : 
And,  raising  up  an  arm  as  moonlight  fair, 

She  sign'd  to  Baba,  who  first  kiss'd  the  hem 
Of  her  deep-purple  robe,  and,  speaking  low, 
Pointed  to  Juan,  who  remain'd  below. 

XCVII. 
Her  presence  was  as  lofty  as  her  state  ; 

Her  beauty  of  that  overpowering  kind, 
Whose  force  description  only  would  abate : 

I  'd  rather  leave  it  much  to  your  own  mind, 
Than  lessen  it  by  what  I  could  relate 

Of  forms  and  features;  it  would  si  like  you  Wind, 
Could  I  do  justice  to  the  full  detail ; 
So,  luckily  for  both,  my  phrases  fail. 


CANTO   V. 


DON  JUAN. 


xcvra. 

This  much  however  I  may  add — her  years 

W«re  ripe,  they  might  make  six  and  twenty  springs, 

But  there  are  forms  which  Time  to  touch  forbears, 
And  turns  aside  his  scythe  to  vulgar  things, 

Such  as  was  Mary's,  Queen  of  Scots  ;  true — tears 
And  love  destroy  ;    and  sapping  sorrow  wrings 

Charms  from  the  charmer — yet  some  never  grow 

Ugly  ;   for  instance — Ninon  de  1'Enclos. 

XCIX. 

She  spake  some  words  to  her  attendants,  who 
Composed  a  choir  of  girls,  ten  or  a  dozen, 

And  were  all  clad  alike ;   like  Juan,  too, 
Who  wore  their  uniform,  by  Baba  chosen : 

They  form'd  a  very  nymph-like  looking  crew, 

Which  might  have  call'd  Diana's  chorus  "  cousin," 

As  far  as  outward  show  may  correspond ; 

I  won't  be  bail  for  any  thing  beyond. 

C. 

They  bow'd  obeisance  and  withdrew,  retiring 

But  not  by  the  same  door  through  which  came  in 

Baba  and  Juan,  which  last  stood  admiring, 
At  some  small  distance,  all  he  saw  within  ™ 

This  strange  saloon,  much  fitted  for  inspiring 

Marvel  and  praise:  for  both  or  none  things  win; 

And  I  must  say  I  ne'er  could  see  the  very 

Great  happiness  of  the  "  Nil  admirari." 

CI. 

"Not  to  admire  is  all  the  art  I  know, 

(  Plain  truth,  dear  Murray,  needs  few  flowers  of  speech  ) 
To  make  men  happy,  or  to  keep  them  sc ;" 

(So  take  it  in  the  very  words  of  Creech.) 
Thus  Horaca  wrote,  we  all  know,  long  ago ; 

And  thus  Pope  quotes  the  precept,  to  re-teach 
From  his  translation  ;    but  had  none  admired,- 
Would  Pope  have  sung,  or  Horace  been  inspired  ? 

cn. 

Baba,  when  all  the  damsels  were  withdrawn, 
Motion'd  to  Juan  to  approach,  and  then 

A  second  time  desired  him  to  kneel  down 
And  kiss  the  lady's  foot,  which  maxim  when 

He  heard  repeated,  Juan  with  a  frown 
Drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  again, 

And  said  "  It  grieved  him,  but  he  could  not  stoop 

To  any  shoe,  unless  it  shod  the  Pope." 

cm. 

Baba,  indignant  at  this  ill-timed  pride, 

Made  fierce  remonstrances,  and  then  a  threat 
He  mutter'd  (but  the  last  was  given  aside) 

About  a  bowstring — quite  in  vain  ;   not  yet 
Would  Juan  stoop,  though  'twere  to  Mahomet's  bride: 

There 's  nothing  in  the  world  like  etiquette, 
In  kingly  chambers  or  imperial  halls, 
As  also  at  the  race  and  county  balls. 

CIV. 
lie  stood  like  Atlas,  with  a  world  of  words 

About  J«is  ears,  and  nathless  would  not  bend ; 
The  blooa  of  all  his  line's  Castilian  lorJs 

Boil'd  in  his  veins,  and  rather  than  descend 
To  stain  his  pedigree,  a  thousand  swords 

A  thousand  times  of  him  had  made  an  end ; 
4t  length  perceiving  the  "foot"  could  not  stand, 
Baoa  proposed  that  he  should  kiss  the  hand. 
83 


CV. 

Here  was  an  honourable  compromise, 

A  half-way  house  of  diplomatic  rest, 
Where  they  might  meet  in  much  more-peaceful  guise., 

And  Juan  now  his  willingness  express'd 
To  use  all  fit  and'  proper  courtesies, 

Adding,  that  this,  was  commonest  and  best. 
For  through  the  South  the  custom  still  commands 
The  gentleman  to  kiss  the  lady's  hands. 

CVI. 

And  he  advanced,  though  with  but  a  bad  grace, 
Though  on  more  thorough-bred*  or  fairer  finger* 

No  lips  ere  left  their  transitory  trace : 

On  such  as  these  the  lip  too  fondly  lingers,  f 

And  for  one  kiss  would  fain  imprint  a  brace, 
As  you  will  see,  if  she  you  love  will  bring  hers 

In  contact ;  and  sometimes  even  a  fair  stranger's 

An  almost  twelvemonth's  constancy  endangers. 

CVII. 

The  lady  eyed  him  o'er  and  o'er,  and  bade 
Baba  retire,  which  he  obey'd  in  style, 

As  if  well  used  to  the  retreating  trade ; 

And  taking  hints  in  good  part  all  the  while. 

He  whisper'd  Juan  not  to  be  afraid, 

And,  looking  on  him  with  a  sort  of  smile, 

Took  leave  with  such  a  face  of  satisfaction, 

As  good  men  wear  who  have  done  a  virtuous  action. 

cvra. 

When  he  was  gone,  there  was  a  sudden  change  : 
I  know  not  what  might  be  the  lady's  thought, 

But  o'er  her  bright  brow  flash'd  a  tumult  strange, 
And  into  her  clear  cheek  the  blood  was  brought, 

Blood-red  as  sunset  summer  ciouds  which  range 
The  verge  of  heaven  ;  and  in  her  large  eyes  wrought 

A  mixture  of  sensations  might  be  scann'd, 

Of  half  voluptuousness  and  half  command. 

CIX. 

Her  form  had  all  the  softness  of  her  sex, 
Her  features  all  the  sweetness  of  the  devil, 

When  he  put  on  the  cherub  to  perplex 
Eve,  and  paved  (God  knows  how)  the  road  to  evil, 

The  sun  himself  was  scarce  more  free  from  specks 
Than  she  from  aught  at  which  the  eye  could  cavil , 

Yet  somehow  there  was  something  somewhere  wanting. 

As  if  she  rather  order'd  than  was  granting. — 

ex. 

Something  imperial,  or  imperious,  threw 
A  chain  o'er  all  she  did  ;   that  is,  a  chain 

Was  thrown,  as  't  were,  about  the  neck  of  you,  - 
And  rapture's  self  will  seem  almost  a  pain 

With  aught  which  looks  like  Despotism  in  view : 
Our  souls  at  least  are  free,  and  't  is  in  vain 

We  would  against  them  make  the  flesh  obty— 

The  spirit  in  the  end  will  have  its  way. 

CXI. 

Her  very  smile  was  haugnty,  though  so  sweei , 

Her  very  nod  was  not  an  inclination  ; 
There  was  a  self-will  even  in  her  small  feet 

As  though  they  were  quite  conscious  of  her  stalton 
They  trod  as  upon  necks  ;  and  to  complete 

Her  state  (it  is  the  custom  of  her  nation). 
A  poniard  deck'd  her  girdle,  as  the  sign 
She  was  a  sultan's  bride  (thank  Heaven,  not  nmiet. 


.13 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CA.\TO  V 


cxn. 

••To  hear  and  tt  obey"  had  been  from  bkth 

The  law  of  aB  around  her;   to  fulfil 
AM  phantasiss' which  yielded  joy  or  mirth. 

Had  been  her  slaves'  chief  pleasure,  as  her  win ; 
H?r  blnon  was  high,  her  becjily  scaiix  of  earth : 

Judge,  then,  if  her  caprices  e'er  stood  still; 
Had  she  but  been  a  Christian,  I  *ve  a  notion 
We  should  have  found  out  the  "  perpetual  motion." 

cxm. 

Whate'er  she  saw  and  coveted  was  brought; 

Whate'er  she  did  mat  see,  if  she  supposed 
It  might  be  seen,  with  dngence  was  sought, 

Jsfcd  when*!  was  found  straightway  the  bargain  dosed: 
There  was  no  end  unto  the  dungs  she  bought, 

Nor  to  the  trouble  which  her  fancies  caused ; 
Yet  even  her  tyranny  had  such  a  grace. 
The  women  pardoa'd  aD  except  her  face. 

cnv. 

Juan,  the  latest  of  her  whims,  had  caught 
Her  eye  m  passing  on  his  way  to  saie ; 

She  orderM  him  directly  to  be  bought, 
And  Baba,  who  bad  ne'er  been  know*  to  fad 

In  any  kind  of  mischief  to  be  wrought, 

Had  his  instructions  where  and  how  to  deal : 

Sh«  bad  no  prudence,  but  be  had ;  and  this 

Explains  the  garb  which  Juan  took  amiss. 

CXT. 

His  youth  and  features  favoured  the  disguise, 
A«l  should  yon  ask  how  she,  a  sultan's  bride, 

Could  risk  or  compass  such  strange  phantasies, 
This  I  must  leave  sultanas  to  decide: 

Emperors  are  only  husbands  m  wives    eyes, 

And  kings  and  consorts  oft  are  mystified,  , 

As  we  may  ascertain  wmh  due  precision. 

Some  by  experience,  others  by  tradition. 

CXVL 

But  to  the  main  point,  where  w«  bar*  been  tending: — 

She  now  conceived  aD  difficulties  past, 
And  deem'd  herself  extremely  condescending 

When  being  made  her  property  at  last, 
Without  mme  preface,  m  her  brae  eyes  blending 

Passion  and  power,  a  glance  oa  him  she  cast, 
And  merely  saying,  " Christian,  canst  tbou  love?" 
Conceived  mat  phrase  was  quke  enough  to  move. 

CXVIL 
And  so  k  was.  M  proper  time  and  plare ; 

But  Juan,  who  had  still  his  mind  o'ernowing 
Wka  Haidee's  isle  and  soft  Ionian  face, 

Fefc  the  warm  blood,  which  in  his  face  was  glowing, 
Bush  back  upon  his  heart,  which  fiBM  apace, 

And  left  his  cheeks  as  pale  as  snow-drops  blowing : 
These  words  went  through  his  soul  Eke  Arab  spears, 
Sn  that  he  spoke  not,  but  burst  into  tears. 

CXVIIL 
T«  was  a  good  deal  shock'd ;  not  shock'd  at  tears, 

for  women  shed  and  use  them  at  their  liking; 
But  there  k  something  when  man's  eye  appears 

Wet,sdU  more  disagreeable  and  striking: 
•  mmanY  'ear -drop  metis,  a  man  half  sears, 

I  jke  molten  lead,  as  if  you  thrust  a  pice  in 
IL«  heart,  to  force  k  out,  for  (to  be  shorter) 
TV  Jhtr.  'to  a  refieC  to  us  a  torture. 


CXIX. 

And  she  would  have  consoled,  but  knew  not  how ; 

Having  no  equals,  nothing  which  had  e'er 
Infected  her  with  sympathy  till  now, 

And  never  ha  ring  dreamt  what  *t  was  to  bear 
Aught  of  a  serious  so.Towing  kind,  although 

There  might  arise  some  pouting  petty  care 
To  cross  her  brow,  she  wonder'd  how  so  near 
Her  eyes  another's  eye  could  shed  a  tear. 

cxx. 

But  nature  teaches  more  than  power  can  spoil, 
And  when  a  ttrong  although  a  strange  sensalio 

Moves — female  hearts  are  such  a  genial  soil 
For  kinder  feelings,  whatsoe'er  their  nation, 

They  naturally  pour  the  "  wine  and  oil," 
Samaritans  in  every  situation  ; 

And  thus  Gulbeyaz,  though  she  knew  not  why 

Fek  an  odd  glistening  moisture  in  her  eye. 

CXXI. 
But  lean  most  stop  like  all  things  else;    and  sooa 

Juan,  who  for  an  instant  had  been  moved 
To  such  a  sorrow  by  the  intrusive  tone 

>f  one  who  dared  to  ask  if  "  be  Kad  loved," 
CalPd  back  the  stoic  to  his  eyes,  which  shone 

Bright  with  the  very  weakness  he  reproved ; 
And  although  sensitive  to  beauty,  he 
Felt  most  indignant  stifl  at  not  being  free. 

CXXII. 
Gulbeyar,  for  the  first  time  in  her  days, 

Was  much  embarrass'd,  never  hating  met 
In  al  her  life  with  aught  save  prayers  and  pnjw  j 

And  as  she  also  risk'd  her  life  to  get 
Him  whom  she  meant  to  tutor  in  love's  ways 

Into  a  comfortable  t£te-a-t<?te, 
To  lose  the  hour  would  make  her  quite  a  martyr, 
And  they  had  wasted  now  almost  a  quarter. 

cxxm. 

I  also  would  suggest  the  fitting  time, 

To  gentlemen  in  any  such  Eke  case. 
That  is  to  say — in  a  meridian  clime ; 

Wkh  us  there  is  more  law  given  to  the  case, 
But  here  a  small  delay  forms  a  great  crime : 

So  recollect  that  the  extremest  grace 
b  just  two  minutes  for  your  declaration — 
A  mum  cut  more  would  hurt  your  reputation. 

CXX1V. 
Juan's  was  good ;  and  might  have  been  still  bet  let 

But  he  bad  got  Haidea  mm  ffis  head  : 
However  strange,  he  could  not  yet  forget  her, 

Which  made  him  seem  exceedingly  ill-bred. 
Gulbeyaz,  who  kmk'd  on  him  as  her  debtor 

For  having  had  him  to  the  palace  led, 
Began  to  blush  up  to  the  eyes,  and  then 
Grow  deadly  pale,  and  then  bhnh  back  again. 

cxxv. 

At  length,  in  an  imperia.  way,  she  laid 

Her  hand  on  his,  and  bending  on  his  eves, 

Which  needed  not  an  empire  to  persuade, 
Look'd  into  his  for  love,  where  none  replies : 

Her  brow  grew  black,  bnt  she  would  not  upbraid, 
That  being  the  last  thing  a  proud  woman  tries 

She  rose,  and,  pausing  one  chaste  moment,  threw 

Herself  upon  his  breast   awi  there  ->e  grew 


v. 


DON  JUAN. 


XXVL 

Tlu  was  aa  awkward  test,  as  Joan  found, 
But  he  was  cteeTd  by  sorrow,  wrath,  awl  phde; 

With  gentle  force  her  while  aims  he 
And  seated  her  afl  droopmg  by  his  side. 


And  looking  coldly  in  her  face,  he  cried, 
••The  prisonM  eagle  wffl  not  pair,  nor  I 
Serve  a  suhana's  sensual  phantasy. 

cxxvn. 

"Thou  ask'st  if  lean  tore?  be  uns  the  proof 
How  much  I  fame  fared    that  I  lore  not  wee/ 

In  this  rile  garb,  the  distaff's  web  and  woof 
Were  fitter  for  me:  love  is  for  the  free! 

I  am  not  dazzled  by  ami  splendid  root 

Wbate'er  thy  power,  and  great  it  if  ram  to  hi 

Heads  bow,  knees  bend,  eyes  watch  around  a  throne, 

And  hands  obey    our  beans  are  stil  our  own." 

CXXVHL 
This  was  a  truth  to  us  extremely  trite. 

Not  so  to  her  who  ne'er  had  beard  such  things; 
She  deem'd  her  least  command  must  yield  lini^t. 

Earth  being  only  made  for  queens  and  kings. 
If  hearts  lay  on  the  left  side  or  the  right 

She  hardly  knew,  to  such  perfection  brings 
Legitimacy  its  bom  votaries,  when 
Aware  of  their  due  royal  rights  o'er  men. 

CXXIX. 
Besides,  as  has  been  said,  she  was  so  fair 

As  eren  in  a  much  humbler  lot  had  made 
A  kingdom  or  conumnu  anywhere; 

And  abo,  as  may  be  presumed,  she  bid 
Some  stress  upon  those  rhirmi  which  seldom  are 

By  the  possessors  thrown  into  the  shade ; — 
She  thought  hers  gare  a  double  "right  dmue," 
And  half  of  that  opinion's  abo  mine. 

CXXX. 

Remember,  or  (if  you  cannot)  •"••j-^ 

Ye !  who  bare  kept  your  chastity  when  young, 

Whie  some  more  desperate  dowager  has  been  waging 
Lore  with  you,  and  been  in  the  dog-days  stung 

By  roar  refusal,  recollect  her  lining' 
Or  recollect  all  that  was  said  or  sung 

On  such  a  subject;  then  suppose  the  face 

Of  a  young  downright  beauty  in  this  case. 

CXXXL 
Suppose,  but  you  already  hare  supposed, 

The  spouse  of  Potiphar,  the  Lady  Booby, 
Phedra,and  afl  which  story  has  disclosed 

Of  good  examples;  pity  that  so  few  by 
Poets  and  prirale  tutors  are  exposed. 

To  educate— ye  youth  of  Europe— you  by  ! 
But  when  you  hare  supposed  she  few  we  know, 
Ton  can't  suppose  GUberax'  angry  brow. 

CXXXIL 

V  tigress  robb'd  of  young,  a  lioness, 

Or  any  interesting  beast  of  prey, 
\re  «un:!es  at  hand  for  the  distress 

Of  lames  who  cacnot  hare  their  own  way; 
tut  though  my  turn  «iB  not  be  served  with  less, 

These  don't  express  one  half  what  I  should  say: 
r  or  waat  M  mnlmg  yoiuu,  ones,  few  or  many, 
To  co**Sc  «l»«t»  ihesr  hopes  of  having  any? 


CXXXQL 
The  lore  aC  offspring's  nature's  general  law, 

From  tigresses  and  cubs  to  ducks  and  duekhap , 
There's  nothing IM.U  the  beak  or  aim*  the  daw 

Like  an  mrasioa  of  their  babes  and  cuekunp. 
And  afl  who  hare  seen  a  human  nursery,  saw 

How  mothers  lore  then-  children's  son***  and  chuck 

This  strong  extreme  effect  (to  tire  no  longer 
Tour  piricncc)  shows  the  cause  must  stiB  be  strongs* 

C  XXXIV. 
If  I  said  fire  flash'd  from  GuJberaz'  eyes, 

T  were  nothing — far  her  eyes  flash'd  always  fire 
Or  said  her  cheeks  assumed  the  deepest  dyes, 

I  should  bat  bring  disgrace  upon  the  dyer. 
So  supernatural  was  her  passion's  rise; 

For  ne'er  til  now  she  knew  a  cbeck'd  desire: 
Even  yon  who  know  what  a  eheek'd  woman  K, 
(Enough,  God  knows!)  would  much  fal  short  of  uns. 

cxxxv. 

Her  rage  was  but  a  mmute's,  and  'twas  we! — 

A  moment's  more  had  shun  her;  but  the  wfcsk 
It  bated, 'twas  like  a  short  glimpse  of  hefl: 

Nought's  more  snbome  than  energetic  hie. 
Though  horrible  to  see  yet  grand  to  id. 

Like  ocean  warring  'gainst  a  rocky  isle; 

nd  the  deep  passions  flashing  through  her  farm 
Blade  her  a  beautiful  embodied  storm. 

CXXXVL 
A  vulgar  tempest  'twere  to  a  Typhoon 

To  match  a  cnmmnu  fury  with  her  rage, 

nd  yet  she  did  not  want  to  reach  the  moon. 

Lie  moderate  Hotspur  on  the  immi»ul  page; 
Her  anger  pkch'd  into  a  lower  tune, 

Perhaps  die  fault  of  her  soft  sex  and  age — 
Her  wish  was  hot  to  « km,  km,  k*V»  ike  Lear's, 
And  then  her  thirst  of  blood  was  oaench*d  in  team 

CXXXV1L 
A  storm  it  raged,  and  hke  the  storm  it  passed, 

Pass'd  winwnt  words— «  fact  she  conU  not  speak  , 
And  then  her  sex's 

But  now  it  AWd  m  natural  and  fast, 

As  water  through  an  umipaiied  leak. 
For  she  fek  bmnbled— and  lunil.li  . 
Is  inmri'imrt  good  far  people  in  her  station. 

CXXXVllL 
It  teaches  them  that  they  are  flesh  and  blood, 

It  abo  gently  hints  to  them  that  others, 
AMhough  of  day,  are  not  yet  mute  of  mud  ; 

That  urns  and  pipkins  are  but  fragile  brothers, 
And  works  of  the  name  pottery,  had  or  good. 

Though  not  afl  bom  of  the  same  sires  and  saotha* 
It  teaches— Heaven  knows  only  what  it  tenches, 

t.  sometimes  k  may  mend,  and  often  reache*. 

CXXXCL. 
Her  first  thought  was  to  cut  off  Juan's  head: 

Her  second,  to  eat  oaiyhk    nrimimiance; 
Her  third,  to  ask  him  where  he  had  been  ored, 

Her  fourth,  to  ratty  him  mto  if  pint  inn.; 
Her  fifth,  to  caD  her  maids  and  go  to  bed; 

Her  sixth,  to  stab  hersstf; 
The  huh  to  Baba;— but  her  grand 
Was  to  sit  drwn  again,  and  err  of  < 


521, 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  V 


CXL. 

tihe  thought  to  stal)  herself,  but  then  she  had 
The  dagger  close  at  hand,  which  made  it  awkward ; 

For  eastern  stays  are  little  made  to  pad, 
So  that  a  poniard  pierces  if  't  is  stuck  hard ; 

She  thought  of  killing  Juan — but,  poor  lad ! 

Though  he  deserved  it  well  for  being  so  backward, 

The  cutting  off  his  head  was  not  the  art 

Most  likely  to  attain  her  aim — his  heart. 

CXLI. 

Juan  was  moved:  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
To  be  impaled,  or  quarter'd  as  a  dish 

For  dogs,  or  to  be  slain  with  pangs  refined, 
Or  thrown  to  lions,  or  made  baits  for  fish, 

And  thus  heroically  stood  resign'd, 
Rather  than  sin — except  to  his  own  wish: 

But  all  his  great  preparatives  for  dying 

Dissolved  like  snow  before  a  woman  crying. 

CXLII. 

As  through  his  palms  Bob  Acres'  valour  oozed,    . 

So  Juan's  virtue  ebb'd,  I  know  not  howj 
And  first  he  wonder'd  why  he  had  refused ; 

And  then,  if  matters  could  be  made  up  now ; 
And  next  his  savage  virtue  he  accused, 

Just  as  a  friar  may  accuse  his  vow, 
Or  as  a  dame  repents  her  of  her  oath, 
Which  mostly  ends  in  some  small  breach  of  both. 

CXLIII. 

So  he  began  to  stammer  some  excuses ; 

But  words  are  not  enough  in  such  a  matter, 
Although  you  borrow'd  all  that  e'er  the  muses 

Have  sung,  or  even  a  dandy's  dandiest  chatter, 
Or  all  the  figures  Castlereagh  abuses; 

Just  as  a  languid  smile  began  to  natter 
His  peace  was  making,  but  before  he  ventured 
Further,  old  Baba  rather  briskly  enter'd. 

CXLIV. 

»'  Bride  of  the  Sun !  and  Sister  of  the  Moon  !" 
('T  was  thus  he  spake)  "  and  Empress  of  the  Earth ! 

Whose  frown  would  put  the  spheres  all  out  of  tune, 
Whose  smile  makes  all  the  planets  dance  with  mirth, 

Your  slave  brings  tidings — he  hopes  not  too  soon — 
Which  your  sublime  attention  may  be  worth ; 

The  Sun  himself  has  sent  me  like  a  ray 

To  hint  that  he  is  coming  up  this  way."' 

CXLV. 

"  Is  it,"  exclaim'd  Gulbeyaz,  "  as  you  say  ? 

I  wish  to  heaven  he  would  not  shine  till  morning ! 
B  Jt  bid  my  women  form  the  milky  way. 

Hence,  my  old  comet !  give  the  stars  due  warning — 
And,  Christian !  mingle  with  them  as  you  may ; 

And,  as  you  'd  have  me  pardon  your  past  scorning — " 
/lore  they  were  interrupted  by  a  humming 
Sound,  and  men  by  a  cry,  "the  Sultan's  coming!" 

CXLVI. 
firs*,  came  her  damsels,  a  decorous  file, 

And  then  his  highness'  eunuchs,  black  and  whits , 
Hie  tram  might  reach  a  quarter  of  a  mile: 

His  TCajesty  was  always  so  polite 
(Vs  to  announce  his  visits  a  long  while 

Before  he  came,  especially  at  night; 
Fnr  hoing  the  last  wife  of  the  emperor, 
She  wa*  of  course  the  favourite  of  the  four. 


CXLVII. 

His  highness  was  a  man  of  solemn  port, 

Shawl'd  to  the  nose,  and  bearded  to  the  eye?, 

Snatch'd  from  a  prison  to  preside  at  court, 
His  lately  bowstrung  brother  caused  his  rise ; 

He  was  as  good  a  sovereign  of  the  sort 
As  any  mention'd  in  the  histories 

Of  Cantemir,  or  Knolles,  where  few  shine 

Save  Solyman,  the  glory  of  their  line.9 

CXLVIII. 

He  went  to  mosque  in  state,  and  said  his  prayers 
With  more  than  "oriental  scrupulosity;" 

He  left  to  his  vizier  all  state  affairs, 
And  show'd  but  little  royal  curiosity: 

I  know  not  if  he  had  domestic  cares — 
No  process  proved  connubial  animosity; 

Four  wives  and  twice  five  hundred  maids,  unseen 

Were  ruled  as  calmly  as  a  Christian  queen. 

CXLIX. 

If  now  and  then  there  happen'd  a  slight  slip, 
Little  was  heard  of  criminal  or  crime ; 

The  story  scarcely  pass'd  a  single  lip — 
The  sack  and  sea  had  settled  all  in  time. 

From  which  the  secret  nobody  could  rip: 
The  public  knew  no  more  than  does  this  ihvme 

No  scandals  made  the  daily  press  a  curse — 

Morals  were  better,  and  the  fish  no  worse. 

CL. 

He  saw  with  his  own  eyes  the  moon  was  round, 
Was  also  certain  that  the  earth  was  square, 

Because  ne  had  journey'd  fifty  miles,  and  found 
No  sign  that  it  was  circular  any  where ; 

His  empire  also  was  without  a  bound: 
'T  is  true,  a  little  troubled  here  and   there. 

By  rebel  pachas,  and  encroaching  gi»ouw, 

But  then  they  never  came  to  "  thi.  Seven  Towet » v  • 

CLI. 

Except  in  shape  of  envoys,  who  were  sent 
To  lodge  there  when  a  v.-ai  broke  out,  accordinj 

To  the  true  law  of  tial.or.d,  which  ne'er  meant 
Those  scoundrels  wno  have  never  had  a  sword  in 

Their  dirty  diplow»avic  hands,  to  vent 
Their  spleen  <»»  waking  strife,  and  safely  wording 

Their  lies,  y-'yt  despatches,  without  risk  or 

The  singeing  of  a  single  inky  whisker. 

CLII. 

He  had  fitiy  daughters  and  four  dozen  sons, 
Of  wkom  all  such  as  came  of  age  were  stow'd, 

The  fo/tner  in  a  palace,  where  like  nuns 

Trw.j  lived  till  some  bashaw  was  sent  abroad, 
hflti  she,  whose  turn  it  was,  wedded  at  once, 
Sometimes  at  six  years  old — though  this  seems  odd, 
F  is  true  ;  the  reason  is,  that  the  bashaw 

Must  make  a  present  to  his  sire  in  law. 
CLIII. 

His  sons  were  kept  in  orison  till  they  grew 
Of  years  to  fill  a  bowstring  or  the  throne, 

One  or  the  other,  but  which  of  the  two 
Could  yet  be  known  unto  the  fates  alone ; 

Meantime  the  education  they  went  through 

Was  princely,  as  the  proofs  have  always  shown 

So  that  the  heir  apparent  still  was  found 

No  less  deserving  to  be  hang'd  than  crown'd. 


CANTO   V. 


DON  JUAN. 


CLIV. 
His  majesty  saluted  his  fourth  spouse 

With  all  the  ceremonies  of  his  rank, 
Who  clear'd  her  sparkling  eyes  and  smooth'd  her  brows, 

As  suits  a  matron  who  has  play'd  a  prank  : 
These  must  seem  doubly  mindful  of  their  vows, 

To  save  the  credit  of  their  breaking  bank ; 
To  no  men  are  such  cordial  greetings  given 
As  those  whose  wives  have  made  them  fit  for  heaven. 

CLV. 
His  highness  cast  around  his  great  black  eyes, 

And  looking,  as  he  always  look'd,  perceived 
Juan  amongst  the  damsels  in  disguise, 

At  which  he  seem'd  no  whit  surprised,  nor  grieved, 
But  just  remark'd  with  air  sedate  and  wise, 

While  still  a  fluttering  sigh  Gulbeyaz  heaved, 
"  I  see  you  've  bought  another  girl ;   't  is  pity 
That  a  mere  Christian  should  be  half  so  pretty." 

CLVI. 
This  compliment,  which  drew  all  eyes  upon 

The  new-bought  virgin,  made  her  blush  and  shake. 
Her  comrades,  also,  thought  themselves  undone : 

Oh,  Mahomet !  that  his  majesty  should  take 
feuuh  notice  of  a  giaour,  while  scarce  to  one 

Of  them  his  lips  imperial  ever  spake ! 
There  was  a  general  whisper,  toss,  and  wriggle, 
But  etiquette  forbade  them  all  to  giggle. 

CLVII. 
The  Turks  do  well  to  shut — at  least,  sometimes — 

The  women  up — because,  in  sad  reality, 
1  heir  chastity  in  these  unhappy  climes 

Is  not  a  thing  of  that  astringent  quality, 
Which  in  the  north  prevents  precocious  crimes, 

And  makes  our  snow  less  pure  than  our  morality ; 
The  sun,  which  yearly  melts  the  polar  ice, 
Has  quite  the  contrary  effect  on  vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus  far  our  chronicle ;  and  now  we  pause, 
Though  not  for  want  of  matter ;  but  't  is  time, 

According  to  the  ancient  epic  laws, 
To  slacken  sail,  and  anchor  with  our  rhyme. 

Let  this  fifth  canto  meet  with  due  applause, 
The  sixth  shall  have  a  touch  of  the  sublime ; 

Meanwhile,  as  Homer  sometimes  sleeps,  perhaps 

fou  '11  pardon  to  my  muse  a  few  short  naps. 


PREFACE 

TO 

CANTOS  VI.  VII.  VIII. 


THE  details  of  the  siege  of  Ismail  in  two  of  the  fol- 
•owing  cantos  (t.  e.  the  7th  and  eighth)  are  taken  from  a 
Wench  work,  entitled  "Histoire  de  laNouvelle  Russie." 
Some  of  the  incidents  attributed  to  Don  Juan  really 
••ccurred,  particularly  the  circumstance  of  his  saving 
»he  infant,  which  was  the  actual  case  of  the  late  Due 
de  Richelieu,  then  a  young  volunteer  in  the  Russian 
service,  and  afterwards  the  founder  and  benefactor  of 
Odessa,  where  his  name  and  memory  can  never  cease 
10  be  regarded  with  reverence.  In  the  course  of  these 
3F 


cantos,  a  stanza  or  two  will  be  found  relative  to  tha 
late  Marquis  of  Londonderry,  but  written  some  time 
before  his  decease.  Had  that  person's  oligarchy  die* 
with  him,  they  wjpuijd  have  been  suppressed  ;  as  it  is,  1 
am  aware  of  nothing  in  the  manner  of  his  death  or  of 
his  life  to  prevent  the  free  expression  of  the  opinions 
of  all  whom  his  whole  existence  was  consumed  in  en- 
deavouring to  enslave.  That  he  was  an  amiable  man 
in  private  life,  may  or  may  not  be  true ;  but  with  this 
the  public  have  nothing  to  do :  and  as  to  lamenting  his 
death,  it  will  be  time  enough  when  Ireland  has  ceased 
to  mourn  for  his  birth.  As  a  minister,  I,  for  one  of 
millions,  looked  upon  him  as  the  most  despotic  in  in- 
tention, and  the  weakest  in  intellect,  that  ever  tyran- 
nized over  a  country.  It  is  the  first  time  indeed  since 
the  Normans,  that  England  has  been  insulted  by  a  min- 
ister (at  least)  who  could  not  speak  English,  and  that 
Parliament  permitted  itself  to  be  dictated  to  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Mrs.  Malaprop. 

Of  the  manner  of  his  death  little  need  be  said,  ex- 
cept that  if  a  poor  radical,  such  as  Waddington  or 
Watson,  had  cut  his  throat,  he  would  have  been  buried 
in  a  cross-road,  with  the  usual  appurtenances  of  the 
stake  and  mallet.  But  the  minister  was  an  elegant 
lunatic — a  sentimental  suicide — he  merely  cut  the 
"carotid  artery"  (blessings  on  their  learning !) — and 
lo!  the  pageant,  and  the  abbey,  and  "Uie  syllables 
of  dolour  yelled  forth"  by  the  newspapers — and  the 
harangue  of  the  coroner  in  an  eulogy  over  the  bleed- 
ing body  of  the  deceased — (an  Antony  worthy  of  such 
a  Caesar) — and  the  nauseous  and  atrocious  cant  of  a 
degraded  crew  of  conspirators  against  all  that  is  sincere 
or  honourable.  In  his  death  he  was  necessarily  one  of 
two  things  by  the  law — a  felon  or  a  madman — and  in 
either  case  no  great  subject  for  panegyric. '  In  his  life 
he  was — what  all  the  world  knows,  and  half  of  it  will  fee/ 
for  years  to  come,  unless  his  death  prove  a  "moral  les- 
son "  to  the  surviving  Sejani 2  of  Europe.  It  may  at  leas* 
serve  as  some  consolation  to  the  nations,  that  their  op- 
pressors are  not  happy,  and  in  some  instances  judge  so 
justly  of  their  own  actions  as  to  anticipate  the  sentence 
of  mankind. — Let  us  hear  no  more  of  this  man,  and  let 
Ireland  remove  the  ashes  of  her  Grattan  from  the  sanc- 
tuary of  Westminster.  Shall  the  Patriot  of  Humanity 
repose  by  the  Werther  of  Politics ! ! ! 

With  regard  to  the  objections  which  have  been  made 
on  another  score  to  the  already  published  cantos  of 
this  poem,  I  shall  content  myself  with  two  quotations 
from  Voltaire: — 

"  La  pudeur  s'est  enfuie  dps  cceurs,  et  s'est  refugiee 
sur  les  levres." 

"  Plus  les  moeurs  sont  depravees,  plus  les  expressions 
deviennent  mesurees ;  on  croit  regagner  en  langage  ce 
qu'on  a  perdu  en  vertu." 

This  is  the  real  fact,  as  applicable  to  the  degraded  and 
hypocritical  mass  which  leavens  the  present  English 
generation,  and  is  the  only  answer  they  deserve.  The 
hackneyed  and  lavished  title  of  blasphemer — which 


1  I  eay  by  the  law  of  the  land — the  laws  of  humanity  judze 
more  gently ;  but  as  the  legitimates  have  always  the  taw  in 
their  mouths,  let  them  here  make  the  most  of  it. 

2  From  this  number  must  beexcepted  Canning.  Canning  is* 
genius,  almost  a  universal  one :  an  orator,  a  wit,  a  poet,  a 
statesman  ;  and  no  man  of  talent  can  long  pursue  the  path  o 
his  late  predecessor.  Lord  C.    If  ever  man  saved  his  count* 
Canning  can ;  but  will  he  ?  1,  for  one.  hope  §o. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VI 


with  rulioil,  ibernt,  jacobin,  reformer,  etc.,  are  the 
changes  which  the  hirelings  are  daily  ringing  in  the 
ears  of  those  who  will  listen — should  be  welcome  to 
all  who  recollect  on  aham  it  was  originally  bestowed. 
Socrates  and  Jesus  Christ  were  put  to  death  publicly 
as  blasphemers,  and  so  have  been  and  may  be  many 
who  dare  to  oppose  ihc  most  notorious  abuses  of  the 
name  of  God  and  the  mind  of  man.  But  persecution 
is  not  refutation,  no-  even  triumph  :  the  wretched  infi- 
del, as  he  is  called,  is  probably  happier  in  his  prison 
than  the  proudest  ol  his  assailants.  With  his  opinions 
I  have  nothing  to  do — they  may  be  right  or  wrong — 
but  he  has  suffered  for  them,  and  that  very  suffering 
for  conscience  sake  will  make  more  proselytes  to  Deism 
than  the  example  of  heterodox1  prelates  to  Christianity, 
suicide  statesmen  (o  oppression,  or  overpensioned  hom- 
icides to  the  impious  alliance  which  insults  the  world 
with  the  name  of  "  Holy !"  I  have  no  wish  to  trample 
on  the  dishonoured  or  the  dead  ;  but  it  would  be  well 
if  the  adherents  to  the  classes  from  whence  those  per- 
sons sprung  should  abate  a  little  of  the  cant  which  is  the 
crying  sin  of  this  double-dealing  and  false-speaking  time 
of  selfish  spoilers,  and — but  enough  for  the  present. 

1  When  Lord  Sandwich  said  "  he  did  not  know  the  differ- 
ence between  orthodoxy  and  heterodoxy."— Warburton,  the 
bishop,  replied,  "  Orthodoxy,  my  lord,  is  mv  dozy,  and  hete- 
rodoxy is  another  man's  doxy."— A  prelate  of  the  present  day 
has  discovered,  it  seems,  a  third  kind  of  doxy,  which  hag  not 
greatly  exalted  in  the  eyes  of  the  elect,  that  which  Bentham 
calls  "Church-of-Englandism.' 


CANTO  VI. 


i. 

*  THERE  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood" — you  know  the  rest, 
And  most  of  us  have  found  it,  now  and  then  ; 

At  least  we  think  so,  though  but  few  have  guess'd 
The  moment,  till  too  late  to  come  again. 

But  no  doubt  every  thing  is  for  the  best— 
Of  which  the  surest  sign  is  in  the  end  : 
When  things  are  at  the  worst,  they  sometimes  mend. 

II. 
There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  women 

"Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads" — God  knows 

where : 
Those  navigators  must  be  able  seamen 

Whose  charts  lay  down  its  currents  to  a  hair; 
Not  all  the  reveries  of  Jacob  Behmen 

With  its  strange  whirls  and  eddies  can  compare : 
Men,  with  their  heads,  reflect  on  this  and  that — 
But  women,  with  their  hearts,  on  Heaven  knows  what ! 

HI. 
4nd  yet  a  headlong,  headstrong,  downright  she, 

Young,  beautiful,  and  daring — who  would  risk 
%  throne,  the  world,  the  universe,  to  be 

Beloved  in  her  own  way,  and  rather  whisk 
The  stars  fron.  out  the  sky,  than  not  be  free 

As  are  the  billows  when  the  breeze  is  brisk — 
Though  such  a  she's«ade»u  (if  that  there  be  one), 
Vrt  sho  would  make  full  many  a  Manichean. 


IV. 

Thrones,  worlds,  et  cetera,  are  so  oft  upset 

By  commonest  ambition,  that  when  passion 
O'erthrows  the  same,  we  readily  forget, 

Or  at  the  least  forgive,  the  loving  rash  one. 
If  Antony  be  well  remember'd  yet, 

'T  is  not  his  conquests  keep  his  name  in  fashion 
But  Actium,  lost  for  Cleopatra's  eyes, 
Outbalance  all  the  Caesars'  victories. 

V. 
He  died  at  fifty  for  a  queen  of  forty ; 

I  wish  their  years  had  been  fifteen  and  twenty, 
For  then  wealth,  kingdoms,  worlds,  are  but  a  sport — 1 

Remember  when,  though  I  had  no  great  plenty 
Of  worlds  to  lose,  yet  still,  to  pay  my  court,  I 

Gave  what  I  had — a  heart :  as  the  world  went,  1 
Gave  what  was  worth  a  world  ;  for  worlds  could  nevel 
Restore  me  those  pure  feelings,  gone  for  ever, 

VI. 
'T  was  the  boy's  "  mite,"  and,  like  the  "  widow's,"  maj 

Perhaps  be  weigh'd  hereafter,  if  not  now ; 
But  whether  such  things  do,  or  do  not,  weigh, 

All  who  have  loved,  or  love,  will  still  allow 
Life  has  nought  like  it.  God  is  love,  they  say, 

And  Love 's  a  god,  or  was  before  the  brow 
Of  Earth  was  wrinkled  by  the  sins  and  tears 
Of— but  chronology  best  knows  the  years. 

VII. 
We  left  our  hero  and  third  heroine  in 

A  kind  of  state  more  awkward  than  uncommon. 
For  gentlemen  must  sometimes  risk  their  skin 

For  that  sad  tempter,  a  forbidden  woman  : 
Sultans  too  much  abhor  this  sort  of  sin, 

And  don't  agree  at  all  with  the  wise  Roman, 
Heroic,  stoic  Cato,  the  sententious, 
Who  lent  his  lady  to  his  friend  Hortensius. 

VIII. 
I  know  Gulbeyaz  was  extremely  wrong ; 

I  own  .t,  I  deplore  it,  I  condemn  it ; 
But  I  detest  all  fiction,  oven  in  song, 

And  so  must  tell  the  truth,  howe'er  you  blame  it. 
Her  reason  being  weak,  her  passions  strong, 

She  thought  that  her  lord's  heart  (even  could  she  claim 

it) 

Was  scarce  enough ;  for  he  had  fifty-nine 
Years,  and  a  fifteen-hundredth  concubine. 

IX. 
I  am  not,  like  Cassio,  "  an  arithmetician," 

But  by  "the  bookish  theoric"  it  appears, 
If  'tis  summ'd  up  with  feminine  precision, 

That,  adding  to  the  account  his  Highness'  years, 
The  fair  Sultana  err'd  from  inanition  ; 

For,  were  the  Sultan  just  to  all  his  dears, 
She  could  but  claim  the  fifteen-hundredth  part 
Of  what  should  be  monopoly — the  heart. 

X. 
It  is  observed  that  ladies  are  litigious 

Upon  all  legal  objects  of  possession, 
And  not  the  least  so  when  they  are  religious, 

Which  doubles  what  they  think  of  the  transgression 
With  suits  and  prosecution  they  besiege  us, 

As  the  tribunals  show  through  n.any  a  session, 
When  they  suspect  that  anv  one  goes  shares 
In  that  to  which  the  law  i>i\xes  them  sole  heJr» 


CANTO  VI. 


DON  JUAN. 


XI. 

Now,  if  this  holds  go«»d  in  a  Christian  land, 

•   The  heathens  also,  though  with  lesser  latitude, 

Are  apt  to  carry  things  with  a  high  hand, 

And  take  what  kings  call  "  an  imposing  attitude  ;" 
And  for  their  rights  connubial  make  a  stand, 

When  their  liege  husbands  treat  them  with  ingratitude; 
And  as  four  wives  must  have  quadruple  claims, 
The  Tigris  has  its  jealousies  like  Thames. 

XII. 
Gulbeyaz  was  the  fourth,  and  (as  I  said) 

The  favourite  ;   but  what 's.  favour  amongst  four  ? 
Polygamy  may  well  be  held  in  dread, 

Not  only  as  a  sin,  but  as  a  tore  ; 
Most  wise  men,  with  one  moderate  woman  wed, 

Will  scarcely  find  philosophy  for  more; 
And  all   (except  Mahometans)   forbear 
To  make  the  nuptial  couch  a  "  Bed  of  Ware." 

XIII. 

His  highness,  the  sublimest  of  mankind,— 
So  -styled  according  to  the  usual  forms 

Of  every  monarch,  till  they  are  consigned 
To  those  sad  hungry  jacobins,  the  worms, 

Wlio  on  the  very  loftiest  kings  have  dined, — 
His  highness  gazed  upon  Gulbeyaz'  charms, 

Expecting  all  the  welcome  of  a  lover, 

(A  "  Highland  welcome  "  all  the  wide  world  over). 

XIV. 

Now  here  we  should  distinguish  ;   for  howc'er 
Kisses,  sweet  words,  embraces,  and  all  that, 

May  look  like  what  is — neither  here  nor  there : 
They  are  put  on  as  easily  as  a  hat, 

Or  rather  bonnet,  which  the  fair  sex  wear, 
Trimm'd  either  heads  or  hearts  to  decorate, 

Which  form  an  ornament,  but  no  more  part 

Of  heads,  than  their  caresses  of  the  heart. 

XV. 

A  slight  blush,  a  soft  tremor,  a  calm  kind 

Of  gentle  feminine  delight,  and  shown 
More  in  the  eyelids  than  the  eyes,  resign'd 

Rather  to  hide  what  pleases  most  unknown, 
Are  the  best  tokens  (to  a  modest  mind) 

Of  love,  when  seated  on  his  loveliest  throne, 
A  sincere  woman's  breast, — for  over  warm 
Or  over  cold  annihilates  the  charm. 

XVI. 
For  over  warmth,  if  false,  is  worse  than  truth  ; 

If  true,  't  is  no  great  lease  of  its  own  fire ; 
Foi  no  one,  save  in  very  early  youth, 

Would  like  (I  think)  to  trust  all  to  desire, 
Which  is  but  a  precarious  bond,  in  sooth, 

And  apt  to  be  transferr'd  to  the  first  buyer 
At  a  sad  discount :  while  your  over  chilly 
Women,  on  t'  other  hand,  seem  somewhat  silly.  — 

XVII. 
That  is,  we  cannot  pardon  their  bad  taste, 

For  so  it  seems  to  lovers  swift  or  slow, 
Who  fain  would  have  a  mutual  flame  confess'd, 

And  see  a  sentimental  passion  glow, 
Even  were  St.  Francis'  paramour  their  guest, 

In  his  Monastic  Concubine  of  Snow ; — 
In  short,  the  maxim  for  the  amorous  tribe  is 
Horatian,  "  Medio  tu  tutissimus  ibis." 


XVIII. 

The  "  tu"  's  too  much, — but  let  e.  stanu — me  verse 
Requires  it,  that  's  to  say,  the  English  rhyira. 

And  not  the  pB9»  of  old  Hexameters  ; 
But,  after  all,  there 's  neither  tune  nor  time 

n  the  last  line,  which  cannot  well  be  worse, 
And  was  thrust  in  to  close  the  octave's  chime  • 

!  own  no  prosody  can  ever  rate  it 

As  a  rule,  but  Truth  may,  if  you  translate  it. 

XIX. 

f  fair  Gulbeyaz  overdid  her  part, 

I  know  not — it  succeeded,  and  success 
s  much  in  most  things,  not  less  in  the  heart 

Than  other  articles  of  female  dress. 
Self-love'  in  man  too  beats  all  female  art ; 

They  lie,  we  lie,  all  lie,  but  love  no  less : 
And  no  one  virtue  yet,  except  starvation, 

ould  stop  that  worst  of  vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We  leave  this  royal  couple  to  repose  ; 

A  bed  is  not  a  throne,  and  they  may  sleep, 
Whate'er  their  dreams  be,  if  of  joys  or  woes  ; 

Yet  disappointed  joys  are  woes  as  deep 
As  any  man's  clay  mixture  undergoes. 

Our  least  of  sorrows  are  such  as  w6  weep ; 
'T  is  the  vile  daily  drop  on  drop  which  wears 
The  soul  out  (like  the  stone)  with  petty  cares. 

XXI. 

A  scolding  wife,  a  sullen  son,  a  bill 
To  pay,  unpaid,  protested,  or  discounted 

At  a  per-centage ;   a  child  cross,  dog  ill, 
A  favourite  horse  fallen  lame  just  as  he 's  mounted 

A  bad  old  woman  making  a  worse  will, 
Which  leaves  you  minus  of  the  cash  you  counted 

As  certain  ; — these  are  paltry  things,  and  yet 

I  've  rarely  seen  the  man  they  did  not  fret. 

XXII. 

I  'm  a  philosopher  ;   confound  them  all ! 

Bills,  beasts,  and  men,  and — no  !  not  womankind  ! 
With  one  good  hearty  curse  I  vent  my  gall, 

And  then  my  stoicism  leaves  nought  behind 
Which  it  can  either  pain  or  evil  call, 

And  I  can  give  my  whole  soul  up  to  mind  ; 
Though  what  is  soul  or  mind,  their  birth  or  growU. 
Is  more  than  I  know — the  deuce  take  them  botlu 

XXIII. 
So  now  all  things  are  d — n'd,  one  feels  at  ease, 

As  after  reading  Athanasius'  curse, 
Which  doth  your  true  believer  so  much  please : 

I  doubt  if  any  now  could  make  it  worse 
O'er  his  worst  enemy  when  at  his  knees, 

'T  is  so  sententious,  positive,  and  terse, 
And  decorates  the  book  of  Common  Prayei-, 
As  doth  a  rainbow  the  just  clearing  air. 

XXIV. 
Gulbeyaz  and  her  lord  were  sleeping,  or 

At  least  one  of  them — Oh  the  heavy  night ! 
When  wicked  wives  who  love  some  bachelor 

Lie  down  in  dudgeon  to  sigh  for  the  light 
Of  the  gray  morning,  and  look  vainly  for 

Its  twinkle  through  the  lattice  dusky  quite. 
To  toss,  to  tumble,  doze,  revive,  and  quake, 
Lest  their  too  lawful  be*1 'fellow  should  wakx. 


621 


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CANTO  VI 


XXV. 

These  arc  beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven, 

Also  beneath  the  canopy  of  beds, 
Fjur-posted  and  silk-curtain'd,  which  are  given 

For  rich  men  and  their  brides  to  lay  their  heads 
Upon,  in  sheets  white  as  what  bards  call  "driven 

Snow."    Well!  'tis  all  hap-hazard  when  one  weds. 
Gulbeyaz  was  an  empress,  but  had  been 
Perhaps  as  wretched  if  a  peasant's  quean. 

XXVI. 

Don  Juan,  in  his  feminine  disguise, 
With  all  the  damsels  in  their  long  array, 

Had  bow'd  themselves  before  the  imperial  eyes, 
And,  at  the  usual  signal,  ta'en  their  way 

Back  to  their  chambers,  those  long  galleries 
In  the  seraglio,  where  the  ladies  lay 

Their  delicate  limbs ;    a  thousand  bosoms  there 

Beating  for  love,  as  the  caged  bird's  for  air. 

XXVII. 

I  love  the  sex,  and  sometimes  would  reverse 
The  tyrant's  wish  "  that  mankind  only  had 

One  neck,  which  he  with  one  fell  stroke  might  pierce :" 
My  wish  is  quite  as  wide,  but  not  so  bad, 

And  much  more  tender  on  the  whole  than  fierce : 
It  being  (not  now),  but  only  while  a  lad) 

That  womankind  had  but  one  rosy  mouth, 

To  kiss  them  all  at  once  from  North  to  South. 

XXVIII. 

Oh  enviable  Briareus  !    with  thy  hands 

And  heads,  if  thou  hadst  all  things  multiplied 

In  such  proportion  ! — But  my  muse  withstands 
The  giant  thought  of  being  a  Titan's  bride, 

Or  travelling  in  Patagonian  lands  ; 
So  let  us  back  to  Lilliput,  and  guide 

Our  hero  through  the  labyrinth  of  love 

In  which  we  left  him  several  lines  above. 

XXIX. 

He  went  forth  with  the  lovely  Odalisques, 

At  the  given  signal  join'd  to  their  array ; 
And  though  he  certainly  ran  many  risks, 

Yet  he  could  not  at  times  keep  by  the  way, 
(Although  the  consequences  of  such  frisks 

Are  worse  than  the  worst  damages  men  pay 
In  moral  England,  where  the  thing's  a  tax), 
From  ogling  all  their  charms  from  breasts  to  backs. 

XXX. 
&ill  he  forgot  not  his  disguise : — along 

The  galleries  from  room  to  room  they  walk'd, 
A  virgin-like  and  edifying  throng, 

By  eunuchs  flank'd  ;  while  at  their  head  there  stalk'd 
A  dame  who  kept  up  discipline  among 

The  female  ranks,  so  that  none  stirr'd  or  talk'd 
Without  her  sanction  on  their  she-parades : 
Her  title  was  "the  Mother  of  the  Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whether  she  was  a  "  mother,"  I  know  not, 
Or  whether  they  were  "maids"  who  call'd  her  mother; 

But  this  is  her  seraglio  title,  got 
1  know  not  how,  but  good  as  any  other ; 

Bo  Cantemir  can  tell  you,  or  De  Tott: 
Her  office  was  to  keep  aloof  or  smother 

All  bad  propensities  in  fifteen  hundred 

V ruing  women,  and  correct  them  when  they  blunder'd. , 


XXXII. 
A  goodly  sinecure,  no  doubt !   but  made 

More  easy  by  the  absence  of  all  men 
Except  his  Majesty,  who,  with  her  aid, 

And  guards,  and  bolts,  and  walls,  and  now  and  then 
A  slight  example,  just  to  cast  a  shade 

Along  the  rest,  contrived  to  keep  this  den 
Of  beauties  cool  as  an  Italian  convent, 
Where  all  the  passions  have,  alas !  but  one  vent. 

XXXIII. 

And  what  is  that  ?  Devotion,  doubtless — how 
Could  you  ask  such  a  question  ? — but  we  will 

Continue.     As  I  said,  this  goodly  row 
Of  ladies  of  all  countries  at  the  will 

Of  one  good  man,  with  stately  march  and  slow, 
Like  water-lilies  floating  down  a  rill, 

Or  rather  lake — for  rills  do  not  run  slowly, — 

Paced  on  most  maiden-like  and  melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But  when  they  reach'd  their  own  apartments,  there, 
Like  birds,  or  boys,  or  bedlamites  broke  loose, 

Waves  at  spring-tide,  or  women  any  where 

When  freed  from  bonds  (which  are  of  no  great  use 

After  all),  or  like  Irish  at  a  fair, 

Their  guards  being  gone,  and,  as  it  were,  a  true* 

Establish'd  between  them  and  bondage,  they 

Began  to  sing,  dance,  chatter,  smile,  and  play. 

XXXV. 

Their  talk  of  course  ran  most  on  the  new  comer, 
Her  shape,  her  air,  her  hair,  her  every  tnmg : 

Some  thought  her  dress  did  not  so  mucn  become  her 
Or  wonder'd  at  her  ears  without  a  ring ; 

Some  said  her  years  were  getting  nigh  their  summer 
Others  contended  they  were  but  in  spring ; 

Some  thought  her  rather  masculine  in  hfjght, 

While  others  wish'd  that  she  had  been  so  quite. 

XXXVI. 

But  no  one  doubted,  on  the  whole,  that  she 
Was  what  her  dress  bespoke,  a  damsel  fair, 

And  fresh,  and  "  beautiful  exceedingly," 
Who  with  the  brightest  Georgians  might  compare. 

They  wonder'd  how  Gulbeyaz  too  could  be 
So  silly  as  to  buy  slaves  who  might  share 

(If  that  his  Highness  wearied  of  his  bride) 

Her  throne  and  power,  and  every  thing  beside. 

XXXVII. 
But  what  was  strangest  in  this  virgin  crew, 

Although  her  beauty  was  enough  to  vex, 
After  the  first  investigating  view, 

They  all  found  out  as  few,  or  fewer,  specks. 
In  the  fair  form  of  their  companion  new 

Than  is  the  custom  of  the  gentle  sex, 
When  they  survey,  with  Christian  eyes  or  Heathen. 
In  a  new  face  "the  ugliest  creature  breathing." 

-     XXXVIII. 
And  yet  they  had  their  little  jealousies, 

Like  all  the  rest ;   but  upon  this  occasion. 
Whether  there  are  such  things  as  sympathies 

Without  our  knowledge  or  our   approbation. 
Although  they  could  not  see  through  his  disguiso, 

All  felt  a  soft  kind  of  concatenation. 
Like  magnetism,  or  devilism,  or  what 
You  please — we  will  not  quarrel  ahojt  .not . 


CANTO  VI. 


DON  JUAN. 


625 


XXXIX. 

But  certain  't  is,  they  all  felt  for  their  new 

Companion  something  newer  still,  as  'tweie 
A  sentimental  friendship  through  and  through, 

Extremely  pure,  which  made  them  ail  concur 
In  wishing  her  their  sister,  save  a  few  • 

Who  wish'd  they  had  a  brother  just  like  her, 
Whom,  if  they  were  at  home  in  sweet  Circassia, 
They  would  prefer  to  Padisha  or  Pacha. 

XL. 
Of  those  who  had  most  genius  for  this  sort 

Of  sentimental  friendship,  there  were  three, 
Lolah,  Katinka,  and  Dudu  ; — in  short, 

(To  save  description),  fair  as  fair  can  be 
Were  they,  according  to  the  best  report, 

Though  differing  in  stature  and  degree, 
And  clime  and  time,  and  country  and  complexion  ; 
They  all  alike  admired  their  new  connexion. 

XLI. 
Lolah  was  dusk  as  India,  and  as  warm; 

Katinka  was  a  Georgian,  white  and  red, 
With  great  blue  eyes,  a  lovely  hand  and  arm, 

And  feet  so  small  they  scarce  seem'd  made  to  tread, 
But  rather  skim  the  earth;  while  Dudu's  form 

Look'd  more  adapted  to  be  put  to  bed, 
Being  somewhat  large  and  languishing  and  lazy, 
Yet  of  a  beauty  that  would  drive  you  crazy. 

XLII. 
A  kind  of  sleepy  Venus  seem'd  Dudu, 

Yet  very  fit  to  "  murder  sleep"  in  those 
Who  gazed  upon  her  cheek's  transcendent  hue, 

Her  Attic  forehead,  and  her  Phidian  nose : 
Few  angles  were  there  in  her  form,  'tis  true, 

Thinner  she  might  have  been,  and  yet  scarce  lose  ; 
Yet,  after  all,  't  would  puzzle  to  say  where 
It  would  not  spoil  some  separate  charm  to  pare. 

XLIII. 
She  was  not  violently  lively,  but 

Stole  on  your  spirit  like  a  May-day  breaking  ; 
Her  eyes  were  not  too  sparkling,  yet,  half  shut, 

They  put  beholders  in  a  tender  taking ; 
She  look'd  (this  simile's  quite  new)  just  cut 

From  marble,  like  Pygmalion's  statue  waking, 
The  mortal  and  the  marble  still  at  strife, 
And  timidly  expanding  into  life. 

XLIV. 
Lolah  demanded  the  new  damsel's  name — 

"  Juanna." — Well,  a  pretty  name  enough. 
Katinka  ask'd  her  also  whence  she  came — 

"From  Spain. " — "But  where  is  Spain?" — "Don't  ask 

such  stuff, 
Nor  show  your  Georgian  ignorance — for  shame!" 

Said  Lolah,  with  an  accent  rather  rough, 
To  poor  Katinka :  "  Spain  's  an  island  near 
Morocco,  betwixt  Egypt  and  Tangier." 

XLV. 
Duau  said  nothing,  but  sat  down  beside 

Juanna,  playing  with  her  veil  or  hair ; 
And,  looking  at  her  stedfastly,  she  sigh'd, 

As  if  she  pitied  her  for  being  there, 
\  pretty  stranger,  without  friend  or  guide, 

And  all  abash'd  too  at  the  general  stare 
Which  welcomes  hapless  strangers  in   all  places, 
With  kind  remarks  upon  their  mien  and  faces. 
84 


XLVI. 

But  here  the  Mother  of  the  Maids  drew  near 
With  "  Ladies,  it  is  time  to  go  to  rest. 

I  'm  puzzled  vd^t  to  do  with  you,  my  dear," 
She  added  to  Juanna,  their  new -guest: 

"  Your  coming  has  been  unexpected  here, 
And  every  couch  is  occupied ;  you  had  best 

Partake  of  mine ;  but  by  to-morrow  early 

We  will  have  all  things  settled  for  you  fairly." 

XLVII. 

Here  Lolah  interposed — "  Mamma,  you  know 

You  don't  sleep  soundly,  and  I  cannot  bear 
That  any  body  should  disturb  you  ;  so 

I  '11  take  Juanna  ;  we  're  a  slenderer  pair 
Thrw  you  would  make  the  half  of; — don't  say  no, 

And  I  of  your  young  charge  will  take  due  care  * 
But  here  Katinka  interfered  and  said, 

"  She  also  had  compassion  and  a  bed." 

XLVIII. 
"  Besides,  I  hate  to  sleep  alone,"  quoth  she. 

The  matron  frown'd:  "Why  so?" — "For  fear  o 

ghosts," 
Replied  Katinka ;  "I  am  sure  I  see 

A  phantom  upon  each  of  the  four  posts ; 
And  then  I  have  the  worst  dreams  that  can  be, 

Of  Guebres,  Giaours,  and  Ginns,  and  Gouls  in  hosts," 
The  dame  replied,  "  Between  your  dreams  and  you, 
I  fear  Juanna's  dreams  would  be  but  few. 

XLIX. 

"  You,  Lolah,  most  continue  still  to  lie 

Alone,  for  reasons  which  don't  matter  ;  you 
The  same,  Katinka,  until  by  and  by ; 

And  I  shall  place  Juanna  with  Dudu, 
Who 's  quiet,  inoffensive,  silent,  shy, 

And  will  not  toss  and  chatter  the  night  through. 
What  say  you,  child  ?" — Dudu  said  nothing,  as 
Her  talents  were  of  the  more  silent  class  ; 

L. 
But  she  rose  up  and  kiss'd  the  matron's  brow 

Between  the  eyes,  and  Lolah  on  both  cheeks, 
Katinka  too ;  and  with  a  gentle  bow 

(Curtsies  are  neither  used  by  Turks  nor  Greeks) 
She  took  Juanna  by  the  hand  to  show 

Their  place  of  rest,  and  left  to  both  their  piques, 
The  others  pouting  at  the  matron's  preference 
Of  Dudu,  though  they  held  their  tongues  from  deference 

LI. 
It  was  a  spacious  chamber  (Oda  is 

The  Turkish  title),  and  ranged  round  the  wall 
Were  couches,  toilets — and  much  more  than  this 

I  might  describe,  as  I  have  seen  it  all, 
But  it  suffices — little  was  amiss  ; 

'T  was  on  the  whole  a  nobly  furnish'd  hall, 
With  all  things  ladies  want,  save  one  or  two, 
And  even  those  were  nearer  than  they  knew. 

LII. 
Dudu,  as  has  been  said,  was  a  sweet  creature. 

Not  very  dashing,  but  extremely  winning, 
With  the  most  regulated  charms  of  feature, 

Which  painters  cannot  catch  like  faces  smniMf 
Against  proportion — the  wild  strokes  of  nature 

Which  they  hit  off  at  once  in  the  beginning. 
Full  of  expression,  right  or  wrong,  that  strike, 
And,  pleasing  or  unpleasing,  still  are  like. 


626 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO   VI 


LIII. 


But  the  was  a.    >>ft  landscape  of  mild  earth, 
Where  sL  w»  <  liartnony  and  calm  and  quiet, 

Luxuriant,  budding  ;  cheerful  without  mirth, 

Which,  if  not  happiness,  is  much  more  nigh  it 

Than  are  your  mighty  passions  and  so  forth, 

Which  some  call  "  the  sublime : "  I  wish  they  'd  try  it : 

I  've  seen  your  stormy  seas  and  stormy  women, 

And  pity  lovers  rather  more  than  seamen. 

LIV. 

But  she  %vas  pensive  more  than  melancholy, 
And  serious  more  than  pensive,  and  serene, 

It  may  be,  more  than  either — not  unholy 

Her  thoughts,  at  least  till  now,  appear  to  have  been. 

The  strangest  thing  was,  beauteous,  she  was  wholly 
Unconscious,  albeit  turn'd  of  quick  seventeen, 

That  she  was  fair,  or  dark,  or  short,  or  tall ; 

She  never  thought  about  herself  at  all. 

LV. 

And  therefore  was  she  kind  and  gentle  as 

The  Age  of  Gold  (when  gold  was  yet  unknown, 

By  which  its  nomenclature  came  to  pass  ; 
Thus  most  appropriately  has  been  shown 

*  Lucus  a  non  Lucendo,"  not  what  UXM, 

But  what  was  not ;  a  sort  of  style  that 's  grown 

Extremely  common  in  this  age,  whose  metal 

The  devil  may  decompose  but  never  settle : 

LVI. 

I  think  it  may  be  of  "  Corinthian  Brass," 
Which  was  a  mixture  «f  all  metals,  but 

The  brazen  uppermost).     Kind  reader!  pass 
This  long  parenthesis:  I  could  not  shut 

It  sooner  for  the  soul  of  me,  and  class 

My  faults  even  with  your  own !  which  meaneth,  put 

A  kind  construction  upon  them  and  me : 

But  that  you  won't — then  don't — I  am  not  less  free. 

LVII. 

T  is  time  we  should  return  to  plain  narration, 
And  thus  my  narrative  proceeds : — Dudu 

Wifti  every  kindness  short  of  ostentation, 

Show'd  Juan,  or  Juanna,  through  and  through 

This  labyrinth  of  females,  and  each  station 

Described — what's  strange,  in  words  extremely  few : 

I  have  but  one  simile,  and  that's  a  blunder, 

For  wordless  women,  which  is  silent  thunder. 

Lvra. 

And  next  she  gave  her  (I  say  her,  because 

The  gender  still  was  epicene,  at  least 
In  outward  show,  which  is  a  saving  clause) 

An  outline  of  the  customs  of  the  East, 
With  all  their  chaste  integrity  of  laws, 

By  which  the  more  a  haram  is  increased, 
The  stricter  doubtless  grow  the  vestal  duties 
Of  any  supernumerary  beauties. 

LIX. 
Aii J  then  she  gave  Juanna  a  chaste  kiss : 

Dudu  was  fond  of  kissing — which  I  'm  sure 
That  nobody  car.  ever  take  amiss, 

Because  't  is  pleasant,  so  that  it  be  pure, 
And  between  females  means  nc  more  than  this — 

Thnt  the}  have  nothing  better  near,  or  newer. 
»  Kiss"  rnymes  to  "  bliss  "  in  fact  as  well  as  verse — 

w<sb  it  never  led  to  something  worse. 


LX. 

In  perfect  innocence  she  then  unmade 
Her  toilet,  which  cost  little,  for  she  was 

A  child  of  nature,  carelessly  array'd  ; 
If  fond  of  a  chance  ogle  at  her  glass, 

T  was  like  the  fawn  which,  in  the  lake  display'd, 
Beholds  her  own  shy  shadowy  image  pass, 

When  first  she  starts,  and  then  returns  to  peep, 

Admiring  this  new  native  of  the  deep. 

LXI. 

And  one  by  one  her  articles  of  dress 

Were  laid  aside;  but  not  before  she  offer'd 

rlei  aid  to  fair  Juanna,  whose  excess 
Of  modesty  declined  the  assistance  profFer'd— 

Which  pass'd  well  off— as  she  could  do  no  less : 
Though  by  this  politesse  she  rather  suffer'd,    ' 

Pricking  her  fingers  with  those  cursed  pins, 

Which  surely  were  invented  for  our  sins, — 

LXH. 

Making  a  woman  like  a  porcupine, 

Not  to  be  rashly  touch'd.     But  still  more  dread, 
Oh  ye !  whose  fate  it  is,  as  once  't  was  mine, 

In  early  youth,  to  turn  a  lady's  maid; — 
I  did  my  very  boyish  best  to  shine 

In  tricking  her  out  for  a  masquerade: 
The  pins  were  placed  sufficiently,  but  not 
Stuck  all  exactly  in  the  proper  spot. 

LXIII. 

But  these  are  foolish  things  to  all  the  wise — 
And  I  love  Wisdom  more  than  she  loves  me ; 

My  tendency  is  to  philosophize 
On  most  things,  from  a  tyrant  to  a  tree ; 

But  still  the  spouseless  virgin  Knowledge  flies. 
What  are  we  ?  and  whence  came  we  ?  what  shall  bo 

Our  ultimate  existence  ?  what 's  our  present  ? 

Are  questions  answerless,  and  yet  incessant. 

LXIV. 

There  was  deep  silence  in  the  chamber :  dim 

And  distant  from  each  other  burn'd  the  lights. 
And  Slumber  hover'd  o'er  each  lovely  limb 

Of  the  fair  occupants :  if  there  be  sprites, 
They  should  have  walk'd  there  in  their  spriteliest  trim, 

By  way  of  change  from  their  sepulchral  sites, 
And  shown  themselves  as  ghosts  of  better  taste, 
Than  haunting  some  old  ruin  or  wild  waste. 

LXV. 
Many  and  beautiful  lay  those  around, 

Like  flowers  of  different  hue  and  clime  and  root 
In  some  exotic  garden  sometimes  found, 

With  cost  and  care  and  warmth  induced  to  shoot. 
One,  with  her  auburn  tresses  lightly  bound, 

And  fair  brows  gently  drooping,  as  the  fruit 
Nods  from  the  tree,  was  slumbering  with  soft,  breath 
And  lips  apart,  which  show'd  the  pearls  beneath. 

LXVI. 
One,  with  her  flush'd  cheek  laid  on  her  white  arm. 

And  raven  ringlets  gather'd  in  dark  crowd 
Above  her  brow,  lay  dreaming  soft  and  warm  ; 

And,  smiling  through  her  dream,  as  through  a  cloud 
The  moon  breaks,  half  unveil'd  each  further  charm, 

As,  slightly  stirring  in  her  snowy  shroud, 
Her  beauties  seized  the  unconscious  hour  of  n.£*U 
All  bashfully  to  struggle  into  light. 


CANTO  VI. 


DON  JUAN. 


627 


LXVII. 

This  is  no  bull,  although  it  sounds  so ;   for 
'T  was  night,  but  there  were  lamps,  as  hath  been  said. 

A  third's  all-pallid  aspect  offer'd  more 
The  traits  of  sleeping  Sorrow,  and  betray'd 

Fhrough  the  heaved  breast  the  dream  of  some  far  shore 
Beloved  and  deplored :  while  slowly  stray'd 

(As  night  dew,  on  a  cypress  glittering,  tinges 

The  black  bough)  tear-drops  thro'  her  eyes'  dark  fringes. 

LXVIII. 

A  fourth,  as  marble,  statue-like  and  still, 

Lay  in  a  breathless,  hush'd,  and  stony  sleep  ; 

White,  cold,  and  pure,  as  looks  a  frozen  rill, 
Or  the  snow  minaret  on  an  Alpine  steep, 

Or  Lot's  wife  done  in  salt, — or  what  you  will;— 
My  similes  are  gather' J  in  a  heap, 

So  p\vk  and  choose — perhaps  you  '11  be  content 

Witlv  a  carved  lady  on  a  monument. 

LXIX. 

And  lo !   a  fifth  appears  ; — and  what  is  she  ? 

A  lady  of  "  a  certain  age,"  which  means 
Certainly  aged — what  her  years  might  be 

I  know  not,  never  counting  past  their  teens ; 
But  there  she  slept,  not  quite  so  fair  to  see 

As  ere  that  awful  period  intervenes, 
Which  lays  both  men  and  women  on  the  shelf, 
To  meditate  upon  their  sins  and  self. 

LXX. 

But  all  this  time  how  slept  or  dream'd  Dudii, 
With  strict  inquiry  I  could  ne'er  discover, 

And  scorn  to  add  a  syllable  untrue ; 

But  ere  the  middle  watch  was  hardly  over, 

Just  when  the  fading  lamps  waned  dim  and  blue, 
And  phantoms  hover'd,  or  might  seem  to  hover, 

To  those  who  like  their  company,  about 

The  apartment,  on  a  sudden  she  scream'd  out: 

LXXI. 

And  that  so  loudly,  that  upstarted  all 

The  Oda,  in  a  general  commotion  : 
Matron  and  maids,  and  those  whom  you  may  call 

Neither,  came  crowding  like  the  waves  of  ocean, 
One  on  the  other,  throughout  the  whole  hall, 

All  trembling,  wondering,  without  the  least  notion, 
More  than  I  have  myself,  of  what  could  make 
The  calm  Dudu  so  turbulently  wake. 

LXXII. 
But  wide  awake  she  was,  and  round  her  bed, 

With  floating  draperies  and  with  flying  hair, 
With  eager  eyes,  and  light  but  hurried  tread, 

And  bosoms,  arms,  and  ancles  glancing  bare, 
And  bright  as  any  meteor  ever  bred 

By  the  North  Pole, — they  sought  her  cause  of  care, 
For  she  secm'd  agitated,  flush'd,  and  frighten'd, 
Her  eye  dilated  and  her  colour  heighten'd. 

LXXIII. 

But  what  is  strange — and  a  strong  proof  how  great 
A  blessing  is  sound  sleep,  Juanna  by 

As  fast  as  erer  husband  by  his  mate 
In  holy  mafrinxmy  snores  away. 

Not  all  the  clamour  broke  her  happy  state 
Of  "lumber,  ere  they  shook  her, — so  they  say, 

At  least, — and  then  she  too  unclosed  her  eyes, 

And  yawnV  a  good  deal  with  oisrrect  surprise. 


LXXIV. 

And  now  commenced  a  strict  investigation, 

Which,  as  all  spoke  at  once,  and  more  than  onof> 

Conjecturing,  ^pondering,  asking  a  narration, 
Alike  might  puzzle  either  wit  or  dunce 

To  answer  in  a  very  clear  oration. 
Dudu  had  never  pass'd  for  wanting  sense, 

But,  being  "  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is," 

Could  not  at  first  expound  what  was  amiss. 

LXXV. 

At  length  she  said,  that,  in  a  slumber  sound, 
She  dream'd  a  dream  of  walking  in  a  wood — 

A  "wood  obscure-"  like  that  where  Dante  found1 
Himself  in  at  the  age  when  all  grow  good ; 

Life's  half-way  house,  where  dames  with  virtue  crown'J 
Run  much  less  risk  of  lovers  turning  rude ; — 

And  that  this  wood  was  full  of  pleasant  fruits, 

And  trees  of  goodly  growth  and  spreading  roots ; 

LXXVI. 

And  in  the  midst  a  golden  apple  grew, — 
A  most  prodigious  pippin — but  it  hung 

Rather  too  high  and  distant ;   that  she  threw 
Her  glances  on  it,  and  then,  longing,  flung 

Stones,  and  whatever  she  could  pick  up,  to 

Bring,  down  the  fruit,  which  still  perversely  clung 

To  its  own  bough,  and  dangled  yet  in  sight, 

But  always  at  a  most  provoking  height: — 

LXXVII. 

That  on  a  sudden,  when  she  least  had  hope, 
It  fell  down  of  its  own  accord,  before 

Her  feet ;   that  her  first  movement  was  to  stoop 
And  pick  it  up,  and  bite  it  to  the  core ; 

That  just  as  her  young  lip  began  to  ope 
Upon  the  golden  fruit  the  vision  bore, 

A  bee  flew  out  and  stung  her  to  the  heart, 

And  so — she  awoke  with  a  great  scream  and  start. 

LXXVIII. 

All  this  she  told  with  some  confusion  and 

Dismay,  the  usual  consequence  of  dreams 
Of  the  unpleasant  kind,  with  none  at  hand 

To  expound  their  vain  and  visionary  gleams. 
I  've  known  some  odd  ones  which  seem'd  really  plann'c 

Prophetically,  or  that  which  one  deems 
"  A  strange  coincidence,"  to  use  a  phrase 
By  which  such  things  are  settled  now-a-days. 

LXXIX. 
The  damsels,  who  had  thoughts  of  some  great  harm, 

Began,  as  is  the  consequence  of  fear, 
To  scold  a  little  at  the  false  alarm 

That  broke  for  nothing  on  their  sleeping  ear. 
The  matron  too  was  wroth  to  leave  her  warm 

Bed  for  the  dream  she  had  been  obliged  to  heai, 
And  chafed  at  poor  Dudu,  who  only  sigh'd, 
And  said  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  cried. 

LXXX. 
44 1  've  heard  of  stories  of  a  cock  and  bull ; 

But  visions  of  an  apple  and  a  bee, 
To  take  us  from  our  natural  rest,  and  pull 

The  whole  Oda  from  their  beds  at  half-past  thro*. 
Would  make  us  think  the  moon  is  at  its  full. 

You  surely  are  unwell,  child !   we  must  see. 
To-morrow,  what  his  highness'?  physician 
W  ill  say  to  this  h/steric  of  a  vision. 


628 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  V. 


LXXXI. 

*  And  poor  Juanna,  too !   the  child's  first  night 

Within  these  walls,  to  be  broke  in  upon 
With  such  a  clamour — I  had  thought  it  right 
'  That  the  young  stranger  should  not  lie  alone, 
And,  as  the  quietest  of  all,  she  might 

With  yoj,  Dudii,  a  good  night's  rest  have  known; 
But  now  1  must  transfer  her  to  the  charge 
Of  Loluh — though  her  couch  is  not  so  large." 

LXXXII. 

Ix)lah's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  proposition ; 

But  poor  Dudu,  with  large  drops  in  her  own, 
Resulting  from  the  scolding  or  fhe  vision, 

Implored  that  present  pardon  might  be  shown 
For  this  first  fault,  and  that  on  no  condition 

(She  added  in  a  soft  and  piteous  tone), 
Juanna  should  be  taken  from  her,  and 
Her  future  dreams  should  all  be  kept  in  hand. 

LXXXIII. 

She  promised  never  more  to  have  a  dream, 
At  least  to  dream  so  loudly  as  just  now ; 

She  wonder'd  at  herself  how  she  could  scream— 
'T  was  foolish,  nervous,  as  she  must  allow, 

A  fond  hallucination,  and  a  theme  • 

For  laughter — but  she  felt  her  spirits  low, 

And  begg'd  ihey  would  excuse  her ;  she  'd  get  over 

This  weakness  in  a  few  hours,  and  recover. 

LXXXIV. 

And  here  Juanna  kindly  interposed, 
And  said  the  felt  herself  extremely  well 

Where  she  then  was,  as  her  sound  sleep  disclosed 
When  all  around  rang  like  a  tocsin-bell: 

She  did  not  find  herself  the  least  disposed 
To  quit  her  gentle  partner,  and  to  dwell 

Apart  from  one  who  had  no  sin  to  show, 

Save  that  of  dreaming  once  "  mal-a-propos." 

LXXXV. 

As  thus  Juanna  spoke,  Dudu  turn'd  round, 

And  hid  her  face  within  Juanna's  breast ; 
Her  neck  alone  was  seen,  but  that  was  found 

The  colour  of  a  budding  rose's  crest. 
I  can't  tell  why  she  blush'd,  nor  can  expound 

The  mystery  of  this  rupture  of  their  rest ; 
All  that  I  know  is,  that  the  facts  I  state 
Are  true  as  truth  has  ever  been  of  late. 

LXXXVI. 
And  so  good  night  to  them, — or,  if  you  will, 

Good  morrow — for  the  cock  had  crown,  and  light 
Began  to  clothe  each  Asiatic  hi'l, 

And  the  mosque  crescent  struggled  into  sight 
Of  the  long  caravan,  which  in  the  chill 

Of  dewy  dawn  wound  slowly  round  each  height 
That  stretches  to  the  stony  belt  which  girds 
Asia,  where  KafF  looks  down  upon  the  Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 
With  tne  first  ray,  or  rather  gray  of  morn, 

Gulbeyaz  rose  from  restlessness ;  and  pale 
As  Passion  rises,  with  its  bosom  worn, 

Array'd  herself  with  mantle,  gem,  and  veil : 
'I  hf  nightingale  that  sings  with  the  deep  thorn, 

W  hvh  Fable  places  in  her  breast  of  wail, 
Is  lighter  far  of  heart  and  voice  than  those 
Whoso  headlong  passions  form  their  proper  woes. 


LXXXVIII. 

And  that 's  the  moral  of  this  composition, 
If  people  would  but  see  its  real  drift ; — 
But  that  they  will  not  do  without  suspicion, 
Because  all  gentle  readers  have  the  gift 
Of  closing  'gainst  the  light  their  orbs  of  vision ; 

While  gentle  writers  also  love  to  lift 
Their  voices  'gainst  each  other,  which  is  natural—- 
The numbers  are  too  great  for  them  to  flatter  all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose  the  sultana  from  a  bed  of  splendour,— 
Softer  than  the  soft  Sybarite's,  who  cried 

Aloud  because  his  feelings  were  too  tender 
To  brook  a  ruffled  rose-leaf  by  his  side,— 

/So  beautiful  that  art  could  little  mend  her, 

Though  pale  with  conflicts  between  love  and  pride:-* 

So  agitated  was  she  with  her  error, 

She  did  not  even  look  into  the  mirror. 

xc. 

Also  arose  about  the  self-same  time, 

Perhaps  a  little  later,  her  great  lord, 
Master  of  thirty  kingdoms  so  sublime, 

And  of  a  wife  by  whom  he  was  abhorr'd ; 
A  thing  of  much  less  import  in  that  clime — 

At  least  to  those  of  incomes  which  afford 
The  filling  up  their  whole  connubial  cargo— 
Than  where  two  wives  are  under  an  embargo. 

XCI. 

He  did  not  think  much  on  the  matter,  nor 

Indeed  on  any  other :   as  a  man, 
He  liked  to  have  a  handsome  paramour 

At  hand,  as  one  may  like  to  have  a  fan, 
And  therefore  of  Circassians  had  good  store, 

As  an  amusement  after  the  Divan; 
Though  an  unusual  fit  of  love,  or  duty, 
Had  made  him  lately  bask  in  his  bride's  beauty. 

XCH. 

And  now  he  rose :    and  after  due  ablutions, 

Exacted  by  the  customs  of  the  East, 
And  prayers,  and  other  pious   evolutions, 

He  drank  six  cups  of  coffee  at  the  least, 
And  then  withdrew  to  hear  about  the  Russians, 

Whose  victories  had  recently  increased, 
In  Catherine's  reign,  whom  glory  still  adores 
As  greatest  of  all*  sovereigns  and  w s. 

XC1II. 

Bat  oh,  thou  grand  legitimate  Alexander! 

Her  son's  son,  let  not  this  last  phrise  offend 
Thine  ear,  if  it  should  reach, — and  now  rhymes  wandei 

Almost  as  far  as  Petersburgh,  and  lend 
A  dreadful  Impulse  to  each  loud  meander 

Of  murmuring  Liberty's  wide  waves,  whi'-.h  blei  , 
Their  roar  even  with  the  Baltic's, — r  >  you  be 
Your  father's  son,  'tis  quite  enough  for  me. 

XCIV. 
To  call  men  love-begotten,  or  proclaim 

Their  mothers  as  the  antipodes  of  Timon, 
That  hater  of  mankind,  would  he  a  shame, 

A  libel,  or  whate'er  you  please  to  rhvme  on . 
But  people's  ancestors  are  history's  game  ; 

And  if  one  lady's  slip  could  Ipave  a  crime  on 
All  generations,  I  should  like  to  know 
What  pedigree  the  best  would  have  to  ••how? 


CANTO  VI. 


DON  JUAN. 


629 


XCV. 

Had  Catherine  and  the  sultan  understood 

Their  ow,n  true  interest,  which  kings  rarely  know 

Until  'tis  taught  by  lessons  rather  rude, 

There  was  a  way  to  end  their  strife,  although 

Perhaps  precarious,  had  they  but  thought  good, 
Without  the  aid  of  prince  or  plenipo : 

She  to  dismiss  her  guards,  and  he  his  haram, 

And  for  their  other  matters,  meet  and  share 'em. 

XCVI. 

But  as  it  was,  his  Highness  had  to  hold 
His  daily  council  upon  ways  and  means, 

How  to  encounter  with  this  martial  scold, 
This  raodern  Amazon  and  Queen  of  queans ; 

And  the  perplexity  could  not  be  told 

Of  all  the  pillars  of  the  state,  which  leans 

Sometime  a  little  heavy  on  the  backs 

Of  those  who  cannot  lay  on  a  new  tax. 

XCVII. 

Meantime  Gulbeyaz,  when  her  king  was  gone, 
Retired  into  her  boudoir,  a  sweet  place 

For  love  or  breakfast;  private,  pleasing,  lone, 
Arid  rich  with  all  contrivances  which  grace 

Those  gay  recesses  : — many  a  precious  stone      ' 
Sparkled  along  its  roof,  and  many  a  vase 

Of  porcelain  held  in  the  fetter'd  flowers, 

Those  captive  soothers  of  a  captive's  hours. 

XCVIII. 

Mother-of-pearl,  and  porphyry,  and  marble, 
Vied  with  each  other  on  this  costly  spot; 

And  singing-birds  without  were  heard  to  warble ; 
And  the  stain'd  glass  which  lighted  this  fair  grot 

Varied  each  ray; — but  all  descriptions  garble 
The  true  effect,  and  so  we  had  better  not 

Be  too  minute ;  an  outline  is  the  best, — 

\.  lively  reader's  fancy  does  the  rest. 

XCIX. 

\nd  here  she  summon'd  Baba,  and  required 
Don  Juan  at  his  hands,  and  information 

Df  what  had  pass'd  since  all  the  slaves  retired, 
And  whether  he  had  occupied  their  station; 

If  matters  had  been  managed  as  desired, 
And  his  disguise  with  due  consideration 

Kept  up  ;  and,  above  all,  the  where  and  how 

He  had  pass'd  the  night,  was  what  she  wish'd  to  know. 

C. 

Baba,  with  some  embarrassment,  replied 
To  this  long  catechism  of  questions  ask'd 

More  easily  than  answer'd, — that  he  had  tried 
His  best  to  obey  in  what  he  had  been  task'd ; 

But  there  seem'd  something  that  he  wish'd  to  hide, 
JVhicli  hesitation  more  betray'd  than  mask'd; 

He  scratch'd  his  ear,  the  infallible  resource 

To  which  embarrass'd  people  have  recourse. 

.      CI. 

Gulbeyaz  was  no  model  of  true  patience, 
Nor  much  disposed  to  wait  in  word  or  deed ; 

She  liked  quick  answers  in  all  conversations; 
And  when  she  saw  him  stumbling  like  a  steed 

[n   his  replius,   she  puzzled  him  for  fresh  ones ; 
And  as  his  speech  grew  still  more  broken-knee'd, 

Her  cheek  began  to  flush,  her  eyes  to  sparkle, 

\nd  her  proud  brow's  blue  veins  to  swell  and  darkle. 


CII. 

When  Baba  saw  these  symptoms,  which  he  knew 
To  bode  him  no  great  good,  he  deprecated 

Her  anger,  and  Gjseech'd  she  'd  hear  him  through- 
He  could  not  help  the  thing  which  he  related 

Then  out  it  came  at  length,  that  to  Dudu 

Juan  was  given  in  charge,  as  hath  been  stated 

But  not  by  Baba's  fault,  he  said,  and  swore  on 

The  holy  camel's  humpj  besides  the  Koran. 

cm. 

The  chief  dame  of  the  Oda,  upon  whom 
The  discipline  of  the  whole  haram  bore, 

As  soon  as  they  re-enter'd  their  own  room, 
For  Baba's  function  stopp'd  short  at  the  door 

Had  settled  all;  nor  could  he  then  presume 
(The  aforesaid  Baba)  just  then  to  do  more, 

Without  exciting  such  suspicion  as 

Might  make  the  matter  still  worse  than  it  was. 

CIV. 

He  hoped,  indeed  he  thought  he  could  be  sure, 
Juan  had  not  betray'd  himself;  in  fact, 

'Twas  certain  that  his  conduct  had  been  pure, 
Because  a  foolish  or  imprudent  act 

Would  not  alone  have  made  him  insecure, 
But  ended  in  his  being  found  out  and  sacked 

And  thrown  into  the  sea. — Thus  Baba  spoke 

Of  all  save  Dudu's  dream,  which  was  no  joke. 

cv. 

This  he  discreetly  kept  in  the  back  ground, 

And  talk'd  away — and  might  have  talk'd  till  now, 

For  any  further  answer  that  he  found, 

So  deep  an  anguish  wrung  Gulbeyaz'  brow; 

Her  cheek  turn'd  ashes,  ears  rung,  brain  wnirl'd  round, 
As  if  she  had  received  a  sudden  blow, 

And  the  heart's  dew  of  pain  sprang  fast  and  chilly 

O'er  her  fair  front,  like  morning's  on  a  lily. 

CVI. 

Although  she  was  not  of  the  fainting  sort, 

Baba  thought  she  would  faint,  but  there  he  err'd-» 

It  was  but  a  convulsion,  which,  though  short, 
Can  never  be  described;  we  all  have  heard, 

And  some  of  us  have  felt  thus  "  all  amort? 
When  things  beyond  the  common  have  occurr'd ; 

Gulbeyaz  proved  in  that  brief  agony 

What  she  could  ne'er  express — then  how  should  1 7 

CVII. 

She  stood  a  moment,  as  a  Pythoness 
Stands  on  her  tripod,  agonized,  and  full 

Of  inspiration  gather'd  from  distress, 

When  all  the  heart-strings  like  wild  horses  pufl 

The  heart  asunder; — then,  as  more  or  less 

Their  speed  abated,  or  their  strength  grew  dull, 

She  sunk  down  on  her  seat  by  slow  degrees, 

And  bow'd  her  throbbing  head  o'er  trembling  knee*. 

cvm. 

Her  face  declined,  and  was  unseen ;  her  hair 
Fell  in  long  tresses  like  the  weeping  willow , 

Sweeping  the  marble  underneath  her  chair, 
Or  rather  sofa  (for  it  was  all  pillow, — 

A  low,  soft  ottoman),  and  black  despair 

Stirr'd  up  and  down  her  bosom  like  a  billoi* 

Which  rushes  to  some  shore,  whose  shingles  cnecfc 

Its  farther  course,  but  must  rccure  'is  wrecc. 


030 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CA.\Tu  Vi 


Ifar  hod  bong  down,  and  her  long  hair  in  stooping 
CoaceaTd  her  features  better  than  a  veil; 

And  one  hand  o'er  the  ottoman  lay  drooping, 
White,  waxen,  and  as  alabaster  pale: 

Would  that  I  were  a  painter!  to  be  grouping 
All  that  a  poet  drags  into  detail! 

Oh  that  my  words  were  colours!  bat  their  tints 

May  serve  perhaps  as  outlines  or  slight  hints. 

CX. 
Baba,  who  knew  by  experience  when  to  talk 

And  when  to  hold  his  tongue,  now  held  it  tin 
Has  passion  might  blow  o'er,  nor  dared  to  balk 

Cnfceyai.*  taciturn  or  •peaking  wiL 
At  length  she  rose  op,  and  began  to  walk 

Slowly  along  the  room,  but  sient  stiB, 
And  her  INOW  clear  d,  but  not  her  doubled  eye 
The  wind  was  down,  bat  stiH  the  sea  ran  high. 

CXL 
She  stopp'd,  «nd  raised  her  head  to  speak— hot  paused. 

And  then  mored  on  again  with  rapid  pace; 
Then  skcken'd  ir,  which  is  the  march  most  caused 

By  deep  emotion: — yon  may  sometimes  trace 

Aj»    j?  __    »      f     .   f  i;      i          I 

•eenng  m  eacn  footstep,  as  ojscfoseo. 

By  Sauost  m  his  Oatifine,  who,  chased 
By  al  the  demons  of  afl  pasajum,  sbow'd 
Their  work  even  by  the  way  in  which  he  trade. 

cxn. 

Goibeyaz  stopp'd  and  beckon'd  Baba:— » Stave! 

Bring  the  two  slaves!"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
Bat  one  which  Baba  did  not  like  to  brave, 

And  yet  be  shndderM,  and  seem'd  rather  prone 
To  |Huve  iffuif i^nt,  and  beggu  leave  to  uate 

(Though  be  wefl  knew  the  meaning)  to  be  shown 
What  slaves  her  highness  wish'd  to  indicate, 
For  tear  of  any  error  Ike  the  late. 

CXDL 
"The  Georgian  and  her  paramour,"  replied 

The  imperial  bride— and  added,  "Let  the  boat 
Be  ready  by  the  secret  portal's  side: 

Ton  know  the  rest,"  The  words  stock  in  her  throat, 
Despite  her  injured  love  and  uciy  pride ; 

And  of  this  Baba  willingly  took  note, 
And  beggM,  by  every  hair  of  Mahomet's  beard, 
She  would  revoke  the  order  he  had  heard. 

CXIV. 
-To  hear  is  to  obey,"  he  said;  "hot  suH, 

Sultana,  dunk  opon  the  consequence: 
It  is  not  that  I  shall  not  aO  fulfil 

Your  orders,  even  in  then*  set  u  cat  sense; 
But  such  preapr-tfion  may  end  ffl, 

Even  at  your  own  imperative  expense  ; 
I  do  not  mean  destruction  and  exposure, 
In  ease  of  any  ptetnaline  disclosure; 

CXF. 
•  Rut  your  own  feehngs.— Even  suuuld  afl  the  n 

B»  hidden  by  the  raffing  waves,  which  hide 
Already  many  a  unce  love-beaten  breast 

Deep  in  the  caverns  of  the  deadly  tide- 
Yon  love  this  boyish,  new  seraglio  guest. 

And— if  dus  violent  remedy  be  tried— 
tCxeuse  my  f>  leuum,  when  I  here  assure  you, 
Thai  kiSng  bun  L>  uut  tne  war  to  core  you." 


CXVI. 

What  dost  thou  know  of  love  or  feeing  ?— wretch ! 

Begone!"  she  cried,  with  kindling  eves,  "and  do 
My  bidding!"  Baba  vanish'd ;  for  to  stretch 

His  own  remonstrance  farther,  te  well  knew. 
Might  end  in  acting  as  his  own  u  Jack  Ketch ;" 

And,  though  be  wish'd  extremely  to  get  through 
This  awkward  business  without  harm  to  others, 
He  still  preferrM  his  own  neck  to  another's. 

CXVH. 
Away  he  went  then  upon  bis  commission, 

Growling  and  grumbling  in  good  Turkish  phrase 
Against  al  women,  of  wbate'er  condition, 

Especially  sultanas  and  their  ways; 
Their  obstinacy,  pride,  and  indecision, 

Their  never  knowing  their  own  mind  two  days. 
The  trouble  that  they  gave,  their  immorality, 
Which  made  him  daily  Mess  his  own  neutrality. 

cxvra. 

And  then  he  ealFd  his  brethren  to  his  aid, 
And  sent  one  on  a  summons  to  the  pair, 

That  they  must  instantly  be  well  array'd, 
And,  above  all,  be  comb'd  even  to  a  hair, 

And  brought  before  the  empress,  who  had  made 
•nounes  after  *•*•»  with  kindest  care  i 

At  which  Dudu  look'd  strange,  and  Juan  sffly; 

But  go  they  must  at  once,  and  will  I— o»U  L 

CXIX. 
And  here  I  leave  them  at  their  preparation 

For  the  imperial  presence,  wherein  whether 
Gtnbeyaz  sbow'd  them  both  commiseration, 

Or  got  rid  of  the  parties  altogether— 
lake  other  angry  ladies  of  her  nation, — 

Are  things  the  turning  of  a  hair  or  feather 
Mav  settle ;  bat  far  be  't  from  me  to  anticipate 
In  waat  way  feminine  caprice  may  dissipate. 

cxx. 

I  leave  them  for  the  present,  with  good  wishes, 
Though  doubts  of  their  well-doing,  to  arrange 

Another  part  of  history;  for  the  dishes 
Of  this  our  banquet  we  most  sometimes  change. 

And,  trusting  Juan  may  escape  the  fishes, 
Although  his  situation  now  seems  strange 

And  scarce  secure,  as  such  digressions  are  fair 

The  muse  will  take  a  little  touch  at  warfare. 


CANTO  VH. 


OH  love!  Oh  glory!  what  are  ye?  who  fly 

Around  us  ever,  rarely  to  alight: 
There's  not  a  meteor  in  the  polar  sky 

Of  such  transcendent  and  more  fleetnig  fli^b*. 
Chifl,  and  chain'd  to  cold  earth,  we  Jft  on  hi|n 

Our  eyes  in  search  of  either  lovely  ligM. : 
A  th~>«*nd  and  a  thousand  colours  they 

then  leave  us  on  our  freezing  war 


CA.\'TO   PH. 


BOX  JUAN. 


631 


Aari  such  as  tb*y  are,  such  my  present  tale  is, 
A  non-deseript  and  ever-varying  rhyme, 

A  versified  Aurora  Boreafis, 
Which  flashes  o'er  a  waste  and  ieyc&ne. 

When  we  know  what  aH  are,  we  most  bewaH  vs, 
Bat  ne'ertbeless,  I  hope  it  it  no  crime 

To  l-agh  at  afl  things:  fir  I  wish  to  know 

IF!*;  after  off,  are  off  things-bat  a  «MW>? 

ra. 


They  accuse 

The  present  poem,  of—  I  know  not  what*— 
A  tendency  to  underrate  and  scoff* 

At  human  power  and  virtue,  and  aB  that; 
And  this  they  *ay  in  language  rather  rough. 

Good  God!  I  wonder  what  they  would  be  at? 
I  say  no  more  than  has  been  said  in  Dante's 
Verse,  and  by  Solomon,  and  byCerrantes; 

IV. 

By  Swift,  by  Maflhtavei,  by  Rot  hffeoc  ana*, 
"By  Feaelon,  by  Lather,  and  by  Plato; 

By  TiOotson,  and  Wesley,  and  Rousseau, 
Who  knew  thn  life  was  not  worth  a  potato. 

T  is  not  their  fault,  nor  none,  if  this  be  so— 
For  my  part,  I  pretend  not  to  be  Gate, 

N   -  eren  Diogenes.  —  We  Eve  and  die, 

But  which  is  best,  yon  know  no  more  than  L 

V. 

Socrates  said,  oar  only  knowledge  was, 
14  To  know  that  nothing  coold  be  known  ; 

Sciencr  *rri'X]£n,  wr.:cn   .*rv-r  5  '.o  i-"1.   s^s 
Each  man  of  •mVnii>  fulMe,  past,  or 

Newton  (that  prorerb  of  the  mind),  alas  ! 
Declared,  with  aR  his  grand  Jaumaiea 


a  pleasant 


That  be  himself  (eh  only  "Eke  a  youth 
Picking  op  shells  by  the  great  ocean  —  tram." 

VL 

Ecdesiastes  said,  that  aD  ts  vanity— 

Most  modern  preaebers  say  the  same,  or  show  k 
By  their  examples  of  true  Christianity; 

In  short,  aB  know,  or  very  soon  may  know  k  : 
And  in  this  scene  of  aH-coofcasM  inanity, 

By  saint,  by  sage,  by  preacher,  and  by  poet, 
Most  I  restrain  me,  through  the  few  of  strife, 
From  holding  op  the  nothingness  of  fife? 

VH. 
Dogs,  or  men  !*\fbr  I  flatter  you  in  saying 

Tnat  ye  are  dogs    your  betters  far)  ye  may 
Read,  or  read  not,  what  I  am  now  cmaisag 

To  show  ye  what  ye  are  in  every  way. 
As  Bide  as  the  moon  stops  for  the  baying 

Of  wolves,  wffl  the  bright  Muse  withdraw  one  ray 
From  ont  her  sides;—  then  bowl  your  idle  wrath! 
WhrV  she  stffl  silvers  o'er  your  gloomy  path. 

VUL 

•Fierce  loves  and  faithless  wars"—  I  am  not  sure 
If  this  be  the  right  readin*  —  "I  is  no  matter  ; 

Fhe  fact's  about  the  same;  I  am  secure;  — 
I  sing  them  both,  and  am  about  to  batter 

A  town  which  did  a  famous  sieae  endure, 
And  was  bdeagwerM  both  by  land  and  wafer 

By  Suvaroff,  or  aspire  Smrarrow, 

t\oo  «*«!  blond  as  an  alderman  loves 


IX. 


The  fortress  is  caE'd  Ismail,  and  •  placed 
Upon  the  Danube's  left  branch  and  left 

Wkh  bmldmmaj.  the  oriental  taste, 
But  stifl  a  fortress  of  the  fonmost  ran* 

Or  was,  at  least, unless  \'n  since  defaced, 
Which  win  your  conquerors  is  a 

It  steads  some  eighty  vents  from  the  high 
of  toil 

X. 
Within  the  extent  of  this  foroficauoo 


Upon  the  left,  which,  from  i 

Commands  the  cky,  and  upon  its  ate 

A  Greek  bad  raised  around  this  elevation 
A  quantity  of  pancades  trprigat, 

So  placed  as  to  ipyaaV.  the  fire  of  those 

Who  held  the  place,  and  to  moat  the  toe's. 

XL 

Of  the  high  talents  of  ibis  new'  Va 

oat  t&c  town  <ubcii  nriow  was  oecj>  as  occaBu 
The  rampart  higher  than  you'd  wish  to  bang: 

Bat  then  there  was  a  great  want  of  precaution, 
(Prithee,  excuse  Ibis  eagJnuuiag  slang), 

Jicc  wuik  wUjTuumuf  wot  covu  a  way  was  ucrea. 

To  bint  at  least  "Here  is  no  thoroughfare." 

xn. 

at  a  stone  bastion,  with  a  narrow  gorge, 

And  walls  as  thick  as  most  skuas  bora  as  yet; 
Two  batteries,  cap-a-pie,  as  our  Saint  George, 

Case-mated  one,  and  H  other  a  "barbette," 
Of  Danube's  bank  took  fcrmmtable  charge; 

WUetwo-and-<weMycamKa,du}yset. 
Rose  o'er  the  town's  right  side,  ia  bristfiag  tier. 
Forty  feet  high,  upon  a  cavalier. 

XDL 
But  from  the  river  the  town's  open  quite, 

Because  the  Turks  could  never  be  persuaded 
A  Rnasuui  vessel  e  er  would  he&we.  m  a^bt ; 

And  such  their  creed  wax,  til  they  were  invaded. 
When  k  grew  rather  late  to  set  things  right. 

But  as  the  Danube  could  not  weB  he  waded. 
They  lookM  upon  the  Muscovite  ftotssa, 
Aad  onlr  shouted,  «*ABa!"  and  •*  Bv  Mssah  f 

XIV. 
The  Russians  now  were  ready  to  attack; 

But  oh,  ye  goddesses  of  war  cad  glory ! 
How  shafl  I  speB  the  name  of  each  Cossack 

Who  were  imnxvtal,  could  one  teB  tbeir  story? 
Alas!  what  to  their  memory  can  lack? 

AchiBes  self  was  not  more  grim  and  gory 
Than  thousands  of  this  new  and  poish'd  nation, 
Wnose  aames  want  nothing  but    proaanoataovk 

XV. 
StiB  I*B  record  a  few,  if  bht  to  mcrease 

Our  euphony— there  was  Strdm>eaoff,and  SttosaaoB. 
Meknop,  Serge  Lwdw,  Arseaiew  of  modern  Greece, 

And  TscbkssbakofT,  and  Rogumoff,  and  Ckokcnoff, 
And  uOfeUA  of  i  •net  re  cocnooaBits  a,pwcc  r 

uftd  more  night  IK  fouou  o**t^  •  I  coola  pwct  cooofwi 
Into  gazettes;  bat  Fame  (caj-nckwi  slramipet!) 
ft  ir  nai.  bas  got  ^n  car  as  wd  as  tiiaxul. 


632 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VIL 


XVI. 

And  cannot  tune  those  discords  of  narration, 
Which  may  be  names  at  Moscow,  into  rhyme. 

Yet  there  were  several  worth  commemoration, 
As  e'er  was  virgin  of  a  nuptial  chime  ; 

Soft  words  too,  fitted  for  the  peroration 
Of  Londonderry,  drawling  against  time, 

Ending  in"ischskin,"  "ousckin,"  "iffskchy,"  "ouski," 

Of  whom  we  can  insert  but  Rousamouski, 

XVII. 

Scherematoff  and  Chrematoff,  Eoklophti, 
Koclobski,  Kourakin,  and  Mouskin  Pouskin, 

All  proper  men  of  weapons,  as  e'er  scofPd  high 
Against  a  foe,  or  ran  a  sabre  through  skin : 

Little  cared  they  for  Mahomet  or  Mufti, 
Unless  to  make  their  kettle-drums  a  new  skin 

Out  of  their  hides,  if  parchment  had  grown  dear, 

And  no  more  handy  substitute  been  near. 

XVIII. 

Then  there  were  foreigners  of  much  renown, 
Of  various  nations,  and  all  volunteers  ; 

Not  fighting  for  their  country  or  its  crown, 
But  wishing  to  be  one  day  brigadiers ; 

Also  to  have  the  sacking  of  a  town — 

A  pleasant  thing  to  young  men  at  their  years. 

'Mongst  them  were  several  Englishmen  of  pith, 

Sixteen  call'd  Thompson,  and  nineteen  named  Smith. 

XIX. 

Jack  Thompson  and  Bill  Thompson ; — all  the  rest 
Had  been  call'd  " Jemmy"  after  the  great  bard ; 

I  don't  know  whether  they  had  arms  or  crest, 
But  such  a  godfather's  as  good  a  card. 

Three  of  the  Smiths  were  Peters  ;  but  the  best 
Amongst  them  all,  hard  blows  to  inflict  or  ward, 

Was  Ae,  since  so  renown'd  "  in  country  quarters 

At  Halifax;"  but  now  he  served  the  Tartars. 

XX. 

The  rest  were  Jacks  and  Gills,  and  Wills  and  Bills ; 

But  when  I  've  added  that  the  elder  Jack  Smith 
Was  born  in  Cumberland  among  the  hills, 

And  that  his  father  was  an  honest  blacksmith, 
1  've  said  all  /  know  of  a  name  that  fills 

Three  lines  of  the  despatch  in  taking  "  Schmacsmith," 
A  village  of  Moldavia's  waste,  wherein 
He  fell,  immortal  in  a  bulletin. 

XXI. 
I  wonder  (although  Mars  no  doubt 's  a  god  I 

Praise)  if  a  man's  name  in  a  bulletin 
May  make  up  for  a  bullet  in  his  body  ? 

I  hope  this  little  question  is  no  sin, 
Because,  though  I  am  but  a  simple  noddy, 

I  think  one  Shakspeare  puts  the  same  thought  in 
The  mouth  of  some  one  in  his  plays  so  dealing, 
Which  many  people  pass  for  wits  by  quoting. 

XXII. 
Then  there  were  Frenchmen,  gallant,  young,  and  gay : 

But  I'm  too  great  a  patriot  to  record 
Their  gallic  names  upon  a  glorious  day ; 

I  'd  rather  ten  ten  .ies  than  say  a  word 
Of  truth; — such  truths  are  treason:  they  betray 

Their  oo.mtry.  and,  as  traitors  are  abhorr'd, 
tVno  name  the  French  and  English,  save  to  show 
How  peace  should  make  John  Bull  the  Frenchman's  foe. 


xxm. 

The  Russians,  having  built  two  batteries  on 
An  isle  near  Ismail,  had  two  ends  in  view ; 

The  first  was  to  bombard  it,  and  knock  down 
The  public  buildings,  and  the  private  too, 

No  matter  what  poor  souls  might  be  undone. 
The  city's  shape  suggested  this,  't  is  true  ; 

Form'd  like  an  amphitheatre,  each  dwelling 

Presented  a  fine  mark  to  throw  a  shell  in. 

XXIV. 

The  second  object  was  to  profit  by 

The  moment  of  the  general  consternation, 

To  attack  the  Turk's  flotilla,  which  lay  nigh, 
Extremely  tranquil,  anchor'd  at  its  station : 

But  a  third  motive  was  as  probably 
To  frighten  them  into  capitulation ; 

A  phantasy  which  sometimes  seizes  warriors, 

Unless  they  are  game  as  'bull-dogs  and  fox-terriers  j 

XXV. 

A  habit  rather  blameable,  which  is 
That  of  despising  those  we  combat  with, 

Common  in  many  cases,  was  in  this 
The  cause  of  killing  Tchitchitzkoff  and  Smith  ; 

One  of  the  valorous  "  Smiths  "  whom  we  shall  miss 
Out  of  those  nineteen  who  late  rhymed  to  "  pith  ;" 

But 't  is  a  name  so  spread  o'er  "  Sir"  and  "  Madam,'' 

That  one  would  think  the  FIRST  who  bore  it  "ADAM.fc 

XXVI. 

The  Russian  batteries  were  incomplete, 

Because  they  were  constructed  in  a  hurry. 

Thus,  the  same  cause  which  makes  a  verse  want  feet 
And  throws  a  cloud  o'er  Longman  and  John  Murraj 

When  the  sale  of  new  books  is  not  so  fleet 
As  they  who  print  them  think  is  necessary, 

May  likewise  put  off  for  a  time  what  story 

Sometimes  calls  "  murder,"  and  at  others  "  glory." 

XXVII. 

Whether  it  was  their  engineers'  stupidity, 

Their  haste,  or  waste,  I  neither  know  nor  care, 
Or  some  contractor's  personal  cupidity, 

Saving  his  soul  by  cheating  in  the  ware 
Of  homicide  ;  but  there  was  no  solidity 

In  the  new  batteries  erected  there ; 
They  either  miss'd,  or  they  were  never  miss'd, 
And  added  greatly  to  the  missing  list. 

XXVIII. 
A  sad  miscalculation  about  distance 

Made  all  their  naval  matters  incorrect; 
Three  fire-ships  lost  their  amiable  existence, 

Before  they  reach'd  a  spot  to  take  effect : 
The  match  was  lit  too  soon,  and  no  assistance 

Could  remedy  this  lubberly  defect  ; 
They  blew  up  in  the  middle  of  the  river, 
While,  though 't  was  dawn,  the  Turks  slept  fast  ai  •»• 

XXIX. 
At  seven  they  rose,  however,  and  survey'd 

The  Russ  flotilla  getting  under  way ; 
'T  was  nine,  when  still  advancing  undismay'd. 

Within  a  cable's  length  their  vessels  lay 
Off  Ismail,  and  commenced  a  cannonade, 

Which  was  return'd  with  interest,  I  may  say, 
And  by  a  fire  of  musketry  and  grape, 
And  shells  and  shot  of  every  size  and  shape. 


CANTO  VII. 


DON  JUAN. 


XXX. 

For  six  h'-urs  bore  they  without  intermission 
The  Turkish  fire ;  and,  aided  by  their  own 

Land  batteries,  work'd  their  guns  with  great  precision: 
At  length  they  found  mere  cannonade  alone 

By  no  means  would  produce  the  town's  submission, 
And  made  a  signal  to  retreat  at  one. 

L>ne  bark  blew  up ;  a  second,  near  the  works 

Running  aground,  was  taken  by  the  Turks. 

XXXI. 

The  Moslem  too  had  lost  both  ships  and  men; 

But  when  they  saw  the  enemy  retire, 
Their  Delhis   mann'd  some  boats,  and  sail'd  again, 

And  gall'd  the  Russians  with  a  heavy  fire, 
And  tried  Id  make  a  landing  on  the  main. 

But  here  the  effect  fell  short  of  their  desire  : 
Count  Damas  drove  them  back  into  the  water 
Pell-mell,  and  with  a  whole  gazette  of  slaughter. 

XXXII. 

"  If"   (says  the  historian  here)  "  I  could  report 
All  that  the  Russians  did  upon  this  day, 

[  think  that  several  volumes  would  fall  short, 
And  I  should  still  have  many  things  to  say ;" 

And  so  he  says  no  more — but  pays  his  court 
To  some  distinguish'd  strangers  in  that  fray, 

The  Prince  de  Ligne,  and  Langeron,  and  Damas, 

Names  great  as  any  that  the  roll  of  fame  has. 

XXXIII. 

This  being  the  case,  may  show  us  what  fame  is: 
For  out  of  three  "preuz  chevaliers"  how 

Many  of  common  readers  give  a  guess 

That  such  existed?   (and  they  may  live  now 

For  aught  we  know).     Renown's  all  hit  or  miss; 

There 's  fortune  even  in  fame,  we  must  allow. 
r  is  true  the  Memoirs  of  the  Prince  <le  Ligne 

Have  half  withdrawn  from  Aim  oblivion's  skreen. 

XXXIV. 

But  here  are  men  who  fought  in  galiant  actions 

As  gallantly  as  ever  heroes  fought, 
But  buried  in  the  heap  of  such  transactions — 

Their  names  are   seldom  found,  nor  often  sought. 
Thus  even  good  fame  may  suffer  sad   contractions, 

And  is  extinguish'd  sooner  than  she  ought: 
Of  all  our  modern  battles,  I  will  bet 
You  can't  repeat  nine  names  from  each  gazette. 

XXXV. 

In  short,  this  last  attack,  though  rich  in  glory, 

Show'd  that  somewhere,  somehow,  there  was  a  fault ; 
And  Admiral  Ribas  (known  in  Russian  story) 

Most  strongly  recommended  an  assault ; 
In  which  he  was  opposed  by  young  and  hoarv, 

Which  made  a  long  debate  : — but  I  must  halt ; 
For  if  I  wrote  down  every  warrior's   speech, 

doubt  few  readers  e'er  would  mount  the  breach. 

XXXVI. 
There  was  a  man,  if  that  he  was  a  tnan, — 

Not  that  his  manhood  could  be  call'd  in  question, 
For,  had  he  not  been  Hercules,  his  span 

Had  been  as  short  in  youth  as  indigestion 
Made  his  last  ilness,  when,  all  worn  and  wan, 

He  died  beneath  a  tree,   as  much  unbless'd  on 
The  soil  of  the  green  province  he  hail  wasted, 
/Vs  e'er  was  locust  on  the  land  it  blasted  ; — 
3  G  US 


XXXVII. 

This  was  Potemkin — a  great  thing  in  days 
When  homicide  and  harlotry  made  great, 

If  stars  and  titles  could  entail  long  praise, 
His  glory  migffKhalf  equal  his  estate. 

This  fellow,  being  six  foot  high,  could  raise 
A  kind  of  phantasy  proportionate 

In  the  then  sovereign  of  the  Russian  people, 

Who  measured  men  as  you  would  do  a  steeple. 

XXXVIII. 

While  things  were  in  abeyance,  Ribas  sent 
A  courier  to  the  prince,  and  he  succeeded 

In  ordering  matters  after  his  own  bent. 
I  cannot  tell  the  way  in  which  he  pleaded, 

But  shortly  he  had  cause  to  be  content. 
In  the  mean  time  the  batteries  proceeded, 

And  fourscore  cannon  on  the  Danube's  border 

Were  briskly  fired  and  answer'd  in  due  order. 

XXXIX. 

But  on  the  thirteenth,  when  already  part 
Of  the  troops  were  embark'd,  the  siege  to  raise, 

A  courier  on  the  spur  inspired  new  heart 
Into  all  panters  for  newspaper  praise, 

As  well  as  dilettanti  in  war's  art, 
By  his  despatches  couch'd  in  pithy  phrase, 

Announcing  the  appointment  of  that  lover  of 

Battles  to  the  command,  Field-Marshal  SuvarofT. 

XL. 

The  letter  of  the  prince  to  the  same  marshal 
Was  worthy  of  a  Spartan,  had  the  cause 

Been  one  to  which  a  good  heart  could  be  partial, — 
Defence  of  freedom,  country,  or  of  laws ; 

But  as  it  was  mere  lust  of  power  to  o'er-arch  all 
With  its  proud  brow,  it  merits  slight  applause, 

Save  for  its  style,  which  said,  all  in  a  trice, 

"  You  will  take  Ismail,  at  whatever  price." 

XLI. 

"  Let  there  be  light !"  said  God,  "  and  there  was  light  !* 
"  Let  there  be  blood !"  says  man,  and  there 's  a  sea ' 

The  fiat  of  this  spoil'd  child  of  the  night 
(For  day  ne'er  saw  his  merits)  could  decree 

More  evil  in  an  hour,  than   thirty  bright 

Summers  could  renovate,  though  they  should  be 

Lovely  as  those  -which  ripen'd  Eden's  fruit — 

For  war  cuts  up  not  only  branch  but  root. 

XLII. 

Our  friends  the  Turks,  who  with  loud  "Alias"  n«  w 

Began  to  signalize  the  Russ  retreat, 
Were  damnably  mistaken ;  few  are  slow 

In  tninking  that  their  enemy  is  beat 
(Or  beaten,  if  you  insist  on  grammar,  though 

I  never  think  about  it  in  a  heat)  ; 
But  here  I  say  the  Turks   were  much  mistaken. 
Who,  hating  hogs,  yet  wish'd  to  save  theii  bacon. 

XLIII. 
For,  on  the  sixteenth,  at  full  gallop  drew 

In  sight  two  horsemen,  who  were  deem'd  CossacJtr 
For  some  time,  till  they  came  in  nearer  view. 

They  had  but  little  baggage  at  their  backs, 
For  there  were  but  three  shirts  between  the  tw-u . 

But  on  they   rode  upon  two  Ukraine  hacks, 
Till,  in  approaching,  were  at  length  dnscried 
In   this  plain  pair,  Suwarrow  and  his  gulU 


634 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  Vll. 


ALIV. 


"Great  joy  to  London  now  !"  says  some  great  fool, 
When  London  had  a  grand  illumination, 

Which,  to  that  bottle-conjuror,  John  Bull, 
Is  of  all  dreams  the  tirsl  hallucination  ; 

So  that  the  streets  of  co'.oar'd  lamps  are  full, 
That  sage   (said  John)  surrenders   at  discretion 

ids  purse,  his  soul,  his  sense,  and  even  his  nonsense, 

'li  gratify,  like  a  huge  moth,  this  one  sense. 

XLV. 

'T  is  strange  that  he  should  further  "  damn  his  eyes," 
For  they  are  damn'd  :  that  once  all-famous  oath 

Is  to  the  devil  now  no  further  prize, 

Since  John  has  lately  lost  the  use  of  both. 

Debt  he  calls  wealth,  and  taxes,  paradise  ; 
And  famine,  with  her  gaunt  and  bony  growth, 

Which  stares  him  in  the  face,  he  won't  examine, 

Or  swears  that  Ceres  hath  begotten  Famine. 

XLVI. 

But  to  the  tale.     Great  joy  unto  the  camp  ! 

To  Russian,  Tartar,  English,  French,  Cossack, 
O'er  whom  Suwarrow  shone  like  a  gas-lamp, 

Presaging  a  most  luminous  attack  j 
Or,  like  a  wisp  along  the  marsh  so  damp, 

Which  leaas  beholders  on  a  boggy  walk, 
He  flitted  to  and  fro,  a  dancing   light, 
Which  all  who  saw  it  fbllow'd,  wrong  or  right. 

XLVII. 
But,  certcs,  matters  took  a  different  face  ; 

There  was  enthusiasm  and  much  applause, 
The  Heel  and  camp  saluted  with  great  grace, 

And  all  presaged  good  fortune  to  their  cause. 
Within   a  cannon-shot  length   of  the  place 

They  drew,  constructed  ladders,  repair'd  flaws 
In  former  works,  made  new,  prepared  fascines, 
And  all  kinds  of  benevolent  machines. 

XLVIII. 

Tis  thus  the  spirit  of  a  single  mind 

Makes  that  of  multitudes  take  one  direction, 

As  roll  the  waters  to  the  breathing  wind, 

Or  roams  the  herd  beneath  the  bull's  protection  : 

Or  as  a  little  dog  will  lead  the  blind, 

Or  a  bellweather  form  the  flock's  connexion 

By  'inkling  sounds  when  they  go  forth  to  victual: 

Such  is  the  sway  of  your  great  men  o'er  little. 

XLIX. 

The  whole  camp  rung  with  joy;  you  would  have  thought 

That  they  were   going  to  a  marriage-feast, 
(This  metaphor,  I  think,   holds  good  as  aught, 

Since  there  is   discord  after  both  at  least), 
Thcro  was  not  now  a  luggage-boy  but    sought 

Danger  and  spoil  with  ardour  much  increased; 
And  why  ?  because  a  little,  odd,  old  man, 
Stripl  to  his  shirt,  was  come  to  lead  the  van.  v 

L. 
But  so  it  was  ;  and   every  preparation 

Was  made   with  all  alacrity  ;   the  first 
Pitarhnient  of  three  columns  took  its  station, 

Ana  waited  but  the  signal's  voice  to  burst 
I'pon  the  foe:   tho  second's   ordination 

WaJ  also  in  three  columns,  with  a  thirst 
Koi   glorv   gaping  o'er  a  sea  of  slaughter  : 
I1»«  ilurd,  in  columns  two,  attack'd  by  water. 


LI 

New  batteries  were  erected  ;  and  was  held 
A  general  council,  in  which  unanimity, 

That  stranger  to  most  councils,  here  prevail'd,       * 
As  sometimes  happens  in  a  great  extremity; 

And,  every  difficulty  being  expell'd, 

Glory  began  to  dawn  with  due  sublimity, 

While  Suvaroff,  determined  to  obtain  it, 

Was  teaching  his  recruits  to  use  the  bayonet.1 

LII. 

I    is  ar.^actual  fact,  that  he,  eommander- 
In-chief,  in  proper  person  deign'd  to  drill 

The  awkward  squad,  and  could  afford  »o  squander 
His  time,  a  corporal's  duties  to  fulfil : 

Just  as  you  'd  break  a  sucking  salamander 
To  swallow  flame,  and  never  take  it  ill ; 

He  show'd  them  how  to  mount  a  ladder  (which 

Was  not  like  Jacob's)   or  to  cross  a  ditch. 

LIII. 

Also  he  dress'd  up,  for  the  nonce,  fascines 
Like  men,   with  turbans,  scimitars,  and  dirks, 

And  made  them  charge  with  bayonets  these  machine* 
By  way  of  lesson  against  actual  Turks. 

And,  when  well   practised  in  these  mimic  scenes, 
He  judged  them  proper  to  assail  the  works  ; 

At  which  your  wise  men  sneer'd,  in  phrases  witty  :— 

He  made  no  answer;  but  he  took  the  city. 

LIV. 

Most  things  were  in  this  posture  on  the  eve 
Of  the  assault,  and  all  the  camp  was  in 

A  stern  repose  ;   which  you  would  scarce  conceive : 
Yet  men,  resolved  to  dash  through  thick  and  thin, 

Are  very   silent  when  they  once  believe 
That  all  is  settled  : — there  was  little  din, 

For  some  were  thinking  of  their  home  and  friends, 

And  others  of  themselves  and  latter  ends. 

LV. 

Suwarrow  chiefly  was  on  the  alert, 

Surveying,  drilling,  ordering,  jesting,  pondering: 
For  the  man  was,  we  safely  may  assert, 

A  thing  to  wonder  at  beyond  most  wondering ; 
Hero,  buffoon,  half-demon,  and   half  dirt, 

Praying,  instructing,  desolating,  blundering ; 
Now  Mars,  now  Momus ;  and  when  bent  to  storm 
A  fortress,  Harlequin  in  uniform. 

LVI. 

The  day  before  the  assault,  while  upon  drill — 

For  this  great  conqueror  play'd  the  corporal— - 
Some  Cossacks,  hovering  like  hawks  round  a  hill, 

Had  met  a  party,  towards  the  twilight's  fall, 
One  of  whom  spoke   their  tongue,  or  well  or  ill 

'Twas  much  that  he  was  understood  at  all; 
But  whether  from  his  voice,  or  speech,  or  manner, 
iound  that  he  had  fought  beneath  their  banner. 

LVII. 
Whereon,  immediately  at  his  request, 

They  brought  him  and  his  comrades  to  head-quarter*  i 
Their  dress  was  Moslem,  but  you  might  have  guess'd 

That  these  were  merely  masquerading  Tartars, 
And  that  beneath  each  Turkish-fashion'd  vest 

Lurk'd  Christianity;   who  sometimes  barters 
Her  inward  grace  for  outward  show,  and  mak«l 
It  difficult  to  shun  some  strange  msUkes. 


CANTO  VII. 


DON  JUAN. 


LVIII. 

feuwarrow,  who  was  standing  in  his  sh  ,-t, 

Before  a  company  of  Calmucks,  drilling, 
Exclaiming,  fooling,  swearing  at  the  inert, 

And  lecturing  on  the  nobb  art  of  killing, — 
For,  deeming  human  clay  but  common  dirt, 

This  great  philosopher  was  thus  instilling 
His  maxims,  which,  to  martial  comprehension, 
Proved  death  in  battle  equal  to  a  pension  ;  — 

LIX. 
Suwarrow,  when  he  saw  this  company 

Of  Cossacks  and  their  prey,  turn'd  round  and  cast 
Upon  them  his  slow  brow  and  piercing  eye  : — 

"  Whence  come  ye  ?" — "  From  Constantinople  last, 
Captives  just  now  escaped,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What  are  ye  ?" — "  Wha.tyou  see  us."  Briefly  past 
This  dialogue  ;    for  he  who  answer'd  knew 
To  whom  he  spoke,  and  made  his  words  but  few. 

LX. 

"  Your  names?" — "Mine 's  Johnson,  and  my  comrade's 
Juan  ; 

The  other  two  are  women,  and  the  third 
Is  neither  man  nor  woman."    The  chief  threw  on 

The  party  a  slight  glance,  then  said  :  "  I  have  heard 
Your  name  before,  the  second  is  a  new  one  ; 

To  bring  the  other  three  here  was  absurd  ; 
But  let  that  pass  ;— I  think  I  've  heard  your  name 
[n  the  Nikolaiew  regiment?'1 — "The  same." — 

LXI. 
"You  served  at  Widin?"  "Yes."  "You  led  the  attack?" 

"  I  did."—"  What  next  ?"— "  I  really  hardly  know." 
"  You  were  the  first  i'  the  breach  ?" — "  I  was  not  slack, 

At  least,  to  follow  those  who  might  be  so." — 
"  What  follow'd  ?" — "  A  shot  laid  me  on   my  back, 

And  I  became  a  prisoner  to  the  foe." — 
"  You  shall  have  vengeance,  for  the  town  surrounded 
Is  twice  as  strong  as  that  where  you  were  wounded. 

LXII. 

*  Where  will  you  serve  ?" — "  Where'er  you  please." — 
"  I  know 

You  like  to  be  the   hope  of  the  forlorn, 
And  doubtless  would  be  foremost  on  the  foe 

After  the  hardships  you  've  already  borne. 
And  this  young  fellow  ?    say  what  can  he  do  ? — 

He  with  the  beardless  chin,  and  garments  torn." — 
"  Why,  general,  if  he  hath  no  greater  fault 
In  war  than  love,  he  had  better  lead  the  assault." — 

LXIII. 
"  He  shall,  if  that  he  dare."    Here  Juan  bow'd 

Low  as  the  compliment  deserved.     Suwarrow 
Continued:  "Your  old  regiment's  allow'd, 

By  special  providence,  to  lead  to-morrow, 
Or  it  may  be  to-night,  the  assault :   I  've  vow'd 

To  several  saints,  that  shortly  plough  or  harrc 
Shall  pass  o'er  what  was  Ismail,  and  its  tusk 
Be  unimpeded  by  the  proudest  mosque. 
LXIV. 

So  now,  my  lads,  for  glory!" — Here  he  turn'd, 

Ard  drill'd  away  in  the  most  classic  Russian, 
Until   each  high,  heroic  bosom  burn'd 

For  cash  and  compost,  as  if  from  a  cushion 
A  preacher  had  held  forth   (who  nobly  spurn'd 

All  earthly  goods  save  tithes)  and  bade  them  push  on 
To  slay  thn   1'asrans  who  resisted,  battering 
The  P'mies  of  the  Christian  Empress  Catherine. 


LXV. 

Johnson,  who  knew  by  this  long  colloquy 
Himself  a  favourite,  ventured  to  address 

Suwarrow,  though  "engaged  with  accents  high 
In  his  resumed  amusement.     "I  confess 

My  debt,  in  being  thus  allow'd  to  die 

Among  the  foremost;    but  if  you'd  express 

Explicitly  our  several  posts,  my  friend 

And  self  would  know  what  duty  to  attend."— 

LXVI. 

"  Right !    I  was  busy,  and  forgot.     Why    you 
Will  join  your  former  regiment,  which  should  b« 

Now  under  arms.     Ho !   Katskoff,  take  him  to — 
(Here  he  call'd  up  a  Polish  orderk-N — 

His  post,  I  mean  the  regiment  Nikolaiew. 
The  stranger  stripling  may  remain  with  me; 

He  's  a  fine  boy.     The  women  may  be  sent 

To  the  other  baggage,  or  to  the  sick  tent." 

LXVII. 

But  here  a  sort  of  scene  began  to  ensue  : 
The  ladies, — who  by  no  means  had  been  bred 

To  be  disposed  of  in  a  way  so  new, 
Although  their  haram  education  led 

Doubtless  to  that  ot'  doctrines  the  most  true, 
Passive  obedience, — now  raised  up  the  head, 

With  flashing  eyes  and  starting  tears,  and  flung 

Their  arms,  as  hens  their  wings  about  their  yovmf 

LXVIII. 
O'er   the  promoted  couple  of  brave  men 

Who  were  thus  honour'd  by  the  greatest  chief 
That  ever  peopled  hell  with  heroes  slain, 

Or  plunged  a  province  or  a  realm  in  grief. 
Oh,  foolish  mortals  !    always  taught  in  vain ! 

Oh,  glorious  laurel !    since  for  one  sole  leaf 
Of  thine  imaginary  deathless  tree, 
Of  blood  and  tears  must  flow  the  unebbing  sea . 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow,  who  had  small  regard  for  tears, 
And  not  much  sympathy  for  blood,  survey'd 

The  women  with  their  hair  about  their  ears, 
And  natural  agonies,  with  a  slight  shade 

Of  feeling :    for,  however  habit  sears 

Men's  hearts  against  whole  millions,  when  their  trad* 

Is  butchery,  sometimes  a  single  sorrow 

Will  toucn  even  heroes — and  such  was  Suwaimw. 

LXX. 

He  said — and  in  the  kindest  Calmuck  tone— 
"  Why,  Johnson,  what  the  devil  do  you  mean 

By  bringing  women  here  ?   They  shall  be  shown 
All  the  attention  possible,  and  seen 

In  safety  to  the   wagons,  where  alone 

In  fact  they  can  be  safe.     You  should  have  bm*t 
are  this  kind  of  baggage  never  thrives  : 

Save  wed  a  year,  I  hate  recruits  with  wives.' 

LXXI. 

"  May  it  please  your  excellency,"  thus  replied 
Our  British  friend,  "  these  are  the  wives  of  othei» 

And  not  our  own.     I  am  too  qualified 
By  service  with  my  military  brothers. 

To  break  the  rules  by  bringing  one's  own  brine 
Into  a  carnp  ;   I  know  that  nought  so  bother* 

The  hearts  of  tl>e  heroi"   on  a  charge, 

As  leaving  a  small  family  at  large. 


636 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VI, 


LXXII. 

"  But  these  are  but  two  Turkish  ladies,  who 

With  their  attendant  aided  our  escape, 
And  afterwards  accompanied  us  through 

A  thousand  perils  in  this  dubious  shape. 
To  lae  this  kind  of  life  is  not  so  new ; 

To  them,  poor  things !   it  is  an  awkward  step  ; 
I  therefore,  if  you  wish  me  to  fight  freely, 
Jlequest  that  they  may  both  be  used  genteelly." 

LXXIII. 
Meantime,  these  two  poor  girls,  with  swimming  eyes, 

Look'd  on  as  if  in  doubt  if  they  could  trust 
Their  own  protectors  ;    nor  was  their  surprise 

Less  than  their  grief  (and  truly  not  less  just) 
To  see  an  old  man,  rather  wild  than  wise 

In  aspect,  plainly  clad,  besmear'd  with  dust, 
Stript  to  his  waistcoat,  and  that  not  too  clean, 
More  fear'd  than  all  the  sultans  ever  seen. 

LXXIV. 
For  every  thing  seem'd  resting  on  his  nod, 

As  they  could  read  in  all  eyes.     Now,  to  them, 
Who  were  accustom'd,  as  a  sort  of  god, 

To  see  the  sultan,  rich  in  many  a  gem, 
Like  an  imperial  peacock  stalk  abroad 

(That  royal  bird,  whose  tail 's  a  diadem), 
With  all  the  pomp  of  power,  it  was  a  doubt 
How  power  could  condescend  to  do  without. 

LXXV. 
John  Johnson,  seeing  their  extreme  dismay, 

Though  little  versed  in  feelings  oriental, 
Suggested  some  slight  comfort  in  his  w-y. 

Don  Juan,  who  was  much  more  sentimental, 
Swore  they  should  see  him  by  the  dawn  of  day, 

Or  that  the  Russian  army  should  repent  all: 
And,  strange  to  say,  thuy  found  some  consolation 
In  this — for  females  like  exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 
And  then,  with  tears,  and  sighs,  and  some  slight  kisses, 

They  parted  for  the  present — these  to  await, 
According  to  the   artillery's  hits  or  misses, 

What  sages  call  Chance,  Providence,  or  Fate — 
(Uncertainty  is  one  of  many  blisses, 

A  mortgage  on  Humanity's  estate) — 
While  their  beloved  friends  began  to  arm, 
To  burn  a  town  which  never  did  them  harm. 

LXXVII. 
Suwarrow,  who  but  saw  things  in  the  gross— 

Being  much  too  gross  to  see  them  in  detail; 
Who  calculated  life  as  so  much  dross, 

And  as  the  wind  a  widow'd  nation's  wail, 
And  cared  as  little  for  his  army's  loss 

(So  that  their  efforts  should  at  length  prevail) 
As  wife  and  friends  did  for  the  boils  of  Job ; — 
Wb/>f  was  't  to  him  to  hear  two  women  sob  ? 

LXXV1II. 

Nothing.     The  work  of  glory  still  went  on, 

In  preparations  for  a  cannonade 
As  terrible  as  that  of  Ilicn, 

If  Homer  had  found  mortars  ready  made  ; 
Rut  now,  instead  of  slaying  Priam's  son, 

We  only  can  but  talk  of  escalade, 
Homos,  drums,  guns,  bastions,  batteries,  bayonets, 

bullets, 
Hard  words  which  stirk  in  the  soft  Muses'  gullets. 


LXXIX. 

Oh,  thou  eternal  Honier !    who  couldst  charm 
All  ears,  though  long — all  ages,  though  so  short, 

By  merely  wielding  with  poetic  arm 
Arms  to  which  men  will  never  more  resort, 

Unless  gunpowder  should  be  found  to  harm 
Much  less  than  is  the  hope  of  every  court, 

Which  now  is  leagued  young  Freedom  to  annoy;- 

But  they  will  not  find  Liberty  a  Troy : 

LXXX. 

Oh,  thou  eternal  Homer !    I  have  now 

To  paint  a  siege,  wherein  more  men  were  slain, 
With  deadlier  engines  and  a  speedier  blow, 

Than  in  thy  Greek  gazette  of  that  campaign ; 
And  yet,  like  all  men  else,  I  mus*  al'.ow, 

To  vie  with  thee  would  be  about  as  vain 
As  for  a  brook  to  cope  with  ocean's  flood ; 
But  still  we  moderns  equal  you  in  blood— 

LXXXI. 

If  not  in  poetry,  at  least  in  fact : 

And  fact  is  truth,  the  grand  desideratum  ! 

Of  which,  howe'er  the  Muse  describes  each  act, 
There  should  be,  ne'ertheless,  a  slight  substratum. 

But  now  the  town  is  going  to  be  attack'd ; 

Great  deeds  are  doing — how  shall  I  relate  'erp  ? 

Souls  of  immortal  generals !   Phrebus  watches 

To  colour  up  his  rays  from  your  despatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh,  ye  great  bulletins  of  Bonaparte ! 

Oh,  ye  less  grand  long  lists  of  kill'd  and  wounded 
Shade  of  Leonidas !  who  fought  so  hearty, 

When  my  poor  Greece  was  once,  as  now,  surroiwded 
Oh,  Ccesar's  Commentaries  !  now  impart  ye, 

Shadows  of  glory !   (lest  I  be  confounded) 
A  portion  of  your  fading  twilight  hues, 
So  beautiful,  so  fleeting  to  the  Muse. 

LXXXIII. 

When  I  call  "fading"  martial  immortality, 

I  mean,  that  every  age  and  every  year, 
And  almost  every  day,  in  sad  reality, 

Some  sucking  hero  is  compell'd  to  rear, 
Who,  when  we  come  to  sum  up   thr.  totality 

Of  deeds  to  human  happiness  m-/stdear, 
Turns  out  to  be  a  butcher  in  great  business, 
Afflicting  young  folks  with  a  sort  of  dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 
Medals,  ranks,  ribbons,  lace,  embroidery,  scarlet. 

Are  things  vnmortal  to  immortal  man, 
As  purple  to  the  Babylonian  harlot : 

An  uniform  to  boys  is  like  a  fan 
To  women  ;   there  is  scarce  a  crimson  varlet, 

But  deems  himself  the  first  in   glory's  van. 
But  glory 's  glory ;  and  if  you  would  find 
What  that  is — ask  the  pig  who  sees  the  wind. 

LXXXV. 
At  least  he  feels  it,  and  some  say  he  sees, 

Because  he  runs  before  it  like  a  pig ; 
Or,  if  that  simple  sentence  should  displease, 

Say  that  he  scuds  before  it  lik<>  a  brig, 
A  schooner,  or — but  it  is  time  to  ease 

This  canto,  ere  my  Muse  perceives  fatigue 
The  next  shall  ring  a  peal  to  shake  all  peopie. 
Like  a  bob-major  from  a  viilage-steenle. 


CANTO  vm. 


DON  JUAN. 


63- 


LXXXVL 

Hark !  througli  the  silence  of  the  cold  dull  night, 
The  hum  of  armies  gathering  rank  on  rank  ! 

Lo !   dusky  masses  steal  in  dubious  sight 
Along  the  leaguer'd  wall  and  bristling  bank 

Of  the  arm'd  river,  while  with  straggling  light 

The  stars  peep  through  the  vapours  dim  and  dank, 

Which  curl  in  curious  wreaths — How  soon  the  smoke 

Of  hell  shall  pall  them  in  a  deeper  cloak ! 

LXXXVII. 

Here  pause  we  for  the  present — as  even  then 
That  awful  pause,  dividing  life  from  death, 

Struck  for  an  instant  on  the  hearts  of  men, 

Thousands  of  whom  were  drawing  their  last  breath  ! 

A  moment — and  all  will  be  life  again  ! 

The  march !  the  charge !  the  shouts  of  either  faith  ! 

Hurra !  and  Allah !  and — one  moment  more — 

The  death-cry  drowning  in  the  battle's  roar. 


CANTO  VIII. 


OH  blood  and  thunder !  and  oh  blood  and  wounds ! 

These  are  but  vulgar  oaths,  as  you  may  deem, 
Too  gentle  reader!   and  most  shocking  sounds: 

And  so  they  are ;  yet  thus  is  Glory's  dream 
Unriddled,  and  as  my  true  Muse  expounds 

At  present  such  things,  since  they  are  her  theme, 
So  be  they  her  inspirers!    Call  them  Mars, 
Bcllona,  what  you  will — they  mean  but  wars. 

II. 

All  was  prepared — the  fire,  the  sword,  the  men 
To  wield  them  in  their  terrible  array. 

The  army,  like  a  lion  from  his  den, 

March'd  forth  with  nerve  and  sinews  bent  to  slay — 

A  human  Hydra,  issuing  from  its  fen 

To  breathe  destruction  on  its  winding  way, 

Whose  heads  were  heroes,  which,  cut  off  in  vain, 

Immediately  in  others  grew  again. 

III. 

History  can  only  take  things  in  the  gross ; 

But  could  we  know  them  in  detail,  perchance 
In  balancing  the  profit  and  the  loss, 

War's  merit  it  by  no  means  might  enhance, 
To  waste  so  much  gold  for  a  little  dross, 

As  hath  been  done,  mere  conquest  to  advance. 
The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  fame,  than  shedding  seas  of  gore. 

IV. 
And  why  ?  because  it  brings  self-approbation  ; 

Whereas  the  other,  after  all  its  glare, 
Shouts,  bridges,  arches,  pensions  from  a  nation— 

Which  (it  may  be)  has  not  much  left  to  spare — 
A  higher  title,  or  a  loftier  station, 

Though  they  may  make  corruption  gape  or  stare 
ITet,  in  the  end,  except  in  freedom's  battles, 
Are  nothing  but  a  child  of  murder's  rattles. 
3e2 


V. 

And  such  they  are — and  such  they  will  be  found. 

Not  so  Leonidas  and  Washington, 
'Vhose  every  baw^g-field  is  holy  ground, 

Which  breathes  of  nations  saved,  not  worlds  undcua 
low  sweetly  on  the  ear  such  echoes  sound ! 
While  the  mere  victors  may  appal  or  stun 
The  servile  and  the  vain,  such  names  will  be 
A  watchword  till  the  future  shall  be  free. 

VI. 

The  night  was  dark,  and  the  thick  mist  allow'd 
Nought  to  be  seen  save  the  artillery's  flame, 
iVhich  arch'd  the  horizon  like  a  fiery  cloud, 

And  in  the  Danube's  waters  shone  the  same, 
A  mirror'd  hell !   The  volleying  roar,  and  loud 

Long  booming  of  each  peal  on  peal,  o'ercame 
The  ear  far  more  than  thunder  ;  for  Heaven's  flashe* 
Spare,  or  smite  rarely — Man's  make  millions  ashes ! 

VII. 
The  column  order'd  on  the  assault  scarce  pass'd 

Beyond  the  Russian  batteries  a  few  toises, 
When  up  the  bristling  Moslem  rose  at  last, 

Answering  the  Christian  thunders  with  like  voices  : 
Then  one  vast  fire,  air,  earth,  and  stream  embraced, 
Which  rock'd  as  't  were  beneath  the  mighty  noires  j 
While  the  whole  rampart  blazed  like  Etna,  when 
The  restless  Titan  hiccups  in  his  den. 

VIII. 
And  one  enormous  shout  of  "Allah!"  rose 

In  the  same  moment,  loud  as  even  the  roar 
Of  war's  most  mortal  engines,  to  their  foes 
Hurling  defiance :   city,  stream,  and  shore 
Resounded  "Allah!"  and  the  clouds,  which  close 

With  thickening  canopy  the  conflict  o'er, 
Vibrate  to  the  Eternal  Name.     Hark!   through. 
All  sounds  it  pierceth,  "Allah!  Allah!  Hu!"1 

IX. 

The  columns  were  in  movement,  one  and  all : 
But,  of  the  portion  which  attack'd  by  water, 
Thicker  than  leaves  the  lives  began  to  fall, 

Though  led  by  Arseniew,  that  great  son  of  slaughtei 
As  brave  as  ever  faced  both  boom  and  ball. 
"  Carnage   (so   Wordsworth   tells   you)   is  God's 

daughter:"2 

If  he  speak  truth,  she  is  Christ's  sister,  and 
Just  now  behaved  as  in  the  Holy  Land. 

X. 

The  Prince  de  Ligne  was  wounded  in  the  knee ; 
Count  Chapeau-Bras  too  had  a  ball  between 
His  cap  and  head,  which  proves  the  head  to  De 

Aristocratic  as  was  ever  seen, 
Because  it  then  received  no  injury 

More  than  the  cap ;  in  fact  the  ball  could  mean 
No  harm  unto  a  right  legitimate  head : 
"  Ashes  to  ashes " — why  not  lead  to  lead  ? 

XI. 

Also  the  General  Markow,  Brigadier, 
Insisting  on  removal  of  the  prirve, 
Amidst  some  groaning  thousands  dying  ncai,  • 

All  common  fellows,  who  might  writhe  and  vvmce, 
And  shriek  for  water  into  a  deaf  ear, — 

The  General  Markow,  who  could  thus  evince 
His  sympathy  for  rank,  by  the  same  token, 
To  teach  him  greater,  had  his  own  l»g  broke*. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO 


XI. 

Threr  hundred  cannon  threw  up  their  emetic, 
And  thirty  thousand  muskets  flung  their  pills 

Like  hail,  to  make  a  bloody  diuretic. 
Mortality !  thou  hast  thy  monthly  bills ; 

Thy  plagues,  thy  famines,  thy  physicians,  yet  tick, 
Like  the  death-watch,  within  our  ears  the  ills 

Past,  present,  and  to  come  ; — but  all  may  yield 

To  the  true  portrait  of  one  battle-field. 

XIII. 

There  the  still  varying  pangs,  which  multiply 
Until  their  very  number  makes  men  hard 

By  the  infinities  of  agony, 

Which  meet  the  gaze,  whate'er  it  may  regard — 

The  groan,  the  roll  in  dust,  the  all-white  eye 
Turn'd  back  within  its  socket, — these  reward 

Four  rank  and  file  by  thousands,  while  the  rest 

May  win,  perhaps,  a  ribbon  at  the  breast ! 

XIV. 

Yet  I  love  glory  ;   glory  's  a  great  thing ; 

Think  what  it  is  to  be  in  your  old  age 
Maintain'd  at  the  expense  of  your  good  king : 

A  moderate  pension  shakes  full  many  a  sage, 
And  heroes  are  but  made  for  bards  to  sing, 

Which  is  still  better  ;  thus  in  verse  to  wage 
Your  wars  eternally,  besides  enjoying 
Half-pay  for  life,  make  mankind  worth  destroying. 

XV. 
The  troops  already  disembark'd  push'd  on 

To  take  a  battery  on  the  right ;  the  others, 
Who  landed  lower  down,  their  landing  done, 

Had  set  to  work  as  briskly  as  their  brothers : 
Being  grenadiers,  they  mounted,  one  by  one, 

Cheerful  as  children  climb  the  breasts  of  mothers, — 
O'er  the  entrenchment  and  the  palisade, 
Quite  orderly,  as  if  upon  parade. 

XVI. 

And  this  was  admirable ;  for  so  hot 

The  fire  was,  that  were  red  Vesuvius  loaded, 
Besides  its  lava,  with  all  sorts  of  shot 

And  shells  or  hells,  it  could  not  more  have  goaded. 
Of  officers  a  third   fell  on  the  spot, 

A  thing  which  victory  by  no  means  boded 
To  gentlemen  engaged  in  the  assault' 
Hounds,  when  the  huntsman  tumbles,  are  at  fault. 

XVII. 
But  here  I  leave  the  general  concern, 

To  track  our  hero  on  his  pa'h  of  fame : 
He  must  his  laurels  separately  earn ; 

For  fifty  thousand  heroes,  name  by  name, 
Though  ail  deserving  equally  to  turn 

A  couplet,  or  an  elegy  to  claim, 
Would  form  a  lengthy  lexicon  of  glory, 
And,  what  is  worse  still,  a  much  longer  story : 

XVIII. 
*  rid  therefore  we  must  give  the  greater  number 

To  the  gazette — which  doubtless  fairly  dealt 
Rv  the  deceased,  who  lie  in  famous  slumber 

In  ditches,  fields,  or  wheresoe'er  they  felt 
jTieir  ciay  for  the  last  time  their  souls  encumber ; — 
Thrice  happy  he  whose  name  has  been  well  spelt 
In  the  despatch  ;  I  knew  a  man  whose  loss 
VN  rts  o.inted  Grove,  although  his  name  was  Grose.1 


XIX. 

Juan  and  Johnson  join'd  a  certain  corps, 

And  fought  away  with  might  and  main,  not  knowing 

The  way  which   they  had  never  trod  before, 

And  still  less  guessing  where  thev  /night  be  going , 

But  on  they  march'd,  dead  bodies  trampling  o'er, 
Firing,  and  thrusting,  slashing,  sweating,  glowing 

But  fighting  thoughtlessly  enough  to  win, 

To  their  two  selves,  one  whole  bright  bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus  on  they  wallow'd  in  the  bloody  mire 

Of  dead  and  dying  thousands, — sometime*  gaining 

A  yard  or  two  of  ground,  which  brought  them  nigher 
To  some  odd  angle  for  which  all  were  straining ; 

At  other  times,  repulsed  by  the  close  fire, 

Which  really  pour'd  as  if  all  hell  were  raining, 

Instead  of  heaven,  they  stumbled  backwards  o'er 

A  wounded  comrade,  sprawling  in  his  gore. 

XXI. 

Though  't  was  Don  Juan's  first  of  fields,  ;nd  though 
The  nightly  muster  and  the  silent  march 

In  the  chill  dark,  when  courage  does  not  glow 
So  much  as  under  a  triumphal  arch, 

Perhaps  might  make  him  shiver,  yawn,  or  throw 
A  glance  on  the  dull  clouds   (as  thick  as  starch, 

Which  stiffen'd  heaven)  as  if  he  wish'd  for  day;— 

Yet  for  all  this  he  did  not  run  away. 

XXII. 

Indeed  he  could  not.     But  what  if  he  had? 

There  have  been   and  are  heroes  who  begun 
With  something  not  much  better,  or  as  bad : 

Frederic  the  Great  from  Molwitz  deign'd  to  run, 
For  the  first  and  last  time ;  for,  like  a  pad, 

Or  hawk,  or  bride,  most  mortals,  after  one 
Warm  bout,  are  broken  into  their  new  tricks, 
And  fight  like  fiends  for  pay  or  politics. 

XXIII. 

He  was  what  Erin  calls,  in  her  sublime 

Old  Erse  or  Irish,  or  it  may  be  Punic, 
(The  antiquarians  who  can  settle  time, 

Which  settles  all  things,  I^oman,  Greek,  or  Runic, 
Swear  that  Pat's  language  sprung  from  the  same  cliire 

With  Hannibal,  and  wears  the  Tyrian  tunic 
Of  Dido's  alphabet ;  and  this  is  rational 
As  any  other  notion,  and  not  national); — * 

XXIV. 
But  Juan  was  quite  "  a  broth  of  a  boy," 

A  thing  of  impulse  and  a  child  of  song : 
Now  swimming  in  the  sentiment  of  joy, 

Cr  the  sensation  (if  that  phrase  seem  wrong), 
And  afterwards,  if  he  must  needs  destroy, 

In  such  good  company  as  always   throng 
To  battles,  sieges,  and  tha*  kind  of  pleasure, 
No  less  delighted  to  employ  his  leisure ; 

XXV. 
But  always  without  malice.     If  ne  warr'd 

Or  loved,  it  was  with  what  we  call  "  the  best 
Intentions,"  which  form  all  mankind's  irump-card 

To  be  produced  when  brought  up  to  the  test. 
The  statesman,  hero,  harlot,  lawyer — ward 

Off  each  attack  when  people  a"5  in  qiiesJ 
Of  their  designs,  by  saying  they  ir-ta.nl  we.ll, 
'Tis  pity  "that  such  meanings  should  jrave  oc-L.*' 


CANTO  VIII. 


DON  JUAN. 


G3J 


XXVI. 

1  almost  lately  ha\e  begun  to  doubt 

Whether  hell's  pavement — if  it  be  so  payed — 

Must  not  have  latterly  been  quite  worn  out, 
Not  by  the  numbers  good  intent  hath  saved, 

But  by  the  mass  who  go  below  without 
Those  ancient  good  intentions,  which  once  shaved 

And  smooth'd  the  brimstone  of  that  street  of  hell 

Which  bears  the  greatest  likeness  to  Pall  Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan,  by  some  strange  chance,  which  oft  divides 
Warrior  from  warrior  in  their  grim  career, 

Like  chastest  wives  from  constant  husbands'  sides, 
Just  at  the  close  of  the  first  bridal  year, 

By  one  of  those  odd  turns  of  fortune's  tides, 
Was  on  a  sudden  rather  puzzled  here, 

When,  after  a  good  deal  of  heavy  firing, 

He  found  himself  alone,  and  friends  retiring. 

XXVIII. 

I  don't  know  how  the  thing  occurr'd — it  might 
Be  that  the  greater  part  were  kill'd  or  wounded, 

^.nd  that  the  rest  had  faced  unto  the  right 
About ;  a  circumstance  which  has  confounded 

Caesar  himself,  who,  in  the  very  sight 

Of  his  whole  army,  which  so  much   abounded 
1  courage,  was  obliged  to  snatch  a  shield 

And  rally  back  his  Romans  to  the  field. 

XXIX. 

Juan,  who  had  no  shield  to  snatch,  and  was 
No  Caesar,  but  a  fine  young  lad,  who  fought 

He  knew  not  why,  arriving  at  this  pass, 
Stopp'd  for  a  minute,  as  perhaps  he  ought 

For  a  much  longer  time  ;    then,  like  an  ass — 
(Start  not,  kind  reader  ;  since  great  Homer  thought 

This  simile  enough  for  Ajax,  Juan 

Perhaps  may  find  it  better  than  a  new  one:) — 

XXX. 

Then,  like  an  ass,  he  went  upon  his  way, 

And,  what  was  stranger,  never  look'd  behind ; 

But  seeing,  flashing  forward,  like  the  day 
Over  the  hills,  a  fire  enough  to  blind 

Those  who   dislike  to  look  upon  a  fray, 
He   stumbled  on,  to  try  if  he  could  find 

A  path,  to  add  his  own  slight  arm  and  forces 

To  corps,  the  greater  part  of  which  were  corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving  then  no  more  the  commandant 

Of  his  own  corps,  nor  even  th<!  corps,  which  had 
Quite  disappear'd — the  gods  know  how  !    (I  can't 

Account  for  every  thing  which  may  look  bad 
In  history ;    but  we  at  least  may  grant 

It  was  not  marvellous  that  a  mere  lad, 
In  search  of  glory,  should  look  on  before, 
Nor  care  a  pinch  of  snuff  about  his  corps : ) — 

XXXII. 
Perceiving  nor  commander  nor  commanded, 

And  left  at  large,  like  a  young  heir,  to  make 
His  way  to— where  he  knew  not — single-handed; 

As  travellers  follow  over  bog  and  brake 
An  "ignis  fatuus,"  or  as  sailors  stranded 

Unto  the  nearest  hut  themselves  betake, 
Po  Juan,  following  honour  and  his  nose, 
Rush'n  wh«"-«  tiii]  tmciW  *\-«  announced  most  foes. 


XXXIII. 

He  knew  not  where  he  was,  nor  greatly  carevl, 

For  he  was  diz'.v,  busy,  and  his  veins 
Fill'd  as  with  ^.tning — for  his  spirit  shared 

The  hour,  as  is  the  case  with  lively  brains  ; 
And,  where  the  hottest  fire  was  seen  and  heard, 

And  the  loud  cannon  peal'd  its  hoarsest  strains, 
He  rush'd,  while  earth  and  air  were  sadly  shaken 
By  thy  humane  discovery,  friar  Bacon  !6 

XXXIV. 
And,  as  he  rush'd  along,  it  came  to  pass  he 

Fell  in  with  what  was  late  the  second  column. 
Under  the  orders  of  the  general  Lascy, 

But  now  reduced,  as  is  a  bulky  volume, 
Into  an  elegant  extract  (much  less  massy) 

Of  heroism,  and  took  his  place  with  solemn 
Air,  'midst  the  rest,  who  kept  their  valiant  faces, 
And  levell'd  weapons,  still  against  the  glacis. 

XXXV. 
Just  at  this  crisis  up  came  Johnson  too, 

Who  had  "  retreated,"  as  the  phrase  is,  when 
Men  run  away  much  rather  than  go  through 

Destruction's  jaws  into  the  devil's  den ; 
But  Johnson  was  a  clever  fellow,  who 

Knew  when  and  how  "  to  cut   and  come  again," 
And  never  ran   away,  except  when  running 
Was  nothing  but  a  valorous  kind  of  cunning. 

XXXVI. 
And  so,  when  all  his  corps  were  dead  or  dying, 

Except  Don  Juan — a  mere  novice,  whose 
More  virgin  valour  never  dreamt  of  flying, 

From  ignorance  of  danger,  which  indues 
Its  votaries,  like  innocence  relying 

On  its  own  strength,  with  careless  nerves  and  thews,- 
Johnson  retired  a  little,  just  to  rally 
Those  who  catch  cold  in  "  shadows  of  death's  valley." 

XXXVII. 
And  there,  a  little  shelter'd  from  the  shot, 

Which  rain'd  from  bastion,  battery,  parapet, 
Rampart,  wall,  casement,  house — for  there  was  noi 

In  this  extensive  city,  sore  beset 
By  Christian  soldiery,  a  single  spot 

Which  did  not  combat  like  the  devil  as  yet, 
He  found  a  number  of  chasseurs,  all  scatter'd 
By  the  resistance  of  the  chase  they  batter'd. 

XXXVIII. 
And  these  he  call'd  on  ;  and,  what 's  strange,  they  camo 

Unto  his  call,  unlike  "the  spirits  from 
The  vasty  deep,"  to  whom  you  may  exclaim, 

Says  Hotspur,  long  ere  they  will  leave  their  home. 
Their  reasons  were  uncertainty,  or  shame 

At  shrinking  from  a  bullet  or  a  bomb, 
And  that  odd  impulse,  which,  in  wars  or  creeds. 
Makes  men,  like  cattle,  follow  him  who  leads. 

XXXIX. 
By  Jove  !  he  was  a  noble  fellow,  Johnson, 

And  though  his- name  than  Ajax  or  Achilles 
Sounds  less  harmonious,  underneath  the  sun  soot 

We  shall  not  see  his  likeness  :   he  could  kill  bin 
Man  quite  as  quietly  as  blows  the  monsoon 

Her  steady  breath  (which  some  months  the  SUM 

still  is;) 

Seldom  he  varied  feature,  hue,  or  muscle, 
And  could  be  verv  busy  without  bustle  ; 


«>40 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CAXTO  VI 1L 


XL. 


And  thcrcfoie,  when  he  ran  away,  he  did  so 

Upon  reflection,  knowing  that  behind 
He  would  fin  I  others  who  would  fain  be  rid  so 

Of  idle  apprehensions,  which,  like  wind, 
Trouble  heroic .  stomachs.     Though  their  lids  so 

Oft  are  soon  closed,  all  heroes  are  not  blind, 
But  when  they  light  upon  immediate  death, 
Retire  a  little,  merely  to  take  breath. 

XLI. 

But  Johnson  only  ran  off  to  return 
With  many  other  warriors,  as  we  said, 

Unto  that  rather  somewhat  misty  bourn, 
Which  Hamlet  tells  us  is  a  pass  of  dread. 

To  Jack,  howe'er,  this  gave  but  slight  concern : 
His  soul   (like  galvanism  upon  the  dead) 

Acted  upon  the  living  as  on  wire, 

And  led  them  back  into  the  heaviest  fire. 

XLII. 

Egad !    they  found  the  second  time  what  they 
The  first  time  thought  quite  terrible  enough 

To  fly  from,  malgre  all  which  people  say 
Of  glory,  and  all  that  immortal  stuff 

Which  fills  a  regiment  (besides  their  pay, 

That  daily  shilling  which  makes  warriors  tough) — 

They  found  on  their  return  the  self- same  welcome, 

Which  made  some  think,  and  others  know,  a  hell  come. 

XLIII. 
They  fell  as  thick  as  harvests  beneath  hail, 

Grass  before  scythes,  or  corn  below  the  sickle, 
Proving  that  trite  old  truth,  that  life  's  as  frail 

As  any  other  boon  for  which  men  stickle. 
The  Turkish -batteries  thrash'd  them  like  a  flail, 

Or  a  good  boxer,  into  a  sad  pickle 
Putting  the  very  bravest,  who  were  knock'd 
Upon  the  head  before  their  guns  were  cock'd. 

XLIV. 

The  Turks,  behind  the  traverses  and  flanks 
Of  the  next  bastion,  fired  away  like  devils, 

And  swept,  as  gales  sweep  foam  away,  whole  ranks : 
However,  Heaven  knows  how,  the  Fate  who  levels 

Towns,  nations,  worlds,  in  her  revolving  pranks, 
So  order'd  it,  amidst  these  sulphury  revels, 

That  Johnson,  and  some  few  who  had  not  scamper'd, 

Reach' d  the  interior  talus  of  th-j  rampart. 

XLV. 

first  one  or  two,  then  five,  six,  and  a  dozen, 

Came  mounting  quickly  up,  for  it  was  now 
Ail  neck  or  nothing,  as,  like  pitch  or  rosin, 

Flame  was  shower'd  forth  above  as  well 's  below, 
So  that  you  scarce  could  say  who  best  had  chosen, — 

The  gentlemen  that  were  the  first  to  show 
Hwir  martial  faces  on  the  parapet, 
Or  those  who  thought  it  brave  to  wait  as  yet. 

XLVI. 
But  those  who  scaled  found  out  that  their  advance 

Was  favojr'd  by  an  accident  or  blunder: 
Jlie  Greek  or  Turkish  Cohorn-'s  ignorance 

Had  paiisadoed  in  a  way  you  'd  wonder 
|V»  aee  in  f^rts  of  Netherlands  or  France — 

(Though  these  to  our  Gioraltar  must  knock  under) — 
Right  in  the  middle  of  the  parapet 
)u<.f  fiamea,  these  pulisudes  were  primly  set: 


XLVII. 

So  that  on  either  side  some  nine  or  ten 
Paces  were  left,  whereon  you  could  contrive 

To  march ;    a  great  convenience  to  our  men 
At  least  to  all  those  who  were  left  alive, 

Who  thus  could  form  a  line  and  fight  again ; 
And  that  which  further  aided  them  to  strive 

Was,  that  they  could  kick  down  the  palisades, 

Which  scarcely  rose  much  higher  than  grass  bla<*  <*. 

XLVIII. 

Among  the  first, — I  will  not  say  the  Jirsl, 
For  such  precedence  upon  such  occasions 

Will  oftentimes  make  deadly  quarrels  burst 
Out  between  friends  as  well  as  allied  nations ; 

The  Briton  must  be  bold  who  really  durst 
Put  to  such  trial  John  Bull's  partial  patience, 

As  say  that  Wellington  at  Waterloo 

Was  beaten, — though  the  Prussians  say  so  too ; — 

XLIX. 

And  that  if  Blucher,  Bulow,  Gneisenau, 
And  God  knows  who  besides  in  "  au"  and  "ou," 

Had  not  come  up  in  time  to  cast  an  awe 
Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  fought  till  now 

As  tigers  combat  with  an  empty  craw, 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  had  ceased  to  show 

His  orders,  also  to  receive  his  pensions, 

Which  are  the  heaviest  that  our  history  mentions. 

L. 

But  never  mind  ; — "  God  save  the  king !"  and  kings  ' 
For  if  he  don't,  I  doubt  if  men  will  longer. — 

I  think  I  hear  a  little  bird,  who  sings, 
The  people  by  and  by  will  be  the  stronger: 

The  veriest  jade  will  wince  whose  harness  wrir.gs 
So  much  into  the  raw  as  quite  to  wrow;  her 

Beyond  the  rules  of  posting, — and  .he  mob 

At  last  fall  sick  of  imitating  Job. 

LI. 

At  first  it  grumbles,  then  it  swears,  and  ttien, 

Like  David,  flings  smooth  pebbles  'gainst  a  giant , 
At  lasr.  it.  takes  to  weapons,  such  as  men 

Snatch  when  despair  makes  human  hearts  less  pliant. 
Then  "  comes  the  tug  of  war ;" — 't  wiil  come  again, 

I  rather  doubt ;  and  I  would  fain  say  u  fie  on  't,' 
If  I  had  not  perceived  that  revolution 
Alone  can  save  the  earth  from  hell's  pollution. 

LII. 
But  to  continue  : — I  say  not  the  first, 

But  of  the  first,  our  little  friend  Don  Juan 
Walk'd  o'er  the  walls  of  Ismail,  as  if  nursed 

Amidst  such  scenes — though  this  was  quite  a  new  one 
To  him,  and  I  should  hope  to  most.     The  thirst 

Of  glory,  which  so  pierces  through  and  through  one 
Pervaded  him — although  a  generous  creature, 
As  warm  in  heart  as  feminine  in  feature. 

LIII. 
And  here  he  was — who,  upon  woman's  breast, 

Even  from  a  child,  felt  like  a  child  ;   howe'er 
The  man  in  all  the  rest  might  be  confess'd; 

To  him  it  was  Elysium  to  be  there  ; 
And  he  could  even  withstand  that  awkwa'd  lest 

Which  Rousseau  points  out  to  the  duoiou?  fa'i, 
"Observe  your  lover  when  he  leaves  your  arms; 
But  Juan  never  left  them  while  they  'd  charn-*. 


CANTO  VUI. 


DON  JUAN. 


64 1 


LIV. 

Unless  compell'd  by  fate,  or  wave  or  wind, 
Or  near  relations,  who  are  much  the  same. 

But  here  he  was ! — where  each  tie  that  can  bind 
Humanity  must  yield  to  steel  and  flame: 

And  /«;,   whose  very  body  was  all  mind, — 
Flung  here  by  fate  or  circumstance,  which  tame 

The  loftiest, — hurried  by  the  time  and  place, — 

Dash'd  on  like  a  spurr'd  blood-horse  in  a  race. 

LV. 

So  was  his  blood  stirr'd  while  he  found  resistance, 
As  is  the  hunter's  at  the  five -bar  gate, 

Or  double  post  and  rail,  where  the  existence 
Of  Britain's  youth  depends  upon  their  weight, 

The  lightest  being  the  safest:  at  a  distance 
He  hated  cruelty,  as  all  men  hate 

Blood,   until  heated — and  even  there  his  own 

At  times  would  curdle  o'er  some  heavy  groan. 

LVI. 

Die  General  Lascy,  who  had  been  hard  press'd, 

Seeing  arrive  an  aid  so  opportune 
As  were  some  hundred  youngsters  all  abreast, 

Who  came  as  if  just  dropp'd  down  from  the  moon, 
TJ  Juan,  who  was  nearest  him,  address'd 

His  thanks,  and  hopes  to  take  the  city  soon, 
Not  reckoning  him  to  be  a  "base  Bezonian" 
(As  Pistol  calls  it),  but  a  young  Livonian. 

LVII. 

Juan,  to  whom  he  spoke  in  German,  knew 
As  much  of  German  as  of  Sanscrit,  and 

In  answer  made  an  inclination  to 

The  general  who  held  him  in  command  ; 

For,  seeing  one  with  ribbons  black  and  blue, 
Stars,  medals,  and  a  bloody  sword  in  hand, 

Addressing  him  in  tones  which  sceni'd  to  thank, 

He  recognised  an  officer  of  rank. 

LVIII. 

Short  speeches  pass  between  two  men  who  speak 
No  common  language ;  and  besides,  in  time 

Of  war  and  taking  towns,  when  many  a  shriek 
Rings  o'er  the  dialogue,  and  many  a  crime 

It  perpetrated  ere  a  word  can  break 

Upon  the  ear,  and  sounds  of  horror  chime 

In,  like  church-bells,  with  sigh,  howl,  groan, yell, prayer, 

There  cannot  be  much  conversation  there. 

LIX. 

And  therefore  all  we  have  related  in 
Two  long  octaves,  pass'd  in  a  little  minute ; 

But  in  the  same  small  minute,  every  sin 
Contrived  to  get  itself  comprised  within  it. 

The  very  cannon,  deafen'd  by  the  din, 
Grew  dumb,  for  you  might  almost  hear  a  linnet, 

\s  soon  as  thunder,  'midst  the  general  noise 

Of  human  nature's  agonizing  voice! 

LX. 

The  town  was  enter'd.     Oh  eternity! — 
14  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town," 

So  Cowper  says — and  I  begin  to  be 
Ol  his  opinion,  when  I  see  cast  down 

RO»JO,  Babylon,  Tyre,  Carthage,  Nineveh — 
All  walls  men  know,  and  many  never  known; 

And,  pondering  on  the  present  and  the  past, 

To  deem  the  woods  shall  be  our  home  at  last. 
86 


LXI. 

Of  all  men,  saving  Sylla  the  man-slayer, 

Who  passes  for  in  life  and  death  most   lucky, 

Of  the  great  names,  which  in  our  faces  stare, 
The  Gener^WJoon,  back-woodsman  of  Kentucky 

Was  happiest  amongst  mortals  any  where  ; 
For  killing  nothing  but  a  bear  or  buck,  he 

Enjoy'd  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless  days, 

Of  his  old  age  in  wilds  of  deepest  maze. 

LXII. 

Crime  came  not  near  him — she  is  not  the  child 
Of  solitude ;  health  shrank  noL  from  him — for 

Her  home  is  in  the  rarely-trodden  wild, 

Where  if  men  v?ek  her  not,  and  death  be  mure 

Their  choice  than  life,  forgive  them,  as  beguiled 
By  habit  to  what  their  own  hearts  abhor — 

In  cities  caged.     The  present  case  in  point  I 

Cite  is,  that  Boon  lived  hunting  up  to  ninety ; 

LXHI. 

And  what's  still  stranger,  left  behind   a  name — 
For  which  men  vainly  decimate  the  throng,— 

Not  only  famous,  but  of  that  good  fame 
Without  which  glorv  's  but  a  tavern  song — 

Simple,  serene,  the  antipodes  of  shame, 

Which  hate  nor  envy  e'er  could  tinge  with  wiong; 

An  active  hermit,  even  in  age  the  child 

Of  nature,  or  the  Man  of  Ross  run  wild. 

LXIV. 

'T  is  true  he  shrank  from  men,  even  of  his  nation. 
When  they  built  up  unto  his  darling  trees, — 

He  moved  some  hundred  miles  off",  for  a  station 
Where  there  were  fewer  houses  and  more  ease- 

The  inconvenience  of  civilization 

Is,  that  you  neither  can  be  pleased  nor  p'.ease ;  - 

But,  where  he  met  the  individual  man, 

He  show'd  himself  as  kind  as  mortal  can. 

LXV. 

He  was  not  all  alone :   around  him   grew 
A  sylvan  tribe  of  children  of  the  chase, 

Whose  young,  unwaken'd   world  was  ever  new, 
Nor  sword  nor  sorrow  yet  had  left  a  trace 

On  her  unwnnkled  brow,  nor  could  you  view 
A  frown  on  nature's  or  on  human  face  ; — 

The  free-born  forest  found  and  kept  them  free, 

And  fresh  as  is  a  torrent  or  a  tree. 

LXVI. 

And  tall  and  strong  and  swifl  of  foot  were  they 

Beyond  the  dwarfing  city's  pale  abortions, 
Because  their  thoughts  had  never  been  the   prny 

Of  care  or  gain :  the  green  woods  were  their  portion* , 
No  sinking  spirits  told  them  they  grew   gray ; 

No  fashion  made  them  apes  of  her  distortions  ; 
Simple  they  were,  not  savage ;   and  their  rifles, 
Though  very  true,  were  not  yet  used  for  trifles. 

LXVII. 
Motion  was  in  their  days,  rest  in  their  slurnbeis, 

And  cheerfulness  the  handmaid  of  their  toil ; 
Nor  yet  too  many  nor  too  few  their  numbers ; 

Corruption  could  not  make  their  hearts  her    soil 
The  lust  whu-h  stings,  the  splendour  which  encumber* 

With  the  free  foresters  divi'le  no  spoil 
Serene,  not  sullen,  wete  the  solitudes 
Of  this  unsighin^  people  »f  the  woo<i» 


c>42 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  Vlll. 


LXVIII. 

Sft  much  for  nature:  --by  way  of  variety, 
Now  back  to  thj  great  joys,  civilization ! 

And  the  sweet  consequence  of  large  society,— 
War,  pestilence,  tho  despot's  desolation, 

The  kingly  scourge,  the  lust  of  notoriety, 

The  millions  slain  by  soldiers  for  their  ration, 

The  scenes  like  Catherine's  boudoir  at  threescore, 

With  Ismail's  storm  to  soften  it  the  more. 

LXIX. 

The  town  was  enter'd:  first  one  column  made 
Its  sanguinary  way  good — then   another ; 

The  reeking  bayonet  and  the  flashing  blade 

Clash'd  'gainst  the  scimitar,  and  babe  and  mother 

With  distant  shrieks  were  heard  heaven  to  upbraid ; — 
Still  closer  sulphury  clouds  began  to  smother 

The  breath  of  morn  and  man,  where,  foot  by  foot, 

The  madden'd  Turta  their  city  still  dispute. 

LXX. 

Koutousow,  he  who  afterwards  beat  back 

(With  some  assistance  from  the  frost  and  snow) 

Napoleon  on   his  bold  and  bloody  track, 

It  happen'd  was  himself  beat  back  just  now. 

He  was  a  jolly  fellow,  and  could  crack 
His  jest  alike  in  face  of  friend  or  foe, 

Though  life,  and  death,  and  victory,  were  at  stake — 

But  here  it  seem'd  his  jokes  had  ceased  to  take: 

LXXI. 

For,  having  thrown  himself  into  a  ditch, 
Follow'd  in  haste  by  various  grenadiers, 

Whose  blood  the  puddle  greatly  did  enrich, 
He  climb'd  to  where  the  parapet  appears; 

But  there  his  project  reach'd  its  utmost  pitch — 
('Mongst  other  deaths  the  General  Ribaupierre's 

Was  much  regretted) — for  the  Moslem  men 

Threw  them  all  down  into  the  ditch  again: 

LXXII. 

And,  had  it  not  bean  for  some  stray  troops,  landing 
They  knew  not  where, — being  carried  by  the  stream 

To  some  spot,  where  they  lost  their  understanding, 
And  wander'd  up  and  down  as  in  a  dream, 

Until  they  reacli'd,  as  day-break  was  expanding, 
That  which  a  portal  to  their  eyes  did  seem, — 

The  great  and  gay  Kou'ousow  might  have  lain 

Where  three  parts  of  his  column  yet  remain. 

LXXIH. 

And,  scrambling  round  the  rampart,  these  same  troops, 

After  the  taking  of  the  "  cavalier," 
Just  as  Koutousow's  most  "forlorn"  of  "hopes" 

Took,  like  chameleons,  some  slight  tinge  of  fear, 
Opcn'd  the  gate  call'd  "Kilia"  to  the  groups 

Of  baffled  heroes  who  stood  shyly  near, 
Sliding  knee-deep  in  lately-frozen  mud, 
Now  th?  w'd  into  a  marsh  of  human  blood. 

LXXIV. 
l"he  Ko/aks,  or  if  so  you  please,  Cossacks — 

(I  don't  much  pique   myself  upon  orthography, 
fcio  that  1  do  not  grossly  err  in  facts, 

Statistics,  tactics,  politics,  and  geography) — 
flaving  been  used  to  serve  on  horses'  backs, 

And  no  great  dilettanti   in  topography 
Of  tb'tnjssps,  but  fighting  where  it  pleases 
Th«>ii  ch:eta    to  oi'ier, — were  an  cut  to  pieces. 


LXXV. 

Their  column,  though  the  Turkish  batteries  thunder'd 
Upon  them,  ne'erlheless  had  reach'd  the  rampart, 

And  naturally  thought  they  could  have  plunder'd 
The  city,  without  being  further  hamper'd  ; 

But,  as  it  happens  to  brave  men,  they  blunder'd— 
The  Turks  at  first  pretended  to  have   scamper'd. 

Only  to  draw  them  'twixt  two  bastion  corne's, 

From  whence  they  sallied  on  those  Christian  scornera. 

LXXVI. 

Then  being  taken  by  the  tail — a  taking 
Fatal  to  bishops  as  to  soldiers — these 
Cossacks  were  all  cut  off  as  day  was  breaking, 

And  found  their  lives  were  let  at  a  short  lease-- 
But perish'd  without  shivering  or  shaking, 

Leaving  as  ladders  their  heap'd  carcasses, 
O'er  which  Lieutenant-Colonel  Yesouskoi 
March'd  with  the  brave  battalion  of  Polouzki:— 

LXXVII. 

This  valiant  man  kill'd  all  the  Turks  he  met, 
But  could  not  eat  them,  being  in  his  turn 

Slain  by  some  Mussulmans,  who  would  not  yet, 
Without  resistance,  see  their  city  burn. 

The  walls  were  won,  but  't  was  an  even  bet 

Which  of  the  armies  would  have  cause  to  mourn* 

'Twas  blow  for  blow,  disputing  inch  by  inch, 

For  one  would  not  retreat,  nor  t'  other  flinch. 

LXXVIII. 

Another  column  also  sufTer'd  much : 
And  here  we  may  remark  with  the  historian, 

You  should  but  give  few  cartridges  to  such 
Troops  as  are  meant  to  march  with  greatest  glory  on  • 

When  matters  must  be  carried  by  the  touch 

Of  the  bright  bayonet,  and  they  all  should  hui  ry  on. 

They  sometimes,  with  a  hankering  for  existence, 

Keep  merely  firing  at  a  foolish  distance. 

LXXIX. 

A  junction  of  the  General  Meknop's  men 

(Without  the  General,  who  had  fallen  soms  time 

Before,  being  badly  seconded  just  then) 
Was  made  at  length,  with  those  who  darod,  to  climb 

The  death-disgorging  rampart  once  again  ; 

And,  though  the  Turk's  resistance  was  sublime, 

They  took  the  bastion,  which  the  Sera  skier 

Defended  at  a  price  extremely  dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan  and  Johnson  and  some  volunteers, 

Among  the  foremost,  offer'd  him  good  quarter, 
A  word  which  little  suits  with  Seraskiers, 

Or  at  least  suited  not  this  valiant  Tartar.— 
He  died,  deserving   well  his  country's  tears, 

A  savage  sort  of  military  martyr. 
An  English  naval  officer,  who  wish'd 
To  make  him  prisoner,  was  also  dish'd. 

LXXXI. 
For  all  the  answer  to  his  proposition 

Was  from  a  pistol-shot  that  laid  hid  dead; 
On  which  the  rest,  without  more  intei  mission, 

Began  to  lay  about  with  steel  and    cad, — 
The  pious  metals  most  in  requisition 

On  such  occasions  :   not  a  single  hoad 
Was  spared, — three  thousand  Moslems  perisn  il  her*) 
And  sixteen  bayonets  pierced  the  Seraskier. 


vin. 


DON  JUAN. 


643 


LXXXII. 

Fhe  city 's  taken — only  part  by  part — 

And  death  is  drunk  with  gore :  there 's  not  a  street 
Where  fights  not  to  the  last  some  desperate  heart 

For  those  for  whom  it  soon  shall  cease  to  beat. 
Here  War  forgot  his  own  destructive  art 

In  more  destroying  nature  ;   and  the  heat 
Of  carnage,  like  the  Nile's  sun-sodden  slime, 
Engender'd  monstrous  shapes  of  every  crime. 

LXXX1II. 

A  Russian  officer,  in  martial  tread 

Over  a  heap  of  bodies,  felt  his  heel 
Seized  fast,  as  if  't  were  by  the  serpent's  head, 

Whose  fangs  Eve  taught  her  human  seed  to  feel. 
In  vain  he  kick'd,  and  swore,  and  writhed,  and  bled, 

And  howl'd  for  help  as  wolves  do  for  a  meal — 
The  teeth  still  kept  their  gratifying  hold, 
As  do  the  subtle  snakes  described  of  old. 

LXXXIV. 

A  dying  Moslem,  who  had  felt  the  foot 
Of  a  foe  o'er  him,  snatch'd  at  it,  and  bit 

The  very  tendon  which  is  most  acute — 

(That  which  some  ancient  Muse  or  modern  wit 

Named  after  thee,  Achilles)  and  quite  through  't 
He  made  the  teeth  meet,  nor  relinquish'd  it 

Even  with  his  life — for  (but  they  lie)   'tis   said 

To  the  live  leg  still  clung  the  sever'd  head. 

LXXX7. 

However  this  may  be,  't  is  pretty  sure 
The  Russian  officer  for  life  was  lamed, 

For  the  Turk's  teeth  stuck  faster  than  a  skewer, 
And  lift  him  'midst  the  invalid  and  maim'd: 

The  regimental  surgeon  could  not  cure 
His  patient,  and  perhaps  was  to  be  blamed 

More  than  the  head  of  the  inveterate  foe, 

Which  was  cut  off,  and  sca:ce  even  then  let  go. 

LXXXVI. 

But  then  the  fact 's  a  fact — and  't  is  the  part 

Of  a  true   poet  to  escape  from  fiction 
Whene'er  he  can ;  for  there  is  little  art 

In  leaving  verse  more  free  from  the  restriction 
Of  truth  than   prose,  unless  to  suit  the  mart 

For  what  is  sometimes  call'd  poetic  diction, 
4nd  that  outrageous  appetite  for  lies 
Which  Satan  angles  with  for  souls  like  flies. 

LXXXVII. 
The  city's  taken,  but  not  render'd  ! — No! 

There's  not  a  Moslem  that  hath  yielded  sword: 
The  blood  may  gusli  out,  as  the  Danube's  flow 

Rolls  by  the  city  wall ;   but  deed  nor  word 
Acknowledge  aught  of  dread  of  death  or  foe : 

In  vain  the  yell  of  victory  is  roar'd 
By  the  advancing  Muscovite — the  groan 
Of  the  last  foe  is  echoed  by  his  own. 

LXXXVIII. 
The  bayonet  pierces  and  the  sabre  cleaves, 

And  human  lives  are  iarish'd  every  where, 
As  the  year  closing  whirls  the  scarlet  leaves, 

When  the  stripp'd  forest  bows  to  the  bleak  air, 
-Vnd  groans ;  and  thus  the  peopled  city  grieves, 

Shorn  of  its  best  and  loveliest,  and  left  bare  ; 
But  still  it  fall"  wit1-  »ast  and  awful  splinters, 
As  oaks  '.j.utvn  down  w  it:.  &»  tneir  thousand  winters. 


LXXXIX. 

It  is  an  awful  topic — but  'tis  not 

My  cue  for  any  time  to  be  terrific : 
For  chequer' frls  it  seems  our  human  lot 

With  good,  and  bad,  and  worse,  alike  prolific 
Of  melancholy  merriment,  to  quote 

Too  much  of  one  sort  would  be  soporific ; 
Without,  or  with,  offence  to  friends  or  foes, 
I  sketch  your  world  exactly  as  it  goes. 

XC. 

And  one  good  action  in  the  midst  of  crimes 
Is  "quite  refreshing" — in  the  affected  phrase 

Of  these  ambrosial,  Pharisaic  times, 

With  all  their  pretty  milk-and-water  ways,— 

And  may  serve  therefore  to  bedew  these  rhymes, 
A  little  scorch'd  at  present  with  the  blaze 

Of  conquest  and  its  consequences,  which 

Make  epic  poesy  so  rare  and  rich. 

XCI. 

Upon  a  taken  bastion,  where  there  lay 

Thousands  of  slaughter'd  mer,  a  yet  warm  group 

Of  murder'd  women,  who  had  found  their  way 
To  this  vain  refuge,  made  the  good  heart  droop 

And  shudder; — while,  as  beautiful  as  May, 
A  female  child  of  ten  years  tried  to  stoop 

And  hide  her  little  palpitating  breast 

Amidst  the  bodies  lull'd  in  bloody  rest. 

XCII. 

Two  villai.Dus  Cossacks  pursued  the  child 

With  flashing  eyes  and  weapons :  match'd  with  them. 

The  rudest   brute  that  roams  Siberia's  wild 
Has  feelings  pure  and  polish'd  as  a  gem,— 

The  bear  is  civilized,  the  wolf  is  mild : 

And  whom  for  this  at  last  must  we  condemn? 

Their  natures,  or  their  sovereigns,  who  employ 

All  arts  to  teach  their  subjects  to  destroy? 

XCIII. 

Their  sabres  glitter'd  o'er  her  little  head, 

Whence  her  fair  hair  rose  twining  with  affright, 
Her  hidden  face  was  plunged  amidst  the  dead : 

When  Juan  caught  a  glimpse  of  this  sad  sight. 
I  shall  not  say  exactly  what  he  said, 

Because  it  might  not  solace  "ears  polite;" 
But  what  he  did,  was  to  lay  on  their  backs, — 
The  readiest  way  of  reasoning  with  Cossacks. 

XCIV. 
One's  hip  he  slash'd,  and  split  the  other's  shoulat» 

And  drove  them  with  their  brutal  yells  to  seek 
If  there  miaht  be  chirurgeons  who  could  solder 

The  wounds  they  richly  merited,  and  shriek 
Their  baffled  rage  and  pain  ;   while  waxing  colder 

As  he  turn'd  o'er  each  pale  and  gory  cheek, 
Don  Juan  raised   his  little  captive  from 
The  heap  a  moment  more  had  made  her  tomb. 

xcv. 

And  she  was  chill  as  they,  and  on  her  face 
A  slender  streak  of  blood   announced  how  near 

Her  fate  had  been  to  that   of  all   her  race  ; 
For  the  same  blow  which  laid  her  mother  her* 

Had  scarr'd  her  brow,  and  left  its  crimson  tract 
As  the  last  link  with  all  she  had  heid  dear; 

But  else  unhurt,  she  open'd  h-jr  large  eyes. 

And  gazed  on  Juan  with  a  wild  surprise. 


t.44 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VI I L 


XGVI. 

Jiret  At  this  instant,  while  their  eyes  were  fix'd 

upon  each  oilier,  with  dilated  glance, 
In  Juan's  look,  pain,  pleasure,  hope,  fear,  mix'd 

With  joy  to  save,  and  dread  of  some  mischance 
Jnto  his  protege ;   while  hers,  transfix'd 

With  infant  terrors,  glared  as  from  a  trance, 
4.  pure,  transparent,  pale,  yet  radiant  face, 
Like  to  a  lighted  alabaster  vase  ; — 

XCVII. 
Dp  came  John  Johnson — (I  will  not  say  "./aci," 

For  that  were  vulgar,  cold,  and  commonplace 
On  great  occasions,  such  as  an  attack 

On  cities,  as  hath  been  the  present  case) — 
Up  Johnson  came,  with  hundreds  at  his  back, 

Exclaiming: — "Juan!  Juan!    On,  boy!  brace 
Your  arm,  and  I  '11  bet  Moscow  to  a  dollar, 
That  you  and  I  will  win  Saint  George's  collar.* 

XCVI1I. 
**The  Seraskicr  is  knock'd  upon  the  head, 

But  the  stone  bastion  still  remains,  wherein 
The  old  pacha  sits  among  some  hundreds  dead, 

Smoking  his  pipe  quite  calmly,  'midst  the  din 
Of  our  artillery  and  his  own  :  't  is  said 

Our  kill'd  already  piled  up  to  the  chin, 
Lie  round  the  battery ;  but  still  it  batters, 
And  grape  in  volleys,  like  a  vineyard,  scatters. 

XCIX. 
*Tht«  up  with  me!" — But  Juan  answer'd,  "Look 

Upon  this  child — I  saved  her — must  not  leave 
Her  life  to  chance  ;  but  point  me  out  some  nook 

Of  safety,  where  she  less  may  shriek  and  grieve, 
And  I  am  with  you." — Whereon  Johnson  took 

A  glance  around — and  shrugg'd — and  twitch'd  his 

sleeve 

And  black  silk  neckcloth — and  replied,  "  You  're  right  ; 
Poor  thing!   what's  to  be  done?  I'm  puzzled  quite." 

C. 
Said  Juan — "  Whatsoever  is  to  be 

Done,  I  '11  not  quit  her  till  she  seems  secure 
Of  present  life  a  good  deal  more  than  we." — 

Quoth  Johnson — "  Neither  will  I  quite  insure  ; 
But  at  the  least  you  may  die  glomously." 

Juan  replied — "  At  least  I  will  endure 
Wliate'cr  is  to  be  borne — but  not  resign 
This  child,  who  's  parentless,  and  therefore  mine." 

CI. 
Johnson  said — "Juan,  we've  no  lime  to  lose; 

The  child  's  a  pretty  child — a  very  pretty— 
I  never  sasv  such  eyes — but  hark  !  now  choose 

Between  your  fame  and  feelings,  pride  and  pity: 
Hark  !  how  the  roar  increases  ! — no  excuse 

Will  ser\u  when  there  is  plunder  in  a  city; — 
[  Khnulil  be  loth  to  march  without  you,  but, 
By  God !  we  '11  be  too  late  for  the  first  cut." 

CII. 
But  Juan  was  immoveable  ;   until 

Joniison,  who  really  loved  him  in  his  way, 
PiekM  out  amongst  his  followers  with  some  skill 

JMich  as  he  thought  the  least  given  up  to  prey: 
And  swearing  if  the  infant  came  to  ill 

That  they  should  all  be  shot  on  the  next  day, 
Bu'  if  she  were  dtuvsr'u  safe  ard  sound, 
Tli<!«  sh.iuld  at  least  have  fifty  roubles  round, 


CHI. 

And  all  allowances  besides  of  plunder 

In  fair  proportion  with  their  comrades  ; — then 

Juan  consented  to  march  on  through  thunder, 
Which  thinn'd  at  every  step  their  ranks  of  m<n. 

And  yet  the  rest  rush'd  eagerly — no  wonder, 
For  they  were  heated  by  the  hope  of  gain, 

A  thing  which  happens  everywhere  each  day-- 

No  hero  trusteth  wholly  to  half-Bay. 

CIV. 

And  such  is  victory,  and  SHch  is  man  ! 

At  least  nine-tenths  of  what  we  call  so ; — God 
May  have  another  name  for  half  we  scan 

As  human  beings,  or  his  ways  are  odd. 
But  to  our  subject :  a  brave  Tartar  Khan, — 

Or  "*u&an,"  as  the  author  (to  whose  nod 
In  prose  I  bend   my  humble  verse)   doth  call 
This  chieftain — somehow  would  not  yield  at  all: 

cv. 

But,  flank'd  by  Jive  brave  sons  (such  is  polygamy. 
That  she  spawns  warriors  by  the  score,  where  none 

Are  prosecuted   for  that  false  crime  bigamy) 
He  never  would  believe  the  city  won, 

While  courage  clung  but  to  a  single  twig. — Am  I 
Describing  Priam's,  Peleus',  or  Jove's  son  ? 

Neither, — but  a  good,  plain,  old,  temperate  man, 

Who  fought  with  his  five  children  in  the  van. 

CVI. 
To  take  him  was  the  point.     The  truly  brave, 

When  they  behold  the  brave  oppress'd  with  odds, 
Are  touch'd  with  a  desire  to  shield  or  save  ;-— 

A  mixture  of  wild  beasts  and  demi-gods 
Are  they — now  furious  as  the  sweeping  wave, 

Now  moved  with  pity :  even  as  sometimes  nods 
The  rugged  tree  unto  the  summer  wind, 
Compassion  breathes  along  the  savage  mind. 

CVII. 

But  he  would  not  be   taken,  and  replied 

To  all  the  propositions  of  surrender 
By  mowing  Christians  down  on  every  side, 

As  obstinate  as  Swedish  Charles  at  Bende- 
His  five  brave  boys  no  less  the  foe  defied: 

Whereon  the  Russian  pathos  grew  less  tender, 
As  being  a  virtue,  like  terrestrial  patience, 
Apt  to  wear  out  on  trifling  provocations. 

CVIII. 
And  spite  of  Johnson  and  of  Juan,  who 

Expended  all  their  eastern  phraseology 
In  begging  him,  for  God's  sake,  just  to  show 

So  much  less  fight  as  might  form  an   apology 
For  them  in  saving  such  a  desperate  foe — 

He  hew'd  away,  like  doctors  of  theology 
When  thov  dispute  with  sceptics ;  and  wilh  curses 
Struck  at  his  friends,  as  babies  beat  their  nurses. 

CIX. 
Nay,  he  had  wounded,  though  but  slightly,  both 

Juan  and  Johnson,  whereupon  they  fell — 
The  first  with  sighs,  the  second  with  an  oath — 

Upon  his  angry  sultanship,  pell-mell, 
And  all  around  were  grown  exceeding  wrotn 

At  such  a  pertinacious  infidel, 
And  pour'd  upon  him  and  his  sons  li!ce  rain, 
Which  they  resisted  like  a  sandy  plain 


VANTO  Vlll. 


DON  JUAN. 


643 


(X. 


That  drinks  and  still  is  dry.     At  last  they  perish'd : — 
His  second  son  was  levell'd  by  a  shot ; 

His  third  was  sabred ;  and  the  fourth,  most  cherish'd 
Of  all  the  five,  on  bayonets  met  his  lot ; 

The  fifth,  who,  by  a  Christian  mother  nourished, 
Had  been  neglected,  ill-used,  and  what  not, 

Because  defbrm'd,  yet  Jied  all  game  and  bottom, 

To  save  a  sire  who  blush'd  that  he  begot  him. 

CXI. 

The  eldest  was  a  true  and  tameless  Tartar, 

As  great  a  scorner  of  the  Nazarene 
As  ever  Mahomet  pick'd  out  for  a  martyr, 

Who  only  saw  the  black-eyed  girls  in  green, 
Who  make  the  beds  of  those  who  won't  take  quarter 

On  earth,  in  Paradise  ;    and,  when  once  seen, 
Those  Houris,  like  all  other  pretty  creatures, 
Do  just  whate'er  they  please,  by  dint  of  features. 

CXII. 

And  what  they  pleased  to  do  with  the  young  Khan 
In  heaven,  I  know  not,  nor  pretend  to  guess ; 

But  doubtless  they  prefer  a  fine  young  man 
To  tough  old  heroes,  and  can  do  no  less ; 

And  that 's  the  cause,  no  doubt,  why,  if  we  scan 
A  field  of  battle's  ghastly  wilderness, 

For  one  rough,  weather-beaten,  veteran  body, 

You  '11  find  ten  thousand  handsome  coxcombs  bloody. 

CXIII. 

Your  Houris  also  have  a  natural  pleasure 
In  lopping  ofF  your  lately  married  men 

Before  the  bridal  hours  have  danced  their  measure, 
And  the  sad  second  moon  grows  dim  again, 

Or  dull  Repentance  hath  had  dreary  leisure 
To  wish  him  back  a  bachelor  now  and  then. 

And  thus  your  Houri  (it  may  be)  disputes 

Of  these  brief  blossoms  the  immediate  fruits. 

CXIV. 

Thus  the  young  Khan,  with  Houris  in  his  sight, 
Thought  not  upon  the  charms  of  four  young  brides. 

But  bravely  rush'd  on  his  first  heavenly  night. 
In  short,  howe'er  our  better  faith  derides, 

These  black-eyed  virgins  make  the  Moslems  fight, 
As  though  there  were  one  heaven  and  none  besides, — 

Whereas,  if  all  be  true  we  hear  of  heaven 

And  hell,  there  must  at  least  be  six  or  seven. 

cxv. 

So  fully  flash'd  the  phantom  on  his  eyes, 

That  when  the  very  lance  was  in  his  heart, 
lie  shouted,  "Allah!"  and  saw  Paradise 

With  all  its  veil  of  mystery  drawn  apart, 
And  bright  eternity  without  disguise 

On  his  soul,  like  a  ceaseless  sunrise,  dart,— 
vYith  prophets,  houris,  angels,  saints,  descried 
(n  one  voluptuous  blaze, — and  then  he  died : 

CXVI. 
But,  with  a  heavenly  rapture  on  his  face, 

The  good  ota  Rhan — who  long  had  ceased  to  see 
Houris,  or  aught  except  his  florid  race, 

Who  grew  like  cedars  round  him  gloriously — 
When  he  beheld  his  latest  hero  grace 

The  tarth,  which  he  became  like  a  fei'.'J  tree, 
Caused  for  a  moment  from  the  fight,  an'!  cast 
A.  glance  on  that  <slain  son,  his  first  and  last. 
3H 


CXVII. 

The  soldiers,  who  beheld  him  dnip  his  point, 
Stopp'd  as  if  once  more  wiling  to  ri>nce<ie 

Quarter,  in  casFhe  bade  then  not  "aroint!" 
As  he  before  had  done.     He  did  not  heed 

Their  pause  nor  signs  :   his  heart  was  out  of  joint, 
And  shook   (till  now  unshaken)   like  a  reed, 

As  he  look'd  down  upon   his  children  gone, 

And  felt — though  done  with  life — he  was  alone. 

CXVIH. 

But  'twas  a  transient  tremor: — with  a  spring 
Upon  the  Russian  steel  his  breast  he  flung, 

As  carelessly  as  hurls  the  moth  her  wii.g 
Against  the  light  wherein  she  dies :   he  clung 

Closer,  that  all  the  deadlier  they  might  wrinj, 
Unto  the  bayonets  which  had  pierced  his  young , 

And,  throwing  back  a  dim  look  on  his  sons, 

In  one  wide  wound  pour'd  forth  his  soul  at  once. 

CXIX. 

'T  is  strange  enough — the  rough,  tough  soldiers,  who 
Spared  neither  sex  nor  age  in  their  career 

Of  carnage,  when  this  old  man  was  pierced  through, 
And  lay  before  them  with  his  children  near, 

Touch'd  by  the  heroism  of  him  they  slew, 
Were  melted  for  a  moment ;   though  no  tear 

Flow'd  from  their  blood-shot  eyes,  all  red  with  strife 

They  honour'd  such  determined  scorn  of  life. 

cxx. 

But  the  stone  bastion  still  kept  up  its  fire, 
Where  the  chief  Pacha  calmly  held  his  post: 

Some  twenty  times  he  made  the  Russ  retire, 
And  baffled  the  assaults  of  all  their  host ; 

At  length  he  condescended  to  inquire 
If  yet  the  city's  rest  were  won  or  lost ; 

And,  being  told  the  latter,  sent  a  Bey 

To  answer  Ribas'  summons  to  give  way. 

CXXI. 

In  the  mean  time,  cross-legg'd,  with  great  sang-froid, 
Among  the  scorching  ruins  he  sat  smoking 

Tobacco  on  a  little  carpet ; — Troy 

Saw  nothing  like  the  scene  around  ; — yet,  looking 

With  martial  stoicism,  nought  seem'd  to  annoy 
His  stern  philosophy :  but  gently  stroking 

His  beard,  he  puff'd  his  pipe's  ambrosial  gales, 

As  if  he  had  three  lives,  as  well  as  tails. 

CXXII. 

The  town  was  taken — whether  he  might  yield 

Himself  or  bastion,  little  matter'd  now ; 
His  stubborn  valour  was  no  future  shield. 

Ismail 's  no  more  !     The  crescent's  silver  btnr 
Sunk,  and  the  crimson  cross  glared  o'er  the  field, 

But  red  with  no  redeeming  gore  :    the  glow 
Of  burning  streets,  like  moonlight  oa  the  water, 
Was  imaged  back  in  blood,  the  sea  of  slaughter. 

CXXIII. 
All  that  the  mind  would  shrink  from  of  excesses , 

All  that  the  body  perpetrates  of  bad  ; 
All  that  we  read,  hear,  dream,  of  man's  distresses  , 

AH  that  the  devil  would  do  if  run  stark  mad ; 
All  that  defies  the  worst  which  pen  expresses ; 

All  by  which  hell  is  peopled,  rr  as  sad 
As  hell — mere  mortals  who  their  power  abusey 
Was  here  (as  heretofore  and  since}  'et  .oose. 


646 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  vn. 


CXXIV. 

If  here  and  then*  some  transient  trait  of  pity, 
Was  shown,  ond  some  more  noble  heart  broke  through 

Its  bloody  bond,  and  saved  perhaps  some  pretty 
Child,  or  an  aged  helpless  man  or  two — 

What 's  this  in  one  annihilated  city, 

Where  thousand  loves,  and  ties,  and  duties  grow  ? 

Cockneys  of  London  !  Muscadins  of  Paris! 

Just  ponder  what  a  pious  pastime  war  is. 

cxxv. 

Think  how  the  joys  of  reading  a  gazette 

Are  purchased  by  all  agonies  and  crimes : 
Or,  if  these  do  not  move  you,  don't  forget 

Such  doom  may  be  your  own  in  after  times. 
Meantime  the  taxes,  Castlereagh,  and  debt, 

Are  hints  as  good  as  sermons,  or  as  rhymes. 
Read  your  own  hearts  and    Ireland's   present  story, 
Then  feed  her  famine  fat  with  Wellesley's  glory. 

CXXVI. 
But  still  there  is  unto  a  patriot  nation, 

Which  loves  so  well  its  country  and  its  king, 
A  subject  of  sublimest  exultation — 

Bear  it,  ye  Muses,  on  your  brightest  wing ! 
Howe'er  the  mighty  locust,  Desolation, 

Strip  your  green  fields,  and  to  your  harvests  cling, 
Gaunt  Famine  never  shall  approach  (he  throne — 
Tho'  Ireland  starve,  great  George  weighs  twenty  stone. 

C  XX  VII. 

But  let  me  put  an  end  unto  my  theme : 

There  was  an  end  of  Ismail — hapless  town ! 
Far  flash'd  her  burning  towers  o'er  Danube's  stream, 

And  redly  ran  his  blushing  waters  down. 
The  horrid  war-whoop  and  the  shriller  scream 

Rose  still  ;    but  fainter  were  the  thunders  grown  : 
Of  forty  thousand  who  had  mann'd  the  wall, 
Some  hundreds  breathed — the  rest  were  silent  all ! 

CXXVIII. 
In  one  thing  ne'ertheless  'tis  fit  to  praise 

The  Russian  army  upon  this  occasion, 
A  virtue  much  in  fashion  uow-a-days, 

And  therefore  worthy  of  commemoration  : 
The  topic 's  tender,  so  shall  be  my  phrase — 

Perhaps  the  season's  chill,  and  their  long  station 
In  winter's  depth,  or  want  of  rest  and  victual, 
Had  made  them  chaste  ; — they  ravish'd  very  little. 

CXXIX. 
Much  did  they  slay,  more  plunder,  and  no  less 

Might  here  and  there  occur  some  violation 
fa  the  other  line ; — but  not  to  such  excess 

As  when  the  French,  that  dissipated  nation, 
Take  towns  by  storm :   no  causes  can  I  guess, 

Except  cold  weather  and  commiseration  ; 
But  all  the  ladies,  save  some  twenty  score, 
Were  almost  as  much  virgins  as  before. 

cxxx. 

Some  odd  mistakes  too  happen'd  in  the  dark, 
Which  show'a  a  want  of  lanterns,  or  of  taste— 

Indeed  tne  tfinoke  was  such  they  scarce  could  mark 
Their  friends  from  foes, — besides  such  things  from 
haste 

Occur,  though  rarely,  when  there  is  a  spark 
Ol  light  to  save  the  venerably  chaste : — 

But  "iv    >ld  damsels,  each  of  seventy  years, 

W«r«  all  ilpflowerM  by  different  grenadiers. 


CXXXI. 

But  on  the  whole  their  continence  was  great ; 

So  that   some  .disappointment  there  ensued 
To  those  who  had  felt  the  inconvenient  state 

Of  "single  blessedness,"  and  thought  it  good 
(Since  it  was  not  their  fault,  but  only  fate, 

To  bear  these  crosses)  for  each  waning  prude 
To  make  a  Roman  sort  of  Sabine  wedding, 
Without  the  expense  and  the  suspense  of  bedding. 

C  XXXII. 

Some  voices  of  the  buxom  middle-aged 
Were  also  heard  to  wonder  in  the  din 

(Widows  of  forty  were  these  birds  long  caged) 
"  Wherefore  the  ravishing  did  not  begin  !" 

But,  while  the  thirst  for  gore  and  plunder  raged, 
There  was  small  leisure  for  superfluous  sin ; 

But  whether  they  escaped  or  no,  lies  hid 

In  darkness — I  can  only  hope  they  did. 

CXXXHI. 

Suwarrow  now  was  conqueror — a  match 
For  Timor  or  for  Zinghis  in  his  trade. 

While  mosques  and  streets,  beneath  his  eyes,  like  thatch 
Blazed,  and  the  cannon's  roar  was  scarce  allay'd, 

With  bloody  hands  he  wrote  his  first  despatch ; 
And  here  exactly  follows  what  he  said: — 

"Glory  to  God  and  to  the  Empress!"    (Power» 

Eternal!  such  names  mingled!)  "Ismail's  ours!"* 

C  XXXIV. 

Methinks  these  are  the  most  tremendous  words, 
Since  "  Men^,  Mene,  Tekel,"  and  "  Upharsin," 

Which  hands  or  pens  have  ever  traced  of  swords. 
Heaven  help  me !  I  'in  but  little  of  a  parson : 

What  Daniel  read  was  short-hand  of  the  Lord's, 
Severe,  sublime  ;    the  prophet  wrote  no  farce  on 

The  fate  of  nations ; — but  this  Russ,  so  witty, 

Could  rhyme,  like  Nero,  o'er  a  burning  city. 

cxxxv. 

He  wrote  this  polar  melody,  and  see  it, 

Duly  accompanied  by  shrieks  and  groans, 
Which  few  will  sing,  I  trust,  but  none  forget  it — 

For  I  wil.  teach,  if  possible.,  the  stones 
To  rise  against  earth's  tyrants.     Never  let  it 

Be  said,  that  we  still  truckle  unto  thrones ; — 
But  ye — our  children's  children  !    think  how  we 
Show'd  what  things  were  before  the  world  was  fre« ' 

CXXX  VI. 
That  hour  is  not  for  us,  but  't  is  for  you ; 

And  as,  in  the  great  joy  of  your  millennium, 
You  hardly  will  believe  such  things  were  true 

As  now  occur,  I  thought  that  I  would  pen  you  'em ; 
But  may  their  very  memory  perish  too  ! — 

Yet,  if  perchance  remember'd,  still  disdain  you  'em. 
More  than  you  scorn  the  savages  of  yore, 
Who  painted  their  bare  limbs,  but  not  with  gore. 

CXXXVII. 
And  when  you  hear  historians  talk  of  thrones. 

And  those  that  sate  upon  them,  let  it  be 
As  we  now  gaze  upon  the  Mammoth's  bones, 

And  wonder  what  old  world  such  things  could  see 
Or  hieroglyphics  on  Egyptian  stones, 

The  pleasant  riddles  of  futurity — 
Guessing  at  what  shall  happily  be  hid 
As  the  real  purpose  of  a  pyramid. 


CANTO  1A. 


DON  JUAN. 


CXXXVIII. 

Reader.  I  have  kept  my  word, — at  least  so  far 
As  the  first  canto  promised.     You  have  now 

Had   sketches  of  love,  tempest,  trav%],  war — 
All  very  accurate,  you   must  allow, 

And  epic,  if  plain  truth  should  prove  no  bar ; 
For  I  have  drawn  much  less  with  a  long  bow 

Than  my  forerunners.     Carelessly  I  sing, 

But  Phoebus  lends  me  now  and  then  a  string, 

CXXXIX. 

With  which  I  still  can  harp,  and  carp,  and  fiddle. 

What  further  hath  befallen  or  may  befall 
The  hero  of  this  grand  poetic  riddle, 

I  by  and  by  may  tell  you,  if  at  all : 
But  now  I  choose  to  break  off  in  the  middle, 

Worn  out  with  battering  Ismail's   stubborn  wall, 
While  Juan  is  sent  off  with  the  despatch, 
For  which  all  Petersburgh  is  on  the  watch. 

CXL. 

This  special  honour  was  conferr'd,  because 
He  had  behaved  with  courage  and  humanity ; — 

Which  last  men  like,  when  they  have  time  to  pause 
From  their  ferocities  produced  by  vanity. 

His  little  captive  gain'd   him  some  applause, 
For  saving  her  amidst  the  wild  insanity 

Of  carnage,  and  I  think  he  was  more  glad  in  her 

Safety,  than  his  new  order  of  Su  Vladimir. 

CXLI. 

The  Moslem  orphan  went  with  her  protector, 
For  she  was   homeless,  houseless,  helpless :    all 

Her  friends,  like  the  sad  family  of  Hector, 
Hid  perish'd  in  the  field  or  by  the  wall: 

Her  very  place  of  birth  was  but  a  spectre 
Of  what  it  had  been ;  there  the  Muezzin's  call 

To  prayer  was  heard  no  more ! — and  Juan  wept, 

.  nd  made  a  vow  to  shield  her,  which  he  kept. 


CANTO  IX 


i. 

CH,  Wellington!   (or  " Vilainton " — for  fame 

Sounds  the  heroic  syllables  both  ways ; 
France  could  not  even  conquer  your  great  name, 

But  punn'd  it  down  to  this  facetious  phrase—- 
Beating or  beaten  she  will  Ic-ugh  the  same) — 

You  have  obtain'd  great  pensions  and  much  praise ; 
Glory  like  yours  should   any  dare  gainsay, 
Humaiiity  would  rise,  and  thunder  "  Nay  !"  ' 

II. 
[  don't  think  that  you  used  K — n — rd  quite  well 

In  Marinet's  affair — in  fact 't  was  shabby, 
And,  like  some  other  things,  won't  do  to  tell 

Upon  your  tomb   in  Westminster's  old  abbey. 
<Tpori  the  rest  'tis  not   worth  white  to  dwell, 

Sucl.  talus  being  for  the  tea  hours  of  some  tabby; 
Hut  though  your  years  as  man  tend  fast   to  zero, 
n  fact  your  grace  is  still  but  a  young  liero. 


III. 

Though  Britain  owes  (and  pays  you  too;   so  mucn 
Yet  Europe  doubtless  owes  you  greatly  more : 

You  have  repaid  legitimacy's  crutch — 
A  prop  not  q  ,.te  so  certain  as  before  : 

The  Spanish,  and  the  French,  as  well  as  Dutch, 
Have  seen,  and  felt,  how  strongly  you  restore; 

And  Waterloo  has  made  the  world  your  debtor— 

(I  wish  your  bards  would  sing  it  rather  better). 

IV. 

You  are  "the  best  of  cut-throats:" — do  not  start; 

The  phrase  is  Shakspeare's,  and  not  misapplied: 
War's  a  brain-spattering,  windpipe-slitting   art, 

Unless  her  cause  by  right  be  sanctified. 
If  you  have  acted  once  a  generous  part, 

The  world,  not  the  world's  masters,  will   decide, 
And  I  shall  be  delighted  to  learn  who, 
Save  you  and  yours,  have  gain'd  by  Waterloo? 

V. 

I  am  no  flatterer — you  've  supp'd  full  of  flattery : 

They  say  you  like  it  too — 't  is  no   great  wonder  • 
He  whose  whole  life  has  been  assault  and  battery 

At  last  may  get  a  little  tired  of  thunder ; 
And,  swallowing  eulogy  much  more  than  satire,  he 
t     May  like  being  praised  for  every  lucky  blunder: 
Call'd  "Saviour  of  the  Nations" — not  yet  saved, 
And  "Europe's  Liberator" — still  enslaved. 

VI. 

I  've  done.     Now  go  and  dine  from  off  the  plate 

Presented  by  the  Prince  of  the  Brazils, 
And  send  the  sentinel  before  your  gate,2 

A  slice  or  two  from  your  luxurious   meals : 
He  fought,  but  has   not  fed  so  well  of  late, 

Some  hunger  too  they  say  the  people  feels: 
There  is  no  doubt  that  you  deserve  yo-ir  ration- 
But  pray  give  back  a  little  to  the  nation. 

VII. 

I  don't  mean  to  reflect — a  man  so  great  as 
You,  my  Lord  Duke!  is  far  above  reflection. 

The  high  Roman  fashion  too  of  Cmcinnatus 
With    modern  history  has  but  small  connexion: 

Though  as  an  Irishman  you  love  potatoes, 

You  need  iv>t  take  them  under  your  direction: 

And  half  a  million  for  your  Sabine  farm 

Is  rather  dear ! — I  'm  sure  I  mean  no  harm. 

VIII. 

Great  men  have  always  scorn'd  great  recompenses, 

Epaminondas  saved  his  Thebes,  and  died, 
Not  leaving  even  his  funeral  expenses : 

George  Washington  had  thanks  and  nought  besidt^ 
Except  the  all-cloudless  glory   (which  few  men's  is) 

To  free  his  country :  Pitt  too  had  his  pride, 
And,  as  a  high-soul'd  minister  of  state,  is 
Renown'd  for  ruining  Great  Britain,  gratis. 

IX. 
Never  had  mortal  man  such  opportunity, 

Except  Napoleon,  or  abused  it  more : 
You  might  have  freed  fall'n  Europe  from  the  unity 

Of  tyrants,  and  been  bless'd  from  shore  to  shore , 
And  now — what  j  your  fame  ?  Shallthu  muse  tune  it  y«  T 

Now — that  the  rabble's  first  vain   ihouts  are  o'rv  ' 
Go,  hear       in  your  famish'd  country's  cries ! 
Behold  the  world !  and  curse  your  victories ' 


6-J3 


BYRON'S  WORK?. 


CAXTO  1JL. 


But  which,  tb  am*  to  tench  the  ! 
Who  fatten  on  the*  country's  gore  a 

JnWfe  reeked,  and  •  khnoi  ah 
Ton  <&*  gratf  things;  but,  not  being 

Ki*e   .-;:":    --..-.:-.;   •'.-   £--;•—.;.*.: — i.-.: 

XL 
Death  hnghs-G*  ponder  o'er  dw  skeleton 

With  which  Men  image  oat  die  unknown  dung 
That  hides  die  past  world,  Eke  to  a  set  sun 

Which  stffl  else. where  may  rouse  a  brighter  spring: 
Death  laughs  at  al  you  weep  for  ;-look  upon 

This  hourly  dread  of  al  whose  tfcre«fa»'<*  tUmg 
Tuns  fife  to  terror,  even  though  in  its  sheath! 
Mark!  how  its  unless  mouth  grins  without  breath! 

xn. 

Hark!  how  k  laughs  and  scorns  at  al  you  are! 

And  yet  **»  what  you  are:  from  ear  to  ear 
ft  Imijfti  not— diere  is  now  no  fleshy  bar 

So  eaTd;  die  antic  kng  hath  ceased  to  hear, 
But  stm  he  mriri,  and  whedter  near  or  far, 

He  strips  from  man  d»t  mantle — (far  more  dear 
Than  even  die  tailor's) — his  incarnate  skin, 
White,  black,  or  copper— die  dead  bones  wffl  grin. 

xm. 

And  dms  Death  laughs,— d  b  sad  mmbamt, 
But  sol  it  it  so;  and  with  such  example 

Why  should  not  Life  be  equally  content, 
Wife  hb  superior,  in  a  smue  to  trample 

Upon  die  nothings  which  are  dairy  spent 
Like  bubbles  on  an  ocean  much  less  ample 

Than  dbe  eternal  deluge,  which  devours 

Suns  as  rays— worlds  like  atoms    years  hke  ours? 


XIV. 
"To  be,  or  not  to  be!  that  b  die  question,'' 

Says  Shakspeare,  who  just  now  is  much  in  fashion. 
I  am  neither  Alexander  nor  HepiuesUon, 

Nor  ever  had  for  obttrod  fame  much  passion; 
But  would  much  rather  have  a  sound  digestion. 

Than  Bonaparte's  cancer:— could  I  dash  on 
Fjrough  fifty  victories  to  shame  or  fame, 
Without  .a  stomach— what  were  a  good  name? 

XV. 
•'Oh,  dura  flb,  messorum!"— "Oh, 

Ye  rigid  guts  of  reapers  I"— I  translate 
for  die  great  benefit  of  those  who  know 

What  indigestion  is— that  inward  fate 
iVHeh  makes  al  Styx  through  one  small  liver  flow. 

A  peasant's  sweat  b  worth  hb  lord's  estate: 
Let  Out  one  to.  for  bread— dot  rack  for  rent,— 
U  who  sleeps  best  may  be  die  most  content. 

XVL 
••To  oe,  or  DX  to  be!"— Ere  I  decide, 

I  should  be  giad  *>  know  dm  which  u  being, 
T'»  true  we  speculate  both  far  and  wide, 
And  deem,  because  we  wx,  we  are  alLttting : 
KOI  my  part,  111  enlist  on  neither  side, 

Until  I  see  both  sides  for  once  agreeing, 
r'w  me,  I  sometimes  dunk  that  fife  b  death,      • 
i^.»»  life  A  mere  affair  of  breath. 


As  an 

So  atde 


XVII. 

was  die  roeito  of  Montaigne, 
so  of  die  first  acaJecrJcians : 
1  b  •fr-'r'T-r  which  max,  uuy  attain, 
one  of  dxsr  anost  favwritp  pcsiooas, 
na>  such  dung  as  certainty,  thit'* 


_ 
now*  what  we're  about 

ix  if  lanta  it5t.f  be 


xvm. 

It  b  a  pleasant  voyage  perhaps  to  float, 

Lite  Pyrrho,  on  a  sea  of  speculation; 
But  what  if  carrying  sail  capsize  die  boat?. 

Your  wise  men  don't  know  much  of  navigation , 
And  iiinmnini,  long  in  die  abyss  of  thought 

b  apt  to  tire:  a  calm  and  shallow  station 
Wei  mgh  die  store,  where  one  stoops  down  and  gather* 
Some  pretty  sheB,  b  best  for  moderate  bathers. 

X!X. 
M  But  heaven,0  as  Cassio  says,  "  b  above  all — 

No  more  of  this  dien,— let  us  pray!"  We  have 
Soms  to  save,  since  Eve's  slip  and  Adam's  fall, 

Which  Imakli  il  all  mankind  into  die  grave, 
Besides  fish,  beasts,  and  buds.     "The  sparrow's  faB 

Is  special  providence,"  though  bow  it  gave 
Offence,  we  know  not;  probably  it  perch'd 
Upon  die  tree  which  Eve  so  fondly  search'd. 

XX. 
Oh,  ye  immortal  gods!  what  b  dwogony? 

Oh,  thou  too  mortal  man!  what  b  philanthropy? 
Oh,  world,  which  was  and  b!  what  b  cosmogony  7 

Some  people  have  accused  me  of  misanthropy; 
And  yet  I  know  no  more  than  the  mahogany 

That  forms  dus  desk,  of  what  they  mean  :—Lyka» 


;  for,  without  transformation, 
Men  become  wolves  on  any  slight  occasion. 

XXI. 
But  I,  die  mildest,  meekest  of  mankind, 

Like  Moses,  or  Melancthon,  who  have  ne'er 
Done  any  thing  exceedingly  unkind,  — 

And  (though  I  could  not  now  and  then  forbear 
Following  die  bent  of  body  or  of  mind) 

Have  always  had  a  tendency  to  spare,  — 
Why  do  they  call  me  misanthrope?     Because 
Tfcy  hate  me,  not  I  them:  —  And  here  we'll  pause., 

XXH. 
T«  time  we  should  proceed  with  oar  good  poem, 

For  I  maintain  dial  it  is  really  good, 
Not  only  in  the  body,  but  die  proem, 

However  little  both  are  understood 
Just  now,  —  but  by  and  by  the  truth  win  show  'em 

Herself  in  her  sublimest  attitude  : 
And  till  she  doth,  I  fain  must  be  content 
To  share  her  beauty  and  her  banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our  hero  (and,  1  trust,  kind  reader!  yours)  — 

Was  left  upon  his  way  to  the  chief  city 
Of  die  immortal  Peter's  polish'  d  boon, 

Who  stall  have  shown  themselves  more  brave  na» 


[  know  its  mighty  empire  now  allures 

Much  flattery— even  Voltaire's,  and  that's  aprtr. 
Por  me,  I  deem  an  absolute  autocrat 
JVW  a  barbarian,  but  much  worse  than  that. 


/A. 


IVAN. 


64'. 


XXIV. 
And  I  writ  war,  at  feast  m  words  (and— should 

My  chance  so  happen— deeds)  with  al  who  war 
With  thought;— and  of  thought's  foes  by  6r  most  rude, 

Tyrants  and  sycophants  have  been  and  are. 
1  know  not  who  may  conquer:  if  I  could 

Have  such  a  prr.icirncr,  it  should  be  no  bar 
To  this  my  plain,  sworn,  downright  deuiBatinn 
Of  every  despotism  in  every  nation. 

XXV. 
ft  is  not  that  I  adulate  the  people: 

Without  me  there  are  demagogues  enough, 
And  infidels  to  pnO  down  every  steeple, 

And  set  up  in  their  stead 
Whether  they  may  sow  neuuViua  to  reap  hd. 

As  is  the  Christian  dogma  rather  rough, 
I  do  not  know ;— I  wish  men  to  be  free 
As  much  from  mobs  as  kings — from  you  as  me. 

XXVL 
The  comeuutnce  is,  being  of  no  party, 

I  shall  offend  al  parlies;     mm  maw! 
My  words,  al  least,  are  more  sincere  and  hearty 

Than  if  I  sought  to  sail  before  the  wind. 
He  who  has  nought  to  gain  can  have  sum!  art: 

Who  neither  wishes  to  be  bound  nor  hmd 
May  still  erpatiatf  fredy,  as  wiO  I, 
Nor  give  my  voice  to  slavery^  jackal  cry. 

XXV1L 
Tint's  an  appropriate  insili ,  &Wf  >dbsl; 

I've  heard  them  m  the  Epheaan  rams  howl 
By  night,  as  do  that  mercenary  pack  al, 

I\iwei  s  base  purveyors,  who  for  pickings 
And  scent  the  prey  their  masters  would  attack 

However  the  poor  jackals  are  less  foul 
(As  being  the  brave  noils'  keen  providers) 
HUB 


JLX.VIIL 
Raise  but  an  arm!  *t  wffl  brash  their  web  away, 

And  without  (hut,  then-  poison  and  their  daws 
Are  imdets.     Mind,  good  people!  what  I  say — 

(Or  rather  peoples)— f»  •»  without 
The  web  of  these  tarantulas  each  day 

Increases,  til  you  shal  make 
None,  save  the  Spanish  fly  and  Attic  bee, 
As  yet  are  strongly  stinging  to  be  free. 

XZDL 

Don  Joan,  who  had  shone  in  die  fate  jiiughtu, 
Was  left  upon  his  way  with  the  despatch, 

Where  blood  was  tafc'd  of  as  we  would  of  water; 
And  carcasses  that  lay  as  thick  as  thatch 

O'er  silenced  ones,  merdv,  served  to  flatter 

Between  these  nations  a*  a  mam  of  cocks, 
Therein  she  iked  her  own  to  stand  fike  rocks. 

XXX. 
And  there  in  a  bfcrta  here  roJPd  oa 

(A  cursed  sort  of  carnage  without  spimgs, 
Which  oa  rough  roads  leaves  searcdy  a  whole  bone), 

Pounermg  oc  c-ocv,  cr*rvi_»y.  ^.r.i  s.'i'?* 
And  orders,  and  on  aB  that  he  had  done— 

.\nd  wishmg  that  post-horses  had  the  wmgs 
Of  Pegasus,  or  at  the  feast  post-chaises 
Had  feathers,  when  a  traveler  oa  deep  ways  is. 

3  H  i  bT 


XXX.!. 


At  every  jok- 


He  tura'd  his  ejcs  upon  h»  hide  charge, 
As  if  he  wmVd  Jlnt  she  should  fare  less  si 

Than  he,  m  fl!&  sad  highwars  left  at  large 
To  ruts  and  fints,  and  lovely  nalrnVs  skn% 

Who  is  no  pavioar,  nor  admits  a  barge 
On  kar  canab,  where  God  lakes  sea  and  land, 
Fishery  and  farm,  both  into  his  own  hand. 


At  feast  he  pays  no  rent,  and  has  heat  right 
To  be  the  first  of  what  we  ased  to  cal 


Since  lately  there  have  been  no  rents  at  al, 
And  "gentlemen"  are  ia  a  piteous  night. 

And  "farmers"  can't  rake  Ceres  from  her  fal 
She  fel  with  Bonaparte: — What  strange 
Arise,  when  we  see  cnyeims  fal  with  oats! 

XT  Tin 
But  Juan  tura'd  his  eve*  oa  the  sweet  dnU 


Oh!  ye  who  bmU  op 

With  gore,  ike  Nadir  Shah,  that  costive  Sopfc  f. 
Who,  after  tearing  Hindnatan  a  wid, 

Ami  scarce  to  the  Mogul  a  cup  of  < 
To  soothe  his  woes  withal,  < 
Became  he  could  no  more  digest  his  dmner:— •» 

XXXIV. 

Oh  ye!  or  we!  or  she!  or  he!  reflect, 
That  «ne  be  saved,  especialy  if  young 

Or  pretty,  is  a  thing  to  retolect 
Far  sweeter  than  the  greenest  laurels  i|l«naj, 

From  the  manure  of  liiiuiii   c3ay,  though  decked 
With  affl  the  praises  ever  said  or  sung: 

Though  bymn'd  by  every  harp, . 

Tour  heart  joins  chorus,  1 


Oh,  yegr 


xxxv. 


\V.  Mice  tmj 


,:  is%  mhe»! 


•  bribe* 


Whether  you're  paid  by  j 
To  prove  the  |II*JJL  debt  is  not 

Or,  roughly  treadmg  on  the  u  courtier's  kjbes" 
With  dowaish  hed,  your  papular  ckcdbtian 
Feeds  you  by  printing  half  the  realm's  starvanoa:— 

XXXVL 
Oh,  ye  great  authors !— *  A-propus  de  hottec1*— 

I  have  nrgonea  what  I  meant  to  cay, 
As  sometimes  have  been  greater  sages'  lots. 

Twas  nwrhmg  ralmblrd  to  afiay 
A3  wrath  in  barracks,  palaces,  or  cots: 

Certes  n  would  have  been  but  thrown  away, 
And  oat's  owe  comfort  for  myloat  advice, 
Akhough  no  donat  it  was  beyond  al  price. 

XXXVII. 
But  let  it  go-— it  wa  one  day  be  found 

Win  other  refits  of  -a  former  world.'* 
When  due  werld  shal  he  /•  mm,  undeigiouml. 

Thrown  topsy-turvy,  twicted,  erispM,  and  curt"*. 
Baked,  fried,  cr  burnt,  tun'd  male  out,  or  uru.n'u, 

Like  al  the  worVTs  before,  which  have  bra  hurt* 
First  out  of  and  then  hack  again  to  chaos, 


h50 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO   IX, 


xxxvm. 

So  Cuvier  says  ; — and  then  shall  come  again 

Unto  the  new  creation,  rising  out 
From  our  old  crash,  some  mystic,  ancient  strain 

Of  things  destroy'd  and  left  in  airy  doubt: 
Like  ti  the  notions  we  now  entertain 

Of  Titans,  giants,  fellows  of  about 
Some  hundred  feet  in  height,  not  to  say  miles, 
And   mammoths,  and  your  winged  crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think  if  then  George  the  Fourth  should  be  dug  up! 

How  the  new  worldlings  of  the  then  new  east 
Will  wonder  where  such  animals  could  sup  ! 

(For  they  themselves  will  be  but  of  the  least : 
E»en  worlds  miscarry,  when  too  oft  they  pup, 

And  every  new  creation  hath  decreased 
In  size,  from  overworking  the  material — 
Men  are  but  maggots  of  some  huge  earth's  burial). — 

XL. 

How  will — to  these  young  people,  just  thrust  out 
From  some  fresh  paradise,  and  set  to  plough, 

And  dig,  and  sweat,  and  turn  themselves  about, 
And  plant,  and  reap,  and  spin,  and   grind,  and  sow, 

Till  all  the  arts  at  length  are  brought  about, 
Especially  of  war  and  taxing, — how,      , 

I  say,  will  these  great  relics,  when  they  see  'em, 

Jjook  like  the  monsters  of  a  new  museum ! 

XLI. 
But  I  am  apt  to  grow  too  metaphysical : 

"  The  time  is  out  of  joint," — and  so  am  I  j 
i  quite  forget  this  poem  's  merely  quizzical, 

And  deviate  into  matters  rather  dry. 
I  ne'er  decide  what  I  shall  say,  and  this  I  call 

Much  too  poetical :   men  should  know  why 
They  write,  and  for  what  end ;   but,  note  or  text, 
I  never  ki.ow  the  word  which  will  come  next. 

XLII. 
So  on  I  ramble,  now  and  then  narrating, 

Now  pondering  : — it  is  time  we  should  narrate: 
I  left  Don  Juan  with  his  horses  baiting — 

Now  we '?    get  o'er  the  ground  at  a  great  rate. 
I  shall  not  \>e  particular  in  slating 

His  journey,  we  've  so  many  tours  of  late  : 
Suppose  him  then  at  Petersburgh  ;  suppose 
That  pleasant  capital  of  painted  snows  ; 

XLIII. 
Suppose  him  in   a  handsome  uniform  ; 

A  scarlet  coat,  black  facings,  a  long  plume, 
Waving,  like  sails  new  shiver'd  in  a  storm, 

Over  a  cock'd  hat,  in  a  crowded  room, 
And  brilliant  breeches,  bright  as  a  Cairn  Gorme, 

Of  yellow  kerseymere  we  may  presume, 
White   stockings  drawn,  uncurdled  as  new  milk, 
O'er  limbs  whose  symmetry  set  off  the  silk: 

XLIV. 
Svppose  him,  sword  by  side,  and  hat  in  hand, 

Made  up  by  youth,  fame,  and  an  army  tailor — 
That   great  enchanter,  at  whose  rod's  command 

Beaii'.y  springs  forth,  and  nature's  self  turns  paler, 
•Seeing  how  srt  can  make  her  work  more  grand, 

(When  she  don't  pin  men's  liribs  in  like  a  jailor) — 
heiioid  him  nlaced  as  if  upon  a  pillar !     He 
t»»»«*m«   Love  turn'd  a  lieutenant  of  artillery  ? 


XLV. 

His  bandage  si.np'd  down  into  a  cravat; 

His  wings  subdued  to  epaulets  ;   his  qu'ver 
Shrunk  to  a  scabbard,  with  his  arrows  at 

His  side  as  a  small-sword,  but  sharp  as  ever ; 
His  bow  converted  into  a  cock'd  hat; 

But  still  so  like,  that  Psyche  were  more  clever 
Than  some  wives  (who  make  blunders  no  less  stupid) 
If  she  had  not  mistaken  him  for  Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The  courtiers  stared,  the  ladies  whisper'd,  and 

The  empress  smiled ;  the  reigning  favourite  frown'd— 

I  quite  forget  which  of  them  was  in  hand 

Just  then,  as  they  are  rather  numerous  found. 

Who  took  by  turns  that  difficult  command, 
Since  first  her  majesty  was  singly  crown'd : 

But  they  were  mostly  nervous  six-foot  fellows, 

All  fit  to  make  a  Patagonian  jealous. 

XLVII. 

Juan  was  none  of  these,  but  slight  and  slim, 
Blushing  and  beardless  ;  and  yet  ne'ertheless 

There  was  a  something  in  his  turn  of  limb, 

And  still  more  in  his  eye,  which  seem'd  to  express, 

That  though  he  look'd  one  of  the  seraphim, 
There  lurk'd  a  man  beneath  the  spirit's  dress. 

Besides,  the  empress  sometimes  liked  a  boy, 

And  had  just  buried  the  fair-faced  Lanskoi :  4 

XLVIII. 

No  wonder  then  that  YermolofT,  or  Momonoff, 

Or  Scherbatoff,  or  any  other  qff", 
Or  on,  might  dread  her  majesty  had  not  room  enough 

Within  her  bosom  (which  was  not  too  tough) 
For  a  new  flame ;  a  thought  to  cast  of  gloom  cnougk 

Along  the  aspect,  whether  smooth  or  rough, 
Of  him  who,  in  the  language  of  his  station, 
Then  held  that  "high  official  situation." 

XLIX. 
Oh,  gentle  ladies !  should  you  seek  to  know 

The  import  of  this  diplomatic  phrase, 
Bid   Ireland's  Londonderry's  Marquess*  show 

His  parts  of  speech  ;  and  in  the  strange  displays 
Of  that  odd  string  of  words  all  in  a  row, 

Which  none  divine,  and  every  one  obeys, 
Perhaps  you  may  pick  out  some  queer  no-meaning, 
Of  that  weak  wordy  harvest  the  sole  gleaning. 

L. 
I  think  I  can  explain  myself  without 

That  sad  inexplicable  beast  of  prey— 
That  sphinx,  whose  words  would  ever  be  a  doubt, 

Did  not  his  deeds  unriddle  them  each  day- 
Thai  monstrous  hieroglyphic — that  long  spout 

Of  blood  and  water,  leaden  Castlcreagh! 
And  here  I  must  an  anecdote  relate, 
But  luckily  of  no  great  length  or  weight. 

LI. 
An  English  lady  ask'd  of  an  Italian, 

What  were  the  actual  and  official  duties 
Of  the  strange  thing  some  women  set  a  value  on, 

Which  hovers  oft  about  some  married  beauties, 
Call'd  "Cavalier  Servente?" — a  Pygmalion 

Whose  statues  warm  (I  fear,  alas!  too  true  'tis) 
Beneath  his  art.  T\e  dame,  press'd  If  disclose  them, 
Said — "  I^ady,  I  beseech  yol  to  tuppjsr,  them." 


CANTO  IX. 


DON  JUAN. 


LII. 

And  thus  I  supplicate  your  supposition, 
And  mildest,  matron-like  interpretation 

Of  the  imperial  favourite's  condition. 
'T  was  a  high  place,  the  highest  in  the  nation 

In  fact,  if  not  in  rank  ;    and  the  suspicion 
Of  any  one's  attaining  to  his  station, 

No  doubt  gave  pain,  where  each  new  pair  of  shoulders, 

If  ratner  broad,  made  slocks  rise  and  their  holders. 

LIII. 

Juan,  I  said,  was  a  most  beauteous  boy, 
And  had  retain'd  his  boyish  look  beyond 

The  usual  hirsute  seasons,  which  destroy, 

With  beards  and  whiskers  and  the  like,  the  fond 

Parisian  aspect  which  upset  old  Troy 
And  founded  Doctor's  Commons : — I  have  conn'd 

The  history  of  divorces,  which,  though  chequer'd, 

Calls  Ilion's  the  first  damages  on  record. 

LIV. 

And  Catherine,  who  loved  all  things  (save  her  lord, 
Who  was  gone  to  his  place),  and  pass'd  for  much, 

Admirins  those   (by  dainty  dames  abhorr'd) 
Gigantic  gentlemen,  yet  had  a  touch 

Of  sentiment ;    and  he  she  most  adored 
Was  the  lamented  Lanskoi,  who  was  such 

A  lover  as  had  cost  her  many  a  tear, 

And  yet  but  made  a  middling  grenadier. 

LV. 

Oh,   thou  "  teterrima  causa  "  of  all  "  belli !" — 
Thou  gate  of  life  and  death  ! — thou  nondescript ! 

Whence  is  our  exit  and  our  entrance, — well  I 
May  pause  in  pondering  how  all  souls  are  dipp'd 

In  thy  perennial  fountain  ! — how  man  fell,  I 

Know  not,  since  knowledge  saw  her  branches  stripp'd 

Of  her  first  fruit ;    but  how  he  falls  and  rises 

Since,  thou  hast  settled  beyond  all  surmises. 

LVL 

Some  call  thee  "  the  worst  cause  of  war,"  but  I 

Maintain  thou  art  the  best;   for,  after  all, 
From  thee  we  come,  to  thee  we  go  ;    and  why, 

To   get  at  thee,  not  batter  down  a  wall, 
Or  waste  a  world  1     Since  no  one  can  deny 

Thou  dost  replenish  worlds  both  great  and  small : 
With,  or  without  thee,  all  things  at  a  stand 
Are,  or  would  be,  thou  sea  of  life's  dry  land ! 

LVII. 
Catherine,  who  was  the  grand  epitome 

Of  that  great  cause  of  war,  or  peace,  or  what 
You  please  (it  causes  all  the  things  which  be, 

So  you  may  take  your  choice  of  this  or  that) — 
Catherine,  I  say,  was  very  glad  to  see 

The  handsome  herald,  on  whose  plumage  sat 
Victory  ;    and,  pausing  as  she  saw  him  kneel 
With  his  despatch,  forgot  to  break  the  seal. 

LVIII. 
[Tien  recollecting  the  whole  empress,  nor 

Forgetting  quite  the  woman  (which  composed 
\t  least  three  parts  of  this  great  whole),  she  tore 

The  letter  open  with  an  air  which  posed 
The  court,  that  watchM  each  look  her  visage  wore, 

fjntil  a  royal  smile  at  length  disclosed 
(•"air  weather  for  the  day.     Though  rather  spacious, 
Htr  lace  was  noble,  her  eyes  fine,  month  gracious. 


LIX. 

Great  joy  was  hers,  or  rather  joys  ;    the  first 
Was  a  ta'en  city,  thirty  thousand  slain. 

Glory  and  triumph  o'er  her  aspect  burst, 
As  an  EasP^-^ian  sunrise  on  the  main.        « 

These  quench'd  a  moment  her  ambition's  thirst- 
So  Arab  deserts  drink  in  summer's  rain : 

In  vain  ! — As  fall  the  dews  en  quenchless  sands, 

Blood  only  serves  to  wash  ambition's  hands ! 

LX. 

Her  next  amusement  was  more  fanciful ; 

She  smiled  at  mad  Suwarrcnv's  rhymes,  who  threv 
Into  a   Russian  couplet,  rather  dull, 

The  whole  gazette  ot  thousands  whom  he  slew. 
Her  third  was  feminine  enough  to  annul 

The   shudder  which  runs  naturally  through 
Our  veins,  when  things  called  sovereigns  think  it  be«C 
To  kill,  and  generals  turn  it  into  jest. 

LXI. 

The  two  first  feelings  ran  their  course  complete, 

And  lighter!  first  her  eye  and  then   her  mouth: 

The  whole  court  look'd  immediately  most  sweet, 

Like  flowers  well  wator'd  after  a  long  drouth  I—- 
But when  on  the  lieutenant,  at  her  feet, 

Her  majesty — who  liked  to  gaze  on  youth 
Almost  as  much  as  on   a  new  despatch — 
Glanced  mildly,  all  the  world  was  on  the  watch. 

LXII. 

Though  somewhat  large,  exuberant,  and  truculent, 
Wl.en  wroth  ;  while  pleased,  she  was  as  fine  a  figur* 

As  those  who  like  things  losy,  ripe,  i.nd  succulent, 
Would  wish  to  look  on,  while  they  are  in  vigour. 

She  could  repay  each  amatory  look  you   lent 
With  interest,  and  in  turn  was  wont  with  rigour 

To  exact  of  Cupid's  bills  the  full  amount 

At  sight,  nor  would  permit  you  to  discount. 

LXIII. 

With  her  the  latter,  though  at  times  convenient, 
Was  not  so  necessary  :    for  they  tell 

That  she  was  handsome,  and,  tho'  fierce,  look'd  lenient. 
And  always  used  her  favourites  too  well. 

If  once  beyond  her  boudoir's  precincts  in  ye  went, 
Your  "  fortune  "  was  in  a  fair  way  "  to  swell 

A  man,"  as  Giles  says  ;6  for,  tho'  she  would  widow  all 

\ations,  she  liked  man  as  an  individual. 

LXIV. 

What  a  strange  thing  is  man  !    and  what  a  strange* 

Is  woman  1  What  a  whirlwind  is  her  head, 
And  what  a  whirlpool  full  of  depth  ana  danger 

Is  a!',  the  rest  about  her!    whethe'  wed, 
Or  widow,  maid,  or  mother,  she  can  change  her 

Mind  like  the  wind  ;  whatever  she  has  said 
Or  done,  is  light  to  what  she  'II  say  or  do  ;— 
The  oldest  thing  on  record,  and  yet  new ! 

LXV. 
Oh,  Catherine!   (for  of  all  interjections 

To  thee  both  oh  !  and  ah !   belong  of  right 
In  love  and  war)  how  odd  are  the  connexions 

Of  human  thoughts,  which  jostle  in  thi-ir  flight  • 
Just  now  yiurs  were  cut  out   in  different  section* 

Pirst,  Ismail's  capture  caught  your  fancy  quito , 
Next,  of  new  knights  the  fresh  and  glorious  natch 
And  lliinOy,  he  who  bro'tght  you  the  dea-jatrb  ' 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  13 


LXVI. 

Shaks-pe  ir*  talks  of  "  the  herald  Mercury 
New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ;" 

And  some  such  visions  cross'd  her  majesty, 
While  her  young  herald  knelt  before  her  still. 

'T  is  very  true  the  hill  seeni'd  rather  high 
For  a  lieutenant  to  climb  up  ;    but  skill 

Smooth'd  even  the  Simplon's  steep,  and,  by  God's  bless- 
ing. 

With  youth  and  health  all  kisses  are  "  heaven-kissing." 

LXVII. 

Her  majesty  look'd  down,  the  youth  look'd  up — 

And  so  they  fell  in  love ; — she  with  his  fac^, 
His  grace,  his  God-knows-what :   for  Cupid's  cup 

With  the  first  draught  intoxicates  apace, 
A  quintessential  laudanum  or  "  black  drop," 

Which  makes  one  drunk  at  once,  without  the  base 
Expedient  of  full  bumpers  ;   for  the  eye 
In  love  drinks  all  life's  fountains   (save  tears)  dry. 

LXV1II. 
He,  on  the  other  hand,  if  not  in  love, 

Fell  into  that  no  less  imperious  passion, 
Self-love — which,  when  some  sort  of  thing  above 

Ourselves,  a  singer,  dancer,  much  in  fashion, 
Or  duchess,  princess,  empress,  "  deigns  to  prove," 

('T  is  Pope's  phrase)  a  great  longing,  tho'  a  rash  one, 
For  one  especial  person  out  of  many, 
Makes  us  believe  ourselves  as  good  as  any. 

LXIX. 

Besides,  he  was  of  that  delighted  age 

Which  makes  all  female  ages  equal — when 
We  don't  much  care  with  whom  we  may  engage, 

As  bold  as  Daniel  in  the  lions'  den, 
So  that  w-;  ca"   our  native  sun   assuage 

In  the  next  ocean,  which  may  flow  just  then, 
To  make  a  twilight  in — just  as  Sol's  heat  is 
Quench'd  in  the  lap  of  the  salt  sea,  or  Thetis. 

LXX. 
And  Catherine  (we  must  say  thus  much  for  Catherine), 

Though  bold  and  bloody,  was  the  kind  of  thing 
Whose  temporary  passion  was  quite  flattering, 

Because  each  lover  look'd  a  sort  of  king, 
Made  up  upon  an  amatory  pattern — 

A  royal  husband  in  all  save  the  ring — 
Which  being  the  damn'dest  part  of  matrimony, 
Seem'd  taking  out  the  sting  to  leave  the  honey 

LXXI. 
And  when  you  add  to  this,  her  womanhood 

In  its  meridian,  her  blue  eyes,  or  gray — 
(The  last,  if  they  have  soul,  are  quite  as  good, 

Or  better,  as  the  best  examples  say  : 
Napoleon's,  Mary's  (Queen  of  Scotland)  should 

Lend  to  that  colour  a  transcendent  ray  ; 
And  Pallas  also  sanctions  the  same  hue — 
Too  wise  to  look  through  optics  black  or  blue) — 

LXXII. 
Her  sweei  smile,  and  her  then  majestic  figure, 

Her  p'.umpness,  her  imperial  condescension, 
Her  preference  of  a  boy  to  men  much  bigger 

(Fellow?  whom  Messalina's  self  would  pension), 
ller  prime  of  lifc,  just  now  in  juicy  vigour, 

With  other  extras  which  we  need  not  mention, — 
AU  these,  or  any  one  of  these,  explain 
Knmiifh  to  make  a  stripling  very  vain. 


LXXIII. 

And  that 's  enough,  for  love  is  vanity 

Selfish  in  its  beginning  as  its  end, 
Except  where  't  is  a  mere  insanity, 

A  maddening  spirit  which  would  strive  to  blend 
Itself  with  beauty's  frail  inanity, 

On  which  the  passion's  self  seems  to  depend : 
And  hence  some  heathenish  philosophers 
Make  love  the  mainspring  of  the  universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides  Platonic  love,  besides  the  love 
Of  God,  the  love  of  sentiment,  the  loving 

Of  faithful  pairs — (I  needs  must  rhyme  with  dove, 
That  good  old  steam-boat  which  keeps  verses  moving 

'Gainst  reason — reason  ne'er  was  hand-and-glove 
With  rhyme,  but  always  lean'd  less  to  improving 

The  sound  than  sense) — besides  all  these  pretences 

To  love,  there  are  those  things  which  words  name  senses; 

LXXV. 

Those  movements,  those  improvements  in  our  bodies 
Which  make  all  bodies  anxious  to  get  out 

Of  their  own  sand-pits  to  mix  with  a  goddess — 
For  such  all  women  are  at  first,  no  aoubt. 

How  beautiful  that  moment !    and  how  odd  is 
That  fever  which  precedes  the  languid  rout 

Of  our  sensations  !    What  a  curious  way 

The  whole  thing  is  of  clothing  souls  in  clay ! 

LXXVI. 

The  noblest  kind  of  love  is  love  Platonical, 
To  end  or  to  begin  with  ;    the  next  grand 

Is  that  which  may  be  christen'd  love  canonical, 
Because  the  clergy  take  the  thing  in  hand ; 

The  third  sort  to  be  noted  in  our  chronicle, 
As  flourishing  in  every  Christian  land, 

Is,  when  chaste  matrons  to  their  other  ties 

Add  what  may  be  call'd  marriage  in  disguise, 

LXXVII. 
Well,  we  won't  analyze — our  story  must 

Tell  for  itself:    the  sovereign  was  smitten, 
Juan  much  flatter'd  by  her  love,  or  lust  ; — 

I  cannot  stjop  to  alter  words  once  written, 
And  the  two  are  so  mix'd  with  human  dust, 

That  he  who  names  one,  both  perchance  may  hit  on  ' 
But  in  such  matters  Russia's  mighty  empress 
Behaved  no  better  than  a  common  sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 
The  whole  court  melted  into  one  wide  whisper, 

And  all  lips  were  applied  unto  all  ears ! 
The  elder  ladies'  wrinkles  curl'd  much  crisper 

As  they  beheld ;   the  younger  cast  some  leers 
On  one  another,  and  each  lovely  fisper 

Smiled  as  she  talk'd  the  mattei  o'er ;    but  tear* 
Of  rivalship  rose  in  each  clouded  eye 
Of  all  the  standing  army  who  stood  bv. 

LXXIX. 
All  the  ambassadors  of  all  the  powers 

Inquired,  who  was  this  very  new  young  man, 
Who  promised  to  be  great  in  some  few  hours  ? 

Which  is  full  soon  (though  life  is  but  a  span). 
Already  they  beheld  the  silver  showers 

Of  roubles  rain,  as  fast  as  specie  can, 
Upon  his  cabinet,  besides  the  presents 
Of  several  ribbons  and  some  thousand  peasants 


CANTO  X.. 


DON  JUAN. 


653 


LXXX. 

Catherine  was  generous, — all  such  ladies  are: 
Love,  that  great  opener  of  the  heart  and  all 

The  ways  thai  lead  there,  be  they  near  or  far : 
Above,  below,  by  turnpikes  great  or  small, — 

Love — (though  she  had  a  cursed  taste  for  war, 
And  was  not  the  best  wife,  unless  we  call 

Such  Clytemnestra  ;  though  perhaps  't  is  better 

That  one  should  die,  than  two  drag  on  the  fetter) — 

LXXXI. 

Love  had  made  Catherine  make  each  lover's  fortune, 
Unlike  our  own  half-chaste  Elizabeth, 

Whose  avarice  all  disbursements  did  importune, 
If  history,  the  grand  liar,  ever  saith 

The  truth  ;  and  though  grief  iier  old  age  might  shorten, 
Because  she  put  a  favourite  to  death, 

Her  vile  ambiguous  method  of  flirtation, 

And  stinginess,  disgrace  her  sex  and  station. 

LXXXII. 

But  when  the  levee  rose,  and  all  was  bustle 
In  the  dissolving  circle,  all  the  nations' 

Ambassadors  began  as  't  were  to  hustle 

Round  the  young  man  with  their  congratulations. 

Also  the  softer  silks  were  heard  to  rustle 
Of  gentle  dames,  among  whose  recreations 

It  is  to  speculate  on  handsome  faces, 

Especially  when  such  lead  to  high  places. 

LXXXIII. 

Juan,  who  found  himself,  he  knew  not  how, 

A  general  object  of  attention,  made 
His  answers  with  a  very  graceful  bow, 

As  if  born  for  the  ministerial  trade. 
Though  modest,  on  his  unernbarrass'd  brow 

Nature  had  written  "Gentleman."     He  said 
Little,  but  to  the  purpose ;  and  his  manner 
Flung  hovering  graces  o'er  him  like  a  banner. 

LXXXIV. 

An  order  from  her  majesty  consign'd 

Our  young  lieutenant  to  the  genial  care 
Of  those  in  office :  all  the  world  look'd  kind, 

(As  it  will  look  sometimes  with  the  first  stare, 
Which  youth  would  not  act  ill  to  ke"?p  in  mind); 

As  also  did  Miss  Protosoff  then  there, 
Named,  from  her  mystic  office,  "1'Eprouveuse," 
A  term  inexplicable  to  the  Muse. 

LXXXV. 
With  her  then,  as  in  humble  duty  bound, 

Juan  retired, — and  so  will  I,  until 
My  Pegasus  shall  tire  of  touching  ground. 

We  have  just  lit  on  a  "heaven-kissing  hill," 
So  lofly  that  I  feel  my  brain  turn  round, 

And  all  my  fancies  whirling  like  a  mill ; 
Which  is  a  signal  to  my  nerves  and  brain 
Co  take  a  quiet  ride  in  some  green  lane. 


X. 


WHEN  Newton  saw  an  apple  fall,  he  found 
In  that  slight  startle  from  his  contemplation— 

'T  is  said  (for  I  '11  not  answer  above  ground 
For  any  sage's  creed  or  calculation) — 

A  mode  of  proving  that  the  earth  turn'd  round 
In  a  most  natural  whirl,  call'd  "gravitation;" 

And  thus  is  the  sole  mortal  who  could  grapple, 

Since  Adam,  with  a  fall  or  with  an  apple. 

II. 

Man  fell  with  apples,  and  with  apples  rose, 
If  this  be  true;   for  we  must  deem  the  moA\ 

In  which  Sir  Isaac  Newton   could  disclose, 

Through  the  then  unpaved  stars,  the  turnpik-  road 

A  thing  to  counterbalance  human  woes  ; 
For,  ever  since,  immortal  man  hath  glow'd 

With  all  kinds  of  mechanics,  and  full  soon 

Steam-engines  will  conduct  him  to  the  moon. 

III. 

And  wherefore  this  exordium  1 — Why,  just  now 
In  taking  up  this  paltry  sheet  of  paper, 

My  bosom  underwent  a  glorious  glow, 
And  my  internal  spirit  cut  a  caper : 

And  though  so  much  inferior,  as  I  know, 

To  those  who,  by  the  dint  of  glass   and  vapour, 

Discover  stars,  and  sail  in  the  wind's  eve, 

I  wish  to  do  as  much  by  poesy. 

IV. 

In  the  wind's  eye  I  have  sail'd,  and  sail ;  but  for 

The  stars,  I  own  my  telescope  is  dim ; 
But  at  the  least  I  've  shunn'd  the  common  shore, 

And,  leaving  land  far  out  of  sight,  would  skim 
The  ocean  of  eternity :   the  roar 

Of  breakers  has  not  daunted  mv  slight,  trim, 
But  still  sea-worthy  skiff;  and  she  may  float 
Where  ships  have  founder'd,  as  doth  many  a  boat. 

V. 
We  left  our  hero  Juan  in  the  bloom 

Of  favouritism,  but  not  yet  in  the  blush; 
And  far  be  it  from  my  Muses  to  presume 

(For  I  have  more  than  one  Muse  at  a  push) 
To  follow  him  beyond  the  drawing-room  : 

It  is  enough  that  fortune  found  him  flush 
Of  youth  and  vigour,  beauty,  and  those  thing* 
Which  for  an  instant  clip  enjoyment's  wings. 

VI. 
But  soon  they  grow  again,  and  leave  their  nest. 

"  Oh  !"  saith  the  Psalmist,  "  that  I  had  a  dove  • 
Pinions,  to  flee  away  and  be  at  rest !" 

And  who,  that  recollects  young  years  and  loves,- 
Though  hoary  now,  and  with  a  withering  breast, 

And  palsied  fancy,  which  no  longer  rcv?s 
Beyond  its  dimm'd  eye's  sphere, — but  would  mucn  -itn» 
Sigh  like  his  son,  than  cough  like  his  grandfather ' 


.BYRON'S  WORKS 


CAXTO  ^ 


VII. 

But  sighs  bubside,  and  tears  (even  widows')  shrink 
Lvke  Arno,  in  the  summer,  to  a  shallow, 

So  narrow  as  to  shame  their  wintry  brink, 

Which  tLre,\tens  inundations  deep  and  yellow ! 

Such  ditTcrt>icr;  doth  a  few  months  make.    You  'd  think 
Grief  a  ii--h  field  which  never  would  lie  fallow; 

No  more  it  Joth,  its  ploughs  but  change  their  boys, 

Who  furrow  some  new  soil  to  sow  for  joys. 

vin. 

But  coughs  wi'l  come  when  sighs  depart — and  now 
And  then  bi  fore  sighs  cease  ;  for  oft  the  one 

Will  bring  the  other,  ere  the  lake-like  brow 
Is  ruffled  by  a  wrinkle,  or  the  sun 

Of  life  reach  \en  o'clock :  and,  while  a  glow, 
Hectic  and  brief  as  summer's  day  nigh  done, 

O'erspreads  the  cheek  which  seems  too  pure  for  clay, 

Thousands  blaze,  love,  hope,  die — how  happy  they! — 

IX. 

But  Juan  was  not  meant  to  die  so   soon. 

We  left  him  in  the  focus  of  such  glory 
As  may  be  won  by  favour  of  the  moon, 

Or  ladies'  fancies — rather  transitory 
Perhaps  :   but  who  would  scorn  the  month  of  June, 

Because  December,  with  his  breath  so  hoary, 
Must  come  ?     Much  rather  should   he  court  the  ray, 
To  hoard  up  warmth  against  a  wintry  day. 

X. 

Besides,  he  had  some  qualities  which  fix 
Middle-aged  ladies  even  more  than  young: 

The  former  know  what 's  what ;  while  new-fledged  chicks 
Know  little  more  of  love  than  what  is  sung 

In  rhymes,  or  drtam'd   (for  fancy  will  play  tricks), 
In  visions  of  those  skies  from  whence  love  sprung. 

Some  reckon  women  by  their  suns  or  years — 

I  rather  think  the  moon  should  date  the  dears. 

XL 

And  why?  because  she's  changeable  and  chaste. 

I  know  no  other  reason,  whatsoe'er 
Suspicious  people,  who  find  fault  in  haste, 

May  choose  to  tax  me  with  ;   which  is  not  fair, 
Nor  flattering  to  "  their  temper  or  their  taste," 

As  my  friend  Jeffrey  writes  with  such  an  air : 
However,  I  forgive  him,  and  I  trust 
He  will  forgive  himself; — if  not,  I  must. 

XII. 
Old  enemies  who  have  become  new  friends 

Should  so  continue — 't  is  a  point  of  honour ; 
And  I  know  nothing  which  could  make  amends 

For  a  return  to  hatred :  I  would  shun  her 
Like  garlic,  howsoever  she  extends 

Her  hundred  arms  and  legs,  and  fain  outrun  her. 
Old  flames,  new  wives,  become  our  bitterest  foes — 
Converted  foes  should  scorn  to  join  with  those. 

XIII. 
This  were  the  worst  desertion :  renegadoes, 

Even  shuffling  Southey — that  incarnate  lie — 
tVouiu  scarcely  join  again  the  "reformadoes,"1 

Whom  he  forsook  to  fill  the  laureate's  sty  : 
And  honest  men,  from  Iceland  to  Barbadoes, 

Whether  in  Caledon  or  Italy, 

Ithould  not  veer  round  with  every  brcatVi,  nor  seize, 
1 1  pun,  '.he  moment  when  you  cease  to  please. 


XIV. 
The  lawyer  and  the  critic  but  behold 

The  baser  sides  cf  literature  and  life, 
And  nought  remains  unseen,  but  much  untold, 

By  those  who  scour  those  double  vales  of  strife. 
While  common  men  grow  ignorantly  old, 

The  lawyer's  brief  is  like  the  surgeon's  knife. 
Dissecting  the  whole  inside  of  a  question, 
And  with  it  all  the  process  of  digestion. 

XV. 
A  legai  broom's  a  moral  chimney-sweeper, 

,\nd  that 's  the  reason  he  himself 's  so  dirty ; 
The  endless  soot2  bestows  a  tint  far  deeper 

Than  can   be  hid  by  altering  his  shirt ;  he 
Retains  the  sable  stains  of  the  dark  creeper — 

At  least  some  twenty-nine  do  out  of  thirty 
In  all  their  habits  :   not  so  you,  I  own  ; 
As  Caesar  wore  his  robe  you  wear  your  gown. 

XVI. 
And  all  our  little  feuds,  at  least  all  mine, 

Dear  Jeffrey,  once  my  most  redoubted  foe, 
(As  far  as  rhyme  and  criticism  combine 

To  make  such  puppets  of  us  things  below), 
Are  over :  Here  's  a  health  to  "  Auld  Lang  Syne ! 

I  do  not  know  you,  and  may  never  know 
Your  face, — but  you  have  acted  on  the  whole 
Most  nobly,  and  I  own  it  from  my  souL 

XVII. 
And  when  I  use  the  phrase  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne . 

'Tis  not  address'd  to  you — the  more's  the  pity 
For  me,  for  I  would  rather  lake  my  wine 

With  you, than  aught  (save  Scott)  in  your  proud  city. 
But  somehow, — it  may  seem  a  school-boy's  whine, 

And  yet  I  seek  not  to  be  grand  nor  witty, 
But  I  am  half  a  Scot  by  birth,  and  hred 

A  whole  one,  and  my  heart  flies  to  my  head  : — 

XVIII. 
As  "  Auld  Lang  Syne"  brings  Scotland  one  and  all, 

Scotch  plaids,  Scotch  snoods,  the  blue  hills,  and  clear 

streams, 
The  Dee,  the  Don,  Balgounie's  Brig's  black  wall,1 

Ail  my  boy  feelings,  all  my  gentler  dreams 
Of  what  I  then  dreamt,  clothed  in  their  own  pall, 

Like  Banquo's  offspring — floating  past  me  seems 
My  childhood  in  this  childishness  of  mine : 
I  care  not — 't  is  a  glimpse  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 

XIX. 
And  though,  as  you  remember,  in   a  fit 

Of  wrath  and  rhyme,  when  juvenile  and  curly, 
I  rail'd  at  Scots  to  show  my  wrath  and  wit, 

Which  must  be  own'd  was  sensitive  and  surly, 
Yet  'tis  in  vain  such  sallies  to  permit — 

They  cannot  quench  young  feelings  fresh  and  early: 
I  " scotch' 'd,  not  kill'd,"  the  Scotchman  in  my  blood, 
And  love  the  land  of  "mountain  and  of  flood." 

XX. 
Don  Juan,  who  was  real  or  ideal, — 

F.or  both  are  much  the  same,  since  what  men  think 
Exists  when  the  once  thinkers  are  less  real 

Than  what  they  thought,  for  mind  can  never  sink, 
And  'gainst  the  body  makes  a  strong  appeal ; 

And  yet  't  is  very  puzzling  on  the  brink 
Of  what  is  call'd  eternity,  to  stare, 
And  know  no  more  of  what  is  here  than    he^e  • — 


CANTO  X. 


JUAN. 


XXI. 


Dan  Juan  grew  a  very  polish'd  Russian  — 
H  iw  \ve  won't  mention,  why  we  need  not  say  : 

Few  youthful  minds  can  stand  the  strong  concussion 
Of  any  slight  temptation  in  their  way  ; 

But  his  just  now  were  spread  as  is  a  cushion 
Smoolh'd  for  a  monarch's  seat  of  honour  :   gay 

Damsels,  and  dances,  revels,  ready  money, 

Made  ice  seem  paradise,  and  winter  sunny. 

XXII. 

The  favour  of  the  empress  was  agreeable  ; 

And  though  the  duty  wax'd  a  little  hard, 
Young  people  at  liis  time  of  life  should  be  able 

To  come  off  handsomely  in  that  regard. 
He  now  was  growing  up  like  a  green  tree,  able 

For  love,  war,  or  ambition,  which  reward 
Their  luckier  votaries,  till  old  age's  tedium 
Make  some  prefer  the  circulating  medium. 

XXIII. 

About  this  time,  as  might  have  been  anticipated, 
Seduced  by  youth  and  dangerous  examples, 

Don  Juan  grew,  I  fear,  a  little  dissipated  ; 
Which  is  a  sad  thing,  and  not  only  tramples 

On  our  fresh  feelings,  but  —  as  being  participated 
With   all  kinds  'of  incorrigible  samples 

Of  frail  humanity  —  must  make  us   selfish, 

And  shut  our  souls  up  in  us  like  a  shell-fish. 

XXIV. 

This  we  pass  over.     We  will  also  pass 
The  usual  progress  of  intrigues  between 

Unequal  matches,  such  as  are,  alas  ! 

A  young  lieutenant's  with  a  not  old  queen, 

But  one  v.-ho  is  not  so  youthful  as  she  was 
In  all  the  royalty  of  sweet  seventeen. 

Sovereigns  may  sway  materials,  but  not  matter, 

And  wrinkles  (the  d  -  d  democrats)  won't  flatter. 

XXV. 

And  Death,  the  sovereigns'  sovereign,  though  the  great 

Gracchus  of  all  mortality,  who  levels 
With  his  Agrarian  laws,  the  high  estate 

Of  him  who  feasts,  and  fights,  and  roars,  and  revels, 
To  one  small  grass-grown  patch  (which  must  await 

Corruption  for  its  crop)  with  the  poor  devils 
Who  never  had  a  foot  of  land  till  now,  — 
Death  's  a  reformer,  all  men  must  allow. 

XXVI. 
He  lived  (not  Death,  but  Juan)  in  a  hurry 

Of  waste,  and  haste,  and  glare,  and  gloss,  and  glitter, 
In  this  gay  clime  of  bear-skins  black  and  furry  — 

Which  (though  I  hate  to  say  a  thing  that  's  bitter'* 
Peep  out  sometimes,  when  things  are  in  a  flurry, 

Through  all  the  "  purple  and  fine  linen,"  fitter 
For  Babylon's  than  Russia's  royal  harlot  — 
And  neutralize  her  outward  show  of  scarlet. 

XXVII. 
And  this  same  stale  we  won't  describe  :  we  would 

Perhaps  from  hearsay,  or  from  recollection  ; 
But  getting  nigh  grim  Dante's  "  obscure  wood," 

That  horrid  equinox,  that  hateful  section 
Of  human  years,  that  half-way  house,  that  rude 

Hut,  whence  wise  travellers  drive  w  ith  circumspection 
Life's  sad  post-horses  o'er  the  dreary  frontier 
Of  age,  and,  looking  back  to  youth,  give  one  tear;— 


XXVIII. 

won't  describe — that  is,  if  I  can  help 

Description  *%and  I  won't  reflect — that  is. 
f  I  can  stave  . ..'  thought,  which — as  a  wneip 

Clings  to  its  teal — sticks  to  me  through  the  abys» 
)f  this  odd  labyrinth ;    or  as  the  kelp 

Holds  by  the  rock  ;    or  as  a  lover's  kiss 
drains  its  first  draught  of  lips :    but,  as  I  said, 

won't  philosophize,  and  will  be  read. 

XXIX. 

fuan,  instead  of  courting  courts,  was  courted, 
A  thing  which  happens  rarely  ;    this  he  owed 

Vluch  to  his  youth,  and  much  to  his  reported 
Valour  ;    much  also  to  the  blood  he  show'd, 
ike  a  race-horse  ;    much  to  each  dress  he  sporte* 
Which  set  the  beauty  off  in  which  he  glow'd, 

As  purple  clouds  befringe  the  sun  ;   but  most 

fie  owed  to  an  old  woman  and  his  post. 

XXX. 

tie  wrote  to  Spain  : — and  all  his  near  relations, 
Perceiving  he  was  in  a  handsome  way 

3f  getting  on  himself,  and  finding  stations 
For  cousins  also,  answer'd  the  same  day. 

Several  prepared  themselves  for  emigrations  ; 
And,  eating  ices,  were  o'erheard  to  say, 

That  with  the  addition  of  a  slight  pelisse, 

Madrid's  and  Moscow's  climes  were  of  a-piece. 

XXXI. 

His  mother,  Donna  Inez,  finding  too 

That  in  the  lieu  of  drawing  on  his  banker, 

Where  his  assets  were  waxing  rather  few, 

He  had  brought  his  spending  to  a  handsome  anchor,- 

Replied,  "  that  f.he  was  glad  to  see  him  through 
Those  pleasures  after  which  wild  youth  will  hanker 

As  the  sole  sign  of  man's  being  in  his  senses 

Is,  learning  to  reduce  his  past  expenses. 

XXXII. 

She  also  recommended  him  to  God, 

And  no  less  to  God's  Son,  as  well  as  Mother, 
Warn'd  him  against  Greek  worship,  which  looks  oJil 

In  Catholic  eyes  ;   but  told  him  too  to  smother 
Outward  dislike,  which  don't  look  well  abroad : 

Inform'd  him  that  he  had  a   little  brother 
Born  in  a  second  wedlock  ;    and  above 
All,  praise'd  the  empress's  maternal  love. 

XXXIII. 
"  She  could  not  too  much  give  her  approbation 

Unto  an  empress,  who  preferr'd  young  men 
Whose  age,  and,  what  was  better  still,  whose  natic «. 

And  climate,  stopp'd  all  scandal  (now  and  then)  :- 
At  home  it  might   have   given  her  some  vexation , 

But  where  thermometers  sunk  down  to  ten, 
Or  five,  or  one,  or  zero,  she  could  never 
Believe  that  virtue  thaw'd  before  the  river.'' 

XXXIV. 
Oh  for  a  forty-parson  power  4  to  chaunt 

Thy  praise,  hypocrisy  !     Oh  for  a  hymn 
Loud  as  the  virtues  thou  dost  loudly  vaunt, 

Not  practise !     Oh  for  trumps  of  cherubim  ' 
Or  the  ear-trumpet  of  my  good  old  aunt, 

Who,  though  her  spectacles  at  last  grew  .r.m. 
Drew  quiet  consolation  thro"gh  V.s  hint, 
When  she  no  more  could  read  the  oious  prim. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  X 


XXXV. 

She  was  no  hypocrite,  at  least,  poor  soul ! 

But  went  to  heaven  in  as  sincere  a  way 
As  any  body  on  the  elected  roll, 

Which  portions  out  upon  the  judgment  day 
heaven's  freeholds,  in  a  sort  of  doomsday  scroll, 

Such  as  the  conqueror  William  did  repay 
His  knights  with,  lotting  others'  properties 
Into  some  sixty  thousand  new  knights'  fees. 

XXXVI. 

I  can't  complain,  whose  ancestors  are  there, 
Erneis,  Radulphus — eight- an d-forty  manors 

{If  that  my  memory  doth  not  greatly  err) 
Were  their  reward  for  following  Billy's  banners ; 

And,  though  I  can't  help  thinking  't  was  scarce  fair 
To  strip  the  Saxons  of  their  hydes,*  like  tanners, 

Yet  as  they  founded  churches  with  the  produce, 

You  '11  deem,  no  doubt,  they  put  it  to  a  good  use. 

XXXVII. 

The  gentle  Juan  flourish'd,  though  at  times 
He  felt  like  other  plants— call'd  sensitive, 

Which  shrink  from  touch,  as  monarchs  do  from  rhymes, 
Save  such  as  Southey  can  afford  to  give. 

Perhaps  he  long'd,  in  bitter  frosts,  for  climes 
In  which  the  Neva's  ice  would  cease  to  Kve 

Before  May-day :   perhaps,  despite  his  duty, 

In  royalty's  vast  arms  he  sigh'd  for  beauty : 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps, — but,  sans  perhaps,  we  need  to  seek 
For  causes  young  or  old :   the  canker-worm 

Will  feed  upon  the  fairest,  freshest  cheek, 
As  well  as  further  drain  the  wither  d  form : 

Care,  like  a  housekeeper,  brings  every  week 
His  bills  in,  and,  however  we  may  storm, 

They  must  be  paid :   though  six  days  smoothly  run, 

The  seventh  will  bring  blue  devils  or  a  dun. 

XXXIX. 

[  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  he  grew  sick : 

The  empress  was  alarm'd,  and  her  physician 
(The  same  who  physick'd  Peter)  found  the  tick 

Of  his  fierce  pulse  betoken  a  condition 
Which  augur'd  of  the  dead,  however  quick 

Itself,  and  show'd  a  feverish  disposition ; 
At  which  the  whole  court  was  extremely  troubled, 
The  sovereign  shock'd,  and  all  his  medicines  doubled. 

XL. 
Low  were  the  whispers,  manifold  the  rumours : 

Some  said  he  had  been  poison'd  by  Potemkin  ; 
Others  talk'd  learnedly  of  certain  tumours, 

Exhaustion,  or  disorders  of  the  same  kin  ; 
Some  said  't  was  a  concoction  of  the  humours, 

Which  with  the  blood  too  readily  will  claim  kin ; 
Others  again  were  ready  to  maintain, 
tt'Twas  only  the  fatigue  of  last  campaign." 

XLI. 
But  here  is  one  prescription  out  of  many : 

M  Sodae-sulphat.  3.  vi.  3.  s.     Manna?  optim. 
A  j.  lervent.  F.  3.  iss.  3.  ij.  tinct.  Sennse 

Haustus  '  (and  here  the  surgeon  came  and  cupp'dhim) 
"R.  Pulv.  Com.  gr.  iii.     Ipecacuanhas" 

(With  more  beside,  if  Juan  had  not  stopp'd  'em). 
'•  Bo'us  poussse  sulplluret.  sumendus, 
til  hvistus  icr  in  die  capiendus." 


XLII. 

This  is  the  way  physicians  mend  or  end  us, 
Secundum  artem  :  but  although  we  sneer 

In  health — when  ill,  we  call  them  to  attend  us. 
Without  the  least  propensity  to  jeer : 

While  that  "  hiatus  maxime  deflendus," 

To  be  fill'd  up  by  spade  or  mattock,  's  near, 

Instead  of  gliding  graciously  down  Lethe, 

We  tease  mild  Baillie,  or  soft  Abernethy. 

XLIII. 

Juan  demurr'd   at  this  first  notice  to 

Quit ;  and,  though  dea'h  had  threaten'd  an  ejection 
His  youth  and  constitution  bore  him  through, 

And  sent  the  doctors  in  a  new  direction. 
But  still  his  state  was  delicate :   the  hue 

Of  health  but  flicker'd  with  a  faint  reflection 
Along  his  wasted  cheek,  and  seem'd  to  gravel 
The  faculty — who  said  that  he  must  travel. 

XLIV. 

The  climate  was  too  cold,  they  said,  for  him, 
Meridian-born,  to  bloom  in.  This  opinion 

Made  the  chaste  Catherine  look  a  little  grim, 
Who  did  not  like  at  first  to  lose  her  minion  : 

But  when  she  saw  his  dazzling  eye  wax  dim, 

And  drooping  like  an  eagle's  wijh  clipp'd  pinion, 

She  then  resolved  to  send  him  on  a  mission, 

But  in  a  style  becoming  his  condition. 

XLV. 

There  was  just  then  a  kind  of  a  discussion, 

A  sort  of  treaty  or  negotiation 
Between  the  British  cabinet  and  Russian, 

Maintain'd  with  all  the  due  prevarication 
With  which  great  states  such  things  are  apt  to  push  onj 

Something  about  the  Baltic's  navigation, 
Hides,  train-oil,  tallow,  and  the  rights  of  Thetis. 
Which  Britons  deem  their  "  uti  possidetis." 

XLVI. 

So  Catherine,  who  had  a  handsome  way 

Of  fitting  out  her  favourites,  conferr'd 
This  secret  charge  on  Juan,  to  display 

At  once  her  royal  splendour,  and  rewaru 
His  services.     He  kiss'd  hands  the  next  day, 

Received  instructions  how  to  play  his  card, 
Was  laden  with  all  kinds  of  gifts  and  honours, 
Which  show'd  what  great  discernment  was  the  donor's. 

XLVII. 
But  she  was  lucky,  and  luck  's  all.     Your  queens 

Are  generally  prosperous  in  reigning  ; 
Which  puzzles  us  to  know  what  fortune    neans. 

But  to  continue  :    though  her  years  were  war  cig 
Her  climacteric  teased  her  like  her  teens  ; 

And  though  her  dignity  brook'd  no  complaining, 
So  much  did  Juan's  setting  off  distress  her, 
She  could  not  find  at  first  a  fit  successor. 

XLVIII. 
But  time,  the  comforter,  will  come  at  last ; 

And  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  twice  that  number 
Of  candidates  requesting  to  be  placen, 

Made  Catherine  taste  next  night  a  quiet  slumlx»v— 
Not  that  she  meant  to  fix  again  in  haste. 

Nor  did  she  find  the  quantity  encumber. 
But,  a/ways  choosing  with  deliberation, 
Kept  the  place  open  for  their  emula'ion. 


CANTO  X. 


DON  JUAN. 


65, 


XLIX. 

While  this  high  post  of  honour 's  in  abeyance, 
For  one  or  two  days,  reader,  we  request 

You  '11  mount  with  our  young  hero  the  conveyance 
Which  wafted  him  from  Petersburgh ;  the  best 

Barouche,  which  had  the  glory  to  display  once 
The  fair  Czarina's  autocratic  crest, 

(When,  a  new  Iphigene,  she  went  to  Tauris), 

Was  given  to  her  favourite,6  and  now  bore  hit. 

L. 

A.  bull-dog,  and  a  bull-finch,  and  an  ermine, 
All  private  favourites  of  Don  Juan  ;  for 

(Let  deeper  sages  the  true  cause  determine) 
He  had  a  kind  of  inclination,  or 

Weakness,  for  what  most  people  deem  mere  vermin — 
Live  animals  : — an  old  maid  of  threescore 

For  cats  and  birds  more  penchant  ne'er  display'd, 

Although  he  was  not  old,  nor  even  a  maid. 

LI. 

The  animals  aforesaid  occupied 

Their  station :  there  were  valets,  secretaries, 
In  other  vehicles ;  but  at  his  side 

Sat  little  Leila,  who  survived  the  parries 
He  made  'gainst  Cossack  sabres,  in  the  wide 

Slaughter  of  Ismail.     Though  my  wild  Muse  varies 
Her  note,  she  don't  forget  the  infant  girl 
Whom  he  preserved,  a  pure  and  living  pearl. 

LII. 

Poor  little  thing !    She  was  as  fair  as  docile, 
And  with  that  gentle,  serious  character, 

As  rare  in  living  beings  as  a  fossile 

Man,  'midst  thy  mouldy  mammoths,  "grand  Cuvier !" 

Ill  fitted  with  her  ignorance  to  jostle 
With  this  o'erwhelming  world,  where  all  must  err : 

But  she  was  yet  but  ten  years  old,  and  therefore 

Was  tranquil,  though  she  knew  not  why  or  wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don  Juan  loved  her,  and  she  loved  him,  as 

Nor  brother,  father,  sister,  daughter  love. 
I  cannot  tell  exactly  what  it  was  ; 

He  was  not  yet  quite  old  enough  to  prove 
Parental  feelings,  and  the  other  class, 

Call'd  brotherly  affection,  could  not  move 
His  bosom — for  he  never  had  a  sister : 
Ah !  if  he  had,  how  much  he  would  have  miss'd  her  ! 

LIV. 
And  still  less  was  it  sensual ;  for  besides 

That  he  was  not  an  ancient  debauchee, 
(Who  like  sour  fruit  to  stir  their  veins'  salt  tides, 

As  acids  rouse  a  dormant  alkali), 
Although  ('<  will  happen  as  our  planet  guides) 

His  youth  was  not  the  chastest  that  might  be, 
There  was  the  purest  platonism  at  bottom 
«Jf  all  his  feelings— only  he  forgot  'em. 

LV. 
Just  new  there  was  no  peril  of  temptation  ; 

He  loved  the  infant  orphan  he  had  saved, 
As  patriots  (now  and  then)  may  love  a  nation ; 

His  pride  too  felt  that  she  was  not  enslaved, 
Owinj  to  him; — as  also  her  salvation, 

Through  his  means  and  the  church's,  might  be  paved. 
But  oie  thing 's  odd,  which  here  must  be  inserted — 
Fhe  litJe  Turk  refused  to  be  converted. 
31  83 


LVI. 

'T  was  strange  enough  she  should  retain  the  impression 

Through  such  a  scene  of  change,  and  dread,  an* 

slaughter ; 
But,  though  thre.i  bishops  told  her  the  transgression, 

She  show'd  a  great  dislike  to  holy  water : 
She  also  had  no  passion  for  confession ; 

Perhaps  she  had  nothing  to  confess; — no  matter j 
Whate'er  the  cause,  the  church  made  little  of  it- 
She  still  held  out  that  Mahomet  was  a  prophet. 

LVII. 
In  fact,  the  only  Christian  she  could  bear 

Was  Juan,  whom  she  seem'd  to  have  selected 
In  place  of  what  her  home  and  friends  once  were, 

He  naturally  loved  what  he  protected  ; 
And  thus  they  fbrm'd  a  rather  curious  pair : 

A  guardian  green  in  years,  a  ward  connected 
In  neither  clime,  time,  blood,  with  her  defender ; 
And  yet  this  want  of  ties  made  theirs  more  tender, 

LVIII. 
They  journey'd  on  through  Poland  and  through  Warsaw 

Famous  for  mines  of  salt  and  yokes  of  iron  : 
Through  Courland  also,  which  that  famous  farce  saw 

Which  gave  her  dukes'  the  graceless  name  of  "Biron." 
'T  is  the  same  landscape  which  the  modern  Mars  saw, 

Who  march'd  to  Moscow,  led  by  fame,  the  syren ' 
To  lose,  by  one  month's  frost,  some  twenty  years 
Of  conquest,  and  his  guard  of  grenadiers. 

LIX. 
Let  not  this  seem  an  anti-climax: — "Oh! 

My  guard !  my  old  guard ! "  exclai  m'd  that  god  of  clay- 
Think  of  the  thunderer's  falling  down  below 

Carotid-artery-cutting  Castlereagh ! 
Alas  !   that  glory  should  be  chill'd  by  snow  ! 

But,  should  we  wish  to  warm  us  on  our  way 
Through  Poland,  there  is  Kosciusko's  name 
Might  scatter  fire  through  ice,  like  Hecla's  flame. 

LX. 
From  Poland  they  came  on  through  Prussia  Proper, 

And  Konigsberg  the  capital,  whose  vaunt, 
Besides  some  veins  of  iron,  lead,  or  copper, 

Has  lately  been  the  great  Professor  Kant. 
Juan,  who  cared  not  a  tobacco-stopper 

About  philosophy,  pursued  his  jaunt 
To  Germany,  whose  somewhat  tardy  millions 
Have  princes  who  spur  more  than  their  postilions. 

LXI. 
And  thence  through  Berlin,  Dresden,  and  the  like, 

Until  he  reach'd  the  castellated  Rhine: — 
Ye  glorious  Gothic  scenes !  how  much  ye  strike 

All  phantasies,  not  even  excepting  mine : 
A  gray  wall,  a  green  ruin,  rusty  pike, 

Make  my  soul  pass  the  equinoctial  line 
Between  the  present  and  past  worlds,  and  novel 
Upon  their  airy  confine,  half-seas-over. 

LXII. 
But  Juan  posted  on  through  Manheim,  Bonn, 

Which  Drachenfels  frowns  o'er,  like  a  spectrn 
Of  the  good  feudal  times  for  ever  gone, 

On  which  I  have  not  time  just  now  to  lecture. 
From  thence  he  was  drawn  onwards  to  Cologne. 

A  city  which  presents  to  the  inspector 
Eleven  thousand  maidenheads  of  bone. 
The  greatest  number  flesh  hath  ever  knowa* 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  J 


LXIII. 

From  theno  j  to  Holland's  Hague  and  Helvoetsluys, 
That  wate"  land  of  Dutchmen  and  of  ditches, 

Where  Juniper  expresses  its  best  juice — 
The  poor  man's  sparkling  substitute  for  riches. 

Senates  and  sages  have  condemn'd  its  use- 
But  to  deny  the  mob  a  cordial  which  is 

Too  of  en  all  the  clothing,  meat,  or  fuel, 

Good  government  has  left  them,  seems  but  cruel. 

LXIV. 

Here  he  embark'd,  and,  with  a  flowing  sail, 
Went  bounding  for  the  island  of  the  free, 

Towards  which  the  impatient  wind  blew  half  a  gale  ; 
High  dash'd  the  spray,  the  bows  dipp'd  in  the  sea, 

And  sea-sick  passengers  turn'd  somewhat  pale: 
But  Juan,  season'd,  as  he  well  might  be 

By  former  voyages,  stood  to  watch  the  skiffs 

Which  pass'd,  or  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  cliffs. 

LXV. 

At  length  they  rose,  like  a  white  wall  along 
The  blue  sea's  border;  and  Don  Juan  felt — 

What  even  young  strangers  feel  a  little  strong 
At  the  first  sight  of  Albion's  chalky  belt — 

A  kind  of  pride  that  he  should  be  among 

Those  haughty  shop-kespers,  who  sterp.'y  dealt 

Their  goods  and  edicts  out  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  made  the  very  billows  pay  them  toll. 

LXVI. 

I  have  no  great  cause  to  love  that  spot  of  earth, 
Which  holds  what  mieht  have  been  the  noblest  nation : 

But,  though  I  owe  it  little  but  my  birth, 
I  feel  a  mix'd  regret  and  veneration 

For  its  decaying  fame  and  former  worth. 

Seven  years  (the  usual  term  of  transportation) 

Of  absence  lay  one's  old  resentments  level, 

When  a  man's  country's  going  to  the  devil. 

LXVII. 

Alas!  could  she  but  fully,  truly,  know 

How  her  great  name  is  now  throughout  abhorr'd ; 
How  eager  all  the  earth  is  for  the  blow 

Which  shall  lay  bare  her  bosom  to  the  sword ; 
How  all  the  nations  deem  her  their  worst  foe, 

That  worse  than  worst  of  foes — the  once  adored 
F  dse  triend,  who  held  out  freedom  to  mankind, 
And  now  would  chain  them  to  the  very  nrnd  ;— 

LXVII1. 
Would  she  be  proudj  o*  boast  herself  the  free, 

Wht.  is  but  first  of  slaves  ?    The  nations  are 
In  prison  ;  but  the  jailor,  what  is  he  ? 

No  less  a  victim  to  the  bolt  and  bar. 
Is  the  poor  privilege  to  turn  the  key 

Upon  the  captive,  freedom?  He's  as  far 
From  the  enjoyment  of  the  earth  and  air 
Who  watches  o'er  the  chain,  as  they  who  wear. 

LXIX. 

Dm  Juan  now  saw  Albion's  earliest  beauties— 
Thy  cliffs,  (If.ar  Dover !  harbour,  and  hotel ; 

Thy  custom-house  with  all  its  delicate  duties  ; 
Thy  waitets  running  mucks  at  every  bell ; 

Tiiy  packets,  all  whose  passengers  are  booties 
T<.  those  who  upon  land  or  water  dwell ; 

And  last,  not  least,  to  strangers  uninstructed, 

Thy  oif «  long  bills,  whence  nothing  is  deducted. 


LXX. 

Juan,  though  careless,  young,  and  magnifique, 

And  rich  in  roubles,  diamonds,  cash,  and  credit, 
Who  did  not  limit  much  his  bills  per  week, 

Yet  stared  at  this   a  little,  though  he  paid  it-  • 
(His  maggior  duomo,  a  smart  subtle  Greek, 

Before  him  summ'd  the  awful  scroll  and  read  it.^ 
But  doubtless  as  the  air,  though  seldom  sunny, 
Is  free,  the  respiration 's  worth  the  money. 

LXXI. 
On  with  the  horses!  Off  to  Canterbury! 

Tramp,  tramp  o'er  pebble,  and  splash,  splash  through 

puddle ; 
Hurrah !  how  swiftly  speeds  the  post  so  merry !      , 

Not  like  slow  Germany,  wherein  they  muddle 
Along  the  road,  as  if  they  went  to  bury 

Their  fare  ;  and  also  pause,  besides,  to  fuddle 
With  "  schnapps" — sad  dogs !  whom  "  Hundsfot"  01 

"Ferflucter" 
Affect  no  more  than  lightning  a  conductor. 

LXXII. 
Now,  there  is  nothing  gives  a  man  such  spirits, 

Leavening  his  blood  as  Cayenne  doth  a  curry, 
As  going  at  full  speed — no  matter  where  its 

Direction  be,  so  't  is  but  in  a  hurry, 
And  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  own  merits : 

For  the  less  cause  there  is  for  all  this  flurry, 
The  greater  is  the  pleasure  in  arriving 
At  the  great  end  of  travel — which  is  driving. 

LXXIII. 
They  saw  at  Canterbury  the  Cathedral; 

Black  Edward's  helm,  and  Becket's  bloody  stone, 
Were  pointed  out  as  usual  by  the  bedrai, 

In  the  same  quaint,  uninterested  tone : 
There  's  glory  again  for  yon,  gentle  reader !  all 

Ends  in  a  rusty  casque  and  dubious  bone, 
Half-solved  into  those  sodas  or  magnesias, 
Which  form  that  bitter  draught,  the  h»iman  species. 

LXXIV. 
The  effect  on  Juan  was  of  course  sublime  : 

He  breathed  a  thousand  Crcssys,  as  he  snw 
That  casque,  which  never  stoop'd,  except  to  Time. 

Even  the  bold  churchman's  tomb  excited  awe, 
Who  died  in  the  then  great  attempt  to  climb 

O'er  kings,  who  now  at  least  must  talk  of  law, 
Before  they  butcher.     Little  Leila  gazed, 
And  ask'd  why  such  a  structure  had  been  raised : 

LXXV. 
And  being  told  it  was  "  God's  house,"  she  said 

He  was  well  lodged,  but  only  wonder'd  how 
He  suffer'd  infidels  in  his  homestead, 

The  cruel  Nazarehes,  who  had  laid  low 
His  holy  temples  in  the  lands  which  bred 

The  true  believers ; — and  her  infant  brow 
Was  bent  with  grief  that  Mahomet  should  resign 
A  mosque  so  noble,  flung  like  pearls  to  swine. 

LXXVI. 
On,  on !  through  meadows,  managed  like  a  garden, 

A  paradise  of  hops  and  high  production 
For,  after  years  of  travel  by  a  bard  in 

Countries  of  greater  heat  but  lesser  suction, 
A  green  field  is  a  sight  which  makes  him  pardon 

The  absence  of  that  more  sublime  construe  Jon 
Which  mixes  up  vines,  olives,  precipices, 
Glaciers,  volcanos,  oranges,  and  ues,. 


INTO  X. 


DON  JUAN. 


LXXVII. 

A    i  when  I  think  upon  a  pot  of  beer 

Jut  I  won't  weep ! — and  so,  drive  on,  postilions ! 

AJ*  the  smart  boys  spurr'd  fast  in  their  career, 
Juan  admired  these  highways  of  free  millions; 

A  country  .11  all  senses  the  most  dear 
To  foreigner  or  native,  save  some  silly  ones, 

Who  "kick  against  the  pricks"  just  at  this  juncture, 

And  for  their  pains  get  only  a  fresh  puncture. 

LXXVIII. 

What  a  delightful  thing 's  a  turnpike  road ! 

So  smooth,  so  level,  such  a  mode  of  shaving 
The  earth,  as  scarce  the  eagle  in  the  broad 

Air  can  accomplish,  witn  his  wide  wings  waving. 
Had  such  been  cut  in  Phaeton's  time,  the  god 

Had  told  his  son  to  satisfy  his  craving 
With  the  York  mail; — but,  onward  as  we  roll, 
"Surgit  aniari  aliquid" — the  toll! 

LXXIX. 

Alas!  how  deeply  painful  is  all  payment! 

Take  lives,  take  wives,  take  aught  except  men's 

purses. 
As  Machiavel  shows  those  in  purple  raiment, 

Such  is  the  shortest  way  to  general  curses. 
They  hate  a  murderer  much  less  than  a  claimant 

On  that  sweet  ore,  which  every  body  nurses : — 
Kill  a  man's  family,  and  he  may  brook  it — 
But  keep  your  hands  out  of  his  breeches'  pocket. 

LXXX. 

So  said  the  Florentine:  ye  monarchs,  hearken 
To  vour  instructor.     Juan  now  was  borne, 

Just  as  the  day  began  to  wane  and  darken, 

O'er  the  high  hill  which  looks  with  pride  or  scorn 

Toward  the  great  city: — ye  who  have  a  spark  in 
Your  veins  of  Cockney  spirit,  smile  or  mourn, 

According  as  you  take  things  well  or  ill— 

Bold  Britons,  we  are  now  on  Shooter's  Hill! 

LXXXI. 

1'lie  sun  went  down,  the  smoke  rose  up,  as  from 

A  half-unquench'd  volcano,  o'er  a  space 
Which  well  beseem'd  the   "  Devil's  drawing-room," 

As  some  have  qualified  that  wondrous  place. 
But  Juan  felt,  though  not  approaching  home, 

As  one  who,  though  he  were  not  of  the  race, 
Revered  the  soil,  of  those  true  sons  the  mother, 
Who  butcher'd  half  the  earth,  and  bullied  t'  other.' 

LXXXII. 
A  mighty  mass  of  brick,  and  smoke,  and  shipping, 

Dirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye 
Could  reach,  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 

In  sight,  then  lost  amidst  the  forestry 
Of  masts ;    a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping 

On  tiptoe,  through  their  sea-coal  canopy ; 
A  huge  dun  cupola,  like  a  foolscap  crown 
On  a  fool's  head — and  there  is  London  iown! 

LXXXIII. 
But  Juan  saw  not  this :  each  wreath  of  smoke 

Appear'd  to  him  but  as  the  magic  vapour 
Of  some  alchymic  furnace,  from  whence  broke 

The  wealth  of  worlds  (a  wealth  of  tax  and  paper)  ; 
The  gloomy  clouds,  which  o'er  it  as  a  yoke 

Are  bow'd,  and  put  the  sun  out  like  a  taper, 
Were  nothing  but  the  natural  atmosphere — 
Extremely  wholesome,  though  but  rarely  clear. 


LXXXIV. 

He  paused — and  so  will  I — as  doth  n   sr>-.w 
Before  they  give  their  broadside.     By  ami  Uy, 

My  gentle  countrymen,  we  will  renew 

Off    old  acquaintance,  and  at  least  I'll   try 

To  Veil  you  truths  you  will  not  take  as  true, 
Because  they  are  so, — a  male  Mrs.  Fry, 

With  a  soft  besom  will  I  sweep  your  ha  Is, 

And  brush  a  web  or  two  from  off  the  walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh,  Mrs.  Fry^  why  go  to  Newgate?  Why 

Preach  to  poor  rogues?  And  wheiefore  not  begto 

With  C — It-n,  or  with  other  houses?  Try 
Your  hand  at  harden'd  and  imperial  sin. 

To  mend  the  people 's  an  absurdity, 
A  jargon,  a  mere  philanthropic  din, 

Unless  you  make  their  betters  better: — Fie! 

I  thought  you  had  more  religion,  Mrs.  Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach  them  the  decencies  of  good  threescore: 
Cure  them  of  tours,  Hussar  and  Highland  dresses ' 

Tell  them  that  youth  cnce  gone  returns  no  more; 
That  hired  huzzas  redeem  no  land's  distresses : 

Tell  them  Sir  W-ll— m  C-rt-s  is  a  bore, 
Too  dull  even  for  the  dullest  of  excesses — 

The  witless  Falstaff  of  a  hoary  Hal, 

A  fool  whose  bells  have  ceased  to  ring  at  all;— 

LXXXVII. 

Tell  them,  though  it  may  be  perhaps  too  late, 
On  life's  worn  confine,  jaded,  bloated,  sated, 

To  set  up  vain  pretences  of  being  great, 
'Tis  not  so  to  be  good;  and  be  it  stated, 

The  worthiest  kings  have  ever  loved  least  state; 
And  tell  them but  you  won't,  and  I  have  prated 

Just  now  enough;  but  by  and  by  I'll  prattle 

Like  Roland's  horn  in  Roncesvalles'  battle. 


CANTO  XI. 


i. 

WHEW  Bishop  Berkeley  said  "  there  was  no  mutter  * 

Ami  proved  it — 'twas  no  matter  what  he  said: 
They  say  his  system  'tis  in  vain  to  batter, 

Too  subtle  for  the  airiest  human  head ; 
And  yet  who  can  believe  it?     I  would  shatter, 

Gladly,  all  matters  down  to  stone  or  lead, 
Or  adamant,  to  find  the  wot!d  a  spirit, 
And  wear  my  head,  denying  that  I  wear  it. 

II. 
What  a  sublime  discovery  'twas,  to  make  the 

Universe  universal  egotism ! 
That  all 's  ideal— all  ourselves  ?    I  '11  stake  tlm 

World  (be  it  what  you  will)  that  tliat  's  no  scNsm 
Oh,  doubt! — if  thou  be'st  doubt,  for  which  some  MKB 
thee, 

But  which  I  doubt  extremely — thou  sole  prism 
Of  the  truth's  rays,  spoil  not  my  draught  of  spin,  i 
Heaven's  brandy — though  our  brain  ran  hrrHly  b*ai  it 


660 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XL 


III. 

k'or,  ever  and  anon  comes  indigestion 

(Not  the  most  "dainty  Ariel"),  and  perplexes 

Our  soarings  with  another  sort  of  question : 
And  that  which,  afler  all,  my  spirit  vexes 

Is,  that  I  find  no  spot  where  man  ran  rest  eye  on, 
Without  confusion  of  the  sorts  and  sexes, 

Of  beings,  stars,  and  this  unriddled  wonder, 

The  world,  which  at  the  worst 's  a  glorious  blunder— 

IV. 

If  it  be  chance ;  or  if  it  be  according 

To  the  old  text,  still  better!   lest  it  should 

Turn  out  so,  we  '11  say  nothing  'gainst  the  wording, 
As  several  people  think  such  hazards  rude: 

They  're  right ;  our  days  are  too  brief  for  affording 
Space  to  dispute  what  no  one  ever  could 

Decide,  and  every  body  one  day  will 

Know  very  clearly— or  at  least  lie  still. 

V. 

And  therefore  will  I  leave  off  metaphysical 
Discussion,  which  is  neither  here  nor  there: 

If  I  agree  that  what  is,  is — then  this  I  call 
Being  quite  perspicuous  and  extremely  fair. 

The  truth  is,  I  've  grown  lately  rather  phthisical : 
I  don't  know  what  the  reason  is — the  air 

Perhaps ;  but  as  I  suffer  from  the  shocks 

Of  illness,  I  grow  much  more  orthodox. 

VI. 

The  first  attack  at  once  proved  the  divinity 
(But  that  I  never  doubted,  nor  th«  devil) ; 

The  next,  the  Virgin's  mystical  virginity; 
The  third,  the  usual  origin  of  evil ; 

The  fourth  at  once  establish'd  the  whole  Trinity 
On  so  incontrovertible  a  level, 

That  I  devoutly  wish  the  three  were  four, 

On  purpose  to  believe  so  much  the  more. 

VII. 

To  our  theme:  — The  man  who  has  stood  on  the  Acropolis, 
And  look'd  down  over  Attica;  or  he 

Who  has  sail'd  where  picturesque  Constantinople  is, 
Or  seen  1  umbuctoo,  or  hath  taken  tea 

In  small-eyed  China's  crockery- ware  metropolis, 
Or  sat  amidst  the  bricks  of  Nineveh, 

May  not  thin*  much  of  London's  first  appearance — 

But  ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  it  a  year  hence? 

VIII. 
Don  Juan  had  got  om.  on  Shooter's  Hill — 

Sunset  the  time,  the  place  the  same  declivity 
Which  looks  along  that  vale  of  good  and  ill 

Where  London  streets  ferment  in  full  activity; 
While  every  thing  around  was  calm  and  still, 

Except  t'ue  creak  of  wheels,  which  on  their  pivot  he 
Heard — and  that  bee-like,  bubbling,  busy  hum 
Of  cities,  that  boils  over  with  their  scum : — 

IX. 
I  say.  Don  Juan,  wrapt  in  contemplation, 

Walk'd  on  behind  his  carriage,  o'er  the  summit, 
A  nd,  lost  in  wonder  of  so  great  a  nation, 

Gave  way  to't,  since  he  could  not  overcome  it 
*•  And  here,"  he  cried,  "  is  Freedom's  chosen  station  ; 

Here  peals  the  people's  voice,  nor  can  entomb  it 
RacKS,  prisons,  inquisition* ;  resurrection 
A»'dj<h  H.  cacn  new  meeting  or  election. 


X. 

"  Here  are  chaste  wives,  pure  lives  ;  here  people  pay 
But  what  they  please;  and  if  that  things  be  dear, 

'Tis  only  that  they  love  to  throw  away 

Their  cash,  to  show  how  much  they  have  a-year. 

Here  laws  are  all  inviolate;  none  lay 
Traps  for  the  traveller,  every  highway's  clear: 

Here "  he  was  interrupted  by  a  knife, 

With  "  Damn  your  eyes !  your  money  or  v?ur  life." 

XI. 

These  free-born  sounds  proceeded  from  four  pads, 
In  ambush  laid,  who  had  perceived  him  loiter 

Behind  his  carriage ;  and,  like  handy  lads, 
Had  seized  the  lucky  hour  to  reconnoitre, 

In  which  the  heedless  gentleman  who  gads 
Upon  the  road,  unless  he  prove  a  fighter, 

May  find  himself,  within  that  isle  of  riches, 

Exposed  to  lose  his  life  as  well  as  breeches. 

XII. 

Juan,  who  did  not  understand  a  word 

Of  English,  save  their  shibboleth,  "God  damn!'' 
And  even  that  he  had  so  rarely  heard, 

He  sometimes  thought  'twas  only  their  "salam," 
Or  "  God  be  with  you,'' — and  't  is  not  absurd 

To  think  so ;  for,  half  English  as  I  am 
(To  my  misfortune),  never  can  I  say 
I  heard  them  wish  "  God  with  you,"  save  that  way  :— 

XIII. 

Juan  yet  quickly  understood  their  gesture, 
And,  being  somewhat  choleric  and  sudden, 

Drew  forth  a  pocket-pistol  from  his  vesture, 
And  fired  it  into  one  assailant's  pudding — 

Who  fell,  as  rolls  an  ox  o'er  in  his  pasture, 
And  roar'd  out,  as  he  writhed  his  native  mud  in. 

Unto  his  nearest  follower  or  henchman, 

"Oh  Jack !  I  'm  floor'd  by  that  'ere  bloody  Frenchman !" 

XIV. 

On  which  Jack  and  his  train  set  off  at  speed, 
And  Juan's  suite,  late  scatter'd  at  a  distance, 

Came  up,  all  marvelling  at  such  a  deed, 
And  offering,  as  usual,  late  assistance. 

Juan,  who  saw  the  moon's  late  minion  bleed 
As  if  his  veins  would  pour  out  his  existence 

Stood  calling  out  for  bandages  and  lint, 

And  wish'd  he'd  been  less  hasty  with  his  flint. 

XV. 

"  Perhaps,"  thought  he,  "  it  is  the  country's  wont 

To  welcome  foreigners  in  this  way :  now 
[  recollect  some  innkeepers  who  don't 

Differ,  except  in  robbing  with  a  bow, 
[n  lieu  of  a  bare  blade  and  brazen  front. 

But  what  is  to  be  done  ?  I  can't  allow 
The  fellow  to  lie  groaning  on  the  road: 
So  take  him  up;  I'll  help  you  with  the  load. 

XVI. 
But,  ere  they  could  perform  this  pious  duty, 

The  dying  man  cried,  "  Hold  !  I  've  got  my  gruel! 
Oh!  for  a  glass  of  max!  We've  miss'd  our  booty; 

Let  me  die  where  I  am!"     And,  as  the  fuel 
Of  life  shrunk  in  his  heart,  ant1  ihick  and  sooty 

The  drops  fell  from  his  death-wound,  and  he  drew  1 
His  breath,  he  from  his  swelling  l.hroat  untied 
A  kerchief,  crying  "Give  S%1  that!"  •  and  dice 


CANTO  XL 


DON  JUAN 


601 


xvn. 

The  cravat,  stam'd  with  bloody  drops,  fell  down 
Before  Don  Juan's  feet :  he  could  not  tell 

Exactly  why  it  was  before  him  thrown, 
Nor  what  the  meaning  of  the  man's  farewell. 

Poor  Tom  was  once  a  kiddy  upon  town, 
A  thorough  varmint,  and  a  real  swell, 

Full  flash,  a'l  fancy,  until  fairly  diddled — 

His  pockets  first,  and  then  his  body  riddled. 

XVIII. 

Don  Juan,  having  done  the  best  he  could 
In  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case, 

As  soon  as  "crowner's  quest"  allow'd,  pursued 
His  travels  to  the  capital  apace ; — 

Esteeming  it  a  little  hard  he  should 

In  twelve  hours'  time,  a  very  little  space, 

Have  been  obliged  to  slay  a  free-born  native 

In  self-defence:  this  made  him  meditative. 

XIX. 

He  from  the  world  had  cut  off  a  great  man, 
Who  in  his  time  had  made  heroic  bustle. 

Who  in  a  row  like  Tom  could  lead  the  van, 
Booze  in  the  ken,  or  at  the  spellken  hustle  ? 

Who  queer  a  flat  ?  Who  (spite  of  Bow-street's  ban) 
On  the  high  toby-spice  so  flash  the  muzzle? 

Who  on  a  lark,  with  black-eyed  Sal  (his  blowing), 

So  prime,  so  swell,  so  nutty,  and  so  knowing?1 

XX. 

But  Tom 's  no  more — and  so  no  more  of  Tom. 

Heroes  must  die ;  and  by  God's  blessing,  't  is 
Not  long  before  the  most  of  them  go  home. — 

Hail !  Thamis,  hail !     Upon  thy  verge  it  is 
1  hat  Juan's  chariot,  rolling  like  a  drum 

In  thunder,  holds  the  way  it  can't  well  miss, 
Through  Kennington  and  all  the  other  "  tons," 
Which  make  us  wish  ourselves  in  town  at  once ; 

XXI. 

.Through  groves,  so  call'd  as  being  void  of  trees, 

(Like  lucus  from  no  light);  through  prospects  named 
Mount  Pleasant,  as  containing  nought  to  please, 

Nor  much  to  climb ;  through  little  boxes  framed 
Of  bricks,  to  let  the  dust  in  at  your  ease, 

With  "  To  be  let,"  upon  their  doors  proclaim'd ; 
Through  "rows"  most  modestly  call'd  "Paradise," 
Which  Eve  might  quit  without  much  sacrifice  ; — 

XXII. 
Through  coaches,  drays,  choked  turnpikes,  and  a  whir 

Of  wheels,  and  roar  of  voices,  and  confusion  ; 
Here  taverns  wooing  to  a  pint  of  "  purl," 

There  mails  fast  flying  off  like  a  delusion ; 
There  barbers'  blocks  with  periwigs  in  curl 

In  windows ;  here  the  lamp-lighter's  infusion 
Slowly  distill'd  into  the  glimmering  glass — 
(For  in  those  days  we  had  not  got  to  gas): 

xxm. 

Through  this,  and  much  and  more,  is  the  approacl 

Of  travellers  to  mighty  Babylon: 
Whether  they  come  by  horse,  or  chaise,  or  coach. 

With  slight  exceptions,  all  the  ways  seem  one. 

could  say  more,  but  do  not  choose  to  encroach 

Upon  the  guide-book's  privilege.     The  sun 
Had  set  some  time,  and  night  was  on  the  ridge 
Of  twilight,  as  the  party  cross'd  the  bridge. 
3  i  2 


XXIV. 

hat 's  rather  fine,  the  gentle  sound  of  Thamis — 
Who  vindicates  a  moment  too  his  stream — • 
Chough  hardly  heard  through  multifarious  "dam'mw.* 
Tike  lamps  of  Westminster's  more  regular  gleam 
he  .   ^adth  of  pavement,  and  yon  shrine  where  Fam« 
A  spectral  resident — whose  pallid  beam 
n  shape  of  moonshine  hovers  o'er  the  pile — 
Make  this  a  sacred  part  of  Albion's  isle. 

XXV. 

The  Druids'  groves  are  gone — so  much  the  better . 

Stone-Henge  is  not — but  what  the  devil  is  it  ?— 
Jut  Bedlam  still  exists  with  its  sage  fetter, 

That  madmen  may  not  bite  you  on  a  visit ; 
The  Bench  too  seats  or  suits  full  many  a  debtor ; 

The  Mansion-house,  too  (though  some  people  <paiz  i<\ 
To  me  appears  a  stiff  yet  grand  erection  ; 
Jut  then  the  Abbey's  worth  the  whole  collection 

XXVI. 

The  line  of  lights  too  up  to  Charing-Cross, 
Pali-Mall,  and  so  forth,  have  a  coruscation, 
ike  gold  as  in  comparison  to  dross, 
Match'd  with  the  continent's  illumination, 

Vhose  cities  night  by  no  means  deigns  to  gloss : 
The  French  were  not  yet  a  lamp-lighting  natioi., 

And  when  they  grew  so — on  their  new-found  lantern, 

"nstead  of  wicks,  they  made  a  wickfcd  man  turn. 

XXVII. 
A  row  of  gentlemen  along  the  streets 

Suspended,  may  illuminate  mankind, 
As  also  bonfires  made  of  country-seats  ; 

But  the  old  way  is  best  for  the  purblind : 
The  other  looks  like  phosphorus  on  sheets, 

A  sort  of  ignis  fatuus  to  the  mind, 
Which,  though  't  is  certain  to  perplex  and  frighten, 
Must  burn  more  mildly  ere  it  can  enlighten. 

XXVIII. 

But  London 's  so  well  lit,  that  if  Diogenes 

Could  recommence  to  hunt  his  honest  man, 
And  found  him  not  amidst  the  various  progenies 

Of  this  enormous  city's  spreading  spawn, 
'T  was  not  for  want  of  lamps  to  aid  his  dodging  hi* 

Yet  undiscover'd  treasure.     What  /  can, 
I  've  done  to  find  the  same  throughout  life's  journej, 
But  see  the  world  is  only  one  attorney. 

XXIX. 
Over  the  stones  still  rattling,  up  Pall-Mall, 

Through  crowds  and  carriages — but  waxing  thinnei 
As  thunder'd  knockers  broke  the  long-scal'd  spell 

Of  doors  'gainst  duns,  and  to  an  early  dinner 
Admitted  a  small  party  as  night  fell, — 

Don  Juan,  our  young  diplomatic  sinnei, 
Pursued  his  path,  and  drove  past  some  hotels, 
St.  James's  Palace  and  St.  James's  "Hells."1 

XXX. 
They  reach'd  the  hotel :  forth  stream'd  from  the  front  QOW 

A  tide  of  well-clad  waiters,  and  around 
The  mob  stood,  and  as  usual  several  score 

Of  those  pedestrian  Paphians  who  abound 
In  decent  London  when  the  daylight 's  o'er  , 

Commodious  but  immortal,  they  are  found 
Useful,  like  Malthus,  in  promoting  marriage : 
But  Juan  now  is  stepping  from  his  carnage. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  Xi 


XXXI. 

Into  one  of  the  sweetest  of  hotels, 

Especially  for  foreigners — and  mostly 
For  those  whom  tavour  or  whom  fortune  swells, 

And  cannot  find  a  bill's  small  items  costly. 
There  many  an  envoy  either  dwell  or  dwells 

(The  den  of  many  a  diplomatic  lost  lie), 
lTntil  to  some  conspicuous  square  they  pass, 
And  blazon  o'er  the  door  their  names  in  brass. 

XXXII. 

Juan,  whose  was  a  delicate  commission, 
Private,  though  publicly  important,  bore 

No  title  to  point  out  with  due  precision 

The  exact  affair  on  which  he  was  sent  o'er. 

*T  was  merely  known  that  on  a  secret  mission 
A  foreigner  of  rank  had  graced  our  shore, 

Young,  handsome,  and  accompllsh'd,  who  was  said 

(In  whispers)  to  have  turn'd  his  sovereign's  head. 

XXXIII. 

Some  rumour  also  of  some  strange  adventures 
Had  gone  before  him,  and  his  wars  and  loves ; 

And  as  romantic  heads  are  pretty  painters, 
And  above  all,  an  Englishwoman's  roves 

Into  the  excursive,  breaking  the  indentures 
Of  sober  reason,  wheresoe'er  it  moves, 

He  found  himself  extremely  in  the  fashion, 

Which  serves  our  thinking  people  for  a  passion. 

XXXIV. 

I  don't  mean  that  they  are  passionless,  but  quite 
The  contrary ;  but  then  *t  is  in  the  head ; 

Yet,  as  the  consequences  are  as  bright 
As  if  they  acted  with  the  heart  instead, 

What  after  all  can  signify  the  site 
Of  ladies'  lucubrations  ?    So  they  lead 

In  safety  to  the  place  for  which  they  start, 

What  matters  if  the  road  be  head  or  heart? 

XXXV. 

Juan  presented  in  the  proper  place, 

To  proper  placemen,  every  Russ  credential ; 
And  was  received  with  all  the  due  grimace, 

By  those  who  govern  in  the  mood  potential, 
Who,  seeing  a  handsome  stripling  with  smooth  face, 

Thought  (what  in  state  affairs  is  most  essential) 
That  they  as  easily  might  do  the  youngster, 
As  hawks  may  pounce  upon  a  woodland  songster. 

XXXVI. 
They  err'd,  as  aged  men  will  do ;  but  by 

And  by  we  '11  talk  of  that ;  and  if  we  don't, 
Twill  be  because  our  notion  is  not  high 

Of  politicians  and  thew  double  front, 
Who  lives  by  lies,  yet  dare  not  boldly  lie : — 

Now  what  I  love  in  women  is,  they  won't 
Or  can't  do  otherwise  than  lie,  but  do  it 
So  weft,  the  very  truth  seems  falsehood  to  it. 

XXXVII. 

And,  alter  all,  what  is  a  lie  ?    'T  is  but 
The  truth  in  masquerade ;  and  I  defy 

Ristonans,  heroes,  lawyers,  priests,  to  put 
A  fact  without  some  leaven  of  a  lie, 

The  verj  shadow  of  true  truth  would  shut 
Ijp  annals,  revelations,  fioesj, 

And  pruphecy — except  it  should  be  dated 

Somt  years  befoie  the  incidents  related. 


XXXVIII. 
Praised  be  all  liars  and  all  lies  !    Who  now 

Can  tax  my  mild  Muse  with  misanthropy? 
She  rings  the  world's  "  Te  Deum,"  and  her  brow 

Blushes  for  those  who  will  not:  —  but  to  sigh 
Is  idle  ;  let  us,  like  most  others,  bow, 

Kiss  hands,  feet  —  any  part  of  Majesty 
After  the  good  example  of  "  Green  Erin," 
V\  hose  shamrock  now  seems  rather  worse  for 


XXXIX. 

Don  Juan  was  presented,  and  his  dress 
And  mien  excited  general  admiration  — 

I  don't  know  which  was  most  admired  or  less: 
One  monstrous  diamond  drew  much  observation, 

Which  Catherine,  in  a  moment  of  "  ivresse" 
(In  Icve  or  brandy's   fervent  fermentation), 

Bestow'd  upon  him  as  the  public  leam'd  ; 

And,  to  say  truth,  it  had  been  fairly  earn'd. 

XL. 

Besides  the  ministe-s  and  underlings, 

Who  must  be  courteous  to  the  accredited 
Diplomatists  of  rather  wavering  kings, 

Until  their  royal  riddle  's  fully  read, 
The  very  clerks  —  those  somewhat  dirty  springs 

Of  office,  or  the  house  of  office,  fed 
By  foul  corruption  into  streams—  even  they 
Were  hardly  rude  enough  to  earn  their  pay: 

XLI. 
And  insolence  no  doubt  is  what  they  are 

Employ'd  for,  since  it  is  their  daily  labour, 
In  the  dear  offices  of  peace  or  war  ; 

And  should  you  doubt,  pray  ask  of  your  next  neigh- 

bour, 
When  for  a  passport,  or  some  other  bar 

To  freedom,  he  applied  (a  grief  and  a  bore) 
If  he  found  not  this  spawn  of  tax-bom  riches, 
Like  lap-dogs,  the  least  civil  sons  of  b  -  a. 

XLII. 
But  Juan  was  received  with  much  "  empressement  :"  — 

These  phrases  of  refinement  I  must  borrow 
From  our  next  neighbour's  land,  where,  like  a  chessman 

There  is  a  move  set  down  for  joy  or  sorrow, 
Not  only  in  mere  talking,  but  the  press.     Man, 

In  islands,  is,  it  seems,  downright  and  thorough, 
More  than  on  continents  —  as  if  the  sea 
(See  Billingsgate)  made  even  the  tongue  more  free. 

XLIII. 
And  yet  the  British  "  dam'me  "  's  rather  Attic  : 

Your  continental  oaths  are  but  incontinent, 
And  turn  on  things  which  no  aristocratic 

Spirit  would  name,  and  therefore  even  I  won't  anent  ' 
This  subject  quote,  as  it  would  be  schismatic 

In  politesse,  and  have  a  sound  affronting  n  't  :  — 
But  "  dam'me  '"s  quite  ethereal,  though 
Platonic  blasphemy,  the  soul  of  swearing. 

XLIV. 
For  downright  rudeness,  ye  may  stay  at  home  , 

For  true  or  false  politeness  (and  scarce  that 
Now)  you  may  cross  the  blue  deep  and  white  foam— 

The  first  the  emblem  (rarely  though)  of  whaJ 
You  leave  behind,  the  next  of  much  you  <\>»» 

To  meet.     However,  't  is  no  time  to  o>  at 
On  general  topics  :  poems  must  confine 
Themselves  to  unity,  like  this  of  mine. 


1ANTO  XL 


DON  JUAN. 


6G3 


XLV. 

in  the  great  world, — which,  being  interpreted, 
Meaneth  the  west  or  worst  end  of  the  city, 

And  about  twice  two  thousand  people  bred 
By  no  means  to  be  very  wise  or  witty, 

But  to  sit  up  while  others  lie  in  bed, 
And  look  down  on  the  universe  with  pity — 

Juan,  as  an  inveterate  patrician, 

Was  well  received  by  persons,  of  condition. 

XLVI. 

He  was  a  bachelor,  which  is  a  matter 
Of  import  both  to  virgin  and  to  bride, 

The  former's  hymeneal  hopes  to  flatter ; 
And  (should  she  not  hold  fast  by  love  or  pride) 

T  is  also  of  some  moment  to  the  latter : 
A  rib 's  a  thorn  in  a  wed  gallant's  side, 

Requires  decorum,  and  is  apt  to  double 

The  horrid  sin — and,  what's  still  worse,  the  trouble. 

XLVII. 

But  Juan  was  a  bachelor — of  arts, 

And  parts,  and  hearts :  he  danced  and  sung,  and  had 
An  air  as  sentimental  as  Mozart's 

Softest  of  melodies  ;  and  could  be  sad 
Or  cheerful,  without  any  "  flaws  or  starts," 

Just  at  the  proper  time ;  and,  though  a  lad, 
Had  seen  the  world — which  is  a  curious  sight, 
And  very  much  unlike  what  people  write. 

XLvra. 

Fair  virgins  blush'd  upon  him ;  wedded  dames 
Bloom'd  also  in  less  transitory  hues; 

For  both  commodities  dwell  by  the  Thames, 
The  painting  and  the  painted ;  youth,  ceruse, 

Against  his  heart  preferr'd  Ineir  usual  claims,' 
Such  as  no  gentleman  can  quite  refuse ; 

Daughters  admired  his  dress,  and  pious  mothers 

Inquired  his  income,  and  if  he  had  brothers. 

XLIX. 
The  milliners  who  furnish  "drapery  misses"* 

Throughout  the  season,  upon  speculation 
Of  payment  ere  the  honeymoon's  last  kisses 

Have  waned  into  a  crescent's  coruscation, 
Thought  such  an  opportunity  as  this  is, 

Of  a  rich  foreigner's  initiation, 
Not  to  be  overlook'd,  and  gave  such  credit, 
That  future  bridegrooms  swore,  and  sigh'd,  and  paid  it, 

L. 

1  he  Blues,  that  tender  tribe,  who  sigh  o'er  sonnets, 

And  with  the  pages  of  the  last  review 
Line  the  interior  of  their  heads  or  bonnets, 

Advanced  in  all  their  azure's  highest  hue: 
They  talk'd  bad  French  of  Spanish,  and  upon  it* 

Late  authors  ask'd  him  for  a  hint  or  two ; 
And  which  was  softest,  Russian  or  Castilian  ? 
And  whether  in  his  travels  he  saw  Ilion? 

LI. 
Juan,  who  was  a  little  superficial, 

And  not  in  literature  a  great  Drawcansir, 
Examined  by  this  learned  and  especial 

Jury  of  matrons,  scarce  knew  what  to  answer: 
His  duties  warlike,  loving,  or  official, 

His   steady  application  as  a  dancer, 
Hail  kei>'   hii"  fron>  the  brink  of  Hippocrene, 
\Vnicti  now  he  found  was  blue  instead  of  green. 


LII. 
However,  he  replied  at  hazard,  with 

A  modest  confidence  and  cairn  assurance, 
Which  lent  his  learned  lucubrations  pith, 

ptd  pass'd  for  arguments  of  good  endurance 

-!jdigy,  Miss  Araminta  Smith, 
[Who  at  sixteen,  translated  "Hercules  turen* 
Into  as  furious  English),  with  her  best  look, 
Set  down  his  sayings  in  her  commonplace  book. 

LIII. 
Juan  knew  several  languages — as  well 

He  might — and  brought  them  up  with  skill,  in  tiro* 
To  save  his  fame  with  each  accomplish'd  belle, 

Who  still  regretted  that  he  did  not  rhyme. 
There  wanted  but  this  requisite  to  swell 

His  qualities   (with  them)  into  sublime: 
Lady  Fitz-Frisky,  and  Miss  Maevia  Mannish, 
Both  longd  extremely  to  be  sung  in  Spanish. 

LIV. 

However  he  did  pretty  well,  and  was 

Admitted  as  an  aspirant  to  all 
The  coteries,  and,  as  in  Banquo's  glass, 

At  great  assemblies  or  in  parties  small, 
He  saw   ten   thousand  living  authors  pass, 

That  being  about  their  average  numeral; 
Also  the  eighty  "greatest  living  poets," 
As  every  paltry  magazine  can  show  itt. 

LV. 
In  twice  five  years  the  "  greatest  living  poet," 

lake  to  the  champion  in  the  fisty  ring, 
Is  cali'd  on  to  support  his  claim,  or  show  it, 

Although  't  is  an  imaginary  thing. 
Even  I — albeit  I'm  sure  I  did  not  know  it, 

Nor  sought  of  foolscap  subjects  to  be  king- 
Was  reckon'd,  a  considerable  time. 
The  grand  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  rhyme. 

LVI. 

But  Juan  was   my  Moscow,  and  Faliero 
My  Leipsic,  and  my  Mont-Saint-Jean  seems  Can  ; 

"  La  Beile  Alliance"  of  dunces  down  at  zero, 
Now  that  the  lion's  faU'n,  may  rise  again- 

But  I  will  fall  at  least  as  fell  my  hero ; 
Nor  reign  at  all,  or  as  a  monarch  reign ; 

Or  to  some  lonely  isle  of  jailors  go, 

With  turncoat  Southey  for  my  turnkey  Lowe, 

LVII. 
Sir  Walter  reign'd  before  me  ;   Moore  and  Campbrf 

Before  and  after;  but  now,  grown  more  holr, 
The  Muses  upon  Sion's  hill  must  ramble 

With   poets  almost  clergymen,  or  wholly; 


LVfll. 


664 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  X, 


LIX. 


IThen  there's  my  gentle  Euphues,  who,  they  say, 
Sets  up  for  being  a  sort  of  moral  me; 

He  '11  find  it  rather  difficult  some  day 
To  turn  out  both,  or  either,  it  may  be. 

Some  persons  think  that  Coleridge  hath  the  sway; 
And  Wordsworth  has  supporters,  two  or  three ; 

And  that  decp-mouth'd  Boeotian,  "  Savage  Landor," 

Has  taken  for  a  swan  rogue  Southey's  gander. 

LX. 
John  Keats — who  was  kill'd  off  by  one  critique, 

Just  as  he  really  promised  something  great, 
If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 

Contrived  to  talk  about  the  gods  of  late, 
Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 

Poor  fellow !  his  was  an  untoward  fate : 
'Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle,' 
Should  let  itself  be  snuff'd  out  by  an  article. 

LXI. 

The  list  grows  long  of  live  and  dead  pretenders 
To  that  which  none  will  gain — or  none  will  know 

The  conqueror  at  least;  who,  ere  Time  renders 
His  last  award,  will  have  the  long  grass  grow 

Above  his  burnt-out  brain  and  sapless  cinders. 
If  I  might  augur,  I  should  rate  but  low 

Their  chances ;  they're  too  numerous,  like  the  thirty 

Mock  tyrants,  when  Rome's  annals  wax'd  but  dirty. 

LXII. 

This  is  the  literary  lower  empire, 

Where  the  Praetorian  bands  take  up  the  matter ; — 
A  "  dreadful  trade,"  like  his  who  "  gathers  samphire," 

The  insolent  soldiery  to  soothe  and  flatter, 
With  the  same  feelings  as  you'd  coax  a  vampire. 

Now,  were  I  once  at  home,  and  in  good  satire, 
I  'd  try  conclusions  with  those  janizaries, 
And  show  them  what  an  intellectual  war  is. 

LXIII. 
I  think  I  know  a   trick  or  two,  would  turn 

Their  flanks ; — but  it  is  hardly  worth  my  while 
With  such  sma'il  gear  to  give  myself  concern: 

Indeed  I  've  not  the  necessary  bile  ; 
My  natural  temper's  really  aught  but  stern, 

And  even  my  Muse's  worst  reproof's  a  smile ; 
And  then  she  drops  a  brief  and  modest  curtsy, 
And  glides  away,  assured  she  never  hurts  ye. 

LXIV. 

My  Juan,  whom  I  left  in  deadly  peril 

Amongst  live  poets  and  blue  ladies,  pass'd 
With  some  small  profit  through  that  field  so  sterile. 

Being  tired  in  time,  and  neither  least  nor  last, 
Left  it  before  he  had  been  treated  very  ill ; 

And  henceforth  found  himself  more  gaily  class'd 
Amongst  the  higher  spirits  of  the  day, 
The  sun's  true  son — no  vapour,  but  a  ray. 

LXV. 
His  morns  he  pass'd  in  business — which,  dissected, 

Was  like  all  busings,  a  laborious  nothing, 
Ifcat  .eaas  to  lassitude,  the  most  infected 

And  Centaur  Nessus  garb  of  mortal  clothing, 
And  on  our  sofas  makes  us  UP  dejected, 

And  talk  in  tender  horrors  or  our  loathing 
All  kiwis  of  toil,  lave  for  our  rountry's  good — 
•Vlucn  grows  no  better,  ihuugh  '.is  time  it  should 


LXVI. 

His  afternoons  he  pass'd  in  visits,  luncheons, 
Lounging,  and  boxing;  and  the  twilight  hour 

In  riding  round  those  vegetable  puncheons, 

Call'd  u  Parks,"  where  there  is  neither  fruit  nor  flows 

Enough  to  gratify  a  bee's  slight  munchings ; 
But  after  all,  it  is  the  only  "bower" 

(In  Moore's  phrase)  where  the  fashionable  fair 

Can  form  a  slight  acquaintance  with  fresh  air. 

Lxvn. 

Then  dress,  then  dinner,  then  awakes  the  world! 

Then  glare  the  lamps,  then  whirl  the  wheels,  then  roa 
Through  street  and  square  fast-flashing  chariots,  hurl'» 

Like  harness'd  meteors !  then  along  the  floor 
Chalk'd  mimics  painting ;  then  festoons  are  twlrl'd , 

Then  roll  the  brazen  thunders  of  the  door, 
Which  opens  to  the  thousand  happy  few 
An  earthly  paradise  of  "or  molu." 

LXVIII. 

There  stands  the  noble  hostess,  nor  shall  sink 
With  the  three-thousandth  curtsy;  there  the  waltz— 

The  only  dance  which  teaches  girls  to  think — 
Makes  one  in  love  even  with  its  very  faults. 

Saloon,  room,  all  o'erflow  beyond  their  brink, 
And  long  the  latest  of  arrivals  halts, 

'Midst  royal  dukes  and  dames  condemn'd  to  climb 

And  gain  an  inch  of  staircase  at  a  time. 

LX1X. 

Thrice  happy  he  who,  after  a  survey 
Of  the  good  company,  can  win  a  corner, 

A  door  that's  in,  or  boudoir  out  of  the  way, 
Where  he  may  fix  himself,  like  small  "Jack  Homer, 

And  let  the  Babel  round  run  as  ij  may, 
And  look  on  as  a  mourner,  or  a  scorner, 

Or  an  approver,  or  a  mere  spectator, 

Yawning  a  little  as  the  night  grows  later. 

LXX. 

But  this  won't  do,  save  by  and  by;  and  he 
Who,  like  Don  Juan,  takes  an  active  share, 

Must  steer  with  care  through  all  that  glittering  sea 
Of  gems  and  plumes,  and  pearls  and  silks,  to  whert 

He  deems  it  is  his  proper  place  to  be; 
Dissolving  in  the  waltz  to  some  soft  air, 

Or  proudlier  prancing  with  mercurial  skill 

Where,  science  marshals  forth  her  own  quadrille. 

LXXI. 

Or,  if  he  dance  not,  but  hath  higher  views 

Upon  an  heiress,  or  his  neighbour's  bride, 
Let  him  take  care  that  that  which  he  pursues 

Is  not  at  once  too  palpably  descried. 
Full  many  an  eager  gentleman  oft  rues 

His  haste :  impatience  is  a  blundering  guide, 
Amongst  a  people  famous  for  reflection, 
Who  like  to  play  the  fool  with  circumspection. 

LXXII. 
But,  if  you  can  contrive,  get  next  at  supper ;  ' 

Or,  if  forestall'd,  get  opposite  and  ogle : — 
Oh,  ye  ambrosial  moments!  always  upper 

In  mind,  a  sort  of  sentimental  bogle, 
Which  sits  for  ever  upon  memory's  crupper, 

The  ghost  of  vanish'd  pleasures  once  in  voptn.     i 
Can  tender  souls  relate  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  hopes  and  fears  which  shake  a  single  ball. 


CANTO  XL 


DON  JUAN. 


LXXIII. 

But  these  precautionary  hints  can  touch 

Only  the  common  run,  who  must  pursue, 
And  watch,  and  ward  ;  whose  plans  a  word  too  much 

Or  little  overturns  ;    and  not  the  few 
Or  many  (for  the  number's  sometimes  such) 

Whom  a  good  mien,  especially  if  new, 
O»  fame,  or  name,  for  wit,  war,  sense,  or  nonsense, 
Permits  whate'er  they  please,  or  did  not  long  since. 

LXXIV. 
Our  hero,  as  a  hero,  young  and  handsome, 

Noble,  rich,  celebrated,  and  a  stranger, 
Like  other  slaves  of  course  must  pay  his  ransom 

Before  he  can  escape  from  so  much  danger 
As  will  environ  a  conspicuous  man.     Some 

Talk  about  poetry,  and  "  rack  and  manger," 
And  ugliness,  disease,  as  toil  and  trouble  ; — 
I  wish  they  knew  the  life  of  a  young  noble. 

LXXV. 
They  are  young,  but  know  not  youth — it  is  anticipated; 

Handsome  but  wasted,  rich  without  a  sous  ; 
Their  vigour  in  a  thousand   arms  is  dissipated  ; 

Their  cash  comes  from,  their  wealth  goes  to,  a  Jew; 
Both  senates  see  their  nightly  votes  participated 

Between  the  tyrant's  and  the  tribune's  crew ; 
And,  having  voiea,  dined,  drank,  gamed,  and  whored, 
The  family  vault  receives  another  lord. 

LXXVI. 
••  Where  is  the  world,"  cries  Young, "  at  eighty?  Where 

The  world  in  which  a  man  was  born  ?"  Alas ! 
Where  is  the  world  of  eight  years  past  ?  'Twos  there — 

I  look  for  it — 't  is  gone,  a  globe  of  glass ! 
Crack'd,  shiver'd,  vanish'd,  scarcely  gazed  on  ere 

A  silent  change  dissolves  the  glittering  mass. 
Statesmen,  chiefs,  orators,  queens,  patriots,  kings, 
And  dandies,  all  are  gone  on  the  wind's  wings. 

LXXVII. 
Where  is  Napoleon  the  Grand  ?   God  knows : 

Where  little  Castlereagh  ?  The  devil  can  tell : 
Where  Grattan,  Curran,  Sheridan,  all  those 

Who  bound  the  bar  or  senate  in  their  spell  ? 
Where  is  the  unhappy  queen,  with  all  her  woes  ? 

And  where  the  daughter,  whom  the  isles  loved  well? 
Where  are  those  martyr'd  saints,  the  five  per  cents? 
And  where — oh,  where  the  devil  are  the  rents? 

LXXVIIJ. 

Where  's  Brummel  ?    Dish'd.     Where  's  Long  Pole 
Wellesley?    Diddled. 

Where 's  Whitbread  ?   Romilly  ?    Where 's  George 

the  Third  ? 
Where  is  his  will?    (That's  not  so  soon  unriddled). 

And  where  is  "  Fum"  the  Fourth,  our  "royal  bird?" 
Gone  down  it  seems  to  Scotland,  to  be  fiddled 

Unto  by  Sawney's  violin,  we  have  heard  : 
"Caw  me,  caw  thee" — for  six  months  hath  been  hatching 
This  scene  of  royal  itch  and  loyal  scratching. 

LXXIX. 
Where  is  Lord  This  ?   And  where  my  Lady  That  ? 

The  Honourable  Mistresses  and  Misses  ? 
Some  laid  aside  like  an  old  opera-hat, 

Married,  unmarried,  and  remarried — (this  is 
An  evolution  oft  perlbrm'd  of  late). 

Where  are  the  Dublin  shouts — and  London  hisses  ? 
VVhere  are  the  Grenvilles  ?  Turn'd,  as  usual.  Where 
Alv  friends  the  Whigs  ?    Exactly  where  they  were. 
89 


LXXX. 

Where  are  the  Lady  Carolines  and  Franceses? 

Divorced  or  doing  thereanent.     Ye  annals 
So  brilliant,  where  the  list  of  routs  and  dances  is-- 

TMp  Morning  Post,  sole  record  of  the  panels 
Broke4.,  in  carriages,  and  all  the  phantasies 

Of  fashion — say  what  streams  now  fill  those  channel* 
Some  die,  some  fly,  some  languish  on  the  continent, 
Because  the  times  have  hardly  left  them  one  tenant. 

LXXXI. 

Some  who  once  set  their  cap  at  cautious  dukes, 
Have  taken  up  at  length  with  younger  brothers  ; 

Some  heiresses  have  bit  at  sharpers'  hooks  ; 

Some  maids  have  been  made  wives — some  merely 
mothers  ; 

Others  have  lost  their  fresh  and  fairy  looks : 
In  short,  the  list  of  alterations  bothers. 

There 's  little  strange  in  this,  but  something  strange  i» 

The  unusual  quickness  of  these  common  changes. 

LXXXII. 

Talk  not  of  seventy  years  as  age ;   in  seven 

I  have  seen  more  changes,  down  from  monarchs  to 

The  humblest  individual  under  heaven, 
Than  might  suffice  a  moderate  century  through. 

I  knew  that  nought  was  lasting,  but  now  even 
Change  grows  too  changeable,  without  being  new  : 

Nought's  permanent  among  the  human  race, 

Except  the  Whigs  nnt  getting  into  place. 

LXXXIII. 
I  have  seen  Napoleon,  who  seem'd  quite  a  Jupiter, 

Shrink  to  a  Saturn.     I  have  seen  a  duke 
(No  matter  which)  turn  politician  stupider,. 

If  that  can  well  be,  than  his  wooden  look. 
But  it  is  time  that  I  should  hoist  my  "  blue  Peter,'1 

And  sail  for  a  new  theme  :  I  have  seen — and  shook 
To  see  it — the  king  hiss'd,  and  then  caress'd  ; 
But  don't  pretend  to  settle  which  was  best. 

LXXXIV. 
I  have  seen  the  landholders  without  a  rap — 

I  have  seen  Johanna  Southcote — I  have  seen 
The  House  of  Commons  turn'd  to  a  tax-trap — 

I  have  seen  that  sad  affair  of  the  late  queen— 
I  have  seen  crowns  worn  instead  of  a  fool's-cap— 

I  have  seen  a  Congress  doing  all  that 's  mean— 
I  have  seen  some  nations  like  o'erloaded  asses 
Kick  off  their  burthens — meaning  the  high  classes. 

LXXXV. 
I  have  seen  small  poets,  and  great  prosers,  and 

Interminable — not  eternal — speakers — 
I  have  seen  the  funds  at  war  with  house  and  land— 

I  've  seen  the  country  gentlemen  turn  squeakers— 
I've  seen  the  people  ridden  o'er  like  sand 

By  slaves  on  horseback — I  have  seen  malt  liquai 
Exchanged  for  •'  thin  potations "  by  John  BuU— 
I  've  seen  John  half  detect  himself  a  fool 

LXXXVI. 
But  "  carpe  diem,"  Juan,  u  carpe,  carpe !" 

To-morrow  sees  another  race  is  gay 
Ai.d  transient,  and  devour'd  by  the  same  harp; . 

"  Life 's  a  poor  player  " — then  "  p.ay  out  the  put 
Ye  villains!"  and,  above  all,  kfct.|j  a  sharp  eye 

Much  less  on  what  you  do  than  what  you  sav  • 
Be  hypocritical,  be  cautious,  be 
Not  what  you  sum.  but  always  what  YOU  w- 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XII 


LXXXV1I. 

But  how  sSiall  I  relate  in  other  cantos 

Of  what  befell  our  hero,  in  the  land 
Which  't  is  the  common  cry  and  lie  to  vaunt  as 

A  morai  country  ?    But  I  hold  my  hand — 
K"or  I  disdain  to  write  an  Atalantis  ; 

But  't  is  as  well  at  once  to  understand, 
You  are  not  a.  moral  people,  and  you  know  it, 
Without  the  aid  of  too  sincere  a  poet. 

LXXXVIII. 

What  Juan  saw  and  underwent  shall  be 
My  topic,  with  of  course  the  due  restriction 

Which  is  required  by  proper  courtesy  ; 
And  recollect  the  work  is  only  fiction, 

And  that  I  sing  of  neither  mine  nor  me. 
Though  every  scribe,  in  some  slight  turn  of  diction, 

Wul  hint  allusions  never  meant.     Ne'er  doubt 

This — when  I  speak,  I  don't  hint,  but  speak  out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether  he  married  with  the  third  or  fourth 
Offspring  of  some  sage,  husband-hunting  countess, 

Or  whether  with  some  virgin  of  more  worth 
(I  mean  in  fortune's  matrimonial  bounties) 

lie  took  to  regularly  peopling  earth, 

Of  which  your  lawful  awful  wedlock  fount  is — 

Or  whether  he  was  taken  in  for  damages, 

For  being  too  excursive  in  his  homages — 

XC. 

Is  yet  within  the  unread  events  of  time. 

Thus  far,  go  forth,  thou  lay,  which  I  will  back 
Against  the  same  given  quantity  of  rhyme, 

For  being  as  much  the  subject  of  attack 
As  ever  yet  was  any  work  sublime, 

By  those  who  love  to  say  that  white  is  black. 
So  much  the  better! — I  may  stand  alone, 
But  would  not  change  my  free  thoughts  for  a  lh">re 


CANTO  XII. 


i. 

OF  all  the  barbarous  middle  ages,  that 

Which  is  most  barbarous  is  the  middle  age 
Of  man ;   it  is — I  really  scarce  know  what ; 

But  when  we  hover  between  fool  and  sage, 
And  don't  know  justly  what  we  would  be  at — 

\  period  something  like  a  printed  page, 
Black-letter  upon  foolscap,  while  our  hair 
•  Jijws  grizzled,  ana  we  are  not  what  we  were  ; — 

II 
1  oo  old  for  youth — too  young,  at  thirty-five, 

To  herd  with  buys,  or  hoard  with  good  threescore — 
I  wonaer  people  should  be  left  alive ; 

But,  since  they  are,  that  epoeii  is  a  bore : 
Love  lingers  still,  although  't  were  late  to  wive ; 

AnH  .is  for  other  love,  the  illusion  's  o'er ; 
And  money,  that  most  pure  imagination, 
'ileains  only  tnr  >ugn  the  dawn  of  its  creation. 


HI. 

3h  gold  !   why  call  we  misers  miserable  ? 

Theirs  is  the  pleasure  that  can  never  pall ; 
Theirs  is  the  best  bower-anchor,  the  chain-cable 

Which  holds  fast  other  pleasures  great  and  small 
Ye  who  but  see  the  saving  man  at  table, 

And  scorn  his  temperate  board,  as  none  at  all, 
And  wonder  how  the  wealthy  can  be  sparing, 
Know  not  what  visions  spring  from  each  cheese-paring. 

IV. 

Love  or  lust  makes  man  sick,  and  wine  much  sicker  • 
Ambition  rends,  and  gaming  gains  a  loss  ; 

But  making  money,  slowly  first,  then  quicker, 
And  adding  still  a  little  through  each  cross 

(Which  will  come  over  things),  beats  love  or  liquor, 
The  gamester's  counter,  or  the  statesman's  dross 

Oh  gold  !    I  still  prefer  thee  unto  paper, 

Which  makes  bank  credit  like  a  bark  of  vapour. 

V. 

Who  hold  the  balance  of  the  world  ?  Who  reign 

O'er  Congress,  whether  royalist  or  liberal  ? 
Who  rouse  the  shirtless  patriots  of  Spain 

(That  make  old  Europe's  journals  squeak  and  gib- 
ber all)? 
Who  keep  the  world,  both  old  and  new,  in  pain 

Or  pleasure  ?  Who  make  politics  run  glibber  all  1 
The  shade  of  Bonaparte's  noble  daring? — 
Jew  Rothschild,  and  his  fellow,  Christian  Baring. 

VI. 
Those,  and  the  truly  liberal  Lafitte, 

Are  the  true  lords  of  Europe.     Every  loan 
Is  not  a  merely  speculative  hit, 

But  seats  a  nation  or  upsets  a  throne. 
Republics  also  get  involved   a  bit ; 

Colombia's  stock  hath  holders  not  unknown 
On  'Change  ;    and  even  thy  silver  soil,  Peru, 
Must  get  itself  discounted  by  a  Jew. 

VII. 
Why  call  the  miser  miserable  ?   as 

I  said  before:   the  frugal  life  is  his, 
Which  in  a  saint  or  cynic  ever  was 

The  theme  of  prais»:  a  hermit  would  not  miss 
Canonization  for  the  self-same  cause, 

And  wherefore  blame  gaunt  wealth's  austerities? 
Because,  you  '11  say,  nought  calls  for  such  a  trial  ;— 
Then  there 's  more  merit  in  his  self-denial. 

VIII. 
fie  is  your  only  poet ; — passion,  pure          , 

And  sparkling  on  from  heap  to  heap,  displays, 
Pos.tefs'd,  tlie  ore,  of  which  mere  hopes  allure 

Nations  athwa.  t  the  deep :   the  golden  raya 
Flash  up  in  ing->ts  frcm  the  mine  obscure  ; 

On  him  the  diamord  pours  its  brilliant  bla»    , 
While  the  mild  emerald'?  beam  shades  down  th    <  n» 
Of  other  stones,  to  soothe  the  miser's  eyes. 

IX. 
The  lands  on  either  side  are  his :   the  ship 

From  Ceylon,  Inde,  cr  far  Cathay,  unloads 
For  him  the  fragrant  produco  of  each  trip ; 

Beneath  his  cars  of  Ceres  groan  the  road* 
And  the  vine  blushes  likt  Aurora's  lip; 

His  very  cellars  might  be  kings'  abodes  j 
While  he,  despising  every  sensual  call, 
Commands — the  intellectual  lord  o'  *ll. 


CANTO  Xll. 


DON  JUAN. 


667 


X. 

Perhaps  he  hath  great  projects  in  his  mind, 
To  build  a  colloge,  or  to  found  a  race, 

A  hospital,  a  church, — and  leave  behind 

Some  dome  surmounted  by  his  meagre  face : 

Perhaps  he  fain  would  liberate  mankind 
Even  with  the  very  ore  which  makes  them  base  ; 

Perhaps  he  would  be  wealthiest  of  his  nation, 

Or  revel  in  the  joys  of  calculation. 

XL 

But  whether  all,  or  each,  or  none  of  these 
May  be  the  hoarder's  principle  of  action, 

The  fool  will  call  such  mania  a  disease: — 

What  is  his  own?  Go  — !ook  at  each  transaction, 

Wars,  revels,  loves — do  these  bring  men  more  ease 
Than  the  mere  plodding  thro'  each  "  vulgar  fraction?" 

Or  do  they  benefit  mankind  ?  Lean  miser ! 

Let  spendthrifts'  heirs  inquire  of  yours — who's  wiser? 

XII. 

How  beauteous  are  rouleaus  !  how  charming  chests 
Containing  ingots,  bags  of  dollars,  coins 

(Not  of  old  victors,  all  whose  heads  and  crests 
Weigh  not  the  thin  ore  where  their  visage  shines, 

But)  of  fine  unclipp'd  gold,  where  dully  rests 

Some  likeness  which  the  glittering  cirque  confines, 

Of  modern,  reigning,  sterling,  stupid  stamp  :— 

Yes  !  ready  money  is  Aladdin's  lamp. 

XIII. 

*  Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove," — "  for  love 
Is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love :" — so  sings  the  bard ; 

Which  it  were  rather  difficult  to  prove, 
(A  thing  with  poetry  in  general  hard). 

Perhaps  there  may  be  something  in  "  the  grove," 
At  least  it  rhymes  to  "love;"  but  I'm  prepared 

To  doubt   (no  less  than  landlords  of  their  rental) 

If  "courts"  and  "camps"  be  quite  so  sentimental. 

XIV. 

But  if  love  don't,  cash  does,  and  cash  alone: 

Cash  rules  the  grove,  and  fells  it  too  besides; 
Without  cash,  camps  were  thin,  and  courts  were  none  ; 

Without  cash,  Malthus  tells  you — "take  no  brides." 
So  cash  rules  love  the  ruler,  on  his  own 

High  ground,  as  Virgin  Cynthia  sways  the  tides  ; 
And,  as  for  "heaven"  being  "love,"  why  not  say  honey 
Is  wax  ?  Heaven  is  not  love,  't  is  matrimony. 

XV. 
Is  not  all  love  prohibited  whatever, 

Excepting  marriage  ?  which  is  love,  no  doubt, 
After  a  sort ;  but  somehow  people  never 

With  the  same  thought  the  two  words  have  help'dout: 
Love  may  exist  with  marriage,  and  should  ever, 

And  marriage  also  may  exist  without, 
But  love  sans  bans  is  both  a  sin  and  shame, 
And  ought  to  go  by  quite  another  name. 

XVI. 
Now  if  the  "court"  and  "camp"  and  "grove"  be  not 

Recruited  all  with   constant  married  men, 
IVho  nevei   coveted  their  neighbour's  lot, 

I  say  that  line 's  a  lapsus  of  the  pen  ; — 
Strange  too  in  my  "  btion  camerado"  Scott, 

So  celebrated  fbr  his  morals,  when 
MV  J'-HVey  h"1-1  him  up  as  an  example 
lo  me; — ot  \vliirh  these  morals  are  a  sample. 


XVII. 
Well,  if  I  don't  succeed,  I  have  succeeded, 

And  that 's  enough ;  succeeded  in  my  youth, 
The  only  time  when  much  success  '.a  needed : 

Aftd  my  success  produced  what  I  in  »ooth 
Care»    most  about;  it  need  not  now  be  pleaucd— 

Whate'er  it  was,  't  was  mine  ;  I  've  paid,  in  truu\ 
Of  late,  the  penalty  of  such  success, 
But  have  not  leam'd  to  wish  it  any  less. 

XVIII. 

That  suit  in  Chancery, — which  some  persons  pleud 
In  an  appeal  to  the  unborn,  whom  they, 

In  the  faith  of  their  procreative  creed, 
Baptize  posterity,  or  future  clay,— 

To  me  seems  but  a  dubious  kind  of  reed 
To  lean  on  for  support  in  any  way ; 

Since  odds  are  that  posterity  will  know 

No  more  of  them,  than  they  of  her,  I  trow. 

XIX. 

Why ,  I  'm  posterity — and  so  are  you ; 

And  whom  do  we  remember  ?  Not  a  hundred. 
Were  every  memory  written  down  all  true, 

The  tenth  or  twentieth  name  would  bo  but  blunder'd : 
Even  Plutarch's  Lives  have  but  pick'd  out  a  few, 

And  'gainst  those  few  your  annalists  have  thunder'd ; 
And  Milford,  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
Gives,  with  Greek  truth,  the  good  old  Greek  the  lie.1 

XX. 

Good  people  all,  of  every  degree, 
Ye  gentle  readers  and  ungentle  writers, 

In  this  twelfth  canto  't  is  my  wish  to  be 
As  serious  as  if  I  had  for'  inditers 

Malthus  and  Wilberforce :  the  last  set  free 
The  negroes,  and  is  worth  a  million  fighters ; 

While  Wellington  has  but  enslaved  the  whites, 

And  Malthus  does  the  thing  'gainst  which  he  write*. 

XXI. 

I  'm  serious — so  are  all  men  upon  paper : 

And  why  should  1  not  form  my  speculation, 
And  hold  up  to  the  sun  my  little  taper  ? 

Mankind  just  now  seem  wrapt  in  meditation 
On  constitutions  and  steam-boats  of  vapour ; 

While  sages  write  against  all  procreation, 
Unless  a  man  can  calculate  his  means 
Of  feeding  brats  the  moment  his  wife  weans. 

XXII. 
That 's  noble !  that 's  romantic !  For  my  part, 

I  think  that  "philo-genitiveness"  is — 
(Now  here  's  a  word  quite  after  my  own  heart, 

Though  there's  a  shorter  a  good  deal  than  thi» 
If  that  politeness  set  it  not  apart ; 

But  I  'm  resolved  to  say  nought  that 's  amiss)  - 
I  say,  methinks  that  "  philo-genitivcness " 
Might  meet  from  men  a  little  more  forgiveness 

XXIII. 

And  now  to  business.     Oh,  my  gentle  Juan ! 

Thou  art  in  London — in  that  pleasant  place 
Where  every  kind  of  mischief's  daily  brewing. 

Which  can  await  warm  youth  in  its  wild  ra<^ 
'T  is  true,  that  thy  career  is  not  a  new  one ; 

Thou  art  no  novice  in  the  headlong  chase 
Of  early  life ;  but  this  is  a  new  land. 
Which  foreigners  can  never  understand. 


vG8 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


C.ANTO  XII. 


XXIV. 

What  with  a  snail  diversity  of  climate, 

Of  hot  or  cok.,  mercurial  or  sedate, 
I  could  send  forth  my  mandate  like  a  primate, 

Upon  the  rest  of  Europe's  social  state ; 
But  thou  art  the  most  difficult  to  rhyme  at, 

Great  Britain,  which  the  Muse  may  penetrate : 
All  countries  have  their  "lions,"  but  in  thee 
There  is  but  one  superb  menagerie. 

XXV. 
But  I  am  sick  of  politics.     Begin, 

"Paulo  majora."    Juan,  undecided 
Amongst  the  paths  of  being  "  taken  in," 

Above  the  ice  had  like  a  skaiter  glided: 
When  tired  of  play,  he  flirted  without  sin 

With  some  cf  those  fair  creatures  who  have  prided 
Themselves  on  innocent  tantalization, 
And  hate  all  vice  except  its  reputation. 

XXVI. 
But  these  are  few,  and  in  the  end  they  make 

Some  devilish  escapade  or  stir,  which  shows 
That  even  the  purest  people  may  mistake 

Their  way  through  virtue's  primrose  paths  of  snows  ; 
And  then  men  stare,  as  if  a  new  ass  spake 

To  Balaam,  and  from  tongue  to  ear  o'erflows 
Quicksilver  small-talk,  ending  (if  you  note  it) 
With  the    kind  world's  amen — "  Who  would    have 
thought  it?" 

XXVII. 
fhe  little  Leila,  with  her  orient  eyes 

And  taciturn  Asiatic  disposition, 
(Which  saw  all  western  things  with  small  surprise, 

To  the  surprise  of  people  of  condition, 
Who  think  that  novelties  are  butterflies 

To  be  pursued  as  food  for  inanition), 
Her  charming  figure  and  romantic  history, 
Became  a  kind  of  fashionable  mystery. 

xxvm. 

The  women  much  divided — as  is  usual 

1    Amongst  the  sex  in  little  things  or  great. 

Think  not,  fair  creatures,  that  I  mean  to  abuse  you  all — 

I  have  always  liked  you  better  than  I  state, 
Since  I  've  grown  moral :  still  I  must  accuse  you  all 

Of  being  apt  to  talk  at  a  great  rate ; 
And  no<v  there  was  a  general  sensation 
Amongst  you,  about  Leila's  education.  . 

XXIX. 
[11  one  point  only  were  you  setlled — and 

You  had  reason ;  't  was  that  a  young  chil*  of  grace, 
As  beautiful  as  her  own  native  land, 

And  far  away,  the  last  bud  of  her  race, 
Howe'er  our  friend  Don  Juan  might  command 

Himself  for  five,  four,  three,  or  two  years'  space, 
Would  be  much  better  taught  beneath  the  eye 
<tf  peeresses  whose  follies  had  run  dry. 

XXX. 
S<.  i.rst  there  was  a  generous  emulation, 

And  then  there  was  a  general  competition 
To  undertake  the  orphan's  education. 

As  Juan  was  a  person  of  condition, 
It  had  been  an  affront  on  this  occasion 

To  talk  of  a  subscription  or  petition ; 
B-.t  sixteen  dowagers,  ten  unwed  she  sages, 
Whose  taie  bp'onjis  lo  "  Hallam's  Middle  Ages," 


XXXI. 

And  one  or  two  sad,  separate  wives,  without 
A  fruit  to  bloom  upon  their  withering  bough — 

Begg'd  to  bring  up  the  little  girl,  and  "  out," — 
For  that 's  the  phrase  that  settles  all  things  now, 

Meaning  a  virgin's  first  blush  at  a  rout, 

And  all  her  points  as  thorough-bred  to  show: 

And  I  assure  you,  that  like  virgin  honey 

Tastes  their  first  season  (mostly  if  they  ha  ye  money). 

XXXII. 

How  all  the  needy  honourable  misters, 

Each  out-at-elbow  peer,  or  desperate  dandy, 

The  watchful  mothers  and  the  careful  sisters, 
(Who,  by  the  by,  when  clever,  are  more  handy 

At  making  matches,  where  "  't  is  gold  that  glisters,' 
Than  their  he  relatives),  like  flies  o'er  candy, 

Buzz  round  "the  Fortune"  with  their  busy  battery, 

To  turn  her  head  with  waltzing  and  with  flattery ! 

XXXIII. 

Each  aunt,  each  cousin  hath  her  speculation ; 

Nay,  married  dames  will  now  and  then  discover 
Such  pure  disinterestedness  of  passion, 

I  've  known  them  court  an  heiress  for  their  lover. 
"Tantaene!"  Such  the  virtues  of  high  station, 

Even  in  the  hopeful  isle,  whose  outlet 's  "  Dover !  * 
While  the  poor  rich  wretch,  object  of  these  cares, 
Has  cause  to  wish  her  sire  had  had  male  heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some  are  soon  bagg'd,  but  some  reject  three  dozen, 
'Tis  fine  to  see  them  scattering  refusals 

And  wild  dismay  o'er  every  angry  cousin 
(Friends  of  the  party),  who  begin  accusals 

Such  as — "  Unless  Miss  (Blank)  meant  to  have  chosen 
Poor  Frederick,  why  did  she  accord  perusals 

To  his  billets  ?    IVhy  waltz  with  him  ?   Why,  I  pray 

Look  yes  last  night,  and  yet  say  no  to-day  ? 

XXXV. 

"Why?— Why?— Besides,  Fred,  really  was  attached 

'T  was  not  her  fortune — he  has  enough  without : 
The  time  will  come  she  '11  wish  that  she  had  snatch'i 

So  good  an  opportunity,  no  doubt : — 
But  the  old  marchioness  some  plan  had  hatch'd, 

As  I'll  tell  Aurea  at  to-morrow's  rout: 
And  after  all  poor  Frederick  may  do  better — 
Pray,  did  you  see  her  answer  to  his  letter?" 

XXXVI. 
Smart  uniforms  and  sparkling  coronets 

Are  spurn'd  in  turn,  until  her  turn  arrives, 
After  male  loss  of  time,  and  hearts,  and  bets 

Upon  the  sweep-stakes  for  substanlial  wives: 
And  when  at  least  the  pretty  creature  gets 

Some  gentleman  who  fights,  or  writes,  or  drives, 
It  soothes  the  awkward  squad  of  the  rejected 
To  find  how  very  badly  she  selected. 

XXXVII. 
For  sometimes  they  accept  some  long  pursuer, 

Worn  out  with  importunity ;  or  fall 
(But  here  perhaps  the  instances  are  fewer) 

To  the  lot  of  him  who  scarce  pursued  at  all. 
A  hazy  widower  turn'd  of  forty 's  sure  * 

(If  'tis 'not  vain  examples  to  recall) 
To  draw  a  high  prize :  now,  howe'er  he  got  her,  I 
See  nought  more  strange  in  this  than  t'  other  lotter/, 


CANTO  XII. 


DON  JUAN. 


6b9 


XXXVIII. 
I,  for  my  part — (one  "  modern  instance "  more) 

"  True,  't  is  a  pity — pity  't  is,  't  is  true  " — 
Was  chosen  from  out  an  amatory  score, 

Albeit  my  years  were  less  discreet  than  few ; 
But  though  I  also  had  reform'd  before 

Those  became  one  who  soon  were  to  be  two, 
I  '11  not  gainsay  the  generous  public's  voice — 
That  the  young  lady  made  a  monstrous  choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh,  pardon  me  digression— or  at  least 
Peruse !     'T  is  always  with  a  moral  end 

That  I  dissert,  like  grace  before  a  feast : 
For  like  an  aged  aunt,  or  tiresome  friend, 

A  rigid  guardian,  or  a  zealous  priest, 

My  Muse  by  exhortation  means  to  mend 

All  people,  at  all  times,  and  in  most  places, 

Which  puts  my  Pegasus  to  these  grave  paces. 

XL. 

But  now  I  'm  going  to  be  immoral ;   now 
I  mean  to  show  things  really  as  they  are, 

Not  as  they  ought  to  be :   for  I  avow, 

That  till  we  see  what's  what  in  fact,  we're  far 

From  much  improvement  with  that  virtuous  plough 
Which  skims  the  surface,  leaving  scarce  a  scar 

Upon  the  black  loam  long  manured  by  Vice, 

Only  to  keep  its  corn  at  the  old  price. 

XLI. 

But  first  of  little  Leila  we  '11  dispose  ; 

For,  like  a  diiy-dawn,  she  was  young  and  pure, 
Or  like  the  old  comparison  of  snows 

Which  are  more  pure  than  pleasant  to  be  sure, 
Like  many  people  every  body  knows  : 

Don  Juan  was  delighted  to  secure 
A  goodly  guardian  for  his  infant  charge, 
Who  might  not  profit  much  by  being  at  large. 

XLII. 

Besides,  he  had  found  out  he  was  no  tutor, 

(I  wish  that  others  would  find  out  the  same)  : 
And  rather  wish'd  in  such  things  to  stand  neuter, 

For  silly  wards  will  bring  their  guardians  blame  : 
So,  when  he  saw  each  ancient  dame  a  suitor, 

To  make  his  little  wild  Asiatic  tame, 
Consulting  the  "  Society  for  Vice 
Suppression,"  Lady  Pinchbeck  was  his  choice. 

XLIII. 
Olden  she  was — but  had  been  very  young : 

Virtuous  she  was — and  had  been,  I  believe  • 
Although  the  world  has  such  an  evil  tongue 

That — but  my  chaster  ear  will  not  receive 
An  echo  of  a  syllable  that 's  wrong : 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  makes  me  so  much  grieve 
As  that  abominable  tittle-tattle, 
Which  is  the  cud  eschew'd  by  human  cattle. 

XLIV. 
Moreover  I  've  remark'd  (and  I  was  once 

A  slight  observer  in  a  modest  way),- 
And  so  may  every  one  except  a  dunce, 

That  ladies  in  their  youth  a  little  gay, 
Besides  thair  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  sense 

Of  the  sad  consequence  of  going  astray, 
\re  wiser  in  their  warnings  'gainst  the  woe 
fl  hich  the  mere  passionless  can  never  know. 
3K 


XLV. 

While  the  harsh  prude  indemnifies  her  virtue 
By  railing  at  the  unknown  and  envied  passion 

Seekjpg  far  less  to  save  you  than  to  hurt  you. 
Or  •>  ;at  's  still  worse,  to  put  you  out  of  fashion, . 

The  kinder  veteran  with  calm  words  will  court  you, 
Entreating  you  to  pause  before  you  dash  on; 

Expounding  and  illustrating  the  riddle 

Of  epic  Love's  beginning,  end,  and  middle. 

XLVI. 

Now,  whether  it  be  thus,  or  that  they  are  stricter, 
As  better  knowing  why  they  should  be  so, 

I  think  you  '11  find  from  many  a  family  picture, 
That  daughters  of  such  mothers  as  may  know 

The  world  by  experience  rather  than  by  lecture, 
Turn  out  much  better  for  the  Smithfield  show 

Of  vestals  brought  into  the  marriage  mart, 

Than  those  bred  up  by  prudes  without  a  heart. 

XLVII. 

I  said  that  Lady  Pinchbeck  had  been  talk'd  about — 
As  who  has  not,  if  female,  young,  and  pretty  ? 

But  now  no  more  the  ghost  of  scandal  stalk'd  about ; 
She  merely  was  deem'd  amiable  and  witty, 

And  several  of  her  best  bon-mots  were  hawk'd  about ; 
Then  she  was  given  'to  charity  and  pity, 

And  pass'd  (at  least  the  latter  years  of  life) 

For  being  a  most  exemplary  wife. 

XLVIII. 

High  in  high  circles,  gentle  in  her  own, 
She  was  the  mild  reprover  of  the  young, 

Whenever — which  means  every  day — they  'd  shown 
An  awkward  inclination  to  go  wrong. 

The  quantity  of  good  she  did 's  unknown, 

Or,  at  the  least,  would  lengthen  out  my  song  :— 

In  brief,  the  little  orphan  of  the  east 

Had  raised  an  interest  in  her  which  increased. 

XLIX. 

Juan  too  was  a  sort  of  favourite  with  her, 

Because  she  thought  him  a  good  heart  at  bol'oni, 
A  little  spoil'd,  but  not  so  altogether ; 

VVhich  was  a  wonder,  if  you  think  who  got  him, 
And  how  he  had  been  toss'd,  he  scarce  knew  whither : 

Though  this  might  ruin  others,  it  did  not  him, 
At  least  entirely — for  he  had  seen  too  many 
Changes  in  youth,  to  be  surprised  at  any. 

L. 
And  these  vicissitudes  tell  best  in  youth; 

For  when  they  happen  at  a  riper  age, 
People  are  apt  to  blame  the  fates,  forsooth, 

And  wonder  Providence  is  not  more  sage. 
Adversity  is  the  first  path  to  truth : 

He  who  hath  proved  war,  storm,  or  woman's  rage. 
Whether  his  winters  be  eighteen  or  eighty, 
Hath  won  the  experience  which  is  deem'd  so  weight* 

LI. 
How  far  It  profits  is  another  matter, — 

Our  hero  gladly  saw  his  'ittle  charge 
Safe  with  a  lady,  whose  last  grown-up  daugntcr 

Being  long  married,  and  thus  set  at  large. 
Had  left  all  the  accomplishments  she  taught  liei 

To  be  transmitted,  like  the  lord  mayor's  bare* 
To  the  next  comer ;   or — as  it  will  tell 
More  muse-like- -l:Ve  Cytherea's  ehX.. 


ero 


B IRON'S  WORKS. 


CJ..VTO  MI 


UL 


i-  tat  there 


Icalauch  .hag* 

A  loaf  af  hahuce  of 
Which  fcraa»  a  px&gree  from  Miss  to  Miss, 

Aoconbag  as  their  mavk  or  backs  are  beat. 

mthoui  the  abyss 


But  whether  fits,  or  wits,  or  harpsichords, 

Theology,  EM  arts,  or  6ner  stays, 
May  be  Ike  baits  fcr  fcialUairB  or  lords 

With  malir  descent,  IB  these  oar  days 
Tbe  bat  war  to  tbe  aew  transfers  its  boards; 

New  tutih  chua*  BK*'«  eyes  with  Ibe  sai 
Of  "ekfBB£,*  «*  «*ra,  ia  fresh  hatchet 
Al  FT—' —  creatures,  and  yet  bo*  OB  match 

UV. 

Bat  BOW  I  w3  begin  B  j  ptem.     Ti« 
Perhaps  a  Btde  strange,  if  ant  unite  new, 

That  from  the  ant  of  canto*  op  to  the 

IS*  aot  begaa  wbat  we  bare  to  go  through. 

These  ant  twelve  boob  ai^  aterely  flourishes. 


•rnagjust  a  stnag  or  two 
Upon  aiy  lyre,  or  making  the  pegs  sore ; 
Aad  whea  so,  you  aha!  have  the  overture. 

LV. 
MyMuuM  do  aot  care  a  piaeh  of  rosm 

About  what's  caVd  success,  or  aot 
Such  thoughts  areomte  betow  the  strain  they  Vechosea; 

Tis  a  •great  moral  lesson"  they  are  reading. 
I  thaught,  at  setting  off,  about  two  dona 

Cantos  would  do;  but,  at  ApoOo's  pleading, 
If  that  ary  Pegasus  should  aot  be  fouoderM, 
I  thmk  toeaater  gently  through  a  hundred. 

LYL 

Oou  Juaa  saw  that  macrocosm  oa  stars, 
Yclept  the  great  world;  for  it  is  the  feast, 

JlhhiVi  the  highest:   but  as  swords  have  hiits 
By  which  thear  power  of  mischief  is  increased, 

When  man  ia  battle  or  in  quarrel  bks, 
Thai  the  low  world,  north,  south,  or  west,  or  east, 

Maat  stm  obey  tbe  bigb-wbkh  is  their  handle, 

Iheir  moon,  their  SUB.  their  gas,  their  bribing  caadfe. 

LVD. 

fie  bad  many  friends  who  had  many  wires,  and 
Wei  kok'd  upon  by  both,  to  that  extent 

Of  tiiBilih'Bi  which  you  any  accept  or  pass  ; 
it  does  nor  good  nor  barm,  being  merely  me 

To  fc^tbewheebgoiagofthehigJierclasa, 
And  draw  them  nightly  whea  a  ticket's  seat 

lad  what  with 

FWuVe 

A  jouag  unmarried  man,  with  a  good  name 
Aad  fortune,  has  aa  awkward  part  to  play; 

For  good  society  is  but  a  game, 
••The  royal  game  of  goose,"  as  I  may  say, 

Where  every  body  naa  some  separate  aim, 
Aa  ead  to  answer,  or  a  pba  to  by— 

1  ue  saftgie  ladies  wishmg  to  be  double, 

Th» 


LIX. 

1  don't  meaB  this  as  general,  but  particnlar 
Kiaaylrs  any  be  found  of  such  pursuits: 
Though  sereral  abo  keep  their  perpendicular 

Like  pophn,wkh  good  principles  for  roots; 
Yet  many  hare  a  method  more  ntintbr — 

'Fishers  for  men,"  Eke  sirens  wish  soft  tote*. 
For  talk  six  tines  with  the  same  single  lady, 
Aad  yoa  any  get  tbe  wedding-dresses  ready. 

UL 

Perhaps  yoal  hare  a  letter  from  tbe  mother, 
To  say  her  daughter's  fee&ngs  are  trepann'c; 

Perhaps  yonl  have  a  visit  from  the  brcther, 
Afl  strot,  and  stars,  and  whiskers,  to  demand 

What  "your  mientkns  are?"— One  way  or  other 
h  mmi  the  virgin's  heart  expects  your  hand ; 

Aad  bumxa  pity  for  her  case  and  yours, 

Yoal  add  to  matnmooj's  fist  of  cures. 

LXI. 
I've  known  a  dosea  weddings  made  even  AMB, 

lad  some  of  them  high  aames:  Ibaveabob    n 
Yoaag  men  who— though  they  hated  to  discuss 

Pretensions  which  they  never  dream'd  to  hare  shot  -- 
Yet  aekher  fiightea'd  by  a  female  fuss. 

Nor  by  •nstachios  moved,  were  let  alone, 
Aad  fived,  as  did  the  broken-hearted  (air, 
la  happier  pfight  than  if  they  fcrnTd  a  pair.  • 

LUL 

There's  abo  nightly,  to  the  ™miri«tft41 
A  peril — not  indeed  Eke  love  or  marriage, 

Bat  not  the  feat  for  this  to  be  depreciated : 
It  m — I  meant  and  mean  not  to  disparage 

The  show  of  virtue  even  in  tbe  vitiated — 

It  adds  an  outward  grace  unto  their  carriage — 

But  to  denounce  tbe  amphibious  sort  of  harlot, 

•Coufear  de  rose,"  who's  neither  white  nor  scarlet 

Lxra. 

Such  B  your  old  coquette,  who  can't  say  "No," 

And  won't  say  «  Yes,"  and  keeps  you  on  and  off-ing 
On  a  «ee  shore,  tiD  it  begins  to  blow — 

Then  sees  your  heart  wreck'd,  with  an  inward  scoffing; 
Tins  works  a  world  of  sentimental  woe, 

And  sends  new  Werters  yearly  to  their  coffin  ; 
But  yet  is  merely  innocent  flirtation, 
Not  quite  adnfeery,  but  adulteration. 

LXIV. 
u  Ye  gods,  I  grow  a  talker !"  Let  us  prate. 

Tbe  next  of  perils,  though  I  place  k  aternect, 
Is  when,  without  regard  to  "  Church  or  State," 

A  wife  makes  or  takes  love  in  upright  earnest. 
Abroad,  such  things  decide  few  women's  fate — 

(Such,  early  traveller!  is  tbe  truth  thou  learnest)— 
But  •  old  England  when  a  young  bride  errs, 
Poor  thing!   Eve's  was  a  trifling  case  to  hers; 

LXV. 
For  'tis  a  low,  newspaper,  humdrum,  lawsuit 

Country,  where  a  young  couple  of  the  same  ago 
Can't  form  a  friendship  but  tbe  world  o'erawcs  m. 

Then  there  's  the  vulgar  trick  of  those  d— d  damrgea 
A  verdict— grievous  (be  to  those  who  cause  it:  — 

Forms  a  sad  cfimax  to  romantic  homages; 
Besides  those  soothing  speeches  of  the  pleader*. 
Aad  evidences  which  regale  all  readers  I 
I 


CAITTO  xii. 


DON  JUAX. 


LXVL 

Bat  they  wk>  blander  thai  are  raw  beginners  ; 

A  folks  genial  sprinkling  of  hrpocricr 
Ha*  cared  the  lame  of  thousand  splendid  comers, 

Tbe  loveliest  oligarchs  of  oar  gynaeracy; 
loo  may  fee  each  at  al  the  bails  aad  dinner*, 

Among  the  proudest  of  oar  aristocracy, 

And  afl  by  having  tact  as  wefl  as  taste. 


Jaan,  who  did  not  stand  in  the  predkaaxatf 
Of  a  mere  novice,  had  one  safeguard  More; 

For  be  was  sick—  no,  t  was  not  the  word  tidt  I 
Bat  he  had  seza  so  much  good  love  before, 

That  be  was  not  in  heart  so  very  weak  ;  —  I  Mean 
But  thns  much,  and  no  sneer  against  the  shore 

Of  white  enfls,  white  necks,  Hoe  eyes,  bluer  stocking*, 

Tithes,  toes,  dons,  and  doors  wilh  doable 


LXVHL 

Bat 

Where  fires,  not  lawsuits.  Most  be  risk'd  for  paaa 
And  passion's  self  Moct  have  a  spice  of  fiaotic, 

Into  a  country  where  'tis  half  a  fashion, 
Seem'd  to  him  half  commercial,  half  pedantic, 

Howe'er  be  Might  esteem  tfatc  moral  nation; 
Besides  (alas!  be  taste—  fcrgive  and  pity!) 
At  first  he  did  not  think  the  wonen  pretty. 

LXUL 
I  sayatjfrst    for  he  foond  oat  at  bat, 

Bat  by  degrees,  that  they  were  fairer  tut 
Ibaa  the  more  gbwMg  dames  whose  lot  k  east 

Beneath  the  itatocnce  of  the  eastern  star— 
4fbrther  proof  we  should  not  jndge  a  baste; 

Yet  inexperience  eooU  not  be  his  bar 
To  taste:—  the  troth  «,  if  Men  would  confess, 
Fbal  novelties  piaue  kss  tfein 


Or  say  they  are  Eke  virtuous  merataios,  wince 

ings  are  fair  faces,  end*  mews  fish**  ;— 
there's  not  a  quantity  of  tbwe 
have  a  due  respect  for  their  own 
UkeBoanans  rushing  from  hot  baths  to 

Are  they,  at  bottom  virtuous  even  when  < 
rhey  warm  into  a  scrape,  bat  keep  of  coarse, 
As  a  reserve,  a  pkmgt  into  remorse. 

LXXIV. 

Bat  that  has  nought  to  do  with  their  oatsides. 

I  said  that  Jaan  dm1  not  think  them  pretty 
At  the  first  blush;  for  a  fan- Briton  hides 

Half  her  atbaclkma-probably  from  pity— 
And  rather  cakaly  iato  the  heart  gbdes, 

Than  storms  it  as  a  fbewonU  take  a  cay; 
Bnt  oace  there  (a"  yon  doubt  this,  prithee  by) 
She  keeps  it  for  you  nke  a  true  any. 

MEET. 

She  eaaaot  step  as  does  an  Arab  barb, 
Or  Aadahtaan  girl  from  mass  letaraiug, 

Nor  wear  as  gracemwy  as'Gaak  her  garb, 
Nor  in  her  eye  Aaaaaa's  gianee 

Her  voice,  though  sweet,  is  not  so  fit  to  warb- 
le those  bravuns  (which  I  stsf  am  li  iiaiay 

To  nke.  though  I  have  been  seven  yean  in  Italy, 

And  have,  or  had,  aa  ear  that  served  me  i 


LXX. 
Though  traretPd,!  have  never  had  the  lack  to 

Trace  up  those  shnfiang  negroes,  Site  or  Niger, 
To  that  aapraftirihlr  place,  Toamnetoo, 

Where  geography  finds  no  one  to  obige  her 
Wilh  such  a  chart  as  may  be  safely  stack  to— 

For  Europe  ploughs  mAfrie  like  "bos  piger:" 
Bat  if  I  fcai  btt»  at  Tombuetoo,  there 
No  doubt  I  should  be  told  that  black  is  fair. 

LXXL 
It  a.    I  wal  not  swear  that  bbck  is  while; 

Boll  suspect  ia  fact  that  wbae  is  black, 
Aad  the  whole  Matter  rests  upon  my  eye-sight. 

Ask  a  band  man,  the  best  judge.    Ton  1  attack 
Perhaps  das  newppMnon    bat  I'm  right; 

Or  if  I'm  wrong,  II  not  be  ta'ea  aback:— 
Be  bath  no  mora  nor  night,  but  al  is  dark 
Widun;  aad  what  see'*  HUM?  A 


Bat  I'M  rebpsMg  into  Metaphysics, 
That  labyrinth,  whose  dne  is  of  the  same 


And  to  die  beauties  of  a  foreign  dune, 
_  ^snared  with  those  of  oar  pore  pearl*  of  price, 
IbosePoEar  i i.al  son.  aad  some  ice. 


LXXIII. 


LXXVL 
She  eaaaot  do  these  dungs,  nor  one  or  taw 

Others,  in  that  offhand  and  dasUag  stria 
Which  takes  so  Much— to  give  die  devi  bis  dn«; 

Nor  is  she  auxe  no  ready  wmh  her  smie, 
Nor  •ettles)  al  unags  ia  one  interview, 

(A  dung  approved  as  saving  tiaw  aad  loi);— 
Bra  dwagh  dw  sol  any  give  you  time  aad  troaUe. 
Wei  cakirated,  it  wal  reader  doable. 

LXXV1L 

Aad  if  ia  fact  she  take*  to  a  « graade  pasana/' 

b  is  a  very  serious  thie^  indeed; 
Nine  times  in  lea  *t  is  bat  caprice  or  fashion. 

Coquetry,  or  a  wish  to  take  the  lead, 
The  pride  of  a  mere  chid  with  a  new  sash  on, 

Or  wish  to  make  a  rival's  bosom  Weed; 
But  the  tenth  instance  wit  be  a  linaidn, 
For  there's  no  saying  what  oiey  wal  or  may  d*. 

LJLXVI1L 
The  reason's  sbvioat:  if  there's  aa  edat, 

They  lone  dw-  caste  at  once,  as  do  the  ] 
And  when  the  de&eacies  of  die  law 

Have  nFd  their  papers  widi  Aar « 
Society,  datf  ehn 

(The  hypocrite  !)wa 
To  ait  amidst  the  rams  of  ltdr  gnat: 
For  Fame's  a  Carthage  not  so 
1-TTTg. 
m'm  wit 

A  u laa  tint  on  the  GwJpePs  -Sai  no  awre. 
Aad  be  tbyaas  forgivea: 


-r- 


•^r  fa 


For  her  retura  to  virtue— aa 
The  hwywaoaVmid  beat 


aaw.a| 


672 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XI11 


LXXX. 

For  me,  I  leave  the  matter  where  I  find  it, 
Knowing  that  such  uneasy  virtue  leads 

People  some  ten  times  less  in  fact  to  mind  it, 
And  care  but  for  discoveries  and  not  deeds. 

And  as  for  chastity,  you  '11  never  bind  it 
By  all  the  laws  the  strictest  lawyer  pleads, 

But  aggravate  the  crime  you  have  not  prevented, 

By  rendering  desperate  those  who  had  else  repented. 

LXXXI. 

But  Juan  was  no  casuist,  nor  had  ponder'd 

Upon  the  moral  lessons  of  mankind : 
Besides,  he  had  not  seen,  of  several  hundred, 

A  lady  altogether  to  his  mind. 
A  little  "  blase " — 't  is  not  to  be  wonder'd 

At,  that  his  heart  had  got  a  tougher  rind: 
And  though  not  vainer  from  his  past  success, 
No  doubt  his  sensibilities  were  less. 

Lxxxn. 

He  also  had  been  busy  seeing  sights— 

The  parliament  and  all  the  other  houses  ; 
Had  sate  beneath  the  galleries  at  nights, 

To  hear  debates  whose  thunder  roused  (not  rouses] 
The  world  to  gaze  upon  those  northern  lights  * 

Which  flash'd  as  far  as  where  the  musk-bull  browses : 
He  had  also  stood  at  times  behind  the  throne- 
But  Grey  was  not  arrived,  and  Chatham  gone. 

LXXXIII. 

He  saw,  however,  at  the  closing  session, 

That  noble  sight,  when  really  free  the  nation, 

A  king  in  constitutional  possession 

Of  such  a  throne  as  is  the  proudest  station, 

Though  despots  know  it  not — till  the  progression 
Of  freedom  shall  complete  their  education. 

'T  is  not  mere  splendour  makes  the  show  august 

To  eye  or  heart — it  is  the  people's  trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There  too  he  saw  (whate'er  he  may  be  now) 

A  prince,  the  prince  of  princes,  at  the  time 
With  fascination  in  his  very  bow, 

And  full  of  promise,  as  the  spring  of  prime. 
Though  royalty  was  written  on  his  brow, 

He  had  then  the  grace  too,  rare  in  every  clime, 
Of  being,  without  alloy  of  fop  or  beau, 
A  finish'd  gentleman  from  top  to  toe. 

LXXXV. 
And  Juan  was  received,  as  hath  been  said, 

Into  the  best  society:  and  there 
t'ccurr'd  what  often  happens,  I  'm  afraid, 

However  disciplined  and  debonnaire : 
The  talent  and  good  humour  he  display'd, 

Besides  the  mark'd  distinction  of  his  air, 
Exposed  him,  as  was  natural,  to  temptation, 
Even  though  himself  avoided  the  occasion. 

LXXX  VI. 
But  what,  and  where,  with  whom,  and  when,  and  why, 

Is  not  to  be  put  hastily  together ; 
And  as  my  object  is  morality 

(Whatever  people  say),  I  don't  know  whether 
I  'll  leave  a  single  reader's  eyelid  dry, 

But  harrow  up  his  feelings  till  they  wither, 
\nd  hew  out  a  huge  monument  of  pathos, 
V*  Philip's  son  proposed  to  do  with  Athos. b 


LXXKVII. 

3ere  the  twelfth  canto  of  our  introduction 
Ends.     When  the  body  of  the  book 's  begun, 

You'll  find  it  of  a  different  construction 

From  what  some  people  say  't  will  be  when  done  • 

The  plan  at  present 's  simply  in  concoction. 
I  can't  oblige  you,  reader  !  to  read  on  ; 

That 's  your  affair,  not  mine :  a  real  spirit 

Should  neither  court  neglect,  nor  dread  to  bear  !.. 

LXXXVIII. 
And  if  my  thunderbolt  not  always  rattles, 

Remember,  reader !  you  have  had  before 
The  worst  of  tempests  and  the  best  of  battles 

That  e'er  were  brew'd  from  elements  of  gore, 
Besides  the  most  sublime  of — Heaven  knows  what  els« 

An  usurer  could  scarce  expect  much  more — 
But  my  best  canto,  save  one  on  astronomy, 
Will  turn  upon  "political  economy." 

LXXXIX. 

That  is  your  present  them*  for  popularity: 
Now  that  the  public  hedge  hath  scarce  a  stake. 

It  grows  an  act  of  patriotic  charity, 

To  show  the  people  the  best  way  to  break. 

My  plan  (but  I,  if  but  for  singularity, 
Reserve  it)  will  be  very  sure  to  take. 

Meantime  read  all  the  national  debt-sinkers, 

And  tell  me  what  you  think  of  your  great  thinkers 


CANTO  XIII. 


I  NOW  mean  to  be  serious ; — it  is  time, 

Since  laughter  now-a-days  is  deem'd  too  seriouf 
A  jest  at  vice  by  virtue 's  call'd  a  crime, 

And  critically  held  as  deleterious : 
Besides,  the  sad  's  a  source  of  the  sublime, 

Although  when  long  a  little  apt  to  weary  us ; 
And  therefore  shall  my  lay  soar  high  and  solemn, 
As  an  old  temple  dwindled  to  a  column. 

II. 
The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville 

'T  is  an  old  Norman  name,  and  to  be  found 
In  pedigrees  by  those  who  wander  still 

Along  the  last  fields  of  that  Gothic  ground) 
Was  high-born,  wealthy  by  her  father's  will, 

And  beauteous,  even  where  beauties  most  abound 
In  Britain — which  of  course  true  patriots  find 
The  goodliest  soil  of  body  and  of  mind. 

III. 
I  '11  not  gainsay  them  ;  it  is  not  my  cue : 

I  leave  them  to  their  taste,  no  doubt  the  best . 
An  eye 's  an  eye,  and  whether  black  ->r  h  ue 

Is  no  great  matter,  so  't  is  in  request  : 
'T  is  nonsense  to  dispute  about  a  hue — 

The  kindest  may  be  taken  us  a  test. 
( The  fair  sex  should  be  always  fair  ;   and  no  mail 
I  Till  thirty,  should  perceive  there  '«  a  piain  womcr 


CANTO  XIII. 


DON  JUAN. 


673 


IV. 

And  after  that  serene  and  somewhat  dull 
Epoch,  that  awkward  corner  turn'd  for  days 

More  quiet,  when  our  moon  's  no  more  at  full, 
We  may  presume  to  criticise  or  praise ; 

Because  indifference  begins  to  lull 
Our  passions,  and  we  walk  in  wisdom's  ways  ; 

Also  because  the  figure  and  the  face 

Hint,  that  't  is  time  to  give  the  younger  place. 

V. 

I  know  that  some  would  fain  postpone  this  era, 

Reluctant  as  all  placemen  to  resign 
Their  post ;    but  theirs  is  merely  a  chimera. 

For  they  have  pass'd  life's  equinoctial  line ; 
But  then  they  have  their  claret  and  madeira 

To  irrigate  the  dryness  of  decline ; 
And  county  meetings  and  the  Parliament, 
And  debt,  and  what  not,  for  their  solace  sent. 

VI. 

And  is  there  not  religion  and  reform, 

Peace,  war,  the  taxes,  and  what 's  call'd  the  "  nation?" 
The  struggle  to  be  pilots  in  a  storm  ? 

The  landed  and  the  moneyed  speculation  ? 
The  joys  of  mutual  hate  to  keep  them  warm, 

Instead  of  love,  that  mere  hallucination  ? 
Now  hatred  is  by  far  the  longest  pleasure ; 
Men  love  in  haste,  but  they  detest  at  leisure. 

vn. 

Rough  Johnson,  the  great  moralist,  profess'd, 
Right  honestly,  "  he  liked  an  honest  hater " — ' 

The  only  truth  that  yet  has  been  confess'd 
Within  these  latest  thousand  years  or  later. 

Perhaps  the  fine  old  fellow  spoke  in  jest ; — 
For  my  part,  I  am  but  a  mere  spectator, 

And  gaze  where'er  the  palace  or  the  hovel  is, 

Much  in  the  mode  of  Goethe's  Mephistopheles  ; 

VIII. 
But  neither  love  nor  hate  in  much  excess ; 

Though  't  was  not  once  so.     If  I  sneer  sometimes, 
It  is  because  I  cannot  well  do  less, 

And  now  and  then  it  also  suits   my  rhymes. 
I  shouM  be  very  willing  to  redress 

Men's  wrongs,  and  rather  check  than  punish  crimes, 
Had  not  Cervantes,  in  that  too  true  tale 
Of  Quixote,  shown  how  all  such  efforts  fail. 

IX. 
Of  all  tales,  't  is  the  saddest — and  more  sad, 

Because  it  makes  us  smile  ;   his  hero 's  right, 
And  still  pursues  the  right ; — to  curb  the  bad, 

His  only  object,  and  'gainst  odds  to  fight, 
His  guerdon :    't  is  his  virtue  makes  him  mad ! 

But  his  adventures  form  a  sorry  sight ; — 
\  sorrier  still  is  the  great  mcral  taught 
By  that  real  epic  unto  all  who  have  thought, 

X. 
rtedressing  injury,  revenging  wrong, 

To  aid  the  da.nsel  and  destroy  the  caitiff; 
Opposing  singly  the  united  strong, 

From  foreign  yoke  to  free  the  helpless  native; — 
Alas .   must  noblest  views,  like  an  old  song, 

B  ?  for  mere  fancy's  sport  a  thing  creative  ? 
A  jest,  a  riddle,  fame  through  thin  and  thick  sought? 
And  Socrates  himself  but  Wisdom's  Quixote? 
3K  2  90 


XI. 

Cervantes  smiled  Spain's  chivalry  away ; 

A  single  laugh  demolish'd  the  right  arm 
Of  his  own  country  ; — seldom  since  that  day 

Hn  Spain  had  heroes.  While  Romance  could  charm. 
The  \   ,r!d  gave  ground  before  her  bright  array  ; 

And  therefore  have  his  volumes  done  such  harm, 
That  all  their  glory  as  a  composition 
Was  dearly  purchased  by  his  land's  perdition. 

XII. 
I'm  "at  my  old  Lunes" — digression,  and  forget 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville  ; 
The  fair  most  fatal  Juan  ever  met, 

Although  she  was  not  evil  nor  meant  in ; 
But  Destiny  and  Passion  spread  the  net, 

(Fate  is  a  good  excuse  for  our  own  will), 
And  caught  them  ;  what  do  they  not  catch,  methinki  7 
But  I  'm  not  CEdipus,  and  life  's  a  sphinx. 

XIII. 
I  tell  the  tale  as  it  is  told,  nor  dare 

To  venture  a  solution  :  "  Davus  sum  !" 
And  now  I  will  proceed  upon  the  pair. 

Sweet  Adeline,  amidst  the  gay  world's  hum, 
Was  the  queen  bee,  the  glass  of  all  that's  fair; 

Whose  charms  made  all  men  speak,  and  women 

dumb, 

The  last 's  a  miracle,  and  such  was  reckon'd, 
And  since  that  time  there  has  net  been  a  second. 

XIV. 
Chaste  was  she  to  detraction's  desperation, 

And  wedded  unto  one  she  had  loved  well — 
A  man  known  in  the  councils  of  the  nation, 

Cool,  and  quite  English,  imperturbable, 
Though  apt  to  act  with  fire  upon  occasion, 

Proud  of  himself  and  her ;  the  world  could  tell 
Nought  against  either,  and  both  seem'd  secure- 
She  in  her  virtue,  he  in  his  hauteur. 

XV. 
It  chanced  some  diplomatical  relations, 

Arising  out  of  business,  often  brought 
Himself  and  Juan  in  their  mutual  stations 

Into  close  contact.  Though  reserved,  nor  caught 
By  specious  seeming,  Juan's  youth,  and  patience, 

And  talent,  on   his  haughty  spirit  wrought, 
And  form'd  a  basis  of  esteem,  which  ends 
In  making  men  what  courtesy  calls  friends. 

XVI. 
And  thus  Lord  Henry,  who  was  cautious   as 

Reserve  and  pride  could  make  him,  and  full  slow 
In  judging  men — when  once  his  judgment  was 

Determined,  right  or  wrong,  on  friend  or  foe. 
Had  all  the  pertinacity  pride  has, 

Which   knows  no  ebb  to  Its  imperious  flow, 
And  loves  or  hates,  disdaining  to  be  guided, 
Because  its  own  good  pleasure  hath  decided. 

XVII. 
His  friendships,  therefore,  and  no  less  aveisions, 

Though  oft  well  founded,  which  confirm'd  but  more 
His   prepossessions,  like  the  laws  of  Persians 

And  Medes,  would  ne'er  revoke  what  wcm  before. 
His  feelings  had  not  those  strange  fits,  like  tertian* 

Of  common  likings,  which  make  some  deplore 
What  they  should  laugh  at — the  mere  ague  still 
Of  men's  regard,  the  fever  or  the  chilL 


674 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


C--LVTO  XIII 


xvm. 

•Til  n*\  m  mortals  to  ««— •••-*»  success; 

fPQK   ffJf    JptW    •NTO)    ottBpfTOOlTJS— •OUT  f   QC9CFW   >U 

And  takr  my  word,  yon  won't  have  any  less  : 
Be  w  uy,  watch  the  time,  and  always  serve  k; 

Give  gentry  way,  where  there's  too  great  a  press; 
And  for  your  rmmiinu.,  only  learn  to  nerve  h, — 

For,  Ek*  a  racer  or  a  boxer  training, 

T  wffl  make,  if  proved,  vast  efforts  without  paining. 

XDL 
Lord  Henry  abo  Eked  to  be  superior, 

As  Mart  men  do,  the  little  or  the  great; 
fbe  vary  fewest  find  oat  an  inferior. 

At  feast  they  think  so,  to  exert  their  state 
Upon  :  for  there  are  very  few  dungs  wearier 

Than  sohiary  pride's  oppressive  weight, 
Which  mortals  generously  would  divide, 
By  bidding  others  carry  while  they  ride. 

XX. 

fa  bwth,m  Mnk.ni  fortune  Gkewi 


O'er  Joan  be  could  no  distinction  dan ; 
years  he  had  the  advantage  of  time's  sequel; 
as  he  thought,  m.  country  mnch  Die  same— 
Britons  have  a  tongue  and  free  qoffl, 


At  wMckjal  modem  nations  vainly 
And  the  Lord  Henry  was  a  great  debater, 
So  that  few  members  kept  the  House  op  later. 

XXI. 
These  were  advantages:  and  then  be  thought— 

h  was  bis  fouHe,  but  by  no  mrwis  smister— 
That  few  or  none  more  than  himself  had  caught 

Court  UByttldMA,  having  been  hnnsdi  &  minister  : 
He  hied  to  teach  that  which  he  had  been  taught, 

And  greatly  shone  whenever  there  had  been  a  stir  ; 
And  reconcled  aD  quahues  which  grace  man, 
Always  a  patriot,  and 


He  n¥ed  the  geatie  Spaniard  for  his  gravity ; 
He  almost  boooor'd  him  for  his  dot-Oily, 


Or 
He  knew  the  world,  and  would  not  see  depravity 

In  faults  which  sometimes  show  the  soil's  fertility, 
IT  dot  the  weeds  o'er-five  not  the  first  crop,— 
For  then  they  are  very  difficnk  to  stop. 

xxm. 

And  then  be  talk'd  with  him  about  Madrid, 


Where  people  always  did  as  they  were  bid. 

Or  did  what  they  should  no*  with  foreign  graces. 
Ot  coursers  aiso  spake  they:    Henry  rid 

WeB,ike  most  Englishmen, and  loved  the  races: 
And  Juan,  Eke  a  troe-born  Andahnaan, 
Could  oack  a  bone,  as  despots  ride  a  Russian. 

XXIV. 
And  ran*  acquaintance  grew,  at  noble  routs. 

And  diplomatic  dinners,  or  at  other— 
fat  Juan  stood  wefl  both  with  Ins  and  Outs, 

As  m  Fi'-ima*onry  a  higher  brother. 
(Toon  bis  f  Jent  Henry  had  no  doubts, 

HJS  mmnrr  soow'd  him  spmag  from  a  high  mother; 
Ano  al-  men  Bke  to  show  their  bospitafity 
To  Mm  whom  breeding  marches  with  his  quality. 


XXV. 

At  Blank-  Blank  Square ; — for  we  will  break  no  sq« 
By  naming  streets :  since  men  are  so  censorkus. 

And  apt  to  sow  an  author's  wheat  with  tares, 
Reaping  aBnsioas  private  and  inglorious. 

Where  none  were  dreamt  of,  unto  love's  affairs, 
Which  were,  or  are,  or  are  to  be  notorious. 

That  therefore  do  I  previously  declare, 

Lord  Henry's  mansion  was  in  Blank-Blank  Square, 

XXVI. 
Abo  there  bin*  another  pious  reason 

For  making  squares  and  streets  anonymous ; 
Which  is,  that  there  is  scarce  a  single  season 

Which  doth  not  shake  some  very  splendid  house 
With  none  slight  heart-quake  of  domestic  treason- 

A  topic  scandal  doth  delight  to  rouse : 
Such  I  might  stumble  over  unawares, 
Unless  I  knew  the  very  chastest  squares. 

xxvn. 

Tis  true,  I  might  have  chosen  PiccadiBy, 
A  place  where  peccadilloes  are  unknown  ; 

But  I  have  motives,  whether  wise  or  silly, 
For  letting  that  pure  sanctuary  alone. 

Therefore  I  name  not  square,  street,  place,  until  I 
Find  one  where  nothing  naughty  can  be  shown, 

A  vestal  shrine  of  innocence  of  heart : 

Such  are — but  I  have  lost  the  London  chart. 


xxvm. 

At  Henry's  mansion  then  in  Blank- Blank  Square, 
Was  Juan  a  recherche,  welcome  guest, 

As  many  other  noble  scions  were; 
And  some  who  had  hut  talent  for  their  crest ; 

Or  wealth,  which  is  a  passport  everywhere  ; 
Or  even  mere  fashion,  which  indeed  's  the  best 

Recommendation,  and  to  be  weH  dress'* 

WiQ  very  often  supersede  the  rest. 

XXIX. 

And  since  "there's  safety  in  a  multitude 

Of  counsellors,"  as  Solomon  has  said, 
Or  some  one  for  him,  in  some  sage  grave  moon  .— 

Indeed  we  see  the  daily  proof  display'd 
fa  senates  *t  the  bar,  in  wordy  feud, 

Where'er  collective  wisdom  can  parade, 
Which  is  the  only  cause  that  we  can  guess 
Of  Britain's  present  wealth  and  happiness ; — 

XXX. 
But  as  •*  there 's  safety  grafted  in  the  number 

Of  counsellors  "  for  "men,— thus  for  the  sei 
A  Urge  acquaintance  lets  not  virtue  slumber ; 

Or,  should  k  shake,  the  choice  will  more  perpKX— 
Variety  itself  will  more  encumber. 

'Midst  many  rocks  we  guard  more  against  wrecks; 
And  thus  with  women :  bowsoe'er  it  shock  some's 
Sd£4ove,  there '•  safety  in  a  crowd  of  coxcombs. 

XXXI. 
But  Adeline  had  not  the  least  occasion 

For  such  a  shield,  which  leaves  but  little  m«/x 
To  virtue  proper,  or  good  education. 

Her  chief  resource  was  in  her  own  hi  eh   roirit, 
Which  judged  mankind  at  their  due  estimation  , 

And  for  coquetry,  she  disdain'd  to  wear  it 
Secure  of  admiration,  its  impression 
Was  faint,  as  of  an  every-day  j 


CANTO  XIIL 


DON  JUAN. 


67o 


XXUL 

To  aS  she  was  po&te  without  parade; 

To  some  she  sbaw'd  attention  of  that  kind 
Which  flatters,  but  is  foliar  eoareyM 

In  saeh  a  sort  as  caaoot  leare  behind 
A  trace  unworthy  either  wife  or  maid; — 

A  gentle  genial  court/err  of  mind, 
To  those  who  were,  or  pass'd  for,  merilarinas, 
Just  to  console  sad  GV*y  for  being  gbrioat : 

xxxnL 

Which  is  in  aH  respects,  sate  now  and  then, 
A  dnfl  and  desolate  appendage.     Gaze 

Upon  the  shades  of  those  disbnginsh'd  men 
Who  were  or  are  the  uuupet  «hu»i  of  praise, 

The  praise  of  persecation.     Gaze  again 

On  the  most  (arourM ;  and,  ••iiliT  the  blaze 

Of  sunset  halo,  o'er  the  burd-brow'd, 

What  can  ye  recognise?— A  glded  doad. 

XXXIV. 
fbere  ?bo  was  of  coarse  in  Adefine 

That  cahn  patrician  pofisfc  in  the  address, 
Which  ne'er  can  pass  the  equinoctial  fine 

Of  any  thing  which  Nature  woaid  express: 

At  least  his  wmwmrr  suffers  not  to  guess 
That  any  thing  he  views  can  jrreatly  please. 
Perhaps  we  have  borrowM  this  front  the  Chines* 

XXXV. 

Perhaps  front  Horace:  his  "JVi*  •fawsn" 
Was  what  he  caffd  the  "Art  of  Happmess;" 

An  art  on  which  the  artists  greatly  vary, 
And  have  not  jet  attanTd  to  modi  success. 

However,  'tis  expedient  to  be  wary: 

Indifference  certes  don't  produce  dartres*; 

And  rash  yothnsiasnt  in  good  society 

Were  nothing  but  a  moral  inebrietr. 

XXXVL 
Bat  Adebse  was  not  indifferent:  far, 

(.V«D  for  a  commonplace!)  beneath  the  snow, 
As  a  volcano  holds  the  lava  -ore 

Ska!  I  go  on?— So! 


XXXIX. 
Bat  after  al  they  are  a  North- West  passag 

Unto  the  giowmg  India  of  the  soul; 
Audits  the  good  ships  sent  upon  that  message 

Hs»  •  not  exactly  aseeriam'd  the  Pole, 
Though  Parry's  efforts  bok  a  locky  presage], 
Thos  gentlemen  assy  ran  opon  a  ****., 
For  if  the  Pole's  not  open,  bat  al  frost, 
A  chance  stiH),  His  a  voyage  or  vessel  lost. 

XL. 


I  hate  10  hn 

So  let  the  often  owed  volcano  go. 
Poor  thing!  how  fieoaentlj,  by  me 
It  hath  been  stnVd  op,  til  its  sssoke 


XXXV IL 
II  have  another  figure  in  a  trice 

What  say  yon  »  a  botde  of 
Frozen  mto  a  very  vmoos  see, 

Which  leaves  few  drops  of  that 
Tet  in  the  very  centre,  oast  al  price, 

Aboot  a  bmid  gbssmi 
And  das  isstran, 
Coald  e'e 

XXX VUL 
T»  the  whale  spirit  hraaght  to  a 


tjmm 

With  oniet  ennsmg  o'er  the 
Whie  those  who're  not  lirgsntrrf.shonld  have  sen>« 

Enough  to  Hake  for  port,  ere  Tone  shal  iinnmrs 
With  bis  gray  signal-fag;  and  the  past  tense. 

The  dreary  "/*auu"  of  al  things  hoaaan. 
Most  be  decEned,  whibt  lae's  thin  thread 's  span  o* 
Between  the  fcipssg  heir  and  gnawing  goat. 

XLL 


ion  the  whole  is  worth  the  Mifrtiim 
(If  bat  far'coaaart)  that  al  things  are  kind: 
And  that  sasse  devmsh  doctrine  oMbe  Persian, 

Of  the  two  prmoples,  hot  leaves  behind 
As  many  doubts  as  any  other  doctrine 
Has  ever  parried  Faith  withal,  or  joked  her  m. 

JJOL 

The  Engish  winter— ending  in  Jory 

Tk  the  nonb&nrs  paradise:  wheels  fy; 

On  roads  east,  sooth,  north,  west,  there  is  a  n 
Bat  far  post-horses  who  finds  sympathy? 

Man's  pity's  far  •miff,  or  far  his  son, 
Always  memking  Aat  said  son  at  colege 
Has  not  contracted  modb 


s  ended  in  Jory— 
Dole  later.    I  donH  en- 


Sigh,  as  the  j 


XLV. 
They  and  their  bifa.«j 

To  the  Greek  kalends  <f  *****  naoaon. 
Abn!  to  them  of  ready  cash  bereft, 

What  hope  remains?    Of  Ass*  the  ml  ossneani 
Or  genenas  drat,  conceded  as  a  gift, 

At  a  bee  date— tiB  they  can  get  a  fresh  ana. 
Hawk'd  ahoot  at  a  daomot,  *mal 
Abo  the  asmceof  an  ounhanji 


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--» 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CAN1O  XI 11 


LXXIV. 

Bui ,  reader,  thou  hast  patient  been  of  late, 

While  I,  without  remorse  of  rhyme,  or  fear, 
,Have  b  lilt  and  laid  out  ground  at  such  a  rate, 
*      Din  Phoebus  takes  me  for  an  auctioneer. 
That  poets  were  so  from  their  earliest  date, 

By  Homer's  "Catalogue  of  Ships"  is  clear; 
But  a  mere  modern  must  be  moderate — 
I  spare  you,  then,  the  furniture  and  plate. 

LXXV. 

The  mellow  autumn  came,  and  with  it  came 
The  promised  party,  to  enjoy  its  sweets. 

The  corn  is  cut,  the  manor  full  of  game ; 
The  pointer  ranges,  and  the  sportsman  beats 

In  russet  jacket: — lynx-like  is  his  aim, 

Full  grows  his  bag,  and  wonder/u/  his  feats. 

Ah,  nut-brown  partridges  !  ah,  brilliant  pheasants  ! 

And  ah,  ye  poachers ! — 'T  is  no  sport  for  peasants. 

LXXVI. 

An  English  autumn,  though  it  hath  no  vines, 
Blushing  with  Bacchant  coronals  along 

The  paths,  o'er  which  the  fair  festoon  entwines 
The  red  grape  in  the  sunny  lands  of  song, 

Hath  yet  a  purchased  choice  of  choicest  wines ; 
The  claret  light,  and  the  madeira  strong. 

If  Britain  mourn  her  bleakness,  we  can  tell  her, 

The  very  best  of  vineyards  is  the  cellar. 

LXXVII. 

Then,  if  she  hath  not  that  serene  decline 

Which  makes  the  southern  autumn's  day  appear 

As  if  't  would  to  a  second  spring  resign 
The  season,  rather  than  to  winter  drear, — 

Of  in-door  comforts  still  she  hath  a  mine, — 
The  sea-coal  fires,  the  earliest  of  the  year ; 

Without  doors  too  she  may  compete  in  mellow, 

As  what  is  lost  in  green  is  gain'd  in  yellow. 

LXXVIII. 

And  for  the  effeminate  villeggiatura — 

Rife  with  more  horns  than  hounds — she  hath  the  chase, 
So  animated  that  it  might  allure  a 

Saint  from  his  beads  to  join  the  jocund  race ; 
Even  Nimrod's  self  might  leave  the  plains  of  Dura,6 

Aiid  wear  the  Melton  jacket  for  a  space: — 
If  she  hath  no  wild  boars,  she  hath  a  tame 
Preserve  of  bores,  who  ought  to  be  made  game. 

LXXIX. 
The  nohle  guests,  assembled  at  the  Abbey, 

Consisted  of — we  give  the  sex  the  pas — 
The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fulke ;  the  Countess  Crabbey ; 

The  Ladies,  Scilly,  Busey ;  Miss  Eclat, 
Miss  Bombazeen,  Miss  Mackstay,  Miss  O'Tabby, 

And  Mrs.  Rabbi,  the  rich  banker's  squaw: 
Also  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Sleep, 
\Vho  look'd  a  white  lamb,  yet  was  a  black  sheep. 

LXXX. 
Witn  other  countesses  of  Blank — but  rank; 

At  once  the  "lie"  and  the  u elite "  of  crowds ; 
Wh  •  pass  'ike  water  filter'd  in  a  tank, 

All  put  god  and  pious  from  their  native  clouds; 
Or  paper  turn'd  to  money  by  the  Bank: 

No  matter  how  or  why,  the  passport  shrouds 
The  "passee"  ant1  the  past;  for  gJod  society 
(3  nn  «i-s-  famed  for  tolerance  than  piety: 


LXXXI. 

That  is,  up  to  a  certain  point ;  which  point 
Forms  the  most  difficult  in  punctuation. 

Appearances  appear  to  form  the  joint 
On  which  it  hinges  in  a  higher  station ; 

And  so  that  no  explosion  cry  "aroint 

Thee,  witch  !"  or  each  Medea  has  her  Jason  ) 

Or  (to  the  point  with  Horace  and  with  Pulci), 

"  Omne  tulit  punctum,  quoe  miacuit  utile  dvlci." 

LXXXII. 

I  can't  exactly  trace  their  rule  of  right, 
Which  hath  a  little  leaning  to  a  lottery; 

I  've  seen  a  virtuous  woman  put  down  quite 
By  the  mere  combination  of  a  coterie  • 

Also  a  so-so  matron  boldly  fight 

Her  way  back  to  the  world  by  dint  of  plottery, 

And  shine  the  very  Siria  of  the  spheres, 

Escaping  with  a 'few  slight  scarless  sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

I've  seen  more  than  I'll  say: — but  we  will  see 

How  our  villeggiatura  will  get  on. 
The  party  might  consist  of  thirty-three 

Of  highest  caste — the  Bramins  of  the  ton. 
I've  named  a  few,  not  foremost  in  degree, 

But  ta'en  at  hazard  as  the  rhyme  may  run. 
By  way  of  sprinkling,  scatter'd  amongst  these, 
There  also  were  some  Irish  absentees. 

LXXXIV. 

There  was  Parolles,  too,  the  legal  bully, 
Who  limits  all  his  battles  to  the  bar 

And  senate :  when  invited  elsewhere,  truly, 
He  shows  more  appetite  for  words  than  war. 

There  was  the  young  bard  Rackrhyme,  who  had  ne»»i 
Come  out  and  glimmer'd  as  a  six-weeks'  star. 

There  was  Lord  Pyrrho,  too,  the  great  free-thinker ; 

And  Sir  John  Pottledeep,  the  mighty  drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There  was  the  Duke  of  Dash,  who  was  a — duke, 

"Ay,  every  inch  a"  duke  ;  there  were  twelve  peers 
Like  Charlemagne's — and  all  such  peers  in  look 

And  intellect,  that  neither  eyes  nor  ears 
For  commoners  had  ever  them  mistook. 

There  were  the  six  Miss  Rawbolds — pretty  dears ! 
All  song  and  sentiment ;  whose  hearts  were  ?et 
Less  on  a  convent  than  a  coronet. 

LXXXVI. 
There  were  four  Honourable  Misters,  whoa*    * 

Honour  was  more  before  their  names  tnar  »Ai    ; 
There  was  the  preux  Chevalier  de  la  Ruse, 

Whom  France  and  Fortune  lately  deign'd  to  waft  b*r* 
Whose  chiefly  .harmless  talent  was  to  amuse ; 

But  the  Clubs  found  it  rather  serious  laughter. 
Because — such  was  his  magic  power  to  please,— 
The  dice  seem'd  charm'd  too  with  his  repartee 

LXXXVII. 
There  was  Dick  Dubious,  the  metaphysician, 

Who  loved  philosophy  and  a  good  dinner ; 
Angle,  the  soi-disant  mathematician ; 

Sir  Henry  Silver-cup  the  great  race-winne.; 
There  was  the  Reverend  Rodomont  Precisian  ; 

Who  did  not  hate  so  much  the  sin  as  sii  ne»  , 
And  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-P'antagenet, 
Good  at  all  things,  but  better  at  r   bet. 


CANTO  XIII. 


DON  JUAN. 


LXXXVIII. 

There  was  Jack  Jargon,  the  gigantic  guardsman  ; 

And  General  Fireface,  famous  in  the  field, 
A  great  tactician,  and  no  less  a  swordsman, 

Who  ate,  last  war,  more  Yankees  than  he  kill'd. 
There  was  the  waggish  Welsh  Judge,  Jefferies  Hards- 
man, 

In  his  grave  office  so  completely  skill'd, 
That  when  a  culprit  came  for  condemnation, 
He  had  his  judge's -joke  for  consolation. 

LXXXIX. 
Good  company 's  a  chess-board — there  are  kings, 

Queens,  bishops,  knights,  rooks,  pawns  ;  the  world 's 

a  game ; 
Save   that  the  puppets  pull  at  their  own  strings  ; 

Methinks  gay  Punch  hath  something  of  the  same. 
My  Muse,  the  butterfly,  hath  but  her  wings, 

Not  stings,  and  flits  through  ether  without  aim, 
Alighting  rarely:  were  she  but  a  hornet, 
Perhaps  there  might  be  vices  which  would  mourn  it. 

xc. 

I  had  forgotten — but  must  not  forget — 

An  orator,  the  latest  of  the  session, 
Who  had  deliver'd  well  a  very  set 

Smooth  speech,  his  first  and  maidenly  transgression 
Upon  debate :  the  papers  echoed  yet 

With  this  debut,  which  made  a  strong  impression, 
And  rank'd  with  what  is  every  day  display'd — 
"The  best  first  speech  that  ever  yet  was  made." 

XCI. 
Proud  of  his  "  Hear  hims  !"  proud  too  of  his  vote, 

And  lost  viijginity  of  oratory, 
Proud  of  his  learning  (just  enough  to  quote), 

He  revell'd  in  his  Ciceronian  glory  : 
With  memory  excellent  to  get  by  rote, 

With  wit  to  hatch  a  pun  or  tell  a  story, 
Graced  with  some  merit  and  with  more  effrontery, 
"  His  country's  pride,"  he  came  down  to  the  country. 

XCII. 
There  also  were  two  wits  by  acclamation, 

Longbow  from  Ireland,  Strongbow  from  the  Tweed, 
Both  lawyers,  and  both  men  of  education ; 

But  Strongbow's  wit  was  of  more  polish'd  breed  : 
Longbow  was  rich  in  an  imagination 

As  beautiful  and  bounding  as  a  steed, 
But  sometimes  stumbling  over  a  potatoe, — 
While  Strongbow's  best  things  might  have  come  from 
Cato. 

XCIIT. 
Strongbow  was  like  a  new-tuned  harpsichord ; 

But  Longbow  wild  as  an  jEolian  harp, 
With  which  the  winds  of  heaven  can  claim  accord, 

And  make  a   music,  whether  flat  or  sharp. 
Of  Strongbow's  talk  you  would  not  change  a  word  ; 

At  Longbow's  phrases  you  might  sometimes  carp : 
Both  wits — one  born  so,  and  the  other  bred, 
This  by  his  heart — his  rival  by  his  head. 

XCIV. 
It   all  these  seem  a  heterogeneous  mass, 

To  be  assembled  at  a  country-seat, 
Vet  think  a  soecimen  of  every  class 

Is  bolter  than  a  humdrum  tete-a-te'te. 
Che  'lays  of  comedy  are  gone,  alas  ! 

When  Conorreve's  fool  could  vie  with  MoliJre's  bite. 
Society  is  smoothed  to  that  excess, 
That  nnnnerE  hardlv  d-.ffV.r  more  than  dress. 


xcv. 

Our  ridicules  are  kept  in  the  back  grounu, 

Ridiculous  enough,  but  also  dull ; 
Professions  too  are  no  more  to  be  found 

Pr  *  'sssional ;    and  there  is  nought  to  cull 
Of  folly's  fruit ;  for  though  your  fools  abound, 

They  're  barren,  and  not  worth  the  pains  to  pull. 
Society  is  now  one  polish'd  horde, 
Form'd  of  two  mighty  tribes,  the  Sores  and  Bored. 

XCVI. 

But  from  being  farmers,  we  turn  gleaners,  gleaning 
The  scanty  but  right  well  thresh'd  ears  of  truth  , 

And,  gentle  reader !  when  you  gather  meaning, 
You  may  be  Boaz,  and  I — modest  Ruth. 

Further  I  'd  quote,  but  Scripture,  intervening, 
Forbids.     A  great  impression  in  my  youth 

Was  made  by  Mrs.  Adams,  where  she  cries 

"  That  scriptures  out  of  church  are  blasphemies.'" 

XCVII. 

But  when  we  can,  we  glean  in  this  vile  age 
Of  chaff,  although  our  gleanings  be  not  grist. 

I  must  not  quite  omit  the  talking  sage, 
Kit-Cat,  the  famous  conversationist, 

Who,  in  his  commonplace  book,  had  a  page 

Prepared  each  morn  for  evenings.   "  List,  oh  list  !"• 

"  Alas,  poor  ghost !" — What  unexpected  woes 

Await  those  who  have  studied  their  bons-mots  ! 

XCVIII. 

Firstly,  they  must  allure  the  conversation 
By  many  windings  to  their  clever  clinch  ; 

And  secondly,  must  let  slip  no  occasion, 
Nor  bate  (abate)  their  hearers  of  an  ineft, 

But  take  an  ell — and  make  a  great  sensation, 
If  possible ;    and  thirdly,  never  flinch 

When  some  smart  talker  puts  them  to  the  test, 

But  seize  the  last  word,  which  no  doubt's  the  best. 

XCIX. 

Lord  Henry  and  his  lady  were  the  hosts  ; 

The  party  we  have  touch'd  on  were  the  guest* 
Their  table  was  a  board  to  tempt  even  ghosts 

To  pass  the  Styx  for  more  substantial  feasts. 
I  will  not  dwell  upon  ragouts  or  roasts, 

Albeit  all  human  history  attests 
That  happiness  for  man — the  hungry  sinner  — 
Since  Eve  ate  apples,  much  depends  on  dinner. 

C. 

Witness  the  lands  which  "  flow'd  with  milk  and  honey.' 

Held  out  unto  the  hungry  Israelites  : 
To  this  we  've  added  since  the  love  of  money, 

The  only  sort  of  pleasure  which  requites. 
Youth  fades,  and  leaves  our  days  no  longer  sunny ; 

We  tire  of  mistresses  and  parasites  : 
But  oh,  ambrosial  cash  !  ah  !  who  would  lose  Jie«  7 
When  we  no  more  can  use,  or  even  abuse  thee  ' 

CI. 

The  gentlemen  got  »D  betimes  to  shoot, 

Or  hunt ;   the  young  because  they  liked  the  sporv 

The  first  thing  boys  like  after  play  and  fruit : 
The  middle-aged,  to  make  the  day  more  short  , 

For  ennui  is  a  growth  of  English  root. 

Though  nameless  in  our  language  ;   we  re'on 

The  fact  for  words,  and  let  the  French  transia'e 

That  awful  yawn  which  sleep  carnot  abate 


680 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CAN  SO  XIV. 


CII. 

The  elderly  walk'd  through  the  library, 

And  tumbled  books,  or  criticised  the  pictures, 

Or  saunter'd  through  the  gardens  piteously, 
And  made  upon  the  hothouse  several  strictures, 

Or  rode  a  nag  which  trotted  not  too  high, 
Or  on  tne  morning  papers  read  their  lectures, 

Or  on  the  watch  their  longing  eyes  would  fix, 

Longing,  at  sixty,  for  the  hour  of  six. 

cm. 

But  none  were  "  gfine  :"   the  great  hour  of  union 
Was  rung  by  dinner's  knell ;   till  then  all  were 

Masters  of  their  own  time — or  in  communion, 
Or  solitary,  as  they  chose  to  bear 

The  hours,  which  how  to  pass  is  but  to  few  known. 
Each  rose  up  at  his  own,  and  had  to  spare 

What  time  he  chose  for  dress,  and  broke  his  fast 

Where,  when,  and  how  he  chose  for  that  repast. 

CIV. 

The  ladies — some  rouged,  some  a  little  pale — 
Met  the  morn  as  they  might.     If  fine,  they  rode, 

Or  walk'd  ;   if  foul,  they  read,  or  told  a  tale  ; 
Sung, .  or  rehearsed  the  last  dance  from  abroad ; 

Discuss'd  the  fashion  which  might  next  prevail ; 
And  settled  bonnets  by  the  newest  code ; 

Or  cramm'd  twelve  sheets  into  one  little  letter, 

To  make  each  correspondent  a  new  debtor. 

CV. 

For   some  had  absent  lovers,  all  had  friends. 

The  earth  has  nothing  like  a  she  epistle, 
And  hardly  heaven — because  it  never  ends. 

I  love  the  mystery  of  a  female  missal, 
Which,  like  a  creed,  ne'er  says  all  it  intends, 

But  full  of  cunning  as  Ulysses'  whistle, 
When  he  allured  poor  Dolon  : — you  had  better 
Take  care  what  you  reply  to  such  a  letter. 

CVI. 

Then  there  wete  billiards  ;  cards  too,  but  no  dice  ; 

Save  in  the  Ch'bs  no  man  of  honour  plays ; — 
Boats  when  't  was  water,  skaiting  when  't  was  ice, 

And  the  hard  frosts  destroy'd  the  scenting  days : 
And  angling  too,  that  solitary  vice, 

Whatever  Isaac  Walton  sings  or  says : 
The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  in  his  gullet 
Should  have  a  hook,  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  it.* 

CVII. 
Witn  evening  came  the  banquet  and  the  wine  ; 

The  conversazione;   the  duet, 
Altuned  by  voices  more  or  less  divine, 

(My  heart  or  head  aches  with  the  memory  yet). 
The  four  Miss  Rawbolds  in  a  glee  would  shine ; 

But  the  two  youngest  loved  more  to  be  set 
Down  to  the  harp — because  to  music's  charms 
They  added  graceful  necks,  white  hands  and  arms. 

CVIII. 

Sometimes  a  dance  (though  rarely  on  field  days, 
FIT  then  the  gentlemen  were  rather  tired) 

Display  d  some  sylph-like  figures  in  its  maze : 
Then  there  was  small-talk  re.Xdy  when  required  ; 

flirtation — but  decorous  ;  the  mere  praise 
Of  charms  that  should  or  should  not  be  admired  ; 

The  hunters  fought  their  fox-hunt  o'er  again, 

ind  then  retreated  soberly — at  ten. 


CIX. 

The  politicians,  in  a  nook  apart, 

Discuss'd  the  world,  and  settled  all  the  spheres ; 
The  wits  watch'd  every  loop-hole  for  their  art, 

To  introduce  a  bon-mot  head  and  ears ; 
Small  is  the  rest  of  those  who  would  be  smart— 

A  moment's  good  thing  may  have  cost  thorn  years 
Before  they  find  an  hour  to  introduce  it, 
And  then,  even  tfien,  some  bore  may  make  them  lose  it, 

ex. 

But  all  was  gentle  and  aristocratic 
In  this  our  party  ;   polish'd,  smooth,  and  cold, 

As  Phidian  forms  cut  out  of  marble  Attic, 
There  now  are  no  Squire  Westerns,  as  of  old  ; 

And  our  Sophias  are  not  so  emphatic, 
But  fair  as  then,  or  fairer  to  behold. 

We  've  no  accomplish'd  blackguards,  like  Tom  Jones, 

But  gentlemen  in  stays,  as  stiff  as  stones. 

CXI. 

They  separated  at.  an  early  hour ; 

That  is,  ere  midnight — which  is  London's  noon: 
But  in  the  country,  ladies  seek  their  bower 

A  little  earlier  than  the  waning  moon. 
Peace  to  the  slumbers  of  each  folded  flower — 

May  the  rose  call  back  its  true  colours  soon  ! 
Good  hours  of  fair  cheeks  are  the  fairest  tinters, 
And  lower  the  price  of  rouge — at  least  some  winters 


CANTO  XIV. 


i. 

IF  from  great  Nature's,  or  our  own  abyss 
Of  thought,  we  could  but  snatch  a  certainty, 

Perhaps  mankind  might  find  the  path  they  miss—. 
But  then  'twould  spoil  much  good  philosophy. 

One  system  eats  another  up,  and  this 
Much  as  old  Saturn  ate  his  progeny ; 

For  when  his  pious  consort  gave  him  stones 

In  lieu  of  sons,  of  these  he  made  no  bones. 

II. 

But  system  doth  reverse  the  Titan's  breakfast, 
And  eats  her  parents,  albeit  the  digestion 

Is  difficult.     Pray  tell  me,  can  you  make  fast, 
After  due  search,  your  failh  to  any  question? 

Look  back  o'er  ages,  ere  unto  the  stake  fast 

You  bind  yourself,  and  call  some  mode  the  best  ono. 

Nothing  more  true  than  not  to  trust  your  senses , 

And  yet  what  are  your  other  evidences  1 

III. 

For  me,  I  know  nought ;   nothing  I  deny, 
Admit,  reject,  contemii ;    and  what  know  you, 

Except  perhaps  that  you  were  born  to  die? 
And  both  may  after  all  turn  out  untrue. 

An  age  may  come,  font  of  eternity, 

When  nothing  shail  be  either  old  or  new. 

Death,  so  call'd,  is  a  thing  which  manes  men  weep. 

And  yet  a  third  of  life  is  pass'd  in  siecp. 


CANTO  XIV. 


DON  JUAN. 


63 


IV. 

A  sleep  without  dreams,  after  a  rough  day 

Of  toil,  is  what  we  covet  most;   and  yet 
How  clay  shrinks  back  from  more   quiescent  clay! 

The  very  suicide  that  pays  his  debt 
At  once  without  instalments  (an  old  way 

Of  paying  debts,  which  creditors  regret) 
Lets  out  impatiently  his  rushing  breath, 
Less  from  disgust  of  life  than  dread  of  death. 

V. 
T  is  round  him,  near  him,  here,  there,  every  where ; 

And  there  's  a  courage  which  grows  out  of  fear, 
Perhaps  of  all  most   desperate,  which  will  dare 

The  worst  to  know  it: — when  the  mountains  rear 
Their   peaks  beneath  your  human  foot,  and  there 

You  look  down  o'er  the  precipice,  and  drear 
The  gulf  of  rock  yawns, — you  can't  gaze  a  minute 
Without  an  awful  wish  to  plunge  within  it. 

v:. 

'T  is  true,  you  don't — but,  pale  and  struck  with  terror, 

Retire :  but  look  into  your  past  impression ! 
And  you  will  find,  though  shuddering   at   the  mirror 

Of  your  own  thoughts,  in  all  their  self-confession, 
The  lurking  bias,  be  it  truth  or  error, 

To  the  unknown ;  a  secret    prepossession, 
To  plunge  with  all  your  fears — but  where?  You  know  not, 
And  that 's  the  reason  why  you  do— or  do  not. 

VIk 
But  what 's  this  to  the  purpose  ?  you  will  say. 

Gent,  reader,  nothing ;  a  mere  speculation, 
For  which  my  sole  excuse  is — 't  is  my  way. 

Sometimes  with  and  sometimes  without  occasion, 
I  write  what's  uppermost,  without  delay  ; 

This  narrative  is  not  meant  for  narration, 
But  a  mere  airy  and  fantastic  basis, 
To  build  up  common  things  with  commonplaces. 

VIII. 
You  know,  or  don't  know,  that  great  Bacon  saith, 

"  Fling  up  a  straw,  't  will  show  the  way  the  wind 

blows  ;" 
And  such  a  straw,  borne  on  by   human  breath, 

Is  poesy,  according  as  the  mind  glows  ; 
A  paper  kite  which  flies  'twixt  life  and  death, 

A  shadow  which  the  onward  soul  behind  throws: 
And  mine's  a  bubble  not  blown  up  for  praise, 
But  just  to  play  with,  as  an  infant  j)lays. 

IX. 
The  world  is  all  before  me — or  behind ; 

For  I  have  seen  a  portion  of  that  same, 
And  quite  enough  for  me  to  keep  in  mind ; — 

Of  passions,  too,  I  've  proved  enough  to  blame, 
To  the  great  pleasure  of  our  friends,  mankind, 

Who  like  to  mix  some  slight  alloy  with  fame: 
For  I  was  rather  famous  in  my  time, 
Until  I  fairly  knock'd  it  up  with  rhyme. 

X. 
I  have  brought  this  world  about  my  ears,  and  eke 

The  other :  that 's  to  say,  the  clergy — who 
Upon  my  head  have  bid  their  thunders  break 

In  pious  Kbels  by  no  means  j.  few, 
Anil  yet  I  can't  help  scribbling  once  a  week, 

Tiring  ok4,  readers,  nor  discovering  new. 
In  youth  I  wrote  because  my  mind  was  full, 
And  now  because  I  feel  it  growing  dull. 
3L  91 


XI. 


But  "why  then  publish?" — There  are  no  rewards 

Of  fame  or  profit,  when  the  world  grows  weary 
I  ask  in  turn, — why  do  you  play  at  cards? 

WW?  'rink?  Why  read? — To  make  some  hour  le« 

dreary. 
It  occupies  me  to  turn  hack  regards 

On  what  I  've  seen  or  ponder'd,  sad  or   cheer) 
And  what  I  write  I  cast  upon  the  stream, 
To  swim  or  sink — I  have  had  at  least  my  dream. 

XII. 
I  think  that  were  I  certain  of  success, 

I  hardly  could  compose,  another  line: 
So-  long  I  've  battled  either  more  or  less, 

That  no  defeat  can  drive  me  from  the  Nine. 
This  feeling  't  is  not  easy  to  express, 

And  yet 't  is  not  affected,  I  opine. 
In  play,  there  are  two  pleasures  for  your  choosing — 
The  one  is  winning,  and  the  other  losing. 

XIII. 
Besides,  my  Muse  by  no  means  deals  in  fiction: 

She  gathers  a  repertory  of  (acts, 
Of  course  with  some  reserve  and  slight  restriction, 

But  mostly  sings  of  human  things  and  acts — 
And  that 's  one  cause  she  meets  with  contradiction  ; 

For  too  much  truth,  at  first  sight,  ne'er  altracts , 
And  were  her  object  only  what's  call'd   glory, 
With  more  ease  too,  she'd  tell  a  different  story. 

XIV. 
Love,  war,  a  tempest — surely  there 's  variety ; 

Also  a  seasoning  slight  of  lucubration ; 
A  bird's-eye  view  too  of  that  wild,  Society  ; 

A  slight  glance  thrown  on  men  of  every  station. 
If  you  have  nought  else,  here  's  at  least  satiety 

Both  in  performance  and  in  preparation ; 
And  though  these  lines  should  only  line  poi  manteaus, 
Trade  will  be  all  the  better  for  these  cantos. 

XV. 
The  portion  of  this  world  which  I  at  present 

Have  taken  up  to  fill  the  following  sermon, 
Is  one  of  which  there 's  no  descrip'.ion  recent . 

The  reason  why,  is  easy  to  determine: 
Although  it  seems  both  prominent  and  pleasant, 

There  is  a  sameness  in  its  gems  and  ermine, 
A  dull  and  family  likeness  through  all  ages, 
Of  no  great  promise  for  poetic  pages. 

XVI. 
With  much  to  excite,  there 's  little  to  exalt  : 

Nothing  that  speaks  to  all  men  and  all   times, 
A  sort  of  varnish  over  every  fault ; 

A  kind  of  commonplace,  even  in  their  crimes ; 
Factitious  passions,  wit  without  much  salt, 

A  want  of  that  true   nature  which  sublimes 
Whate'er  it  shows  with  truth ;  a  smooth  monotony 
Of  character,  in  those  at  least  who  have  got  any. 

XVII. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  like  soldiers  off  parade, 

They  break  their  ranks  and  giadly  leave  tho  drifl , 
But  then  the   roll-call  draws  them  back  afraid, 

And  they  must  be  or  seem  what  they  were :   stiK 
Doubtless  it  is  a  brilliant  masquerade ; 

But  when  of  the  first  sight  you  have  ha<.  yotu  fiR. 
It  palls — at  least  it  did  so  upon  me, 
This  paradise  of  pleasure  ana  ^nnui. 


682 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO 


XVIII. 

\Vhcn  we  have  made  our  love,  and  gamed  out  gaming, 
Dress'd,  voted,  shone,  and,  may  be,  something  more ; 

With  dandies  dined  ;  heard  senators  declaiming; 
Seen  beauties  brought  to  market  by  the  score  ; 

Sad  rakes  to  sadder  husbands  chastely  taming ; 
There  's  little  left  but  to  be  bored  or  bore. 

Witness  those  "ci-devant  jeunes  /lommes"  who  stem 

The  stream,  nor  leave  the  world  which  leaveth  them. 

XIX. 

1  is  said — indeed  a  general  complaint — 
That  no  one  has  succeeded  in  describing 

The  monrle  exactly  as  they  ought  to  paint. 
Some  say,  that  authors  only  snatch,  by  bribing 

The  porter,  some  slight  scandals  strange  and  quaint, 
To  furnish  matter  for  their  moral  gibing; 

And  that  their  books  have  but  one  style  in  common — 

My  lady's  prattle,  filter'd  through 'her  woman. 

XX. 

B'it  this  can't  well  be  true,  just  now ;  for  writers 
Are  grown  of  the  heau  monde  a  part  potential: 

I  've  seen  them  balance  even   the  scale  with  fighters, 
Especially  when  young,  for  that's  essential. 

Wrhy  do  their  sketches  fail  them  as  inditers 

Of,  what  tiiey  deem  themselves  most  consequential, 

The  real  portrait  of  the  highest  tribe? 

'T  is  that,  in  fact,  there 's  little  to  describe. 

XXI. 

uHaud  ignnra  loquor .-"  these  are  nugee,  "quorum 
Pars  parva/ui,"  but  still  art  and  part. 

Now  I  could  much  more  easily  sketch  a  haram, 
A  battle,  wreck,  or  history  of  the  heart, 

Than  these  things  ;   and  besides,  I  wish  to  spare  'em, 
For  reasons  which  I  choose  to  keep  apart. 

"  Vetaho  Cereris  sacrum  qui   tulgarit," 

Which  means,  that  vulgar  people  must  not  share  it. 

XXII. 
And  therefore  what  I  throw  off  is  ideal — 

Lower'd,  leaven'd,  like  a  history  of  Freemasons  ; 
Which  bears  the  same  relation  to  the  real. 

An  Captain  Parry's  voyage  may  do  to  Jason's. 
The  grar.J  Arcanum's  not  for  men  to  see  all; 

My  music  has  some  mystic  diapasons  ; 
And  there  is  much  Which  could  not  be  appreciated 
In  any  manner  by  the  uninitiated. 

XXIII. 
AinL     worlds  fall.— and  woman,  since  she  fell'd 

The  world   (as,  since  that  history,  less  polite 
Than  true,  hath  been  a  creed  so  strictly  held), 

Has  not  yet  given  up  the  practice  quite. 
Poor  thing  of  usages  !   coerced,  compell'd, 

Victim  when  wrong,  and  martyr  oft  when  right, 
Condemn'd  to  child-bed,  as  men,  for  their  sins, 
Have  shaving  too  entail'd  upon  their  chins, — 

XXIV. 
A  daily  plague  which,  in  the  aggregate, 

May  average  on  the  whole  with  parturition. 
Kut  as  to  women,  who  can  penetrate 

The  real  sufferings  of  their  she  condition? 
Man  's  very  sympathy  with  their  estate 

Has  much  of  selfishness  and  more  suspicion. 
Their  love,  their  virtue,  beauty,  education, 
Hui  <bim  good  housekeepers,  to  breed  a  nation. 


XXV. 

All  this  were  very  well,  and  can't  be  better ; 

But  even  this  is  difficult,  Heaven  knows ! 
So  many  troubles  from  her  birth  beset  her. 

Such  small  distinction  between  friends  and  foes, 
The  gilding  wears  so  soon  from  off  her  fetter, 

That but  ask  any  woman  if  she  'd  choose 

(Take  her  at  thirty,  that  is)  to  have  been 
Female  or  male  ?  a  school-boy  or  a  queen  ? 

XXVI. 

"Petticoat  influence"  is  a  great  reproach, 
Which  even  those  who  obey  would  fain  he  thought 

To  fly  from,  as  from  hungry  pikes  a  roach  ; 

But,  since  beneath  it  upon  earth  we  are  brought 

By  various  joltings  of  life's  hackney-coach, 
I  for  one  venerate  a  petticoat — 

A  garment  of  a  mystical  sublimity, 

No  matter  whether  russet,  silk,  or  dimity. 

XXVII. 
Much  I  respect,  and  much  I  have  adored, 

In  my  young  days,  that  chaste  and  goodly  veil. 
Which  holds  a  treasure,  like  a  miser's  hoard, 

And  more  attracts  by  all  it  doth  conceal — 
A  golden  scabbard  on  a  Damasque  sword, 

A  loving  letter  with  a  mystic  seal, 
A  cure  for  grief — for  what  can  ever  rankle 
Before  a  petticoat  and  peeping  ancle? 

XXVIII. 

And  when  upon  a  silent,  sullen  day, 

With  a  Sirocco,  for  example,  blowing, — 

When  even  the  sea  looks  dim  with  all  its  spray 
And  sulkily  the  river's  ripple's  flowing, 

And  the  sky  shows  that  very  ancient  gray, 
The  sober,  sad  antithesis  to  glowing, — 

'T  is  pleasant,  if  tlicn  any  thing  is  pleasant, 

To  catch  a  glimpse  even  of  a  pretty  peasant. 

XXIX. 

We  left  our  heroes  and  our  heroines 

In  that  fair  clime  which  don't  depend  on  climate 
Quite  independent  of  the  Zodiac's  signs, 

Though  certainly  more  difficult  to  rhyme  at, 
Because  the  sun  and  stars,  and  aught  ihat  shines 

Mountains,  and  all  we  can  be  most  sublime  at, 
Are  there  oft  dull  and  dreary  as  a  dun — 
Whether  a  sky's  or  tradesman's,  is  all  one. 

XXX. 
And  in-door  life  is  less  poetical; 

And  out-of-door  hath  showers,  and  mists,  and  sleet 
With  which  I  could  not  brew  a  pastoral. 

But  be  it  as  it  may,  a  bard  must  meet 
All  difficulties,  whether  great  or  small, 

To  spoil  his  undertaking  or  complete, 
And  work  away  like  spirit  upon  matter, 
Emharrass'd  somewhat  both  with  fire  and  water. 

XXXI. 
Juan — in  this  respect  at  least  like  saints — 

Was  all  things  unto  people  of  all  sorts, 
And  lived  contentedly,  without  complaints, 

In  camps,  in  ships,  in  cottages,  or  courts — 
Born  with  that  happy  soul  which  seldom  faints, 

And  mingling  modestly  in  toils  or  sports. 
He  likewise  could  be  most  'hings  to  all  wcronn. 
Without  «he  coxcombry  of  certain  **«  mi<n 


CANTO  XIV- 


DON  JUAN. 


68* 


XXXII. 

A  fox-hunt  to  a  foreigner  is  strange  ; 

'T  is  also  subject  to  the  double  danger 
Of  tumbling  first,  and  having  in  exchange 

Some  pleasant  jesting  at  the  awkward  stranger  ; 
But  Juan  had  been  early  taught  to  range 

The  wilds,  as  doth  an  Arab  turn'd  avenger, 
So  that  his  horse,  or  charger,  hunter,  hack, 
Knew  that  he  had  a  rider  on  his  back. 

XXXIII. 

And  now  in  this  new  field,  with  some  applause, 

He  clear'd  hedge,  ditch,  and  double  post,  and  rail, 
And  never  craned,1  and  made  but  few  ufaux  pas" 

And  only  fretted  when  the  scent  'gan  fail. 
He  broke,  't  is  true,  some  statutes  of  the  laws 

Of  hunting — for  the  sagest  youth  is  frail ; 
Rode  o'er  the  hounds,  it  may  be,  now  and  then, 
And  once  o'er  several  country  gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 
But,  on  the  whole,  to  general  admiration 

He  acquitted  both  himself  and  horse  :  the  squires 
Marvell'd  at  merit  of  another  nation : 

The  boors  cried  "Dang  it!   who'd  have  thought 

it  ?"— Sires, 
The  Nestors  of  the  sporting  generation, 

Swore  praises,  and  recall'd  their  former  fires  ; 
The  huntsman's  self  relented  to  a  grin, 
And  rated  him  almost  a  whipper-in. 

XXXV. 

Such  were  his  trophies  ; — not  of  spear  and  shield, 

But  leaps,  and  bursts,  and  sometimes  foxes'  brushes; 
Yet  I   must  own,— although  in   this  I  yield 

To  patriot  sympathy  a  Briton's  blushes,— 
Qe  thought  at  heart  like  courtly  Chesterfield, 

Who,  after  a  long  chase  o'er  hills,  dales,  bushes, 
\nd  what  not,  though  he  rode  beyond  all  price, 
Ask'd,  next  day,  "if-men  ever  hunted  twice?" 

XXXVI. 
He  also  had  a  quality  uncommon 

To  early  risers  after  a  long  chase, 
Who  wake  in  winter  ere  the  cock  can  summon 

December's  drowsy  day  to  his  dull  race,— 
A  quality  agreeable  to  woman, 

When  her  soft  liquid  words  run  on  apace, 
Who  likes  a  listener,  whether  saint  or  sinner, — 
He  did  not  fall  asleep  just  after  dinner. 

XXXVII. 
But,  light  and  airy,  stood  on  the  alert, 

And  shone  in  the  best  part  of  dialogue, 
By  humouring  always  what  they  might  assert, 

And  listening  to  the  topics  most  in  vogue ; 
Now  grave,  now  gay,  but  never  dull  or  pert; 

And  smiling  but  in  secret — cunning  rogue  ! 
He  ne'er  presumed  to  make  an  error  clearer ; 
In  short,  th*>re  never  was  a  better  hearer. 

XXXVIII. 
\nd  then  he  danced  ; — all  foreigners  excel 

The  serious  Angles  in  the  eloquence 
Of  pantomime  ; — lie  danced,  I  say,  right  well, 

With  emphasis,  and  also  with  good  sense— 
A  ihing  in  footing  in  lispcnsable : 

Ho  danced  without  theatrical  pretence, 
Vot  like  «  ballet-master  in  the  van 
Of  his  d-;J"d  nymphs,  but  like   a  gentleman. 


XXXIX. 

Chaste  were  his  steps,  each  kept  within  due  bound, 
And  elegance  was  sprinkled  o'er  hiR  figure ; 

Like«swift  Camilla,  he  scarce  skimm'd  the  groimit, 
An'   !-ather  held  in  than  put  forth  his  vigour; 

And  then  he  had  an  ear  for  music's  sound, 
Which  might  defy  a  crotchet-critic's  rigour. 

Such  classic  pas — sans  flaws — set  off  our  hero, 

He  glanced  like  a  personified  bolero ; 

XL. 

Or,  like  a  flying  hour  before  Aurora, 
In  Guide's  famous  fresco,  which  alone 

Is  worth  a  tour  to  Rome,  although  no  more  a 
Remnant  were  there  of  the  old  world's  sole  throne. 

The  "  tout  ensemble"  of  his  movements  wore  a 
Grace  of  the  soft  ideal,  seldom  shown, 

And  ne'er  to  be  described  ;   for,  to  the  do'our 

Of  bards  and  prosers,  words  are  void  of  colour. 

XLI. 

No  marvel  then  he  was  a  favounte ; 

A  full-grown  Cupid,  very  much  admired  ; 
A  little  spoil'd,  but  by  no  means  so  quite  ; 

At  least  he  kept  his  vanity  retired. 
Such  was  his  tact,  he  could  alike  delight 

The  chaste,  and  those  who  are  not  so  much  inspired- 
The  Duchess  of  Fit7-Fulke,  who  loved  "  tracasserie," 
Began  to  treat  him  with  some  small  "  agacerie." 

XLII. 

She  was  a  fine  and  somewhat  full-blown  blonde, 

Desirable,  distinguish'd,  celebrated 
For  several  winters  in  the  grand,  grand  monde. 

I  M  rather  not  say  what  might  be  related 
Of  her  exploits,  for  this  were  ticklish  ground ; 

Besides  there  might  be  falsehood  in  what 's  stated : 
Her  late  performance  had  been  a  dead  set 
At  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLIII. 

This  noble  personage  began  to  look 

A  little  black  upon  this  new  flirtation ; 
But  such  small  licenses  must  lovers  brook, 

Mere  freedoms  of  the  female  corporation. 
Woe  to  the  man  who  ventures  a  rebuke ! 

'Twill  but  precipitate  a  situation 
Extremely  disagreeable,  but  common 
To  calculators,  when  they  count  on  woman. 

XLIV. 
The  circle  smiled,  then  whisper'd,  and  then  sncer'd ; 

The  Misses  bridled,  and  the  matrons  frown'd  ; 
Some  hoped  things  might  not  turn  out  as  they  fear'il  5 

Some  would  not  deem  such  women  could  be  found  ; 
Some  ne'er  believed  one-half  of  what  they  heard  ; 

Some  look'd  perplcx'd,  and  others  look'd  profound  ; 
And  several  pitied  with  sincere  regret 
Poor  'Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLV. 
But,  what  is  odd,  none  ever  named  the  duke, 

Who,  one  might  think,  was  something  in  the  aft  an 
True,  he  was  absent,  and,  'twas  rumour'd,  took 

But  small  concern  about  the  when,  or  where. 
Or  what  his  consort  did  :   if  he  could  brook 

Her  gayeties,  none  had  a  right  to  stare  • 
Theirs  was  that  best  of  unions,  past  all  doubt, 
Which  never  n.w.ts    tnd  therefore  can't  fall  out. 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  A IV 


XLVI. 

Hut,  oh  that  i  should  ever  pen  so  sad  a  line ! 

Fired  with  an  a'-istract  love,  of  virtue,  she, 
My  Dian  of  the  Eph(  eians,  Lady  Adeline, 

Began  to  think  the  duchess'  conduct  free ; 
Regretting  much  that  she  had  chosen,  so  bad  a  line, 

And  waxing  chiller  in  hur  courtesy, 
Jvook'd  grave  and  pale  to  see  her  friend's  fragility, 
For  which  most  friends  reserve  their   sensibility. 

XLVII. 
There  's  nought  in  this  bad  world  like  sympathy : 

'T  is  so  becoming  to  the  soul  and  face ; 
Sets  to   soft  music  the  harmonious  sigh, 

And  robes  sweet  friendship  in   a  Brussels  lace. 
Without  a  friend,  what  were  humanity, 

To  hunt  our  errors  up  with  a  good  grace  ? 
Consoling  us  with — "  Would  you  had  thought  twice ! 
Ah!   if  you  had  but  follow'd  my  advice!" 

XLVIII. 
Oh,  Job  !  you  had  two  friends  :  one  's  quite  enough, 

Especially  when  we  are  ill  at  ease ; 
They  're  but  bad  pilots  when  the  weather 's  rough, 

Doctors  less  famous  for  their  cures  than  fees. 
Let  no  man  grumble  when  his  friends  fall  off, 

As  they  will  do  like  leaves  at  the  first  breeze: 
When  your  affairs  come  round,  one  way  or  t'  other, 
Go  to  the  coffee-house,  and  take  another.2 

XLIX. 

But  this  is  not  my  maxim :   had  it  been, 

Some  heart-acl'«s  had  been  spared  me ;  yet  I  care 

not — 
(  would  not  be  a  tortoise  in  his  screen 

Of  stubborn  shell,  which  waves  and  weather  wear  not: 
'T  is  better  on  the  whole  to  have  felt  and  seen 

That  which  humanity  may  bear,  or  bear  not : 
'T  will  teach  discernment  to  the  sensitive, 
And  not  to  pour  their  ocean  in  a  sieve. 

L. 
Of  all  the  horrid,  hideous  notes  of  woe, 

Sadder  than  owl-songs  or  the  midnight  blast, 
Is  that  portentous  phrase,  "  I  told  you  so," 

Ulter'd  by  friends,  those  prophets  m  the  past, 
Who,  'stead  of  saying  what  you  now  should  do, 

Own  they  foresaw  that  you  would  fall  at  last, 
And  solace  your  slight  lapse  'gainst  " bonos  mores" 
With  a  long  memorandum  of  old  stories. 

LI. 
The  Lady  Adeline's  serene  severity 

Was  not  confined  to  feeling  for  her  friend, 
Whose  fame  she  rather  doubted  with  posterity, 

Unless  her  habits  should  begin  to  mend ; 
But  Juan  also  shared  in  her  austerity, 

But  mix'd  with  pity,  pure  as  e'er  was  penn'd : 
Flis  inexperience  moved  her  gentle  ruth, 
And  (as  her  junior  by  six  weeks)  his  youth. 

LH. 
These  forty  days'  advantage  of  her  years — 

And  hers  were  those  which  can  face  calculation, 
Hnldly  referring  to  the  list  of  peers, 

And  noble  births,  nor  dread  the  enumeration— 
•Jave  her  a  right  to  have  maternal  fears 

f'or  a  young  gentleman's  fit  education, 
Inougp  she  was  far  from  that  leap-year,  whose  leap, 
femalf  dates,  strides  time  all  of  a  heap. 


LIII. 

This  may  be  fix'd  at  somewhere  before  thirty — 

Say  seven-and-twenty ;   for  I  never  knew 
The  strictest  in  chronology  and  virtue 

Advance  beyond,  while  they  could  pass  for  new. 
Oh,  Time  !  why  dost  not  pause  f  Thy  scythe,  so  dirty 

With  rust,  should  surely  cease  to  hack  and  hew. 
Reset  it ;   shave  more  smoothly,  also  slower, 
If  but  to  keep  thy  credit  as  a  mower. 

LFV. 
But  Adeline  was  far  from  that  ripe  age, 

Whose  ripeness  is  but  bitter  at  the  best : 
'Twas  rather  her  experience  made  her  sage, 

For  she  had  seen  the  world,  and  stood  its  test, 
As  I  have  said  in — I  forget  what  page ; 

My  Muse  despises  reference,  as  you  have  guess'd 
By  this  time  ; — but  strike  six  from  seven-and-twenty 
And  you  will  find  her  sum  of  years  in  plenty. 

LV. 
At  sixteen  she  came  out ;  presented,  vaunted, 

She  put  all  coronets  into  commotion : 
At  seventeen  too  the  world  was  still  enchanted 

With  the  new  Venus  of  their  brilliant  ocean : 
At  eighteen,  though  below  her  feet  still  panted 

A  hecatomb  of  suitors  with  devotion, 
She  had  consented  to  create  again 
That  Adam,  call'd  "  the  happiest  of  men." 

LVI. 

Since  then  she  had  sparkled  through  three  glowing 
winters, 

Admired,  adored  ;    but  also  so  correct, 
That  she  had  puzzled  all  the  acutest  hinters, 

Without  the  apparel  of  being  circumspect ; 
They  could  not  even  glean  the  slightest  splinters 

From  off  the  marble,  which  had  no  defect. 
She  had  also  snatch'd  a  moment  since  her  marriage 
To  bear  a  son  and  heir — and  one  miscarriage. 

LVII. 
Fondly  the  wheeling  fire-flies  flew  around  her, 

Those  little  glitterers  of  the  London  night ; 
But  none  of  these  possess'd  a  sting  to  wound  her—- 
She was  a  pitch  beyond  a  coxcomb's  flight. 
Perhaps  she  wish'd  an  aspirant  profounder ; 

But,  whatsoe'er  she  wish'd,  she  acted  right ; 
And  whether  coldness,  pride,  or  virtue,  dignify 
A  woman,  so  she  's  good,  what  does  it  signify  ? 

LVIII. 
I  hate  a  motive  like  a  lingering  bottle, 

Which  with  the  landlord  makes  too  long  a  stand, 
Leaving  all  claretless  the  unmoistcn'd  throttle, 

Especially  with  politics  on  hand ; 
I  hate  it,  as  I  hate  a  drove  of  cattle, 

Who  whirl  the  dust  as  Simooms  whirl  the  Sana 
I  hate  it,  as  I  hate  an  argument, 
A  laureate's  ode,  or  servile  peer's  "  content." 

LIX. 
'T  is  sad  to  hack  into  the  roots  of  things, 

They  are  so  much  intertwisted  with  the  earth: 
So  that  the  branch  a  goodly  verdure  flings, 

I  reck  not  if  an  acorn  gave  it  birth. 
To  trace  all  actions  to  their  secret  springs 

Would  make  indeed  some  melancholy  mirth  • 
But  this  is  not  at  present  my  concern, 
And  I  refer  you  to  wise  Oxenstien?.' 


CANTO  XIV. 


DON  JUAN. 


606 


With  the  kind  view  of  saving  an  eclat, 
Both  to  the  duchess  and  diplomatist, 

The  Lady  Adeline,  as  soon 's  she  saw 
That  Juan  was  unlikely  to  resis^— 

(For  foreigners  don't  know  that  a  faux  pas 
In  England  ranks  quite  on  a  different  list 

From  those  of  other  lands,  unbless'd  with  juries, 

Whose  verdict  for  such  sin  a  certain  cure  is)— 

LXI. 

The  Lady  Adeline  resolved  to  take 

Such  measures  as  she  thought  might  best  impede 
The  further  progress  of  this  sad  mistake. 

She  thought  with  some  simplicity  indeed  ; 
But  innocence  is  bold  even  at  the  stake, 

And  simple  in  the  world,  and  doth  not  need 
Nor  use  those  palisades  by  dames  erected, 
Whose  virtue  lies  in  never  being  detected. 

LXII. 

It  was  not  that  she  fear'd  the  very  worst : 
His  grace  was  an  enduring,  married  man, 

And  was  not  likely  all  at  once  to  burst 
Into  a  scene,  and  swell  the  clients'  clan 

Of  Doctors'  Commons ;  but  she  dreaded  first 
The  magic  of  her  grace's  talisman, 

And  next  a  quarrel  (as  he  seem'd  to  fret) 

With  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIII. 

Her  grace  too  pass'd  for  being  an  intrigante, 
And  somewhat  michante  in  her  amorous  sphere  ; 

One  of  those  pretty,  precious  plagues,  which  haunt 
A  lover  with  caprices  soft  and  dear, 

That  like  to  make  a   quarrel,  when  they  can't 
Find  one,  each  day  of  the  delightful  year ; 

Bewitching,  torturing,  as  they  freeze  or  glow, 

And — what  is  worst  of  all — won't  let  you  go : 

LXIV. 

The  sort  of  thing  to  turn   a  young  man's  head, 

Or  make  a  Werter  of  him  in  the  end. 
No  wonder  then  a  purer  soul  should  dread 

This  sort  of  chaste  liaison  for  a  friend ; 
It  were  much  better  to  be  wed  or  dead, 

Than  wear  a  heart  a  woman  loves  to  rend. 
'T  is  best  to  pause,  and  think,  ere  you  rush  on, 
If  that  a  " bonne  fortune"  be  really  "bonne." 

LXV. 
And  first,  in  the  o'erflowing  of  her  heart, 

Which  really  knew  or  thought  it  knew  no  guile, 
Bhe  call'd  her  husband  now  and  then  apart, 

And  bade  him  counsel  Juan.     With  a  smile, 
Lord  Henry  heard  her  plans  of  artless  art 

To  wean  Don  Juan  from  the  siren's  wile  ; 
^nd  answer'd,  like  a  statesman  or  a  prophet, 
In  such  guise  that  she  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

LXVI. 
Firstly,  he  said,  "  he  never  interfered 

In  any  body's  business  but  the  king's :" 
Next,  that  "  he  never  judged  from  what  appear'd, 

Without  strong  reason,  of  those  sorls  of  things:" 
Fhirdly,  that  "Juan  had  more  brain  than  beard, 

And  was  not  to  be  held  in  leading-strings  ;" 
And  fourthly,  what  need  hardly  be  said  twice, 
'That  good  but  rarely  came  from  good  advice." 
3L2 


LXVH. 

And,  therefore,  doubtless,  to  approve  the  truth 
Of  the  last  axiom,  he  advised  his  spouse 

To  leave  the  parties  to  themselves,  forsooth, 
At  least  as  far  as  bienneance  allows : 

That  time  would  temper  Juan's  faults  cf  youth ; 
That  young  men  rarely  made  monastic  vow» , 

That  opposition  only  more  atlases 

But  here  a  messenger  brought  in  despatches: 

LXVIII. 

And  being  of  the  council  call'd  "  the  privy," 

Lord  Henry  walk'd  into  his  cabinet, 
To  furnish  matter  for  some  future  Livy 

To  tell  how  he  reduced  the  nation's  debt ; 
And  if  their  full  contents  I  do  not  give  ye, 

It  is  because  I  do  not  know  them  yet : 
But  I  shall  add  them  in  a  brief  appendix, 
To  come  between  mine  epic  and  its  index. 

LXIX. 

But  ere  he  went,  he  added  a  slight  hint, 
Another  gentle  commonplace  or  two, 

Such  as  are  coin'd  in  conversation's  mint, 
And  pass,  for  want  of  better,  though  not  new : 

Then  broke  his  packet,  to  see  what  was  in  't, 
And  having  casually  glanced  it  through, 

Retired  ;   and,  as  he  went  out,  calmly  kiss'd  her, 

Less  like  a  young  wife  than  an  aged  sister. 

LXX. 

He  was  a  cold,  good,  honourable  man, 
Proud  of  his  birth,  and  proud  of  every  thing , 

A  goodly  spirit  for  a  state  divan, 
A  figure  fit  to  walk  before  a  king ; 

Tall,  stately,  form'd  to  lead  the  courtly  van 
On  birth-days,  glorious  with  a  star  and  string  . 

The  very  model  of  a  chamberlain — 

And  such  I  mean  to  make  him  when  I  reign. 

LXXI. 

But  there  was  something  wanting  on  the  whole-  • 
I  don't  know  what,  and  therefore  cannot  tell-  • 

Which  pretty  women — the  sweet  souls ! — call  «ou. 
Certes  it  was  not  body  ,   he  was  well 

Proportion'd,  as  a  poplai   or  a  pole, 
A  handsome  man,  that  human  miracle  ; 

And  in  each  circumstance  of  love  or  war, 

Had  still  preserved  his  perpendicular. 
LXXI1. 

Still  there  was  something  wanting,  as  I  've  said—- 
That undefinable  uje  ne  aais  </woi," 

Which,  lor  what  I  know,  may  of  yore  have  led 
To  Homer's  Iliad,  since  it  drew  to  Troy 

The  Greek  Eve,  Helen,  from  the  Spartan's  bed  ,   . 
Though  on  the  whole,  no  doubt,  the  Dardan  bin 

Was  much  inferior  to  King  Menelaus ,  — 

But  thus  it  is  some  women  will  betray  us. 
LXXIII. 

There  is  an  awkward  thing  which  much  perpiexe*. 
Unless  like  wise  Tiresias  we  had  proved 

By  turns  the  difference  of  the  several  sexes : 
Neither  can  show  quite  how  they  would  be  loven 

The  sensual  for  a  short  time  but  connects   _s— 
The  sentimental  boasts  to  be  unmovrd ; 

But  both  together  form  a  kind  of  centaur 

Upon  whose  back   'l  is  better  not  'o  vuntur*. 


£580 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XIV 


LXXIV. 

A  sometnlng  nil-sufficient  for  the  heart 

Is  thj.t   For  wi.ich  tho  sex  are  always  seeking ; 

But  how  to  fill  up  thr.t  same  vacant  part — 

There  lies  the  rub — and  this  they  are  but  weak  in. 

Frail  mariners  afloat  without  a  chart, 

They  run  before  the  wind  through  high  seas  breaking  ; 

And  when  they  have  made  the  shore,  through  every  shock, 

*T  is  odd,  or  odds,  it  may  turn  out  a  rock. 

LXXV. 

There  is  a  flower  call'd  "love  in  idleness," 

For  which  see  Shakspeare's  ever-blooming  garden; — 

I  will  not  make  his  great  description  less, 

And  beg  his  British  godship's  humble  pardon, 

If,  in  my  extremity  of  rhyme's  distress, 

I  touch  a  single  leaf  where  he  is  warden ; 

But  though  the  flower  is  different,  with  the  French 

Or  Swiss  Rousseau,  cry,  "  voiUt  la  pervenche  !" 

LXXVI. 

Eureka!    I  have  found  it!    What  I  mean 

To  say  is,  not  that  love  is  idleness, 
But  that  in  love  such  idleness  has  been 

An  accessory,  as  I  have  cause  to  guess. 
Hard  labour  's  an  indifferent  go-between  ; 

Your  men  of  business  are  not  apt  to  express 
Much  passion,  since  the  merchant-ship,  the  Argo, 
Convey'd  Medea  as  her  supercargo. 

LXXVII. 

41  Beatus  ille  procul!"  from  "ne^oft'ts," 

Saith  Horace ;  the  great  little  poet 's  wrong ; 

His  other  maxim,  "  Noscitur  a  $ociis," 

Is  much  more   to  the  purpose  of  his  song ; 

Though  even  that  were  sometimes  too  ferocious, 
Unless  good  company  he  kept  too  long ; 

But,  in  his  teeth,  whate'er  their  state  or  stal'on, 

Thrice  happy  they  who  have  an  occupation  ! 

LXXVIII. 

Adam  exchanged  his   paradise  for  ploughing  ; 

Eve  made  up  millinery  with  fig-leases — 
The  earliest  knowledge  from  the  tree  so  knowing, 

As  far  as  I  know,  that  the  church  receives : 
And  since  that  time,  it  need  not  cost  much  showing, 

That  many  of  the  ills  o'er  which   man  grieves, 
And  still  more  women,  spring  from  not  employing 
Some  hours  to  make  the  remnant  worth  enjoying. 

LXXIX. 
And  hence  nigh  life  is  oft  a  dreary  void, 

A  rack  of  pleasures,  where  we  must  invent 
A  something  wherewithal  to  be  annoy'd. 

Bards  may  sing  what  they  please  about  content; 
Contented,  when  translated,  means  but  cloy'd  ; 

And  hence  arise  the  woes  of  sentiment, 
Blue  devils,  and  blue-stockings,  and  romances 
Reduced  to  practice,  and  perform'd  like  dances. 
LXXX. 

ilo  declare,  upon  an   affidavit, 

Romances  I  ne'er  read  like  those  I  have  seen ; 
Nor  If  unto  the  world  I  ever  gave  it, 

Would  some  believe  that  such  a  tale  had  been: 
Hut  s»ch  intent  I  never  had,  nor  have  it; 

Some  truths  are  better  kept  behind  a  screen, 
Especially  when  they  would  l"cl;  line  lies; 
I  therefore  deal  >n  generalities. 


LXXXI. 

1  An  oyster  may  be  cross'd  in  love," — and  wh>  ' 

Because  he  mopeth  idly  in  his  shell, 
And  heaves  a  lonely  subterraneous  sigh, 

Much  as  a  monk  may  do  within  his  cell : 
And  h  propos  of  monks,  their  piety 

With  sloth  hath  found  it  difficult  to  dwell ; 
Those  vegetables  of  the  Catholic  creed 
Are  apt  exceedingly  to  run  to  seed. 

LXXXIII. 

Oh,  Wilberforce !  thou  man  of  black  renown, 
Whose  merit  none  enough  can  sing  or  say, 

Thou  hast  struck  one  immense  colossus  down, 
Thou  moral  Washington  of  Africa ! 

But  there 's  another  little  thing,  I  own, 
Which  you  should  perpelrate  some  summer's  day 

And  set  the  other  half  of  earth  to  rights : 

You  have  freed  the  blacks — now  pray  shut  up  the  whites. 

LXXXIII. 

Shut  up  the  bald-coot  bully  Alexander ; 

Ship  off  the  holy  three  to  Senegal ; 
Teach  them  that  "  sauce  for  goose  is  sauce  for  gander," 

And  ask  them  how  they  like  to  be  in  thrall. 
Shut  up  each  high  heroic  salamander, 

Who  eats  fire  gratis  (since  the  pay  's  but  small) 
Shut  up — no,  not  the  king,  but  the  pavilion, 
Or  else  't  will  cost  us  all  another  million. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut  up  the  world  at  large  ;  let  Bedlam  out, 
And  you  will  be  perhaps  surprised  to  find 

All  things  pursue  exactly  the  same  route, 
As  now  with  those  of  soi-disant  sound  mind. 

This  I  could  prove  beyond  a  single  doubt, 
Were  there  a  jot  of  sense  among  mankind  ; 

But  till  that  point  (C  appui  is  found,   alas! 

Like  Archimedes,  1  leave  earth  as  't  was. 

LXXXV. 

Our  gentle  Adeline  had  one  defect — 

Her  heart  was  vacant,  though  a  splendid  mansion ; 
Her  conduct  had  been  perfectly  correct, 

As  she  had  seen  nought  claiming  its  expansion. 
A  wavering  spirit  may  be  easier  wreck'd, 

Because  't  is  frailer,  doubtless,  than  a  staunch  one  ; 
But  when  the  latter  works  its  own  undoing, 
Its  inner  crash  is  like  an  earthquake's  ruin. 

LXXXVI. 
She  loved  her  lord,  or  thought  so ;  but  that  love 

Cost  her  an  effort,  which  is  a  sad  toil, 
The  stone  of  Sysiphus,  if  once  we  move 

Our  feelings  'gainst  the  nature  of  the  soil. 
She  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  or  reprove, 

No  bickerings,  no  connubial  turmoil : 
Their  union  was  a  model  to  behold, 
Serene  and  noble, — conjugal  but  <:old. 

LXXX  VII. 
There  was  no  great  disparity  of  years, 

Though  much  in  temper  ;  but  they  never  clash  d  : 
They  moved  like  stars  united  in  their  spheres, 

Or  like  the  Rhone  by  Leman's  wuters  wash'd, 
Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  appears 

The  river  from  the  lake,  all  bluely  dash'd 
Through  the  serene  and  placid  glassy  deep, 
Which  tain  would  lull  its  river-child  U  slsep. 


CANTO  XIV. 


DUN   JUAN. 


68' 


LXXXVIII. 

Now,  when  she  once  had  ta'cn  an  interest 
In  any  tiling,  howiver  she  might  flatter 

Herself  that  her  intentions  were  the  best, 
Intense  intentions  are  a  dangerous  matter  : 

[mpressions  were  muclr  Stronger  than  she  guess'd, 
And  gather'd  as  they  run,  like  growing  water, 

Upon  her  mind  ;   the  more  so,  as  her  breast 

Was  not  at  first  too  readily  impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But  when  it  was,  she  had  that  lurking  demon 
Of  double  nature,  and  thus  doubly  named — 

Firmness  yclept  in  heroes,  kings,  and  seamen, 
That  is,  when  they  succeed  ;  hut  greatly  blamed 

As  obstinacy,  both  in  men  and  women, 

Whene'er  their  triumph  nales,  or  star  is  tamed  : — 

And  'twill  perplex  the  casuists  in  morality, 

To  fix  the  due  bounds  of  this  dangerous  quality. 

xc. 

Had  Bonaparte  won  at  Waterloo, 

It  had  been  firmness  ;    now  't  is  pertinacity : 

Must  the  event  decide  between  the  two  ? 
I  leave  il  to  your  people  of  sagacity 

To  draw  the  line  between  the  false  and  true, 
If  such  can  e'er  be  drawn  by  man's  capacity : 

My  business  is  with  Lady  Adeline, 

Who  iu  her  way  too  was  a  heroine. 

XCI. 
She  knew  not  her  own  heart ;  then  how  should  I  ? 

I  think  not  she  was  then  in  love  with  Juan : 
If  so,  she  would  have  had  the  strength  to  fly 

The  .vild  sensation,  unto  her  a  new  one : 
She  merely  felt  a  common  sympathy 

(I  will  not  say  it  was  a  false  or  true  one) 
In  him,  because  she  thought  he  was  in  danger — • 
Her  husband's  friend,  her  own,  young,  and  a  stranger. 

XCII. 
She  was,  or  thought  she  was,  his  friend — and  this 

Without  the  farce  of  friendship,  or  romance 
Of  Platonism,  which  leads  so  oft  amiss 

Ladies  who  have  studied  friendship  but  in  France, 
Or  German}',  where  people  purely  kiss. 

To  thus  much  Adeline  would  not  advance  ; 
But  of  such  friendship  as  man's  may  to  man  be, 
She  was  as  capable  as  woman  can  be. 

XCIII. 
No  doubt  the  secret  influence  of  the  sex 

Will  there,  as  also  in  the  ties  of  blood, 
An  innocent  predominance  annex, 

And  tune  the  concord  to  a  finer  mood. 
If  free  from  passion,  which  all  friendship  checks, 

And  your  true  feelings  fully  understood, 
J\u  Iriend  like  to  a  woman  earth  discovers, 
So  that  you  have  not  been  not  will  be  lovers. 

XCIV. 
Love  bears  within  its  breast  the  very  germ 

Of  change ;   and  how  should  this  be  otherwise? 
'f  hat  violent  things  more  quickly  find  a  term 

Is  shown  through  Nature's  whole  analogies : 
And  how  should  the  most  fierce  of  all  be  firm  ? 

Would  you  have  endless  lightning  in  the  skies  ? 
Methinks  love's  very  title  says  enough  : 
How  snou.ii  -  che  tender  uassion"  e'er  be  tough  ? 


XCV. 

Alas!    by  all  experience,  seldom  yet 

(I  merely  quote  what  I  have  heard  from  many 

Had  lovers  not  some  reason  to  regret 
The  passion  which  made  Solomon  a  Zany. 

I  've  also  seen   some  wives   (not  to  forge; 

The  marriage  state,  the  best  or  worst  of  an)  ". 

Who  were  the  very  paragons  of  wives, 

Yet  made  the  misery  of  at  least  two  lives. 

XCVI. 

I  've  also  seen  some  female  friend*  ('t  is  odd, 
But  true — as,  if  expedient,  I  could  prove) 

That  faithful  were,  through  thick  and  thin,  abroad, 
At  home,  far  more  than  ever  yet  was  love — 

Who  did  not  quit  me  when  oppression  trod 
Upon  me  ;   whom  no  scandal  could  remove ; 

Who  fought,  and  fight,  in  absence  too,  my  battles, 

Despite  the  snake  society's  loud  rattles. 

XCVII. 

Whether  Don  Juan  and  chaste  Adeline 
Grew  friends  in  this  or  any  other  sense, 

Will  be  discuss'd  hereafter,  I  opine: 
At  present  I  am  glad  of  a  pretence 

To  leave  them  hovering,  as  the  effect  is  fine, 
And  keeps  the  atrocious  reader  in  fuxpense ; 

The  surest  way  for  ladies  and  for  books 

To  bait  their  tender  or  their  tenter  hooks. 

XCVIII. 

Whether  they  rode,  or  walk'd,  or  studied  Spanish, 
To  read  Don  Quixote  in  the  original, 

A  pleasure  before  which  all  others  vanish  ; 

Whether  their  talk  was  of  the  kind  call'd  "  email, 

Or  serious,  are  the  topics  I  must  banish 
To  the  next  canto ;  where,  perhaps,  I  shall 

Say  something  to  the  purpose,  and  display 

Considerable  talent  in  my  way. 

XCIX. 

Above  all,  I  beg  all  men  to  forbear 

Anticipating  aught  about  the  matter : 
They  '11  only  make  mistakes  about  the  fair, 

And  Juan,  too,  especially  the  latter. 
And  I  shall  take  a  much  more  serious  air 

Than  I  have  yet  done  in  this  epic  satire. 
It  is  not  clear  that  Adeline  and  Juan 
Will  fall ;    but  if  they  do,  't  will  be  their  ruin. 

C. 
But  great  things  spring  from  little  : — would  you  tlunl 

That,  in  our  youth,  as  dangerous  a  passion 
As  e'er  brought  man  and  woman  to  the  brink 

Of  ruin,  rose  from  such   a  slight  occasion 
As  few  would  ever  dream  could  form  the  link 

Of  such  a  sentimental  situation  ? 
You  '11  never  guess,  1  'II  bet  you  millions,  milliard— 
It  all  sprung  from  a  harmless  game  at  billiards. 

CI. 
'T  is  strange — but  true  ;  for  truth  is  always  strung 

Stranger  than  fiction  :    if  it  could  be  told, 
How  much  would  novels  gain  by  the  exchange  ' 

How  differently  the  worlc  would   men  l>eho!o  . 
How  oft  would  vice  an'l  virtue  olaces  change 

The  new  world  would  be  nothing  to  the  o'd 
If  some  Columbus  of  the  moral  seas 
Would  show  mankind  their  souls'  antipodal 


GSS 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CJJVTO  AT 


CEL 

IT.  ires  visr.  sr-^   <:  everts  iile"  tjca 
H~ouu3  bediseora'd  •  the  hmman  soul! 


W/J:  st^-  !;ve   in  vie  cei'-e   is  -^.-^   ixxe! 
What  Anthropophagi  are  rune  of  tea 

Of  those  who  hold  the  lirifcihmi  •  control  ! 
Were  thmgs  hut  only  eai'd  by  their  right  BUM, 
Casar  mmsetf  wwmi  be  ashamed  of  &me. 


CANTO  XV. 


AH! what  shmndfoaWsfapsfrom  ay  reflectm 

Whatever  fcBows  nevertheless  nay  be 

As  a  propos  of  hope  or  retrospection, 
As  though  the  kwkmg  thought  had  fclk>w»d  free. 

AE  present  fife  is  bat  an  interjection, 
A»  "Oh!"  or  -Ah!"  of  joy  or  Misery, 

Ora  «H»!ha!"«r  "Bah!"— *  yawn,  or  -Pooh!" 

Of  which  perhaps  tbe  biter  m  most  true. 


Jnat  watery  ounme  of  eternity, 
Or  miniature  at  least,  as  'a  my  notion, 

Which  ii  1  in  r  T  unto  the  souPs  defight, 

In  seeing  matters  which  are  out  of  sight. 

m. 

But  al  are  better  than  the  sigh  sopprest, 
CorrodEBg  m  the  cavern  of  tbe  heart, 
t  of  rest, 
an  art. 
Few  men  dare  show  their  thoughts  of  wont  or 

DnBawaiatton  always  sets  apart 
A  comer  far  herself;  and  therefore  fiction 
b  lhatwhk 


an  teEI  Or  rather,  who  can  not 

.without  teSng,  pasaon's  etron? 
Tbe  dniacr  of  ob-incm,  eren  the  sol, 

w»_  _•  -    «  i     _     i      "1       f        «-r_ 

ruin  got  Mae  oevits  lor  DH  laoinnig  •arron  : 
Wha*  though  on  Lethe's  stream  he  seen  to  float, 

UeeaoDot  silk  bk  tremors  or  bis  terrors; 
Therdbygbss  that  shakes  within  his  band, 
I  -oma  a  caJ  Kdunent  of  Tune's  worst  sand. 


¥. 


We  win  proceed. 


AM  as  fcr  We—  Oh,  Lore! 

the  Lady  AdeSne 
A  pretty  Bane  as  one  would  wish  to  read, 

Mast  perch  harmonicas  OB  siy  taaefai  qniL 
•Hwrr^i  mosic  in  the  sighiag  of  a  reed  ; 

Time's  music  in  the  gushing  of  a  riD  ; 
"here  s  »«hc  m  al  things,  if  men  bad  can: 
rWi:  «fcnv    s  hot  an  echo  of  I'JK 


VI. 


The  Li^r  Aoelii*,  riihi 

And  honoured,  ran  a  nsk  of  growing  less  so  ; 
For  few  of  the  soft  sex  are  very  stable 

In  their  resolves— alas !   that  I  should  say  M 
They  diner  as  wine  diners  from  its  label, 

When  once  decanted ;— I  presume  to  guess  so, 
Butwm  not  swear:  yet  both  upon  occasion, 
Til  aid,  may  undergo  adulteration. 

VTL 

But  Adeline  was  of  the  purest  vintage, 

-Tne  unmmgled  essence  of  tbe  grape ;   and  yet 
Bright  as  a  new  Napoleon  from  its  mintage, 

Or  glorious  as  a  diamond  richly  set; 
A  paee  where  Time  should  hesitate  to  print   «ge. 
And  fcr  which  Nature  might  forego  her  debt- 
Sole  creditor  whose  process  doth  involve  in  'l 
The  luck  of  finding  every  body  solvent. 

vra. 

Oh,  Death!  tboudunaest  ofal  duns!   taou  daily 
Knockest  al  doors,  at  first  with  modest  tap, 

Lite  a  meek  tradesman  when  approaching  palely 
Some  splendid  debtor  be  would  take  by  sap: 

But  oft  denied,  as  patience  'gins  to  (ail,  he 
Advances  with  exasperated  rap, 

And  (if  let  in)  insists,  in  terms  unhandsome, 

On  ready  money,  or  "  a  draft  on  Ransom. " 

IX. 

Whate'er  tbou  takes!,  spare  awhie  poor  Beauty! 

She  is  so  rare,  and  ihou  bast  so  much  prey. 
What  though  she  now'and  then  may  sop  from  duty, 

The  more  's  the  reason  why  you  ought  to  stay. 
Gaunt  Gourmand !  with  whole  nations  for  JIM:  boot* 

You  should  be  civil  in  a  modest  way  : 
Suppress  then  some  sSgbt  feminine  diseases, " 
And  lake  as  many  heroes  as  Heaven  pleases. 

X. 
Fair  Adeline,  the  more  ingenuous 

Where  she  was  interested  (as  was  said), 
Because  she  was  not  apt,  like  some  of  us, 

To  like  too  readily,  or  too   high  bred 
To  shun  A — pomts  we  need  not  now  UIHCUBI    > 

Would  give  up  artlessly  both  bean  and  head 
Unto  such  fe^fings  as  seem'd  innocent, 
For  objects  worthy  of  tbe  -»«*•..••« 

XI. 
Some  parts  of  Joan's  history,  which  rumour, 

That  five  gazette,  had  scauerM  to  disfigure, 
She  had  heard;  but  women  bear  with  more  good  bmmauY 

Such  aberrations  than  we  men  of  rigour. 
Besides  bis  conduct,  since  in  England,  grew  more 

Strict,  and  bis  mind  assumed  a  manlier  vigour; 
Because  he  had,  like  Alcmiades, 
The  art  of  firing  in  al  comes  with  ease. 

X1L 
His  manner  was  perhaps  the  more  seductive, 

Because  be  ne'er  seemed  anxious  to  seduce; 
Nothing  affected,  studied,  or  constructive 

Of  coxcombry  or  conquest :  no  abuse 
Of  bis  attractions  marr'd  the  (air  perspective, 

To  indicate  aCnpidon  broke  loose, 
And  seem  to  say,  a  resist  us  if  w«a  ear.  *"-— 
WWfa  «a»k«-t  a  dandy  while  it    mu  a  B-.*. 


xv. 


DON  JUAN. 


630 


XHL 

fltey  are  wrong — that 's  not  the  way  to  set  about  '*. ; 

As,  if  they  told  the  truth,  could  well  be  shown. 
But,  right  or  wrong,  Don  Juan  was  without  it ; 

In  fact,  his  manner  Iras  bis  own  alone: 
Sincere  be  was — at  least  you  could  not  doubt  it. 

In  listening  merely  to  his  voice's  tone. 
The  devil  hath  not  in  all  his  quiver's  choice 
An  arrow  far  the  heart  like  a  sweet  voice. 

XIV. 
By  aat  ore  soft,  his  whole  address  held  off 

Suspicion:   though  not  timid,  his  regard 
Was  such  as  rather  seem'd  to  keep  aloof; 

To  shield  himself,  than  put  yon  on  your  guard : 
Perhaps  't  was  hardly  quite  assured  enough, 

But  modesty's  at  times  Ms  own  reward, 
Like  virtue ;  and  the  absence  of  pretension 
Will  go  much  further  than  there's  need  to  mention. 

XV. 
Serene,  accompush'd,  cheerful,  but  not  loud; 

Insinuating  without  insmuation; 
Observant  of  the  foibles  of  the  crowd. 

Yet  ne'er  betraying  this  in  conversation  ; 
Proud  with  the  proud,  yet  courteotniy  proud. 

So  as  to  make  them  feel  be  knew  his  station 
And  theirs; — without  a  struggle  for  pitotity, 
Be  neither  brook'd  nor  daim'd  super iutity. 

XVL 

That  is,  with  men :  with  women,  he  was  what 
They  pleased  to  make  or  take  him  for;  and  their 

Imagination's  quite  enough  for  that: 
So  that  the  outline's  tolerably  fair, 

fhey  fill  the  canvas  up— and  "  verbum  sat," 
If  once  their  phantasies  be  brought  to  bear 

Upon  an  object,  whether  sad  or  playful. 

They  can  transfigure  brighter- than  a  Bapharl. 

xvn. 

AdeEn*,  no  deep  judge  of  character, 

Was  apt  to  sdd  a  colouring  from  her  own. 

Tis  thus  the  good  wiD  amiably  err, 

And  eke  the  wise,  as  has  been  often  shown. 

Experience  B  the  chief  philosopher, 

But  saddest  when  his  science  is  well  known: 

And  persecuted  sages  teach  the  schools 

Their  folly  in  forgetting  there  are  fools. 

XVIU. 
Was  it  not  so,  great  Locke?  and  greater  Bacon? 

Great  Socrates?  And  thou,  diviner  stifl,1 
Whose  lot  it  »  by  man  to  be  mtrtakfo, 

And  thy  pure  creed  made  sanction  of  all  3  ? 
Redeeming  worlds  to  be  by  bigots  shaken, 

How  was  thy  toil  rewarded?  We  might  fitt 
Volumes  with  similar  sad  illustrations, 
But  feave  them  to  the  conscience  of  the 


XX. 

I  don't  know  that  tfaere  may  be  much  ability 
Shown  in  this  son  of  desultory  rhyme ; 

But  there's  a  conversational  facility, 
Which  may  round  off  an  hour  upon  a  time. 

Of  this  I'm  sure  at  least,  there's  no  servility 
In  mine  irreguianty  of  f  himf, 

Which  rings  what 's  uppermost  of  new  or  hoary, 

Just  as  I  fed  the  tfusprowisatore.n 

XXL 

"Crania  vuk  btOe  Matho  dicere— die  afiquando 


XIX. 

,'  perch  upon  an  humbler  promontory, 

Amidst  life's  infinite  variety: 
With  no  great  care  for  what  is  nicknamed  glory. 

But  speculating  as  I  east  mine  eye 
On  what  may  suit  or  may  not  sin:  my  story, 

And  never  straining  hard  to  versify 

rattle  on  exact!*  as  I'd  talk 
With  any  body  in  a  ride  or  waft. 
9-2 


Et  bate,  die  «»fria«,  die  afiqn 


The  first  is  rather  more  than  mortal  can  do; 

The  second  may  be  sadly  done  or  gaily ; 
The  third  is  stiU  more  difficult  to  stand  to; 

The  fourth  we  bear,  and  see,  and  say  fax.  daily : 
The  whole  together  it  what  I  could  wish 
To  serve  in  this  conundtum  of  a  dish. 

XXIL 
A  modest  hope— bat  modesty 's  my  forte, 

And  pride  my  foible:— let  as  rambl    on. 
I  meant  to  make  this  poem  very  shor. 

Bat  now  I  can't  tefl  where  k  may  no*    xt. 
No  doubt,  if  I  had  wish'd  to  pay  my  court 

To  critics,  or  to  hail  the  ttttimg  son 
Of  tyranny  of  aO  lands,  my  concision 
Were  more ; — but  I  was  bora  for 


XXHL 

Bat  then  'tis  mostly  on  the  weaker  side: 

So  that  I  verily  believe  if  they 
Who  now  are  basking  in  their  full-blown  pride. 

Were  shaken  down, and  "dogs  had  had  their  dWj," 
Though  at  the  first  I  might  by  chance  deride 

Their  tumble,  I  should  turn  the  other  way, 
And  wax  an  uhra-royanst  in  loyalty, 
Because  I  hate  even  democratic  royalty. 

XXIV. 
I  think  I  should  have  made  a  decent  spouse, 

If  I  had  never  proved  the  soft  condiuon; 
I  think  I  should  have  made  monastic  vows, 

But  for  my  own  peculiar  superstition: 
'Gainst  rhyme  I  never  should  have  knoekM  my  brow*. 

Nor  broken  my  own  head,  nor  that  of  Priscian , 
Nor  worn  the  motley  mantle  of  a  poet, 
If  someone  had  not  told  me  to  forego  M. 

XXV. 
Bat  "bussex  aSer"— faughts  and  dames  I  sing, 

Such  as  the  times  may  furnish.     Tis  a  fight 
Which  seems  at  first  to  need  no  lofty  wing, 

Plumed  by  LongiBus  or  the  Stagjrite: 
The  difficulty  fie*  in  colouring 

(Keeping  the  due  proportions  stS  in  sight* 
With  nature  manners  which  are  artificial. 
And  rendering  general  that  which  is  especial  • 

XXVL 

The  difference  is,  that  in  the  days  of  old 

Men  made  the  manners  ;  manners  now  make  men 

Pmn'd  Eke  a  flock,  and  fleeced  too  in  their  fife. 
At  least  nine,  and  a  ninth  beside  often. 

Now  tlos  at  a3  events  most  reader  cold 
Tour  writers,  who  must  either  draw  again 

Days  better  drawn  before,  or  eke  assume 

The  present,  wah  their  cotomnnslace 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO 


xxvn. 

We  'ft  Jo  our  best  to  tnake  the  best  on  't : — March  ! 

March,  ny  Muse !  If  you  cannot  fly,  yet  flutter  ; 
And  wlien  you  may  not  be  sublime,  be  arch, 

Or  atarch,  as  are  the  edicts  statesmen  utter. 
We  surely  shall  find  something  worth  research  : 

Col'imbus  found  a  new  world  in  a  cutter, 
Or  brigantine,  or  pink,  of  no  great  tonnage, 
While  yet  America  was  in  her  non-age. 

XXVIII. 

When  Adeline,  in  all  her  growing  sense 

Of  Juan's  merits  and  his  situation, 
Felt  on  the  whole  an  interest  intense — 

Partly  perhaps  because  a  fresh  sensation, 
Or  that  he  had  an  air  of  innocence, 

Which  is  for  innocence  a  sad  temptation, — 
As  women  hate  half  measures,  on  the  whole, 
She  'gan  to  ponder  how  to  save  his  soul. 

XXIX. 

She  had  a  good  opinion  of  advice, 
Like  all  who  give  and  eke  receive  it  gratis, 

For  which  small  thanks  are  still  the  market  price, 
Even  where  the  article  at  highest  rate  is. 

She  thought  upon  the  subject  twice  or  thrice, 
And  morally  decided,  the  best  state  is, 

For  morals,  marriage ;    and,  this  question  carried, 

She  seriously  advised  him  to  get  married. 

XXX. 

luan  replied,  with  all  becoming  deference, 

He   lad  a  predilection  for  that  tie ; 
But  that  at  present,  with  immediate  reference 

To  his  own  circumstances,  there  might  lie 
Some  difficulties,  as  in  his  own  preference, 

Or  that  of  her  to  whom  he  might  apply  ; 
That  still  he'd  wed  with  such  or  such  a  lady, 
If  thit  they  were  not  married  all  already. 

XXXI. 

Next  to  the  making  matches  for  herself, 

And  daughters,  brothers,  sisters,  kith  or  kin, 
Arranging  them  like  books  on  the  same  shelf, 

There 's  nothing  women  love  to  dabble  in 
More  (like  a  stockholder  in  growing  pelf) 

Than  match-making  in  general :   't  is  no  sin 
(lertes,  but  a  preventalive,  and  therefore 
That  is,  no  doubt,  the  only  reason  wherefore. 

XXXII. 
Rut  never  yet  (except  of  course  a  miss 

Unwed,  or  mistress  never  to  be  wed, 
Or  wed  already,  who  object  to  this) 

Was  there  chaste  dame  who  had  not  in  her  head 
Some  drama  of  the  marriage  unities, 

Observed  as  strictly  both  at  board  and  bed, 
An  those  of  Aristotle,  though  sometimes 
They  turn  out  melodrames  or  pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 
They  generally  have  some  only  son, 

Seme  heir  to  a  larg'i  property,  some  friend 
O*  an  old  family,  some  gay  Sir  John, 

Or  grave  Lord  George,  with  whom  perhaps  might  end 
\   iinr.  and  leave  poste\  ity  undone, 

Unions  a  marriage  was  applied  to  mend 
Th«  prospect  and  their  mora' < :    and  besides, 
Thev  have  at  hand  a  blooming  glut  of  brides. 


XXXIV. 

From  these  they  will  be  careful  to  select, 

For  this  an  heiress,  and  for  that  a  beauty  ; 
For  one  a  songstress  who  hath  no  defect, 

For  t'  other  one  who  promises  much  duty ; 
For  this  a  lady  no  one  can  reject, 

Whose  sole  accomplishments  were  quite  a  booty 
A  second  for  her  excellent  connexions ; 
A  third,  because  there  can  be  no  objections. 

XXXV. 
When  Rapp  the  harmonist  embargo'd  marriage  3 

In  his  harmonious  settlement — (which  flourishes 
Strangely  enough  as  yet  without  miscarriage, 

Because  it  breeds  no  more  mouths  than  it  nourishes, 
Without  those  sad  expenses  which  disparage 

What  Nature  naturally  most  encourages) — 
Why  call'd  he  "Harmony"  a  state  sans  wedlock? 
Now  here  I  have  got  the  preacher  at  a  dead  lock. 

XXXVI. 
Because  he  cither  meant  to  sneer  at  harmony 

Or  marriage,  by  divorcing  them  thus  oddly. 
But  whether  reverend  Rapp  learn'd  this  in  Germany 

Or  no,  't  is  said  his  sect  is  rich  and  godly, 
Pious  and  pure,  beyond  what  I  can  term  any 

Of  ours,  although  they  propagate  more  broadly. 
My  objection 's  to  his  title,  not  his  ritual, 
Although  I  wonder  how  it  grew  habitual. 

XXXVII. 
But  Rapp  is  the  reverse  of  zealous  matrons, 

Who  favour,  malgre  Malthus,  generatun — 
Professors  of  that  genial  art,  and  patrons 

Of  all  the  modest  part  of  propagation, 
Which  after  all  at  such  a  desperate  rate  runs, 

That  half  its  produce  tends  to  emigration, 
That  sad  result  of  passions  and  potatoes- 
Two  weeds  which  pose  our  economic  Catos. 

XXXVIII. 
Had  Adeline  read  Malthus  ?   I  can't  tell ; 

I  wish  she  had:  his  book's  the  eleventh  commandmen'. 
Which  says,  "  thou  shall  not  marry  " — unless  wed  • 

This  he  (as  fa.r  as  I  can  understand)  meant : 
'Tis  not  my  purpose  on  his  views  to  dwell, 

Nor  canvass  what  "  so  eminent  a  hand  "  meant  ;J    * 
But  certes  it  conducts  to  lives  ascetic, 
Or  turning  marriage  into  arithmetic. 

XXXIX. 
But  Adeline,  who  probably  presumed 

That  Juan  had  enough  of  maintenance, 
Or  separate  maintenance,  in  case  't  was  doom'd — 

As  on  the  whole  it  is  an  even  chance 
That  bridegrooms,  after  they  are  fairly  groomed, 

May  retrograde  a  little  in  the  danoc 
Of  marriage — (which  might  form  a  painter's  fame, 
Like  Holbein's  "  Dance  of  Death" — but 't  is  the  same)' 

XL. 

But  Adeline  determined  Juan's  wedding, 
]      Jn  her  own  mind,  and  that 's  enough  for  woman. 
But  then,with  whom?  There  was  the  sage  Miss  Reading, 

Miss  Raw,  Miss  Flaw,  Miss  Showman,  anu  Mist 

Knowman, 
And  the  two  fair  co-heiressns  Giltbedding 

She  deem'd  his  merits  something  more  tha*  eommo»r 
All  these  were  unobjectionable  mat-hes, 
And  might  go  on,  if  well  wound  up,  like  watcnes. 


XV- 


DON  JUAN. 


691 


*  •".  XLI. 

There  was  Miss  Millpond,  smooth  as  summer's  sea, 

That  usual  paragon,  an  only  daughter 
Who  seem'd  the  cream  of  equanimity, 

Till  skimm'd — and  then  there  was  gome  milk  and 

water, 
With  a  slight  shade  of  Blue  too  it  might  be, 

Beneath  the  surface;  hut  what  did  it  matter? 
Love's  riotous,  but  marriage  should  have  quiet, 
And,  being  consumptive,  live  on  a  milk  diet, 

XLII. 
And  then  there  was  the  Miss  Audacia  Shoestring, 

A  dashing  demoiselle  of  good  estate, 
Whose  heart  was  fix'd  upon  a  star  of  bluestring; 

But  whether  English  dukes  grew  rare  of  late, 
Or  that  she  nad  not  harp'd  upon  the  'rue  string, 

By  which  such  sirens  can  attract  our  great, 
She  took  up  with  some  foreign  younger  brother, 
A  Russ  or  Turk — the  one  's  as  good  as  t'  other. 

XLIII. 

And  then  there  was — but  why  should  I  go  on, 

Unless  the  ladies  should  go  off? — there  was 
Indeed  a  certain  fair  and  fairy  one, 

Of  the  best  class,  and  better  than  her  class, — 
Aurora  Raby,  a  young  star  who  shone 

O'er  life,  too  sweet  an  image  for  such  glass, 
A  lovely  being,  scarcely  form'd  or  moulded, 
A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded ; 

XL1V. 
Rich,  noble,  but  an  orphan ;  left  an  only 

Child  to  the  care  of  guardians  good  and  kind; 
But  still  her  aspect  had  an  air  so  lonely! 

Blood  is  not  water;  and  where  shall  we  find 
Feelings  of  youth  like  those  which  overthrown  lie 

By  death,  when  we  are  left,  alas !  behind, 
To  fee!,  in  friendless  palaces,  a  home 
Is  wanting,  and  our  best  ties  in  the  tomb  ? 

XLV. 
Early  in  years,  and  yet  more  infantine 

In  figure,  she  had  something  of  sublime 
In  eyes  which  sadly  shone,  as  seraphs'  shine. 

All  youth — but  with  an  aspect  beyond  time ; 
Radiant  and  grave — as  pitying  man's  decline ; 

Mournful — but  mournful  of  another's  crime, 
She  look'd  as  if  she  sat  by  Eden's  door, 
And  grieved  for  those  who  could  return  no  more. 

XLVI. 
She  was  a  Catholic  too,  sincere,  austere, 

As  far  as  her  own  gentle  heart  allow'd, 
And  deern'd  that  fallen  worship  far  more  dear, 

Perhaps  because  't  was  fallen :  her  sires  were  proud 
Of  deeds  and  days  when  they  had  fill'd  the  ear 

Of  nations,  and  had  never  bent  or  bow'd 
To  novel  power ;  and  as  she  was  the  last, 
She  held  their  old  faith  and  old  feelings  fast. 

XLVII. 
She  gazed  upon  a  world  she  scarcely  knew, 

As  seeking  not  to  know  it ;  silent,  ux;e, 
As  gvows  a  flower,  thus  quietly  she  grew, 

And  kept   her  heart  serene  within  its  zone. 
1  nere  was  awe  in  the  homage  which  she  drew ; 

Her  spirit  seem'd  as  seated  on  a  throne 
Anart  from  the  surrounding  world,  and  strong 
l.i  it*  own  «.rengd most  strange  in  one  so  young. 


XLV1II. 

Now  it  so  hpppon'd,  in  the  catalogue 

Of  Adeline,  Aurora  was  omitted, 
Although  her  birth  and  wealth  had  given  her  vogti* 

Beyond  the  charmers  we  have  already  cited : 
Her  oeauty  also  seem'd  to  form  no  clog 

Against  her  being  mention'd  as  well  fitted 
By  many  virtues,  to  be  worth  the  trouble 
Of  single  gentlemen  who  would  be  double. 

XLIX. 

And   this  omission,  like  that  of  the  bust 
Of  Brutus  at  the  pageant  of  Tiberius, 

Made  Juan  wonder,  as  no  doubt  he  must. 

This  he  express'd  half  smiling  and  half  serious 

When  Adeline  replied  with  some  disgust, 

And  with  an  air,  to  say  the  least,  imperious, 

She  marvell'd  "  what  he  saw  in  such  a  baby 

As  that  prim,  silent,  cold  Aurora  Raby  ?" 

L. 

Juan  rejoin'd — "She  was  a  Catholic, 

And  therefore  fittest,  as  of  his  persuasion ; 

Since  he  was  sure  his  mother  would  fall  sick, 
And  the  Pope  thunder  excommunication, 

If "  But  here  Adeline,  who  seem'd  to  pique 

Herself  extremely  on  the  inoculation 

Of  others  with  her  own  opinions,  stated — 

As  usual — the  same  reason  which  she  late  dil. 

LI. 

And  wherefore  not  ?  A  reasonable  reason, 
If  good,  is  none  the  worse  for  repetition ; 

If  bad,  the  best  way  's  certainly  to  tease  on 
And  amplify:  you  lose  much  by  concision, 

Whereas  insisting  in  or  out  of  season 
Convinces  all  men,  even  a  politipian ; 

Or — what  is  just  the  same — it  wearies  out. 

So  the  end's  gain'd,  what  signifies  the  route? 

LH. 

Why  Adeline  had  this  slight  prejudice — 

For  prejudice  it  was— against  a  creature 
As  pure  as  sanctity  itself  from  vice, 

With  all  the  added  charm  of  form  and  feature, 
For  me  appears  a  question  far  too  nice, 

Since  Adeline  was  liberal   by  nature ; 
But  nature 's  nature,  and  has  more  caprices 
Than  I  have  time,  or  will,  to  take  to  pieces. 

LIII. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  like  the  quiet  way 

With  which  Aurora  on  those  baubles  look'd, 
Which  charm  most  people  in  their  earlier  day: 

For  there  are  few  things  by  mankind  less  brook  i 
And  womankind  too,  if  we  so  may  say, 

Than  finding  thus  their  genius  stand  rebuked, 
Like  "Antony's  by  Ca;sar,"  by  the  few 
Who  look  upon  them  as  they  ought  to  do. 

LIV. 
It  was  not  envy — Adeline  had  none  ; 

Her  place  was  far  beyond  it,  and  her  mind. 
It  was  not  scorn — which  could  not  light  on  on<» 

Whose  greatest  Jault  was  leaving  few  to  find, 
It  was  not  jealousy,  I  think:  but  shun 

Following  the  "ignes  fatui"  of  mankind, 

It  was  not but  ';  is  easier  far,  alas  ' 

To  sav  what  it  was  not,  th»n  what  it  wat. 


G92 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XV 


LV. 

Little  Aurora  deem'd  she  was  the  theme 
Of  such  discussion.     She  was  there  a  guest, 

A  beauteous  ripple  of  the  brilliant  stream 

Of  rank  and  youth,  though  purer  than  the  rest, 

Which  flow'd  on  for  a  niouiei  t  in  the  beam 
Time  sheds  a  moment  o'er  each  sparkling  crest. 

Had  she  known  this,  she  would  have  calmly  smiled — 

She  had  so  much,  or  little,  of  the  child. 

LVI. 

Tho  dashing  and  proud  air  of  Adeline 

Imposed  not  upon  her :  she  saw  her  blaze 
Much  as  she  would  have  seen  a  glow-worm  shine, 

Then  turn'd  unto  the  stars  for  loftier  rays. 
Juan  was  something  she  could  not  divine, 

Being  no  sibyl  in  the  new  world's  ways ; 
Yet  she  was  nothing  dazzled  by  the  meteor, 
Because  she  did  not  pin  her  faith  on  feature. 

LVII. 
His  fame  too, — for  he  had  that  kind  of  fame 

Which  sometimes  plays  the  deuce  with  womankind, 
A  heterogeneous  mass  of  glorious  blame, 

Half  virtues  and  whole  vices  being  combined  j 
Faults  which  attract  because  they  are  not  tame ; 

Follies  trick'd  out  so  brightly  that  they  blind  :— 
These  seals  upon  her  wax  made  no  impression, 
Sucli  was  her  coldness  or  her  self-possession. 

LVIII. 
Juan  knew  nought   of  such  a  character — 

High,  yet  resembling  not  his  lost  Haidee ; 
Yet  each  was  radiant  in  her  proper  sphere: 

The  island  girl,  bred  up  by  the  lone  sea, 
More  warm,  as  lovely,  and  not  less  sincere, 

Was  nature's  all :  Aurora  could  not  be 
Nor  would  be  thus ; — the  difference  in  them 
Was  such  as  lies  between  a  flower  and  gem. 

LIX. 
Having  wound  up  with  this  sublime  comparison, 

Methinks  we  may  proceed  upon  our  narrative, 
And,  as  my  friend  Scott  says,  "I  sound  my  Warison  ;" 

Scott,  the  superlative  of  my  comparative — 
Scott,  who  can  paint  your  Christian  knight  or  Saracen, 

Serf,  lord,  man,  with  such  skill  as  none  would  share 

it,  if 

fhere  had  not  been  one  Shakspeare  and  Voltaire, 
Of  one  or  both  of  whom  he  seems  the  heir. 

LX. 
1  gay,  in  my  slight  way  I  may  proceed 

To  play  upon  the  surface  of  humanity. 
1  write  the  world,  nor  care  if  the  world  read, 

At  least  for  this  I  cannot  spare  its  vanity. 
My  Muse  hath  bred,  and  still  perhaps  may  breed 

More  foes  by  this  same  scroll :  when  I  began  it,  I 
Thought  that  it  might  turn  out  so — now  I  know  it, 
But  still  I  am,  or  was,  a  pretty  poet. 

LXI. 
The  conference  or  congress  (for  it  ended 

A»  jongresses  of  late  do)   of  the  Lady 
A^euae  and  Don  Juan  rather  blended 

Some  acias  with  '.he  sweats — for  she  was  heady ; 
But.  w;  tne  matter  coihu  DC  marr'd  or  mended, 

plh«  silf cry  bell  rung,  not  for  "dinner  reruly," 
But  for  that  hour,  call'd  hiUf-hour,  given  to  dress, 
Though  l.idies'  rolip«  seem  scant  enough  for  less. 


LXII. 

Great  things  were  now  to  be  achieved  at  table, 
With  massy  plate  for  armour,  knives  and  forki 

For  weapons  ;   but  what  Muse  since  Homer 's  able 
(His  feasts  are  not  the  worst  part  of  his  worki) 

To  draw  up  in  array  a  single  day-bill 

Of  modern  dinners?  where  more  mystery  lurks 

In  soups  or  sauces,  or  a  sole  ragout, 

Than  witches,  b-ches,  or  physicians  brew. 

LXIII. 

There  was  a  goodly  "soupe  k  la  bonne  femme," 

Though  God  knows  whence  it  came  from;  there  was  «o» 
A  turbot  for  relief  of  those  who  cram, 

Relieved  with  dindon  k  la  Perigueux ; 
There  also  was the  sinner  that  I  am ! 

How  shall  I  get  (his  gourmand  stanza  through? 
Soupe  h  la  Beauveau,  whose  relief  was  dory, 
Relieved  itself  by  pork,  for  greater  glory. 

LXIV. 
But  I  must  crowd  all  into  one  grand  mess 

Or  mass ;  for  should  I  stretch  into  detail, 
My  Muse  would  run  :nuch  more  into  excess, 

Than  when  some  squeamish  people  deem  her  frax. 
But,  though  a  "  bonne  vivanie,"  I  must  confess 

Her  stomach 's  not  her  peccant  part :   this  tale 
However  doth  require  some   slight  refection, 
Just  to  relieve  her  spirits  from  dejection. 

LXV. 
Fowls  h.  la  Conde,  slices  eke  of  salmon, 

With  sauces  Genevoise,  and  haunch  of  venison  ; 
Wines  too  which  might  again  have  slain  young  Ammon, 

A  man  like  whom  I  hope  we  sha'n't  see  many  soon; 
They  also  set  a  glazed  Westphahan   ham  on, 

Whereon  Apicius  would  bestow  his  benison  ; 
And  then  there  was  champagne  with  foaming  whirls, 
As  white  as  Cleopatra's  melted    pearls. 

LXVI. 
Then  there  was  God  knows  what  "h  1'AIlemande," 

"  A  1'Espagnole,"  "limballe,"  and  "  Salpicon"— 
With  things  I  can't  withstand  or  understand, 

Though  swallow'd  with  much  /rst  upon  the  whole  ; 
And  "entremels"  to  piddle  with  at  hand, 

Gently  to  lull  down  the  subsiding  soul ; 
While  great  Lucullus'  robe  triomphale  muffles 
(There's  fame) — young  partridge  fillets,  deck'd  with 
truffles.* 

LXVH. 

What  are  the  Jillets  on  the  victor's  brow 

To  these  ?  They  are  rags  or  dust.  Where  is  the  arch 
Which  nodded  to  the   nation's  spoils  below  ? 

Where  the  triumphal  chariot's  haughty  march? 
Gono  to  where  victories  must  like  dinners  go. 

Further  I  shall  not  follow  the  research  • 
But  oh  !   ye  modern  heroes  with  your  cartridges, 
When  will  your  names  Ic-nd  lustre  even  *o  parlridget  1 

LXVIH. 
Those  truffles  too  are  no  bad  accessaries, 

Follow'd  by  "  petits  puils  d'ainour," — a  dish 
Of  which  perhaps  the  cookery  rather  varies, 

So  every  one  may  dress  it  to  his  wich, 
According  to  the  !»est  of  dictionaries, 

Which  encyclof>aedise  both  flesh  end  fiah : 
But  even  sans  "confitures,"'  it  i">  •<«»  true  is, 
There's  pretty  picking  in  those  "^c.-«*»  pait»."* 


CArtTO  XV. 


DON  JUAN. 


693 


LXIX. 

The  mind  is  lost  in  mighty  contemplation 
Of  intellect  expended  on  two  courses  ; 

And  indigestion's  grand  multiplication 
Requires  arithmetic  beyond  my  forces. 

Who  would  suppose,  from  Adam's  simple  ration, 
That  cookery  could  have  call'd  forth  such  resources, 

As  form  a  science  and  a  nomenclature 

From  out  the  commonest  demands  of  nature  ? 

LXX. 

The  glasses  jingled,  and  the  palates  tingled ; 

The  diners  of  celebrity  dined  well ; 
The  ladies  with  more  moderation  mingled 

In  the  feast,  pecking  less  than  I  can  tell ; 
Also  the  younger  men  too;    for  a  springald 

Can't  like  ripe  age  in  gourmandise  excel, 
But  thinks  less  of  good  eating  than  the  whisper 
(When  seated  next  him)  of  some  pretty  lisper. 

LXXI. 
Alas  !    I  must  leave  undes  cribed  the  gibier, 

The  salmi,  the  consommee,  the  puree, 
All  which  I  use  to  make  my  rhymes  run  glibber 

Than  could  roast  beef  in  our  rough  John  Bull  way : 
I  must  not  introduce  even  a  spare  rib  here, 

"Bubble  and  squeak"  would  spoil  my  liquid  lay; 
But  I  have  dined,  and  must  forego,  alas ! 
The  chaste  description  even  of  a  "  becasse," 

LXXI. 

And  fruits,  and  ice,  and  all  that  art  refines 
From  nature  for  the  service  of  the  gout, — 

Twite  or  the  gout, — pronounce  it  as  inclines 
Your  stomach.     Ere  you  dine,  the  French  will  do ; 

But  after,  there  are  sometimes  certain  signs 
Which  prove  plain  English  truer  of  the  two. 

4ast  ever  had  the  gout  ?  I  have  not  had  it — 

But  I  may  have,  and  you  too,  reader,  dread  it. 

LXXIII. 

The  simple  olives,  best  allies  of  wine, 

Must  I  pass  over  in  my  bill  of  fare  ? 
I  must,  although  a  favourite  "plat"  of  mine 

In  Spain,  and  Lucca,  Athens,  every  where: 
On  them  and  bread  't  was  oft  my  luck  to  dine, 

The  grass  my  table-cloth,  in  open  air, 
On  Sunium  or  Hymettus,  like  Diogenes, 
Of  whom  half  my  philosophy  the  progeny  is. 

LXXIV. 
Amidst  this  tumult  of  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl, 

And  vegetables,  all  in  masquerade, 
The  guests  were  placed  according  to  their  roll, 

But  various  as  the  various  meats  display'd: 
L  on  Juan  sate  next  an  "  a  1'Espagnole  " — 

No  damsel,  but  a  dish,  as  hath  been  said ; 
But  so  far  like  a  lady,  that  't  was  drest 
Superbly,  and  contain'd  a  world  of  zest. 

LXXV. 
By  some  odd  chance  too  he  was  placed  between 

Amora  and  the  Lady  Adeline — 
A  situation  difficult,  I  ween, 

For  man  therein,  with  eyes  and  heart,  to  dine. 
A.so  the  conference  which  we  have  seen 

Was  not  such  as  to  encourage  him  to  shine  ; 
For  Adeline,  addressing  few  words  to  him, 
With  two  transcendent  eyes  seem'd  to  look  through  him. 
3M 


LXXVI. 

I  sometimes  almost  think  that  eyes  have  ears 
This  much  is  sure,  that,  out  of  ear-shot,  things 

Are  somehow  echoed  to  the  pretty  dears, 

Of  which  I  can't  tell  whence  their  knowledge  spring*. 

Like  that  same  mystic  music  of  the  spheres, 
Which  no  one  hears  so  loudly  though  it  rings 

'T  is  wonderful  how  oft  the  sex  have  heard 

Long  dialogues  which  pass'd  without  a  word  ! 

LXXVII. 

Aurora  sat  with  that  indifference 

Which  piques  a  preux  chevalier — as  it  ought : 
Of  all  offences  that 's  the  worst  offence, 

Which  seems  to  hint  you  are  not  worth  a  thought. 
Now  Juan,  though  no  coxcomb  in  pretence, 

Was  not  exactly  pleased  to  be  so  caught  • 
Like  a  good  ship  entangled  among  ice, 
And  after  so  much  excellent  advice. 

LXXVIII. 

To  his  gay  nothings,  nothing  was  replied, 
Or  something  which  was  nothing,  as  urbanity 

Required.     Aurora  scarcely  look'd  aside, 
Nor  even  smiled  enough  for  any  vanity. 

The  devil  was  in  the  girl !  Could  it  be  pride, 
Or  modesty,  or  absence,  or  inani'.y  ? 

Heaven  knows !    But  Adeline's  malicious  eyes 

Sparkled  with  her  successful  prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And  look'd  as  much  as  if  to  say,  **  I  said  it ;"— • 
A  kind  of  triumph  I  '11  not  recommend, 

Because  it  sometimes,  as  I  've  seen  or  read  it, 
Both  in  the  case  of  lover  and  of  friend, 

Will  pique  a  gentleman,   for  his  own  credit, 
To  bring  what  was  z.  jest  to  a  serious  end ; 

For  all  men  prophesy  what  is  or  was, 

And  hate  those  who  won't  let  them  come  to  past. 

LXXX. 

Juan  was  drawn  thus  into  some  attentions, 

Slight  but  select,  and  just  enough  to  express 
To  females  of  perspicuous  comprehensions, 

That  he  would  rather  make  them  more  than  less. 
Aurora  at  the  last  (so  history  mentions, 

Though  probably  much  less  a  fact  than  guess  ^ 
So  fa  relax'd  her  thoughts  from  their  sweet  prison, 
As  once  or  twice  to  smile,  if  not  to  listen. 

.      LXXXI. 
From  answering,  she  began  to  question :   thi» 

With  her  was  rare  ;  and  Adeline,  who  as  yet 
Thought  her  predictions  went  not  much  amiss, 

Began  to  dread  she  'd  thaw  to  a  coquette — 
So  very  difficult,  they  say,  it  is 

To  keep  extremes  from  meeting,  when  once  sw 
In  motion ;  but  she  here  too  much  refined — 
Aurora's  spirit  was  not  of  that  kind. 

LXXXII. 
But  Juan  had  a  sort  of  winning  way, 

A  proud  humility,  if  such  there  be, 
Which  show'd  such  deference  to  what  females  sa> 

As  if  each  charming  word  were  a  decree. 
His  tact  too  temper'd  him  from  grave  to  gay, 

And  taught  him  when  to  be  reserved  or  free: 
He  had  the  art  of  drawing  people  out, 
Without  their  seeing  what  he  was  about 


694 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


cj.vi  o  xt: 


LXXXIII. 

Aurora,  who  in  her  indifference 

Confounded  him  in  common  with  the  crowd 
(If  flatterers,  though  she  deem'd  he  had  more  sense 

Than  whispering  foplings,  or  than  wn.ings  .oud, — 
Commenced  (from  such  slight  things  wHl  great  com- 
mence) 

To  feel  that  flattery  which  attracts  the  proud 
Rather  by  deference  than  compliment, 
And  wins  even  by  a  delicate  dissent. 

LXXXIV. 
And  then  he  had  good  looks  ; — that  point  was  carried 

ffem,  con.  amongst  the  women,  which   I  grieve 
To  sav,  leads  oft  to  crim.   con.  with  the  married— 

A  case  which  to  the  juries  we  may  leave, 
Since  with  digressions  we  too  long  have  tarried. 

Now  though  we  know  of  old  that  looks  deceive, 
And  always  have  done,  somehow  these  good  looks 
Make  more  impression  than  the  best  of  books. 

LXXXV. 
Aurora,  who  look'd  more  on  books  than  faces, 

Was  very  young,  although  so  very  sage, 
Admiring  more  Minerva  than  the  Graces, 

Especially  upon  a  printed  page. 
But  virtue's  self,  with  all  her  tightest  laces, 

Has  not  the  natural  stays  of  strict  old  age ; 
And  Socrates,  that  model  of  all  duty, 
Own'd  to  a  penchant,  though  discreet,  for  beauty. 

LXXXVI. 
And  girls  of  sixteen  are  thus  far  Socratic, 

But  innocently  so,  as  Socrates  : 
And  really,  if  the  sage  sublime  and  Attic 

At  seventy  years  had  phantasies  like  these, 
Which  Plato  in  his  dialogues  dramatic 

Has  shown,  I  know  not  why  they  should  displease 
In  virgins — always  in  a  modest  way, 
Observe  ;    for  that  with  me  's  a  "  sine  qua."' 

LXXXVII. 
Also  observe,  that  like  the  great  Lord  Coke, 

(See  Littleton)  whene'er  I  have  express'd 
Opinions  two,  which  at  first  sight  may  look 

Twin  opposites,  the  second  is  the  best. 
Perhaps  I  have  a  third  too  in  a  nook, 

Or  none  at  all — which  seems  a  sorry  jest ; 
But  if  a  writer  should  be  quite  consistent, 
How  could  he   possibly  show  things  existent  ? 

LXXXVIH. 
If  people  contradict  themselves,  can  I 

Help  contradicting  them,  and  every  body, 
Even  my  veracious  self? — but  that 's  a  lie ; 

I  never  did  so,  never  will — how  should  I  ? 
He  who  doubts  all  things,  nothing  can  deny ; 

Truth's  fountains  may  be  clear — her  streams  are 

muddy, 

And  cut  through  such  canals  of  contradiction, 
That  she  must  often  navigate  o'er  fiction. 

LXXXIX. 
Apologue,  fable,  poesy,  and  parable, 

Are  false,  but  may  be  render'd  also  true 
Bv  those  w  no  sow  them  in  a  land  that 's  arable. 

T  is  wonderful  what  fable  will  not  do  ! 
*T  is  said  it  makes  reality  more  bearable  : 

B  A  what 's  reality  ?  Who  has  its  clue  ? 
Philosophy  ?  No ;  she  too  much  rejects. 
Religion?    1><  •   but  which  of  all  her  sects/ 


XC. 

Some  millions  must  be  wrong,  that 's  pretty  cleat 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  that  all  were  right. 

God  help  us  !    Since  we  've  need  on  our  career 
To  keep  our  no.y  beacons  aiways  oright, 

'T  is  time  that  some  new  prophet  should  appea 
Or  old  indulge  man  with  a  second-sight. 

Opinions  wear  out  in  some  thousand  years, 

Without  a  small  refreshment  from  the  sphere* 

XCI. 

But  here  again,  why  will  I  thus  entangle 
Myself  with  metaphysics?   None  can  hate 

So  much  as  I  do  any  kind  of  wrangle  ; 
And  yet  such  is  my  folly,  or  my  fate, 

I  always  knock  my  head  against  some  angle 
About  the  present,  past,  and  future  state  ; 

Yet  I  wish  well  to  Trojan  and  to  Tyrian, 

For  I  was  bred  a  moderate  Presbyterian. 

XCII. 

But  though  I  am  a  temperate  theologian, 

And  also  meek  as  a  metaphysician, 
Impartial  between  Tyrian  and  Trojan, 

As  Eldon  on  a  lunatic  commission, — 
In  politics,  my  duty  is  to  show  John 

Bull  something  of  the  lower  world's  condition. 
It  makes  my  blood  boil  like  the  springs  of  Hec'.a, 
To  see  men  let  these  scoundrel  sovereigns  break  law. 

XCIII. 
But  politics,  and  policy,  and  piety, 

Are  topics  which  I  sometimes  introduce, 
Not  only  for  the  sake  of  their  variety, 

But  as  subservient  to  a  moral  use ; 
Because  my  business  is  to  dress  society, 

And  stuff  with  sage  that  very  verdant  goose. 
And  now,  that  we  may  furnish  with  some  matter  all 
Tastes,  we  are  going  to  try  the  supernatural. 

XCIV. 

And  now  I  will  give  up  all  argument : 
And  positively  henceforth  no  tempation 

Shall  "  fool  me  to  the  top  up  of  my  bent  ;* 
Yes,  I'll  begin  a  thorough  reformation. 

Indeed  I  never  knew  wfiat  people  meant 
By  deeming  that  my  Muse's  conversation 

Was  dangerous ; — I  think  she  is  as  harmlws 

As  some  who  labour  more  and  yet  may  charm  less, 

xcv. 

Grim  reader !   did  you  ever  see  a  ghost  ? 

No;   but  you've  heard — I  understand — be  dumb 
And  don't  regret  the  time  you  may  have  lost, 

For  you  have  got  that  pleasure  still  to  come : 
And  do  not  think  I  mean  to  sneer  at  most 

Of  these  things,  or  by  ridicule  benumb 
That  source  of  the  sublime  and  the  mysterious:— 
For  certain  reasons  my  belief  is  serious. 

XCVI. 

Serious  ?  You  laugh : — you  may ;  that  will  I  no»  ; 

My  smiles  must  be  sincere  or  not  at  all. 
I  say  I  do  believe  a  haunted  spot 

F.xists — and  where?  That  shall  I  noi  recaL, 
Because  I'd  rather  it  should  be  {or got. 

1  Shadows  the  soul  of  Richard '    may  appal : 
In  short,  upon  that  subject  I  've  SOTIB  qualms,  v»ry 
Like  those  of  th?  philosopher  o*  M»lrtsburv.' 


I7AXTO  XVI. 


DON  JUAN. 


69c 


XCVII. 

The  night  (I  sing  by  night — sometimes  an  owl, 
And  now  and  then  a  nightingale) — is  dim, 

And  the  loud  shriek  of  sage  Minerva's  fowl 
Rattle's  around  me  her  discordant  hymn : 

Old  portraits  from  old  walls  upon  me  scowl— 
I  wish  to  heaven  they  would  not  look  so  grim ; 

The  dying  embers  dwindle  in  the  grate — 

I  think  too  that  1  have  sate  up  too  late: 

XCVIH. 

And  therefore,  though  't  is  by  no  means  my  way 
To  rhyme  at  noon — when  I  have  other  things 

To  think  of,  if  I  ever  think, — I  say 

I  feel  some  chilly  midnight  shudderings, 

And  prudently  postpone,  until  mid-day, 
Treating  a  topic  which,  alas !  but  brings 

Shadows  ; — but  you  must  be  in  my  condition 

Before  you  learn  to  call  this  superstition. 

XCIX. 

Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a  star, 
'Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge : 

How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are ! 

How  less  what  we  may  be  !  The  eternal  surge 

Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on,  and  bears  afar 
Our  bubbles  ;   as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 

Lash'd  from  the  foam  of  ages  ;  while  the  graves 

Of  empires  heave  but  like  some  passing  waves. 


CANTO  XVI. 


i. 

THE  antique  Persians  taught  three  useful  things, — 

To  draw  the  bow,  to  ride,  and  speak  the  truth. 
This  was  the  mode  of  Cyrus — best  of  kings — 

A  mode  adopted  since  by  modern  youth. 
Bows  have  they,  generally  with  two  strings ; 

Horses  they  ride  without  remorse  or  ruth ; 
At  speaking  truth  perhaps  they  are  less  clever, 
But  draw  the  long  bow  oetter  now  than  ever. 

II. 
The  cause  of  this  effect,  or  this  defect, 

"  For  this  effect  defective  comes  by  cause,"— 
Is  what  I  have  not  leisure  to  inspect ; 

But  this  I  must  say  in  my  own  applause, 
Of  all  the  Muses  that  I  recollect, 

Whate'er  may  be  her  follies  or  her  flaws 
In  some  things,  mine  's  beyond  all  contradictio  i 
The  most  sincere  that  ever  dealt  in  fiction. 

III. 
And  as  she  treats  all  things,  and  ne'er  retreats 

From  any  tning,  this   Epic  will  contain 
A  wilderness  of  the  most  rare  conreits, 

Which  you  might  elsewhere  hope  to  find  in  vain 
Tis  true  thrre  be  some  bitters  with  the  sv/eets, 

Yet   niira  so  slightly  that  you  can't  complain, 
But  vender  they  so  few  are,  since  my  tale  is 
KDe  rtbus  cunctis  et  ouibusjam  ali;s." 


IV. 


But  of  all  truths  which  she  has  told,  the  most 
True  is  that  which  she  ip  aboui  to  tell. 

I  said  it  was  a  story  of  a  ghost — 
What  then  ?  I  only  know  it  so  befell. 

Have  you  explored  the  limits  of  the  coast 

Where  all  the  dwellers  of  the  earth  must  dweJ  I 

'T  is  time  to  strike  such  puny  doubters  dumb  a* 

The  sceptics  who  would  not  believe  Columbus. 

V. 

Some  people  would  impose  now  with  authority, 
Turpin's  or  Monmouth  GeofTry's  Chronicle  ; 

Men  whose  historical  superiority 
Is  always  greatest  at  a  miracle. 

But  Saint  Augustine  has  the  great  priority, 
Who  bids  all  men  believe  the  impossible, 

Because  V  is  go.     Who  nibble,  scribble,  quibble,  he 

Quiets  at  once  with  "quia  impossible." 

VI. 

And  therefore,  mortals,  cavil  not  at  all ; 

Believe: — if 'tis  improbable  you  must; 
And  if  it  is  impossible,  you  shall: 

'Tis  always  best  to  take  things  upon  trust. 
I  do  not  speak  profanely  to  recall 

Those  holier  mysteries,  which  the  wise  and  jusi 
Receive  as  gospel,  and  which  grow  more  rooted, 
As  all  truths  must,  the  more  they  are  disputed. 

VII.' 

I  merely  mean  to  say  what  Johnson  said, 

That  in  the  course  of  some  six  thousand  years, 

All  nations  have  believed  that  from  the  dead 
A  visitant  at   intervals  appears  ; 

And  what  is   strangest  upon  this  strange  head, 
Is  that  whatever  bar  the  reason  rears 

'Gainst  such  belief,  there's  something  stronger  sti* 

In  its  behalf,  let  those  deny  who  will. 

VIII. 
The  dinner  and  the  soiree  too  were  done, 

The  supper  too  discuss'd,  the  dames  admired, 
The  banqueters  had  dropp'd  off"  one  by  one — 

The  song  was  silent,  and  the  dance  expired : 
The  last  thin  petticoats  were  vanish'd,  gone, 

Like  fleecy  clouds  into  the  sky  retired, 
And  nothing  brighter  gleam'd  through  the  saloor 
Than  dying  tapers — and  the  peeping  moon. 

IX. 
The  evaporation  of  a  joyous  day 

Is  like  the  last  glass  of  champagne,  without 
The  foam  which  made  its  virgin   bumper  gay ; 

Or  like  a  system  coupled  with  a  doubt; 
Or  like  a  soda-bottle,  when  its  spray 

Has  sparkled  and  let  half  its  spirit  out  ; 
Or  like  a  billow  left  by  storms  behind, 
Without  the  animation  of  the  wind ; 

X. 
Or  like  an  opiate  which  brings  troubled  resi, 

Or  none ;  or  like — like  nothing  that  I  knvw 
Except  itself; — such  is   the  human  breast; 

A  thing,  of  which  similitudes  can  show 
No  real  likeness, — like  the  oia  Tyrian  verf 

Dyed  purple,  none  at  present   can  tell  hoy 
If  from  a  shell-fish  or  from  cocnineal. ' 
So  perish  every  tyrant's  -obe  piecemeal ' 


fVP.ON'S 


XT  IT.. 


F:r 


or 

:   R:U^ 

•   7 
A   :unn 


M 
:'  •    i 

lm 

f  M 
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C>:.:^.  r»-,r^  ti 
Or 


7: 


t,TT,«.. 


,:r:r. 


CANTO  A 17. 


wax  JUAX. 


xxv. 


il  •-.-.,:   i^,: 
•  i*  \ 
fe  fcaalr  ahpanaa  ha4 


~.f    '  L-  **   *.;i    fr-*r  r*-*-- 


MRt 

AI  ihmvw  M  W  kft  it; 
•ml,  awi  wx  «fae,  M  •o 


de  Ae  k«e 


Be  riot  hie  Aw,  aW  afar  knriaf  raad 


Wki  »!ni  be  '4  **•  hi*  |inl  ij  he  U, 


fTpa.  beai  hyde^w*,  aae  a.  ha  at 

xxnn. 

ile«dhe  liilaa..;  aa4,  as  aorhe 


4ad  vhdher  it  aa^at  aot  •»  he 
At  ri 


Li   .:-   -. 
fTacpcal, 

Kixx":  v: 


XX^L 


T: 


'•-•• 


•^; 


He 
tic 
HaJ  it  aat 


hat  ta>  he, 

aaa»  hia  a 


Ta*  artt-hataoaal  ahe  caaU  aatvel 


Haary 


*«•  ^"i* 

ha*«ia\  a.  hiad  dT 

^  K  2  <- 


*  <>aBe  ««•;  50,  HL* — Taeae  i 


ear*  *•» 
avafaUU 
afaaaiioi 

T«g^*  —  hit  »—,  Aaaijh  hya. 

Bat  far  *a  Mat,  aa  he  hi 
To  aMe  *e  eaae,  it  aright  I 

lr**»  aat  riae  ahfakiaa  *at  he 


Sa^Jnai  kU  nt  f«  ta, 
Ai.lnrx  he  anncM,  aan  it  ha*  aatnavli; 
aaVJhery  mm  afcgl  •«••  •»  af)*eaVJaeafiaitf 

••B^^J       JLw    ^f^tfW  Vl^fE    IM^Mr    aUaWad 

xxzr. 

Huaij  Banna  *•  Jvaa*  aari  aaVhcarV 

Taai  1-4,' o»A  he,  -a.  r  yam'J  b«l  ^aaritai 
B^fe,^.^: 

-What  Siarl-  •aiJaoai; 

TW  pat  *e  ^anaane  «q& 
Or. 

T: 


JJLX.IL 


-fTdIl,a»  i  !•..  \«as  a*  laac  aap 


098 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  Xl"l 


XXXIX. 

"  But  add  I  he  words,"  cried  Henry,  "  which  you  made, 

For  Adeline  is  half  a  poetess," 
1  timing  round  to  the  rest,  he  smiling  said. 

Of  course  the  others  could  not  but  express 
In  courtesy  their  wish  to  see  display'd 

By  one  three  talents,  for  there  were  no  less — 
The  voice,  tho  words,  the  harper's  skill,  at  once 
Could  hardly  be  united  by  a  dunce. 

XL. 

After  some  fascinating  hesitation, — 

The  charming  of  these  charmers,  who  seem  bound, 
I  can't  tell  why,  to  this  dissimulation — 

Fair  Adeline,  with  eyes  fix'd  on  the  ground 
At  first,  then  kindling  into  animation, 

Added  her  sweet  voice  to  the  lyric  sound, 
And  sang  with  much  simplicity, — a  merit 
Not  the  less  precious,  that  we  seldom  hear  it. 

1. 

Beware !  beware  !   of  the  Black  Friar, 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  slone, 
For  he  mutters  his  prayer  in  the  midnight  air, 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 
When  the  Lord  of  the  Hill,  Amundeville, 

Made  Norman  Church  his  prey, 
And  expell'd  the  friars,  one  friar  still 

•Would  not  be  driven  away. 

2. 

Though  he  came  in  his  might,  with  King  Henry's  right, 

To  turn  church  lands  to  lay, 
With  sword  in  hand,  and  torch  to  light 

Their  walls,  if  they  said  nay, 
A  monk  remain'd,  unchased,  unchain'd, 

And  he  did  not  seem  form'd  of  clay, 
For  he  's  seen  in  the  porch,  and  he 's  seen  in  the  church, 

Though  he  is  not  seen  by  day. 

3. 
And  whether  fcr  good,  or  whether  for  ill, 

It  is  not  mine  to  say ; 
But  still  to  the  house  of  Amundeville, 

He  abideth  night  and  day. 
By  the  marriage-bed  of  their  lords,  't  is  said, 

He  flits  on  the  bridal  eve; 
And  't  is  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  death 

He  comes — but  not  to  grieve. 

4. 
When  an  heir  is  born,  he  is  heard  to  mourn, 

And  when  aught  is  to  befall 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 

He  waUs  from  hall  to  hall. 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

'T  is  shadow'd  by  his  cowl ; 
tiM  his  eyes  may  be  seen  from  the  folds  between, 

And  they  seem  of  a  parted  soul. 

5. 
Hut  ocware !   beware  of  the  Black  Friar, 

Ha  still  retains  his  sway, 
Kor  he  is  yet  the  church's  heir, 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay. 
Amunaeville  is  lord  by  day, 

But  the  monk  is  lord  by  night, 
Nor  wine  not  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal 

To  question  that  friar's  right. 


6. 
Say  nought  to  him  as  he  walks  the  hall, 

And  he  '11  say  nought  to  you : 
He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall, 

As  o'er  the  grass  the  dew. 
Then  gramercy  !   for  the  Black  Friar ; 

Heaven  sain  him !   fair  or  foul, 
And  whatsoe'er  may  be  his  prayer, 

Let  ours  be  for  his  soul. 

XLI. 

The  lady's  voice  ceased,  and  the  thrilling  wires 
Died  from  the  touch  that  kindled  them  to  sound, 

And  the  pause  follow'd,  which,  when  song  expires. 
Pervades  a  moment  those  who  listen  round ; 

And  then  of  course  the  circle  much  admires, 
Nor  less  applauds,  as  in  politeness  bound, 

The  tones,  the  feeling,  and  the  execution, 

To  the  performer's  diffident  confusion. 

XLII. 

Fair  Adeline,  though  in  a  careless  way, 
As  if  she  rated  such  accomplishment 

As  the  mere  pastime  of  an  idle  day, 
Pursued  an  instant  for  her  own  content, 

Would  now  and  then  as  't  were  without  display, 
Yet  with  display  in  fact,  at  times  relent 

To  such  performances  with  haughty  smile, 

To  show  she  could,  if  it  were  worth  her  while. 

XLIII. 

Now  this  (but  we  will  whisper  it  aside) 
Was — pardon  the  pedantic  illustration — 

Trampling  on  Plato's  pride  with  greater  pride, 
As  did  the  Cynic  on  some  like  occasion ; 

Deeming  the  sage  would  be  much  mortified, 
Or  thrown  into  a  philosophic  passion, 

For  a  spoil'd  carpet — but  the  "  Attic  Bee  " 

Was  much  consoled  by  his  own  repartee.1 

XLIV. 

Thus  Adeline  would  throw  into  the  shade 

(By  doing  easily,  whene'er  she  chose, 
What  dilettanti  do  with  vast  parade), 

Their  sort  of  half  profession  :   for  it  grow 
To  something  like  this  when  too  oft  display'd, 

And  that  it  is  so  every  body  knows 
Who  've  heard  Miss  That  or  This,  or  Lady  T'  othei 
Show  ofF — to  please  their  company  or  mother. 

XLV. 
Oh !   the  long  evenings  of  duets  and  trios ! 

The  admirations  and  the  speculations ; 
The  "  Mamma  Mias  !"  and  the  "  Amor  Mios  !" 

The  "  Tanti  Palpitis  "  on  such  occasions  : 
The  "  Lasciamis,"  and  quavering  "Addios!" 

Amongst  our  own  most  musical  of  nations ; 
With  "  Tu  mi  chamases "  from  Portingale, 
To  soothe  our  ears,  lest  Italy  should  fail.3 

XLVI. 
In  Babylon's  bravuras — as  the  home 

Heart-ballads  of  Green  Erin  or  Gray  Highlands. 
That  bring  Lochaber  back  to  eyes  that  roam 

O'er  far  Atlantic  continents  or  islands, 
The  calentures  of  music  wnich  o'ercome 

All  mountaineers  with  dreams  that  they  are  nijh  kmig, 
No  more  to  be  beheld  but  in  such  visions,    • 
Was  Adeline  weu  verged  as  compositions, 


ZANTO  XVI. 


DON  JUAN. 


69!> 


XLVII. 

She  also  had  a  twilight  tinge  of  "  JB/ue," 
CoulJ  write  rhymes,  and  compose  more  than  she  wrote; 

Made  epigrams  occasionally  too 

Upon  her  friends,  as  every  body  ought. 

But  still  from  that  sublimer  azure  hue, 

So  much  the  present  dye,  she  was  remote ; 

Was  weak  enough  to  deem  Pope  a  great  poet, 

And,  what  was  worse,  was  not  ashamed  to  show  it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — since  we  are  touching  upon  taste, 
Which  now-a-days  is  the  thermometer 

By  whose  degrees  all  characters  are  class'd — 
Was  more  Shakspearian,  if  I  do  not  err. 

The  worlds  beyond  this  world's  perplexing  waste 
Had  more  of  her  existence,  for  in  her 

There  was  a  depth  of  feeling  to  embrace 

Thoughts,  boundless,  deep,  but  silent  too  as  space. 

XLIX. 

Not  so  her  gracious,  graceful,  graceless  grace, 
The  full-grown  Hebe  of  Fitz-Fulke,  whose  mind, 

If  she  had  any,  was  upon  her  face, 
And  that  was  of  a  fascinating  kind. 

A  little  turn  for  mischief  you  might  trace 
Also  thereon, — but  that 's  not  much  ;  we  find 

Few  females  without  some  such  gentle  leaven, 

For  fear  we  should  suppose  us  quite  in  heaven. 

L. 

I  have  not  heard  she  was  at  all  poetic, 

Though  once  she  was  seen  reading  the  "  Bath  Guide," 

And  "  Hayley's  Triumphs,"  which  she  deem'd  pathetic, 
Because,  she  said,  her  temper  had  been  tried 

So  much,  the  bard  had  really  been  prophetic 

Of  what  she  had  gone  through  with, — since  a  bride. 

But  of  all  verse  what  most  insured  her  praise 

Were  sonnets  to  herself,  or  "bouts  rimes." 

LI. 

'Twere  difficult  to  say  what  was  the  object 

Of  Adeline,  in  bringing  this  same  lay 
To  bear  on  what  appear'd  to  her  the  subject 

Of  Juan's  nervous  feelings  on  that  day. 
Perhaps  she  merely  had  the  simple  project 

To  laugh  him  out  of  his  supposed  dismay ; 
Perhaps  she  might  wish  to  confirm  him  in  it, 
Though  why  I  cannot  say — at  least  this  minute. 

LII. 
But  so  far  the  immediate  effect 

Was  to  restore  him  to  his  self-propriety, 
A  thing  quite  necessary  to  the  elect, 

Who  wish  to  take  the  tone  of  their  society ; 
In  which  you  cannot  be  too  circumspect, 

Whether  the  mode  be  persiflage  or  piety, 
But  wear  the  newest  mantle  of  hypocrisy, 
On  pain  of  much  displeasing  the  gynocracy. 

LIII. 
And  therefore  Juan  now  began  to  rally 

His  spirits,  and,  without  more  explanation, 
To  jest  upon  such  themes  in  many  a  sally. 

Her  grace  too  also  seized  the  same  occasion, 
With  'arious  similar  remarks  to  tally, 

But  wish'd  for  a  still  more  detail'd  narration 
1^  icn.»  same  mystic  friar's  curious  doings, 
About  the   present   family's  deaths  and  wooings. 


LIV. 

Of  these  few  could  say  more  than  has  been  said ; 

They  pass'd,  as  such  things  do,  for  superstition 
With  some,  while  others,  who  had  more  in  dread 

The  theme,  half  credited  the  strange  tradition ; 
And  much  was  talk'd  on  all  sides  on  that  head  ; 

But  Juan,  when  cross-question'd  on  the  vision, 
Which  some  supposed  (though  he  had  not  avow'd  it 
Had  stirr'd  him,  answer'd  in  a  way  to  cloud  it. 

LV. 
And  then,  the  mid-day  having  worn  to  one, 

The  company  prepared  to  separate  : 
Some  to  their  several  pastimes,  or  to  none ; 

Some  wondering  't  was  so  early,  some  so  late. 
There  was  a  goodly  match,  too,  to  be  run 

Between  some  grayhounds  on  my  lord's  estate. 
And  a  young  race-horse  of  old  pedigree, 
Match'd  for  the  spring,  whom  several  went  to  see. 

LVI. 
There  was  a  picture-dealer,  who  had  brought 

A  special  Titian,  warranted  original, 
So  precious  that  it  was  not  to  be  bought, 

Though  princes  the  possessor  were  besieging  all. 
The  king  himself  had  cheapen'd  it,  but  thought 

The  civil  list  (he  deigns  to  accept,  obliging  all 
His  subjects  by  his  gracious  acceptation) 
Too  scanty,  in  these  times  of  low  taxation. 

LVII. 
But  as  Lord  Henry  was  a  connoisseur, — 

The  friend  of  artists,  if  not  arts, — the  owner, 
With  motives  the  most  classical  and  pure, 

So  that  he  would  have  been  the  very  donor 
Rather  than  seller,  had  his  wants  been  fewer, 

So  much  he  deem'd  his  patronage  an  honour, 
Had  brought  the  capo  d'opera,  not  for  sale, 
But  for  his  Judgment, — never  known  to  fail. 

LVIII. 
There  was  a  modern  Goth,  I  mean  a  Gothic 

Bricklayer  of  Babel,  call'd  an  architect, 
Brought  to  survey  these  gray  walls,  which,  though  so 
thick, 

Might  have  from  time  acquired  some  slight  defect , 
Who,  after  rummaging  the  Abbey  through  thick 

And  thin,  produced  a  plan,  whereby  to  erect 
New  buildings  of  correctest  conformation, 
And  throw  down  old — which  he  call'd  restoruiwn, 

LIX. 
The  cost  would  be  a  trifle — an  "  old  song," 

Set  to  some  thousands  ('tis  the  usual  burthen 
Of  that  same  tune,  when  people  hum  it  long) — 

The  price  would  speedily  repay  its  worth  in 
An  edifice  no  less  sublime  than  strong, 

By  which  Lord  Henry's  good  taste  would  go  forth  • 
Its  glory,  through  all  ages  shining  sunny, 
For  Gothic  daring  shown  in  English  money.4 

LX. 
There  were  two  lawyers  busy  on  a  mortgage 

Lord  Henry  wish'd  to  raise  for  a  new  purchase. 
Also  a  lawsuit  upon  tenures  burgage, 

And  one  on  tithes  which  sure  are  discord's  torcne* 
Kindling  Religion  till  she  throws  down  her  gage. 

"Untying"  squires  "to  tight  against  thecni'rchen:r 
There  was  a  prize  ox,  a  prize  pig,  and  plcugnman 
For  Henrv  was  a  sort  of  Sabine  showmi  n 


•oo 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XVI 


LXI. 

T  here  were  two  poacher  caught  in  a  steel  trap, 
Ready  for  jail,  their  place  of  convalescence  ; 

There  was  a  country  girl  in  a  close  cap 

And  scarlet  cloak  (I  hate  the  sight  to  see,  since — 

Since — since — in  youth  I  had  the  sad  mishap—- 
But luckily  I  've  paid  few  parish  fees  since). 

That  scarlet  cloak,  alas  !  unclosed  with  rigour, 

Presents  the  problem  of  a  double  figure. 

LXII. 

A  reel  within  a  bottle  is  a  mystery, 
One  can't  tell  how  it  e'er  got  in  or  out, 

Therefore  the  present  piece  of  natural  history 
I  leave  to  those  who  are  fond  of  solving  doubt, 

And  merely  state,  though  not  for  the  consistory, 
Lord  Henry  was  a  justice,  and  that  Scout 

The  constable,  beneath  a  warrant's  banner, 

Had  bagg'd  this  poacher  upon  Nature's  manor. 

LXIII. 

Now  justices  of  peace  must  judge  all  pieces 
Of  mischief  of  all  kinds,  and  keep  the  game 

And  morals  of  the  country  from  caprices 
Of  those  who  've  not  a  license  for  the  same ; 

And  of  all  things,  excepting  tithes  and  leases, 
Perhaps  these  are  most  difficult  to  tame : 

Preserving  partridges  and  pretty  wenches 

Are  puzzles  to  the  most  precautions  benches. 

LXIV. 

The  present  culprit  was  extremely  pale, 
Pale  as  if  painted  so ;  her  cheek  being  red 

By  nature,  as  in  higher  dames  less  hale, 
'T  is  white,  at  least  when  they  just  rise  from  bed. 

Perhaps  she  was  ashamed  of  seeming  frail, 
Poor  soul !  for  she  was  country  born  and  bred, 

And  knew  no  better  in  her  immorality 

Tha^  to  wax  white — for  blushes  are  for  quality. 

LXV. 

Her  black,  bright,  downcast,  yet  espi£gle  eye 

Had  gathcr'd  a  large  tear  into  its  corner, 
Which  the  poor  thing  at  times  essay'd  to  dry, 

For  she  was  not  a  sentimental  mourner, 
Parading  all  her  sensibility, 

Nor  insolent  enough  to  scorn  the  scorner, 
But  stood  in  trembling,  patient  tribulation, 
To  be  call'd  up  for  her  examination. 

LXVI. 
Of  course  these  groups  were  scatter'd  here  and  there, 

Not  nigh  the  gay  saloon  of  ladies  gent. 
The  lawyers  in  the  study;  and  in  air 

The  prize  pig,  ploughman,  poachefs ;  the  men  sent 
From  town,  viz.  architect  and  dealer,  were 

Both  busy  (as  a  general  in  his  tent 
Writing  despatches)  in  their  several  stations, 
Kxultmg  in  their  brilliant  lucubrations. 

LXVII. 
But  this  poor  gir1  was  left  in  the  great  hall, 

While  Scout,  the  parish  guardian  of  the  frail, 
Piscuss'o   (he  hated  heer  yciept  the  "small") 

A  mighty  mug  of  moral  double  ale  : 
She  waited  until  Justice  could  recall 

Us  kiKd  attentions  to  their  proper  pale, 
To  rame  a  thing  in  nomenclature  rather 

fot  most  virgins — a  child's  father. 


LXVIH. 

You  see  here  was  enough  of  occupation 

For  the  Lord  Henry,  link'd  with  dogs  and  horsey 

There  was  much  bustle  too  and  preparation 
Below  stairs  on  the  score  of  second  courses, 

Because,  as  suits  their  rank  and  situation, 
Those  who  in  counties  have  great  land  resources, 

Have  "public  days,"  when  all  men  may  carouse, 

Though  not  exactly  what 's  call'd  "  open  house  "— 

LXIX. 

But  once  a  week  or  fortnight,  uninvited 
(Thus  we  translate  a  general  invitation), 

All  country  gentlemen,  esquired  or  knighted, 
May  drop  in  without  cards,  and  take  their  station 

At  the  full  board,  and  sit  alike  delighted 
With  fashionable  wines  and  conversation  ; 

And,  as  the  isthmus  of  the  grand  connexion, 

Talk  o'er  themselves,  the  past  and  next  election. 

LXX. 

Lord  Henry  was  a  great  electioneerer, 

Burrowing  for  boroughs  like  a  rat  or  rabbit, 

But  country  contests  cost  him  rather  dearer, 

Because  the  neighbouring  Scotch  Earl  of  Giftgabbfr 

Had  English  influence  in  the  self-same  sphere  here 
His  son,  the  Honourable  Dick  Dice-drabbit, 

Was  member  for  "the  other  interest"  (meaning 

The  sejf-same  interest,  with  a  different  leaning). 

LXXI. 

Courteous  and  cautious  therefore  in  his  county, 
He  was  all  things  to  all  men,  and  dispensed 

To  some  civility,  to  others  bounty, 

And  promises  to  all — which  last  commenced 

To  gather  to  a  somewhat  large  amount,  he 
Not  calculating  how  much  they  condensed  ; 

But,  what  with   keeping  some  and  breaking  others, 

His  word  had  the  same  value  as  another's. 

LXXII. 

A  friend  to  freedom  and  freeholders — yet 

No  less  a  friend  to  government — he  held 
That  he  exactly  (he  just  medium  hit 

'Twixt  place  and  patriotism — albeit  compell'd, 
Such  was  his  sovereign's  pleasure  (though  unfit, 

He  added  modestly,  when  rebels  rail'd), 
To  hold  some  sinecures  he  wish'd  abolish'd, 
But  that  with  them  all  law  would  be  demolish'd. 

LXXIII. 
He  was  "  free  to  confess" — (whence  comes  this  phrase  7 

Is  't  English  ?  No — 't  is  only  parliamentary) 
That  innovation's  spirit  now-a-days 

Had  made  more  progress  than  for  the  last  century. 
He  would  not  tread  a  factious  path  to  praise, 

Though  for  the  public  weal  disposed  to  venture  high  ; 
As  for  his  place,  he  could  but  say  this  of  it, 
That  the  fatigue  was  greater  than  the  profit. 

LXXIV. 
Heaven  and  his  friends  knew  that  a  private  life 

Haa  ever  been  his  sole  and  whole  ambition ; 
But  could  he  quit  his  king  in  times  of  strife 

Which  threaten'd  the  whole  country  with  perdition? 
When  demagogues  would  with  a  butcher's  knife 

Cut  through  and  through  (oh!  damnable  incisio-l!) 
The  Gordian  or  the  Geordian  knot,  whose  strings 
Have  tied  together  Commons,  Lord  ,  ai  d  Kings 


CANTO 


DON  JUAN. 


701 


LXXV. 
Sooner  "  come  plact  wito  the  civil  list, 

And  champion  him  to  the  utmost" — he  would  keep  it, 
Till  duly  disappointed  or  dismis=s'd  : 

Profit  he  cared  not  for,  let  others  reap  it ; 
But  should  the  day  come  when  place  ceased  to  exist, 

The  country  would  have  far  more  cause  to  weep  it ; 
For  how  could  it  go  on  ?     Explain  who  can  ! 
He  gloried  in  the  name  of  Englishman. 

LXXVI. 
He  was  as  independent — ay,  much  more — 

Than  those  who  were  not  paid  for  independence, 
As  common  soldiers,  or  a  common shore 

Have  in  their  several  arts  or  parts  ascendance 
O'er  the  irregulars  in  lust  or  gore 

Who  do  not  give  professional   attendance. 
Thus  on  the  mob  all  statesmen  are  as  eager 
To  prove  their  pride,  as  footmen  to  a  beggar. 

LXXVII. 
All  this  (save  the  last  stanza)  Henry  said, 

And  thought.     I  say  no  more — I  've  said  too  much  ; 
For  all  of  us  have  either  heard  or  read 

Of — or  upon  the  hustings — some  slight  such 
Hints  from  the  independent  heart  or  head 

Of  the  official  candidate.     I  '11  touch 
No  more  on  this — the  dinner-bell  hath  rung, 
And  grace  is  said ;  the  grace  I  should  have  sung — 

LXXVIII. 
But  I  'm  too  late,  and  therefore  must  raake  play. 

'T  was  a  great  banquet,  such  as  A'.bion  old 
Was  wont  to  boast — as  if  a  glutton's  tray 

Were  something  very  glorious  to  behold. 
But  't  was  a  public  feast  and  public  day, — 

Quite  full,  right  dull,  guests  hot,  and  dishes  cold, 
Great  plenty,  much  formality,  small  cheer, 
And  every  body  out  of  their  own  sphere. 

LXXIX. 
The  squires  familiarly  formal,  and 

My  lords  and  ladies  proudly  condescending  ; 
The  very  servants  puzzling  how  to  hand 

Their  plates — without  it  might  be  too  much  bending 
From  their  high  places  by  the  sideboard's  stand- 
Yet,  like  their  masters,  fearful  of  offending  ; 
For  any  deviation  from  the  graces 
Might  cost  both  men  and  masters  too — their  places. 

LXXX. 
There  were  some  hunters  bold,  and  coursers  keen, 

Whose  hounds  ne'er  err'd,  nor  grayhounds  deign'd 

to  lurch  ; 
Some  deadly  shots  too,  Septembrizers,  seen 

Earliest  to  rise,  and  last  to  quit  the  search 
Of  the  poor  partridge  through   his  stubble   screen. 

There  were  some  massy  members  of  the  church, 
Fakers  of  tithes,  and  makers  of  good  matches, 
And  several  who  sung  fewer  psalms  than  catches. 

LXXXI. 
Fhere  were  some  country  wags,  too, — and,  alas ! 

Some  exiles  from  the  town,  who  had  been  driven 
To  gaze,  instead  of  pavement,  upon  grass, 

And  rise  at  nine,  in  lieu  of  long  eleven. 
\nd  lo  !    upon  that  day  it  came  to  pass, 

I  sate  next  that  o'erwhelming  son  of  Heaven, 
/he  very  powerful  parson,  Peter  Pith, 
The  loudest  wit  I  e'er  was  deafen'd  w;*'^ 


LXXXII. 

I  knew  him  in  his  livelier  London  days, 
A  brilliant  diner-out,  though  but  a  curate ; 

And  not  a  joke  he  cut  but  earn'd  its  praise, 
Until  preferment,  coming  at  a  sure  rate, 

(Oh,  Providence !    how  wondrous  are  thy  ways, 
Who  would  suppose  thy  gifts  sometimes  obdurate  ? 

Gave  him,  to  lay  the  devil  who  looks  o'er  Lincoln 

A  fat  fen  vicarage,  and  nought  to  think  on. 

LXXXIII. 

His  jokes  were  sermons,  and  his  sermons  jokes ; 

But  both  were  thrown  away  amongst  the  fens  ; 
For  wit  hath  no  great  friend  in  aguish  folks. 

No  longer  ready  ears  and  short-hand  pens 
Imbibed  the  gay  bon-mot,  or  happy  hoax: 

The  poor  priest  was  reduced  to  common  sense. 
Or  to  coarse  efforts  very  loud  and  long, 
To  hammer  a  hoarse  laugh  from  the  thick  throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There  w  a  difference,  says  the  song,  "  between 
A  beggar  and  a  queen,"  or  was  (of  late 

The  latter  worse  used  of  the  two  we've  seen— 
But  we'll  say  nothing  of  affairs  of  state) — 

A  difference  "  'twixt  a  bishop  and  a  dean," 
A  difference  between  crockery- ware  and  plate, 

As  between  English  beef  and  Spartan  broth — 

And  yet  great  heroes  have  been  bred  by  both. 

LXXXV. 

But  of  all  Nature's  discrepancies,  none 
Upon  the  whole  is  greater  than  the  difference 

Beheld  between  the  country  and  the  town, 
Of  which  the  latter  merits  every  preference 

From  those  who've  few  resources  of  their  own, 
And  only  think,  or  act,  or  feel  with  reference 

To  some  small  plan  of  interest  or  ambition — 

Both  which  are  limited  to  no  condition. 

LXXXVI. 

But  "  en  avant !"  The  light  loves  languish  o'er 
Long  banquets  and  too  many  guests,  although 

A  slight  repast  makes  people  love  much  more, 
Bacchus  and  Ceres  being,  as  we  know, 

Even  from  our  grammar  upwards,  friends  of  yore 
With  vivifying  Venus,  who  doth  owe 

To  these  the  invention  of  champagne  and  truffles 

Temperance  delights  her,  but  long  fasting  ruffles. 

LXXXVII. 

Dully  pass'd  o'er  the  dinner  of  the  day ; 

And  Juan  took  his  place  he  knew  not  where, 
Confused,  in  the  confusion,  and  distrait, 

And  sitting  as  if  nail'd  upon  his  chair  ; 
Though  knives  and  forks  clang'd  round  as  in  a  fra> 

He  seem'd  unconscious  of  all  passing  there, 
Till  some  one,  with  a  groan,  express'd  a  wish 
(Unheeded  twice)  to  have  a  fin  of  fish. 

LXXXVIII. 

On  which,  at  the  third  asking  of  the  bans 
He  started  ;    and,  perceiving  smiles  arouna 

Broadening  to  grins,  he  coloured  more  than  onrt. 
And  hastily — as  nothing  can  confound 

A  wise  man  more   than  laughter  from  a  dunce-- 
Inflicted on  the  dish  a  deadly  wound, 

And  with  such  hurry  that,  ere  he  could  curb  J. 

He  'd  paid  his  neighbour's  prayer  with  half  a  vm  urn 


02 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO 


LXXXIX. 

This  was  no  bud    nistake,  as  it  occurr'd, 

The  sup->lisator  being  an  amateur; 
Bui  others,  w}\o  were  left  with  scarce  a  third. 

Were  angry — as  they  well  might,  to  be  sure. 
They  wonuer'd  how  a  young  man  so  absurd 

Lord  Henry  at  his  table  should  endure  ; 
And  this,  and  his  not  knowing  how  much  oats 
ilaa  fallen  last  market,  cost  his  host  three  votes. 

XC. 

They  little  knew,  or  might  have  sympathized, 
That  he  the  night  before  had  seen  a  ghost ; 

A  prologue,  which  but  slightly  harmonized 
With  the  substantial  company  engross'd 

By  matter,  and  so  much  materialized, 
That  one  scarce  knew  at  what  to  marvel  most 

Of  two  things — how  (the  question  rather  odd  is) 

Such  bodies  could  have  souls,  or  souls  such  bodies. 

XCI. 

But  what  confused  him  more  than  smile  or  stare 
From  all  the  'squires  and  'squiresses  around, 

Who  wonder'd  at  the  abstraction  of  his  air, 
Especially  as  he  had  been  renown'd 

For  some  vivacity  among  the  fair, 

Even  in  the  country  circle's  narrow  bound — 

(For  little  things  upon  my  lord's  estate 

Were  good  small-talk  for  others  still  less  great) — 

XCII. 

Was,  that  he  caught  Aurora's  eye  on  his, 
And  something  like  a  smile  upon  her  cheek. 

Now  this  he  really  rather  took  amiss  : 

In  those  who  rarely  smile,  their  smile  bespeaks 

A  strong  external  motive  ;   and  in  this 

Smile  of  Aurora's  there  was  nought  to  pique, 

Or  hope,  or  love,  with  any  of  the  wiles 

Which  some  pretend  to  trace  in  ladies'  smiles. 

XCIII. 

T  was  a  mere  quiet  smile  of  contemplation, 

Indicative  of  some  surprise  and  pity ; 
And  Juan  grew  carnation  with  vexation, 

Which  was  not  very  wise  and  still  less  witty, 
Since  he  had  gain'd  at  least  her  observation, 

A  most  important  outwork  of  the  city — 
As  Juan  should  have  known,  had  not  his  senses 
By  last  night's  ghost  been  driven  from  their  defences. 

XCIV. 
But,  what  was  bad,  she  did  not  blush  in  turn, 

Nor  seem  embarrass'd — quite  the  contrary; 
Her  aspect  was,  as  usual,  still — not  stern — 

And  she  withdrew,  but  cast  not  down,  her  eye, 
Vet  grew  a  little  pale — with  what  ?  concern  ? 

1  know  not ;  but  her  colour  ne'er  was  high — 
Though  sometimes  faintly  flush'd — and  always  clear 
As  deep  seas  in  a  sunny  atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But  Adeline  was  occupied  by  fame 

This  day  ;  and  watching,  witching,  condescending 
To  the  consumers  of  fish,  fowl,  and  game, 

And  dignity  with  courtesy  so  blending, 
y\s  all  must  blend  whose  part  it  is  to-  aim 

.  Especially  as  the  sixth  year  is  ending) 
At  meir  lord's,  son's,  and  similar  connexions' 
Safe-  conduct  through  the  rocks  of  re-elections. 


XCVI. 

Though  this  was  most  expedient  on  the  whole, 
And  usual — Juan,  when  he  cast  a  glance 

On  Adeline  while  playing  her  grand  role. 

Which  she  went  through  as  though  it  were  a  Janet 

(Betraying  only  now  and  then  her  soul 
By  a  look  scarce  perceptibly  askiinr.e. 

Of  weariness  or  scorn),  began  to  feel 

Some  doubt  ,how  much  of  Adeline  was  real ; 

XCVH. 

So  well  she  acted  all  and  every  part 

By  turns — with   that  vivacious  versatility, 

Which  many  people  take  for  want  of  heart. 
They  err — 't  is  merely  what  is  call'd  mobility,8 

A  thing  of  temperament,  and  not  of  art, 

Though  seeming  so,  from  its  supposed  facility ; 

And  false — though  true  ;  for  surely  they  're  sincerest, 

Who  're  strongly  acted  on  by  what  is  nearest. 

XCVIII. 

This  makes  your  actors,  artists,  and  romancers, 
Heroes  sometimes,  though  seldom — sages  never ; 

But  speakers,  bards,  diplomatists,  and  dancers, 
Little  that 's  great,  but  much  of  what  is  clever ; 

Most  orators,  but  very  few  financiers, 

Though  all  Exchequer  Chancellors  endeavour, 

Of  late  years,  to  dispense  with  Cocker's  rigours, 

And  grow  quite  figurative  with  their  figures. 

XCIX. 

The  poets  of  arithmetic  are  they, 

Who,  though  they  prove  not  two  and  two  to  be 
Five,  as  they  would  do  in  a  modest  way, 

Have  plainly  made  it  out  that  four  are  three, 
Judging  by  what  they  take  and  what  they  pay. 

The  Sinking  Fund's  unfathomable  sra, 
That  most  unliquidating  liquid,  leaves 
The  debt  unsunk,  yet  sinks  all  it  receives. 

C. 

While  Adeline  dispensed  her  airs  and  graces, 

The  fair  Fitz-Fulke  seem'd  very  much  at  ease  ; 
Though  loo  well-bred  to  quiz  men  to  thair  faces. 

Her  laughing  blue  eyes  with  a  glance  cuuld  sei?* 
The  ridicules  of  people  in  all  places — 

That  honey  of  your  fashionable  bees — 
And  store  it  up  for  mischievous  enjoyment ; 
And  this  at  present  was  her  kind  employment. 

CI. 
However,  the  day  closed,  as  days  must  close  ; 

The  evening  also  waned — and  coffee  came. 
Each  carriage  was  announced,  and  ladies  rcse, 

And  curtsying  off,  as  curtsies  country  dame, 
Retired :  with  most  unfashionable  bows 

Their  docile  esquires  also  did  the  same, 
Delighted  with  the  dinner  and  their  host, 
But  with  the  lady  Adeline  the  most. 

COL 

Some  praised  her  beauty ;  others  her  great  grace  ; 

The  warmth  of  her  politeness,  whose  sincerity 
Was  obvious  in  each  feature  of  her  face, 

Whose  traits  were  radiant  with  the  rays  of  ve-'.'.yi 
Yes  :   she  was  truly  worthy  her  high  p'uce  ! 

No  one  could  envy  her  deserved  prosperity : 
And  then  her  dress — what  beautiful  simplicity 
Draperied  her  form  with  curious  (elicit?  " 


CANTO  XVI. 


DON  JUAN. 


703 


cm. 

Meanwhile  sweet  Adeline  deserved  their  praises, 

By  an  impartial  indemnification 
For  all  her  past  exertion  and  soft  phrases, 

In  a  most  edifying  conversation, 
Which  turn'd  upon  their  late  guests'  miens  and  faces, 

And  families,  even  to  the  last  relation  ; 
Their  hideous  wives,  their  horrid  selves  and  dresses, 
And  truculent  distortion  of  their  tresses. 

CIV. 

True,  skj  said  little — 't  was  the  rest  that  broke 

Forth  into  universal  epigram: 
But  then  't  was  to  the  purpose  what  she  spoke : 

Like  Add ison's  "faint  praise"  so  wont  to  damn 
Her  own  but  served  to  set  off  every  joke, 

As  music  chimes  in  with  a  melodrame. 
How  sweet  the  task  to  shield  an  absent  friend ! 
I  ask  but  this  of  mine,  to not  defend. 

CV. 

There  were  but  two  exceptions  to  this  keen 
Skirmish  of  wits  o'er  the  departed  ;  one, 

Aurora,  with  her  pure  and  placid  mien  ; 
And  Juan  too,  in  general  behind  none 

In  gay  remark  on  what  he  'd  heard  or  seen, 
Sate  silent  now,  his  usual  spirits  gone: 

[n  vain  he  heard  the  others  rail  or  rally, 

He  would  not  join  them  in  a  single  sally. 

CVI. 

T  is  true  he  saw  Aurora  look  as  though 
She  approved  his  silence;  she  perhaps  mistook 

Its  motive  for  that  charity  we  owe 

But  seldom  pay  the  absent,  nor  would  look 

Further ;  it  might  or  it  might  not  be  so : 
But  Juan,  silling  silent  in  his  nook, 

Observing  little  in  his  reverie, 

Yet  saw  this  much,  which  he  was  glad  to  see. 

CVII. 

The  ghost  at  least  had  done  him  this  much  good, 

In  making  him  as  silent  as  a  ghost, 
If  in  the  circumstances  which  ensued 

He  gain'd  esteem  where  it  was  worth  the  most. 
And  certainly  Aurora  had  renew'd 

In  him  some  feelings  he  had  lately  lost 
Or  harden'd  ;  feelings  which,  perhaps  ideal, 
Are  so  divine,  that  I  must  deem  them  real: — 

CVIII. 

The  love  of  higher  things  and  belter  days  ; 

The  unbounded  hope,  and  heavenly  ignorance 
Of  what  is  call'd  the  world,  and  the  world's  ways ; 

The  moments  when  we  gather  from  a  glance 
More  joy  than  from  all  future  pride  or  praise, 

Which  kindle  manhood,  but  can  ne'er  entrance 
The  heart  in  an  existence  of  its  own, 
Of  which  another's  bosom  is  the  zone. 

CIX. 
Who  would  not  sigh  At  at  ray  KvOtjptiav ! 

That  hath  a  memory,  or  that  had  a  heart? 
Alas !  her  star  must  wane  like  that  of  Dian, 

Ray  fades  on  ray,  as  years  on  years  depart. 
Anacreon  only  h^d  the  soul  to  tie  on 

Unwithcring  myrtle  round  the  unblunted  dart 
Of  Eros  ;  but,  though  thoii  hast  play'd  us  many  tricks, 
Still  we  respect  thee,  "  Alma  Venus  Genitrk !" 


CX. 

And  full  of  sentiments,  sublime  as  billows 

Heaving  between  this  world  and  worlds  beyond, 

Don  Juan,  when  the  midnight  hour  of  nillows 
Arrived,  retired  to  his ;   but  to  despond 

Rather  than  rest.     Instead  of  poppies,  willowg 
Waved  o'er  his  couch  ;  he  meditated,  fond 

Of  those  sweet  bitter  thoughts  which  banish  sleep, 

And  make  the  worldling  sneer,  the  youngling  weep 

CXI. 

The  night  was  as  before :  he  was  undrest, 
Saving  his  night-gown,  which  is  an  undress : 

Completely  "sans  culotte,"  and  without  vest ; 
In  short,  he  hardly  could  be  clothed  with  less  ; 

But,  apprehensive  of  his  spectral  guest, 
He  sate,  with  feelings  awkward  to  express 

(By  those  who  have  not  had  such  visitations), 

Expectant  of  the  ghost's  fresh  operations. 

CXII. 

And  not  in  vain  he  listen'd — Hush  !  what 's  that  ? 

I  see — I  see — Ah,  no !  't  is  not — yet  't  is — 
Ye  powers  !  it  is  the — the — the — Pooh !  the  cat ! 

The  devil  may  take  that  stealthy  pace  of  his ! 
So  like  a  spiritual  pit-a-pat, 

Or  tiptoe  of  an  amatory  Miss, 
Gliding  the  first  time  to  a  rendezvous, 
And  dreading  the  chaste  echoes  of  her  shoe. 

CXIII. 

Again  what  is  't  ?  The  wind  ?  No,  no, — thw  time 

It  is  the  sable  friar  as  before, 
With  awful  footsteps,  regular  as  rhyme, 

Or  (as  rhymes  may  be  in  these  days)  much  morn. 
Again,  through  shadows  of  the  night  sublime, 

When  deep  sleep  fell  on  men,  and  the  world  wore 
The  starry  darkness  round  her  like  a  girdle 
Spangled  with  gems — the  monk  made  his  blood  curdle. 

CXIV. 

A  noise  like  tp  wet  fingers  drawn  on  glass,' 
Which  sets  the  teeth  on  edge ;  and  a  slight  clatter 

Like  showers  which  on  the  midnight  guests  will  pas» 
Sounding  like  very  supernatural  water, — 

Came  over  Juan's  ear,  which  throbb'd,  alas ! 
For  immaterialism  's  a  serious  matter : 

So  that  even  those  whose  faith  is  the  most  great 

In  souls  immortal,  shun  them  t6te-a-t6te. 

cxv. 

Were  his  eyes  open? — Yes!  and  his  mouth  too. 

Surprise  has  this  effect— to  make  one  dumb, 
Yet  leave  the  gate  which  eloquence  slips  thronjh 

As  wide  as  if  a  long  speech  were  to  come. 
Nigh  and  more  nigh  the  awful  echoes  drew, 

Tremendous  to  a  mortal  tympanum: 
His  eyes  were  open,  and  (as  was  before 
Stated)  his  mouth.     What  open'd  next? — the  d<x» 

CXVI. 
It  open'd  with  a  most  infernal  creak, 

Like  that  of  hell.     "Lasciate  ognt  speranza, 
Vk>  che  entrate!"    The  hinge  seem'd  to  speak. 

Dreadful  as  Dante's  rima,  or  this  stanza  ; 
Or — but  all  words  upon  such  themes  are  wean: 

A  single  shade  's  sufficient  to  entrance  * 
Hero—for  what  is  subst.ince  to  a  spiiit? 
Or  how  is 't  matter  trembles  to  come  near  i  T 


704 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CXVII. 

The  door  flew  wide,  not  swiftly — but,  as  fly 
The  sea-gulls,  with  a  steady,  sober  flight — 

And  tnen  swung  back ;  nor  close — but  stood  awry, 
Half  letting  in  long  shadows  on  the  light, 

WhicK  still  in  Juan's  candlesticks  burn'd  high, 
For  he  had  two,  both  tolerably  bright, — 

And  in  the  door-way,  darkening  darkness,  stood 

The  sable  friar  in  his  solemn  hood. 

cxviir. 

Don  Juan  shook,  as  erst  he  had  been  shaken 

The  night  before ;  but,  being  sick  of  shaking, 
He  first  inclined  to  think  he  had  been  mistaken, 

And  then  to  be  ashamed  of  such  mistaking ; 
His  own  internal  ghost  began  to  awaken 

Within  him,  and  to  quell  his  corporal  quaking- 
Hinting,  that  aoul  and  body  on  the  whole 
Were  odds  against  a  disembodied  soul. 

CXIX. 

And  then  his  dread  grew  wrath,  and  his  wrath  fierce ; 

And  he  arose — advanced — the  shade  retreated ; 
But  Juan,  eager  now  the  truth  to  pierce, 

Follow'd ;  his  veins  no  longer  cold,  but  heated, 
Resolved  to  thrust  the  mystery  carte  and  tierce, 

At  whatsoever  risk  of  being  defeated : 
The  ghost  stopp'd,  menaced,  then  retired,  until 
He  reach'd  the  ancient  wall,  then  stood  stone  still. 

cxx. 

Juan  put  forth  one  arm — Eternal  Powers  ! 

It  touch'd  no  soul,  nor  body,  but  the  wall, 
On  which  the  moonbeams  fell  in  silvery  showers 

Chequcr'd  with  alt  the  tracery  of  the  hall : 
He  shudder'd,  as  no  doubt  the  bravest  cowers 

When  he  can't  tell  what  't  is  that  doth  appal. 
How  odd,  a  single  hobgoblin's  nonentity 
Should  cause  more  fear  than  a  whole  host's  identity.* 

CXXI. 

But  still  the  shade  remain'd ;  the  blue  eyes  glared, 

And  rather  variably  for  stony  death  ; 
Yet  one  thing  rather  good  the  grave  had  spared — 

The  ghost  had  a  remarkably  sweet,  breath. 
A  straggling  curl  show'd  he  had  been  fair-hair'd ; 

A  red  lip,  with  two  rows  of  pearl  beneath, 
Gleam'd  forth,  as  through  the  casement's  ivy  shroud 
The  moon  peep'd,  just  escaped  from  a  gray  cloud. 

CXXII. 

And  Juan,  puzzled,  but  still  curious,  thrust 

His  other  arm  forth — Wonder  upon  wonder ! 
It  press'd  upon  a  hard  but  glowing  bust, 

Which  beat  as  if  there  was  a  warm  heart  under. 
He  found,  as  people  on  most  trials  must, 

That  he  had  made  at  fvr  a  silly  blunder, 
And  that  in  his  confusion  he  ,:ad  caught 
Only  the  wall  instead  of  what  he  sought. 

CXXIII. 
The  ghost,  if  ghost  it  were,  seem'd  a  sweet  soul, 

As  (iver  lurk'd  beneath  a  holy  hood  : 
A  dimpled  chin    »  neck  of  ivory,  stole 

Forth  into  something  much  like  flesh  and  blood; 
Back  fell  the  sable  frock  and  dreary  cowl, 

And  they  reveal'd  (alas!  that  e'er  they  should!) 
In  (ill!,  voluptuous,  but  not  o'ergrown  bulk, 
The  phantom  of  her  frolic  grace — Fitz-Fulke  ! 


NOTES. 


CANTO  I. 

Note  1.  Stanza  v. 

Brave  men  were  living  before  Agamemnon. 
"  Vixere  fortes  ante  Agamemnona,"  etc.— /foroc* 

Note  2.  Stanza  xvii. 
Save  thine  "incomparable  oil,"  Macassar! 
"  Description  des  vcrtus  incomparables  de  1'huile  de 
Macassar." — See  the  advertisement. 

Note  3.  Stanza  xlii. 
Although  Longinus  tells  us  there  is  no  hymn 
Where  the  sublime  soars  forth  on  wings  more  ample. 

See  Longinus,  Section  10,  Iva  pri  ev  rt  vepl  atrfei 

vado;  tpaivijrai,  TraOfav  ie  <rvi'ooo$. 

Note  4.  Stanza  xliv. 
They  only  add  them  all  in  an  appendix. 
Fact.   There  is,  or  was,  such  an  edition,  with  all  the 
obnoxious  epigrams  of  Martial  placed  by  themselves  at 
the  end. 

Note  5.  Stanza  Ixxxviii. 
The  bard  I  quote  from  does  not  sing  amiss, 
'  Campbell's  Gertrude  of  Wyoming ;   (I  thimr)  the 
opening  of  Canto  II.  but  quote  from  memory. 

Note  6.  Stanza  cxlviii. 
Is  it  for  this  that  General  Count  O'Reilly, 
Who  took  Algiers,  declares  I  used  him  vilely  t 

Donna  Julia  here  made  a  mistake.  Count  O'Reilly 
did  not  take  Algiers — but  Algiers  very  nearly  took  him ; 
he  and  his  army  and  fleet  retreated  with  great  loss,  and 
not  much  credit,  from  before  that  city,  in  the  year  17 — . 

Note  7.  Stanza  ccxvi. 
My  days  of  love  are  o'er,  me  no  more. 
"  Me  nee  fcemina,  nee  puer 
Jam,  nee  spes  animi  ciedula  mutui; 

Nee  certare  juvat  mero, 
Nee  vincire  novis  tempora  floribus." 


CANTO  III. 


Note  1.  Stanza  xlv. 

For  none  likes  more  to  hear  himself  convene. 
Eispose  allor  Margutte:  a  dirtcl  tosto, 

lo  non  credo  piu  al  nero,  ch'  a  I'azzurro; 

Ma  nel  cappone,  o  lesso,  o  vuogli  airosto; 

E  credo  alcuna  volta  anco  nel  burro, 

Ne  la  cervogia,  e  quanoo'  io  n*  ho  nel  mos'o; 

E  molto  piu  ne  1'aspro  che  il  maneurro ; 

Ma  sopra  tutto  nel  boon  vino  ho  fede ; 

E  credo  che  sia  salvo  chi  gli  credo. 
PULCI,  Morgante  Maggiore,  Canto  ]8  Stanza  115 

Note  2.  Stanza  Ixxi. 
That  e'er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in. 
This  dress  is  Moorish,  and  the  bracelets  and  bar  ar« 
worn  in  the  manner  described.     The  reader  will  oer 
ceive  hereafter,  that,  as  the  mother  of  Haidee  was  of 
Fez,  her  daughter  wore  the  garb  of  the  counlrv. 


DON  JUAN. 


705 


Note  3.  Stanza  Ixxii. 
A  like  gold  bar,  above  her  instep  roll'd. 
The  bar  of  gold  above  the  instep  is  a  mark  of  sov- 
ereign rank  in  the  women  of  the  families  of  the  Deys, 
and  is  worn  as  such  by  their  female  relatives. 

Note  4.   Stanza  Ixxiii. 
Her  person  if  allow'd  at  large  to  run. 
This  is  no  exaggeration ;  there  were  four  women 
whom  I  remember  to  have  seen,  wno  possessed  their 
hair  in  this  profusion  ;  of  these,  three  were  English,  the 
other  was  a  Levantine.     Their  hair  was  of  that  length 
and  quantity  that,  when  let  down,  it  almost  entirely 
shaded  the  person,  so  as  nearly  to  render  dress  a  su- 
perfluity.    Of  these,  only  one  had  dark  hair ;  the  Ori- 
ental's had,  perhaps,  the  lightest  colour  of  the  four. 

Note  5.  Stanza  cvii. 
Oh  Hesperus '.  tbou  bringest  all  good  things. 
'EO-JTE/JE,  iravra  <j>epw, 
4>epc<;  oivov,  tytpus  aiya, 
$epeis  parcpi  iraic!a. 

Fragment  of  Sappho. 

Note  6.  Stanza  cviii. 

Soft  hour  !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart 
"Era  gia  1'  ora  che  volge  '1  disio, 

A'  naviganti  e  'ntenerisce  il  cuore 
Lo  di  ch'  ban  detto  a'  dolci  araici  addio, 

E  che  lo  nuovo  peregrin  d'  amore 
Punge,  se  ode  Squilla  di  lontano 
Che  paja  'I  giorno  pisnger  che  si  muore." 

DANTE'S  Purgatory,  Canto  viii. 

ThU  last  line  is  the  first  of  Gray's  Elegy,  taken  by 
him  without  acknowledgement. 

Note  7.  Stanza  cix. 

Some  hands  unseen  strew'd  flowers  upon  his  tomb. 
See  Suetonius  for  this  fact. 


CANTO  IV. 

Note  1.  Stanza  xii. 

"  Whom  the  gods  love,  die  young,"  was  said  of  yore. 
See  Herodotus. 

Note  2.  Stanza  Hx. 

A  vein  had  burst. 

This  is  no  very  uncommon  effect  of  the  violence  of 
conflicting  and  different  passions.  The  Doge  Francis 
Foscari,  on  his  deposition,  in  1457,  hearing  the  bell 
of  St.  Mark  announce  the  election  of  his  successor, 
umourut  subitement  d'une  hemorrhagie  causee  par  une 
veine  qui  s'eclata  dsrxs  s-v  poitrine,"  (see  Sismondi  and 
Daru,  vols.  i.  ind  ii.)  »t  tha  age  of  eighty  years,  when 
*•  who  would  hat»  thought  the  old  man  had  so  much  blood 
•n  him  ?"  Before  I  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  I  was 
witness  to  a  melancholy  instance  of  the  same  effect 
of  mixed  passions  upon  a  young  person  ;  who,  how- 
ever, aid  not  die  in  consequence,  at  that  time,  but  fell 
v  victim  some  years  afterwards  to  a  seizure  of  the  same 
und,  arising  from  causes  intimately  connected  with 
Agitation  of  mind. 

Note  3.  Stanza  kxx. 
But  sold  by  the  impresario  at  no  high  rate. 
This  is  a  f  ict.     A.  lew  years  ago,  a  man  engaged  a 
8N  94 


company  for  some  foreign  theatre  ;  embarked  them  at 
an  Italian  port,  and,  carrying  them  to  Algiers,  sold 
them  all.  One  of  the  women,  returned  from  her  cap*- 
tivity,  I  heard  sing,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  in  Ros 
sini's  opera  of  "  L'ltaliana  in  Algieri,"  at  Venice,  in 
the  beginning  of  1817. 

Note  4.  Stanza  Ixxxvi. 

From  all  the  pope  makes  yearly,  't  would  perplex, 
To  find  three  perfect  pipes  of  the  third  sex. 

It  is  strange  that  it  should  be  the  pope  and  the  sultan 
who  are  the  chief  encouragers  of  this  branch  of  trade — 
women  being  prohibited  as  singers  at  St.  Peter's,  and 
not  deemed  trustworthy  as  guardians  of  the  haram. 

Note  5.  Stanza  ciii. 

While  weeds  and  ordure  rankle  round  the  base 
The  pillar  which  records  the  battle  of  Ravenna,  u 
about  two  miles  from  the  city,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  river  to  the  road  towards  Forli.  Gaston  de  Foix, 
who  gained  the  battle,  was  killed  in  it ;  there  fell  on 
both  sides  twenty  thousand  men.  The  present  state 
of  the  pillar  and  its  site  is  described  in  the  text. 


CANTO  V. 


Note  1.  Stanza  iii. 
The  ocean  stream. 

THIS  expression  of  Homer  has  been  much  criticised. 
It  hardly  answers  to  our  Atlantic  ideas  of  the  ocean, 
but  is  sufficiently  applicable  to  the  Hellespont,  and  the 
Bosphorus,  with  the  ^Egcan,  intersected  with  islands. 

Note  2.  Stanza  v.   ' 
"The  Giant's  Grave." 

"The  Giant's  Grave "  is  a  height  on  the  Asiatic 
shore  of  the  Bosphorus,  much  frequented  by  holiday 
parties  ;  like  Harrow  and  Highgate. 

Note  3.   Stanza  xxxiii. 
And  running  out  hs  fabt  I  was  able. 
The  assassination  alluded  to  took  place  on  the  eighth 

of  December,  1820.  in  the  streets  of  R ,  not  a 

hundred  paces  from  the  residence  of  the  writer.     Tho 
circumstances  were  as  described. 

Note  4.  Stanza  xxxiv. 
Kill'd  by  five  bullets  from  an  old  gun-barrel. 
There  was  found  close  by  him  an  old  gun-barrel, 
sawn  half  off:  it  had  just  been  discharged,  and  was 
still  warm. 

Note  5.  Stanza  liii. 
Prepared  for  supper  with  a  glass  of  rum. 
In  Turkey,  nothing  is  more  common,  than  for  the 
Mussulmans  to  take  several  glasses  of  strong  spirits  by 
way  of  appetizer.  I  have  seen  them  take  as  many  as 
six  of  raki  before  dinner,  and  swear  that  they  dined 
the  belter  for  it ;  I  tried  the  experiment,  but  was  like 
the  Scotchman,  who  having  heard  that  the  birds  called 
kittiewiaks  were  admirable  whets,  ate  six  of  ihem,  anu 
complained  that  "he  was  no  hungrier  than  when  in 
began." 

Note  6.  P  .anza  Iv. 

Splendid  but  silent,  gave  in  one,  where,  dropping 
A  marble  fountain  echoes. 

A  common  furniture. — I  recollect  being  received  o» 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Ali  Pad  u.  in  a  room  containing  a  marble  basin  anc 
fountain,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Note  7.  Stanza  Ixxxvii. 

T.ie  gate  BO  splendid  was  in  all  its  features. 

Featu-es  of  a  gate — a  ministerial  metaphor ;  "  the 

feature  jpon  which  this  question  hinges." — Seo  the 

"Fudge  Family,"  or  hear  Castlereagh. 

Note  8.  Stanza  cvi. 

Though  on  more  thorough-bred  or  fairer  fingers. 

There  is  perhaps  nothing  more  distinctive  of  birth 

than  the  hand :   it  is   almost  the  only  sign  of  blood 

which  Aristocracy  can  generate. 

Note  9.  Stanza  cxlvii. 
Save  Solyman,  the  glory  of  their  line. 

It  may  not  be  unworthy  of  remark,  that  Bacon,  in 
his  essay  on  "  Empire,"  hints  that  Solyman  was  the 
last  of  his  line  ;  on  what  authority,  I  know  not.  These 
are  his  words :  "  The  destruction  of  Mustapha  was  so 
fatal  to  Solyman's  line,  as  the  succession  of  the  Turks 
from  Solyman,  until  this  day,  is  suspected  to  be  untrue, 
and  of  strange  blood ;  for  that  Solymus  the  Second  was 
thought  to  be  supposititious."  But  Bacon,  in  his  his- 
torical authorities,  is  often  inaccurate.  I  could  give 
half  a  dozen  instances  from  his  apophthegms  only. 

Being  in  the  humour  of  criticism,  I  shall  proceed, 
after  ha>  ing  ventured  upon  the  slips  of  Bacon,  to  touch 
on  one  or  two  as  trifling  in  the  edition  of  the  British 
Poets,  by  the  justly-celebrated  Campbell. — But  I  do 
this  in  good  will,  and  trust  it  will  be  so  taken. — If  any 
thing  could  add  to  my  opinion  of  the  talents  and  true 
feeling  of  that  gentleman,  it  would  be  his  classical, 
hcnest,  and  triumphant  defence  of  Pope,  against  the 
vulgar  cant  of  the  day,  and  its  existing  Grub-street. 

The  inadvertencies  to  which  I  allude,  are, — 

Firstly,  in  speaking  of  Anstey,  whom  he  accuses  of 
having  taken  "  his  leading  characters  from  Smollett." 
Anstey's  Bath  Guide  was  published  in  1766.  Smollett's 
Humphry  Clinker  (the  only  work  of  Smollett's  from 
which  Tabitha,  etc.,  etc.  could  have  been  taken)  was 
written  during  Smollett's  last  residence  at  Leghorn,  in 
1770. — "  Argal,"  if  there  has  been  any  borrowing, 
\nstey  must  be  the  creditor,  and  not  the  debtor.  I 
refer  Mr.  Campbell  to  his  own  data  in  his  lives  of  Smul- 
IM  and  Anstey. 

Secondly,  Mr.  Campbell  says,  in  the  life  of  Cowper 
(note  to  page  358,  vol.  7),  that  "  he  knows  not  to  whom 
Cowper  alludes  in  these  lines  : 

"  Nor  he  who,  for  the  bane  of  thousands  born. 
Built  God  a  church,  and  laugh 'd  his  word  to  scorn." 

The  Calvinist  meant  Voltaire,  and  the  church  of  Fer- 
ney,  with  its  inscription,  "  Deo  erexit  Voltaire." 

Thirdly,  in  the  life  of  Burns,  Mr.  C.  quotes  Shak- 
ipearo  thus. — 

"  To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  rose, 
Or  add  fresh  perfume  to  the  violet." 

This  version  by  no  means  improves  the  original, 
wnien  is  as  follows  : 

To  gild  refined  RI  d,  to  paint  the  lily. 
To  tliroic  a  perfumt  on  the  violet,"  etc. 

King  John. 

A  great  piet,  quoting  another,  should  be  correct ;  he 
mould  also  &  accurate  when  he  accuses  a  Parnassian 


brother  of  that  dangercus  charge  "bop-owing:"  t 
poet  had  belter  borrow  any  thing  (excepting  money) 
than  the  thoughts  of  another  -  they  are  always  sur*  to 
be  reclaimed :  but  it  is  very  hard,  having  been  tha 
lender,  to  be  denounced  as  the  debtor,  as  is  the  case  ct 
Anstey  versus  Smollett. 

As  there  is  "  honour  amongst  thieves,"  let  there  be 
some  amongst  poets,  and  gire  each  his  due, — none  can 
afford  to  give  it  more  than  .Mr.  Camobell  himself,  who, 
with  a  high  reputation  for  originality,  and  a  fame  which 
cannot  be  shaken,  is  the  only  poet  of  the  times  (except 
Rogers)  who  can  be  reproached  (and  in  him  it  is  in- 
deed a  reproach)  with  having  written  too  litUe. 


CANTO  VI. 


Stanza  Ixxv. 

A  "  wood  obscure,"  like  that  where  Dante  found. 
"  Nel  mezzo  del  cammin'  di  nogtra  vita 
Mi  ritrovai  per  una  selva  oscura,"  etc..  etc.,  etc. 


CANTO  VII. 


Stanza  li. 

Was  teaching  his  recruits  to  use  the  bayonet. 
Fact:  Souvaroff did  this  in  person. 


CANTO  VIII. 


Note  1.  Stanza  viii. 

All  sounds  it  pierceth,  "  Allah  !  Allah  !  Hu  !" 
"  Allah  !  Hu  !"  is  properly  the  war-cry  of  the  Mui 
sulmans,  and  they  dwell  long  on  the  last  syllable,  which 
gives  it  a  very  wild  and  peculiar  effect. 

Note  2.   Stanza  ix. 

"  Carnage  (so  Wordsworth  tells  you)  is  God's  daughter." 
"  But  thy  most  dreaded  instrument 
In  working  out  a  pure  intent, 
la  man  array'd  for  mutual  slaughter ; 
Yea,  Cnrnaee  is  thy  daughter  I" 

WORDSWORTH'S  Thanksgnms  Ode. 

To  wit,  the  deity's.  This  is  perhaps  as  pretty  a 
sedigree  for  murder  as  ever  was  found  out  by  Garter- 
King-at-arms. — What  would  have  been  said,  had  an/ 
ree-spoken  people  discovered  such  a  lineage  ? 

Note  3.  Stanza  xviii. 

Was  printed  Grove,  although  his  name  was  Grose. 
A  fact ;  see  the  Waterloo  Gazettes.     I  recollect  re- 
marking at  the  time  to  a  friend  : — "  There  is  fame!  a 
man  is  killed — his  name  is  Grose,  and  they  print  it 
rove."    I  was  at  college  with  the  deceased,  who 
was  a  very  amiable  and  Clever  man,  and  his  society  in 
great  request  for  his  wit,  gayety,  and   "chansons  a 
wire." 

Note  4.  Stanza  xxui. 

A    any  other  notion,  and  not  nation.tr 

See  Maji    Valiancy  and  Sir  Lawrence  Putunt 


DON  JUAN. 


707 


Note  5.  Stanza  xxv. 

'T  w  pi'y  "  that  such  meanings  should  pave  hell." 
The  Portuguese  proverb  says  that  "'Hell  is  paved  with 
f}^(  intentions." 

Note  6.  Stanza  xx.xiii. 
By  thy  humane  discovery,  Friar  Bacon ! 
Gunpowder  is  said  to  have  been  discovered  by  this 
fr'ar. 

Note  7.  Stanza  xlvii. 

Which  scarcely  rose  much  higher  than  grass  blades. 
They  were  but  two  feet  high  above  the  level. 

Note  8.  Stanza  xcvii. 
That  you  und  t  will  win  Saint  George's  collar. 
The  Russian  military  order. 

Note  9.  Stanza  cxxxiii. 

(Power* 
Eternal!  such  names  mingled !)  "  Ismail's  ours!" 

In  the  original  Russian — 

"  Slava  bogu !  slava  vam ! 
Krepost  Vzala,  y  la  tarn." 

A  kind  of  couplet ;  for  he  was  a  poet. 


CANTO  IX. 


Note  1.  Stanza  i. 

Humanity  would  rise,  and  thunder  "Nay!" 
Query,  Ney? — PRINTER'S  DEVIL. 

Note  2.  Stanza  vi. 
And  send  the  sentinel  before  your  gate 
A  slico  or  two  from  your  luxurious  meals. 

"  I  at  this  time  got  a  post,  being  for  fatigue,  with  four 
others. — We  were  sent  to  break  biscuit,  and  make  a 
mess  for  Lord. Wellington's  hounds.  I  was  very  hungry, 
and  thought  it  a  good  job  at  the  time,  as  we  got  our  own 
fill  while  we  broke  the  biscuit, — a  thing  I  had  not  got 
for  some  days.  When  thus  engaged,  the  Prodigal  Son 
was  never  once  out  of  my  mind ;  and  I  sighed,  as  I  fed 
the  dogs,  over  my  humble  situation  and  my  ruined 
hopes." — Journal  of  a  Soldier  of  the  list  Regt.  during 
he  war  in  Spain. 

Note  3.  Stanza  xxxiii. 
Because  he  could  no  more  digest  his  dinner. 
He  was  killed  in  a  conspiracy,  after  his  temper  had 
»een  exasperated,  by  his  extreme  costivity,  to  a  degree 
>  f  insanity. 

Note  4.  Stanza  xlvii. 
And  had  just  buiied  the  fair-faced  Lanskoi. 
H«  was  the  "grande  passion"  of  the  grande  Cathe- 
rine.—See  her  Lives,  under  the  head  of  "Lanskoi." 

Note  5.  Stanza  xlix. 

Bid  Ireland's  Londonderry's  Marquess  show 
His  parts  of  speech. 

This  was  written  long  before  the  suicide  of  that 
rerson. 


Note  6.  Stanza  Ixiii. 
Your  "  fortune"  was  in  a  fair  way  "  to  aweil 
A  man,"  as  Giles  says. 

"  His  fortune  swells  him,  it  is  rank,  he 's  married."— • 
Sir  Giles  Overreach;  MASSINGER. — See".4.ZVeu>/Paj» 
to  Pay  Old  Debts." 


CANTO  X. 


Note  1.  Stanza  xiii. 

Would  scarcely  join  again  the  "  reformadoes." 
"Reformers,"  or  rather  " Reformed."    The  Baron 
Bradwardine,  in  Waverley,  is  authority  for  the  woid. 

Note  2.  Stanza  xv. 
The  endless  soot  bestows  a  tint  far  deeper 
Than  can  be  hid  by  altering  his  shirt. 

Query,  suit? — PRINTER'S  DEVIL. 

Note  3.  Stanza  xviii. 
Balgounie's  Brig's  Hack  wall. 

The  brig  of  Don,  near  the  "  auld  toun"  of  Aberdeen, 
with  its  one  arch  and  its  black  deep  salmon  stream  below, 
is  in  my  memory  as  yesterday.  I  still  remember,  thouga 
perhaps  I  may  misquote,  the  awful  proverb  which  made 
me  pause  to  cross  it,  and  yet  lean  over  it  with  a  childish 
delight,  being  an  only  son,  at  least  by  the  mother's,  side. 
The  saying,  as  recollected  by  me,  was  this — but  I  have 
never  heard  or  seen  it  since  I  was  nine  years  of  age  ;— 

"  Brig  of  Balgounie,  black's  your  wa'; 
Wi'  a  wife's  tie  son  and  a  mear's  at  foal, 
Down  ye  shall  fa'l" 

Note  4.  Stanza  xxxiv. 
Oh,  for  a  forty-parson  power  to  chaunt 
Thy  praise,  hypocrisy ! 

A  metaphor  taken  from  the  "forty-horse  power"  of 
a  steam-engine.  That  mad  wag,  the  Reverend  S.  S., 
sitting  by  a  brother-clergyman  at  dinner,  observed  after 
wards  that  his  dull  neighbour  had  a  "  twelve-parson 
power"  of  conversation. 

Note  5.  Stanza  xxxvi. 

To  strip  the  Saxons  of  their  hydcs,  like  tanners. 
"  Hyde." — I  believe  a  hyde  of  land  to  be  a  legitimate 
word,  and  as  such  subject  to  the  tax  of  a  quibble. 

Note  6.  Stanza  xlix. 

Was  given  to  her  favourite,  and  now  bore  kn>. 
The  Empress  went  to  the  Crimea,  accompanied  b) 
the  Emperor  Joseph,  in  the  year — I  forget  which. 

Note  7.  Stanza  Iviii. 

Which  gave  her  dukes  the  graceless  name  of  "  Biron." 
In  the  Empress  Anne's  time,  Biren  her  favourite  as 
sumed  the  name  and  arms  of  the  "  Birons"  of  France, 
which  families  are  yet  extant  with  that  of  England. 
There  are  still  the  daughters  of  Courland  of  that  name ; 
one  of  them  I  remember  seeing  in  England  in  the  blesseo 
year  of  the  Allies — the  Duchess  of  S. — to  whom  trte 
English  Duchess  of  S 1  presented  me  as  a  name- 
sake. 


70S 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Note  8.   Stanza  IxiL 
Etarea  I  •*.  usaod  maidenheads  of  bone, 
Tl*  cn*te*t  number  flesh  bath  ever  known. 

St.  Ursula  aad  her  eleven  thousand  virgins  were  still 
extant  in  1316,  and  may  be  so  yet  as  much  as  ever. 

Note  9.  Stanza  Ixxxi. 

Who  butcher' J  half  the  esjth.  and  bullied  t'  other. 
India.    America. 


CANTO  XI. 


Note  1.  Stanza  six. 

Who  on  k  lark,  with  black-eyed  Sal  (his  blowing) 
So  prime,  to  swell,  so  nutty,  and  so  knowing  7 

The  advance  of  science  and  of  language  has  rendered 
rt  unnecessary  to  translate  the  above  good  and  true 
English,  spoken  in  its  original  purity  by  the  select 
mobility  and  their  patrons.  The  following  is  a  stanza 
of  a  song  which  was  very  popular,  at  least  in  my  early 
•ays : — 

"  On  th«  high  toby-cpice  flash  the  muzzle, 

In  spite  of  each  tallows  old  scout ; 
If  you  at  the  spetken  can't  hustle. 

You'll  be  hobbled  in  making  a  Clout. 

Then  your  blowing  will  wax  gallows  haughty, 
When  she  hears  of  your  ecaly  mistake, 

Sn« '  11  surely  turn  snitch  tor  the  forty, 
That  her  Jack  may  be  regular  weight." 

If  there  be  any  gem'man  so  ignorant  as  to  require  a 
traducUon,  I  refer  him  to  niv  old  friend  and  corporeal 
pastor  and  master,  John  Jackson,  Esq.,  Professor  of 
Pugilism ;  who  I  trust  still  retains  the  strength  and 
•ymmetry  of  his  model  of  a  form,  together  with  his 
good  humour,  and  athletic  as  well  as  mental  accom- 
plishments. 

Note  2.  Stanza  xxix. 
St.  James's  Palace  and  St.  James's  "  Hells." 

u  He'.ls,"  gaming-houses.  What  their  number  may 
now  be  in  this  life,  I  know  not.  Before  I  was  of  age 
I  knew  them  pretty  accurately,  both  "gold"  and 
"silver."  I  was  once  nearly  called  out  by  an  acquaint- 
ance, because  when  he  asked  me  where  I  thought  that 
his  soul  would  be  found  hereafter,  I  answered,  "In 
Silver  HelL" 

Note  3.  Stanza  xliii. 

a_nd  therefore  even  I  won't  aneot 

This  subject  quote. 

"  Anent"  was  a  Scotch  phrase,  meaning  "concerning," 
•'  with  regard  to."     It  has  been  made  English  by  the 

(scotch  Novels ;  and,  as  the  Frenchman  said — u  If  it  be 

tot,  ought  to  be  English." 

Note  4.  Stanza  xln. 
The  milliners  who  furnish  "  drapery  misses.  * 
"  Drap«ry  misses" — This  term  is  probably  any  thing 
«*w  but  a  mystery.     It  was  however  almost  so  to  me 
when  I  first  returned  from  the  East  in  1811-1812.     fc 
•nearvs  a    iretty,  a  high-bom,  a  fashionable  young  fe- 
male, well  instructed  by  her  friends,  and  furnished  by 
her  milliner  with  a  wardrobe  upon  credit,  to  be  repaid, 
when  married,  by  the  husband.     The  riddle  was  first 
«a4  to  me  by  %  y^ung  and  pretty  heiress,  on  my  prais- 


ing the  "  drapery  "  of  an  "  tmtoehered"  but  "  pretty  VJT« 
ginities"  (like  Airs,  Anne  Page)  of  the  the*  day,  which 
has  now  been  some  years  yesterday  : — she  assured  me 
that  the  thing  was  common  in  London  ;  and  as  ier  own 
thousands,  and  blooming  looks,  and  rich  simplicity  cf 
array,  put  any  suspicion  in  her  own  case  out  of  the 
question,  I  confess  I  gave  some  credit  to  the  allegation. 
If  necessary,  authorities  might  be  cited,  in  which  case  1 
could  quote  both  "  drapery"  and  the  wearers.  Let  ui 
hope,  however,  that  it  is  now  obsolete. 

Note  5.  Stanza  Ix. 

T  is  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle, 
Should  let  iuelf  be  snutf'd  out  by  an  article. 

"Divinae  particulam  aurse." 


CANTO  XII. 

Note  1.  Stanza  xix. 

Gives,  with  Greek  truth,  the  good  old  Greek  the  lie 
See  MITFORD'S  Greece.  "Gnecia  Ferot."  His  great 
pleasure  consists  in  praising  tyrants,  abusing  Plutarch, 
spelling  oddly,  and  writing  quaintly;  and,  what  is  strange 
after  all,  his  is  the  best  modern  history  of  Greece  in  any 
language,  and  he  is  perhaps  the  best  of  all  modern  his- 
torians whatsoever.  Having  named  his  sins,  it  is  but 
fair  to  state  his  virtues — learning,  labour,  research, 
wrath,  and  partiality.  I  call  the  latter  virtues  in  • 
writer,  because  they  make  him  write  in  earnest. 

Note  2.   Stanza  xxxvii. 
A  hazy  widower  turn'd  of  forty  't  sure. 
This  line  may  puzzle  the  commentators  more  tnan  the 
present  generation. 

Note  3.  Stanra  born. 

Like  Russians  rushing  from  hot  bath?  to  snows. 
The  Russians,  as  is  well  known,  run  out  from  thei 
hot  baths  to  plunge  into  the  Neva:  a  pleasant  practica 
antithesis,  which  it  seems  does  them  no  harm. 

Note  4.  Stanza  hxxii. 
The  world  to  gaze  upon  those  northern  lights. 
For  a  description  and  print  of  this  inhabitant  of  tht 
polar  region  and  native  country  of  the  aurora  borealis 
see  PARRY'S  Voyage  in  search  of  a  North-West  Pat 
sage, 

Note  5.  Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
As  Philip's  son  proposed  to  do  with  At'ios. 
A  sculptor  projected  to  hew  Mount  Athos  into  a  stalue 
of  Alexander,  with  a  city  in  one  hand,  and,  I  believe,  a 
river  in  his  pocket,  with  various  other  similar  devices. 
But  Alexander  's  gone,  and  Athos  remains,  I  trust,  tn 
long,  to  look  over  a  nation  of  freemen. 


CANTO  XIII. 


Note  I.  Stanza  vii. 
Right  honestly,  "he  liked  an  honest  hater.* 
"Sir,  I  like  a  good  hatci." — See  the  Life  of  £h 
Johnson,  etc. 


DON  JUAN. 


"00 


Note  2.  Stanza  xxvi. 
Al«o  there  bin  another  pioui  reason. 
'  With  eVery  thing  that  pretty  tin. 
My  lady  iweet  arise." — Skakspcare. 

Note  3.  Stanza  xlv. 

They  and  their  bills,  "  Arcadiana  both,"  are  ifi. 
"Arcades  ambo." 

Note  4.  Stanza  Ixxi. 
Or  wilder  group  of  savage  Salvatore's. 
Salvator  Rosa. 

Note  5.  Stanza  Ixxii. 

His  bell-mouth'd  goblet  makes  me  feel  quite  Danish. 
If  I  err  not,  "  Your  Dane"  is  one  of  lago's  Catalogue 
of  Nations  "exquisite  in  their  drinking." 

Note  6.  Stanza  Ixxviii. 

Even  Nimrod'i  self  might  leave  the  plain*  of  Dura. 
In  Assyria. 

Note  7.  Stanza  xcvi. 

"That  Scriptures  out  of  church  are  blasphemies." 
M  Mrs.  Adams  answered  Mr.  Adams,  that  it  was  blas- 
phemous to  talk  of  Scripture  out  of  church."  This 
dogma  was  broached  to  her  husband — the  best  Chris- 
tian in  any  book.  See  Joseph  Andrews,  in  the  latter 
chapters. 

Note  8.  Stanza  cvi. 

The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  in  his  pullet 
Should  have  a  hook,  and  a  small  trout  to  pull  it 

It  would  have  taught  him  humanity  at  least.  This 
tentimental  savage,  whom  it  is  a  mode  to  quote  (amongst 
the  novelists)  to  show  their  sympathy  for  innocent  sports 
and  old  songs,  teaches  how  to  sew  up  frogs,  and  break 
their  legs  by  way  of  experiment,  in  addition  to  the  art 
of  angling,  the  cruellest,  the  coldest,  and  the  stupidest 
of  pretended  sports.  They  may  talk  about  the  beauties 
of  nature,  but  the  angler  merely  thinks  of  his  dish  of 
fish  ;  he  has  no  leisure  to  take  his  eyes  from  off  {he 
streams,  and  a  single  bite  is  wort.,  to  him  more  than  all 
the  scenery  around.  Besides,  some  fish  bite  best  on  a 
rainy  day.  The  whale,  the  shark,  and  the  tunny  fishery 
have  somewhat  of  noble  and  perilous  in  them;  even  net- 
fishing,  trawling,  etc.,  are  more  humane  and  useful — but 
angling ! — No  angler  can  be  a  good  man. 

"  One  of  the  best  men  I  ever  knew — as  humane,  del- 
icate-minded, generous,  and  excellent  a  creature  as  any 
in  the  world — was  an  angler :  true,  he  angled  with 
painted  flies,  and  would  have  been  incapable  of  the 
extravagances  of  I.  Walton." 

The  above  addition  was  made  by  a  friend  in  reading 
«»ver  the  MS. — "  Audi  alteiam  partem  " — I  leave  it  to 
counterbalance  my  own  observation. 


CANTO  XIV. 


Note  1.  Stanza  xxxiii. 

And  never  craned,  and  made  but  few  "faui  po»." 
Cloning'. — "To  crane'"  is,  or  was,  an  expression  used 
u>  denote  a  gentleman's  stret china ouf  bis  neck  over  a 
3  x  2 


hedge,  "to  look  before  he  leaped:" — a  pause  in  hb 
"  vaulting  ambition,"  which  in  the  field  doth  occasion 
some  delay  and  execration  in  those  who  may  be  imme- 
diately behind  the  equestrian  sceptic.  "  Sir,  if  you  don't 
choose  to  take  the  leap,  let  me" — was  a  phrase  which 
generally  sent  the  aspirant  on  again  ;  and  to  good  pur- 
pose :  for  though  "the  horse  and  rider"  might  fall,  they 
made  a  gap,  through  which,  and  over  him  and  his  steed 
the  field  might  follow. 

Note  2.  Stanza  xlviii. 
Go  to  the  coffee-house,  and  take  another. 

In  SWIFT'S  or  HORACE  WALPOLE'S  Letters,  I  «hin» 
it  is  mentioned  that  somebody  regretting  the  loss  of  • 
friend,  was  answered  by  a  universal  Pylades :  "  Wher 
I  lose  one,  I  go  to  the  Saint  James's  Coffee-house,  and 
take  another." 

I  recollect  having  heard  an  anecdote  of  the  same  kind. 
Sir  W.  D.  was  a  great  gamester.  Coming  in  one  day  to 
the  club  of  which  he  was  a  member,  he  was  observed  to 
iook  melancholy.  "  What  is  the  matter,  Sir  William  ?" 
cried  Hare,  of  facetious  memory.  "Ah!"  replied  SirW. 
"  I  have  just  lost  poor  Lady  D."  "  Last  >  What !  at— 
Quinze  or  Hazard  ?"  was  the  consolatory  rejoinder  of 
the  querist. 

Note  3.  Stanza  lix. 
And  I  refer  you  to  wise  Oxenstiera. 

The  famous  Chancellor  Oxenstiern  said  to  his  ion,  <rt 
the  latter  expressing  his  surprise  upon  the  great  effects 
arising  from  petty  causes  in  the  presumed  mystery  of 
politics :  "  You  see  by  this,  my  son,  with  how  little  wi»» 
dom  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  are  governed." 


CANTO  XV. 


Note  I.   Stanza  xviii. 

And  thou.  Diviner  still, 

Whose  lot  it  is  by  man  to  be  mistaken 

As  it  is  necessary  in  these  times  to  avoid  ambiguity, 
I  say,  that  I  mean,  by  w  Diviner  still,"  CHRIST.  If  evet 
God  was  Man — or  Man  God — he  was  both.  I  never  ar- 
raigned his  creed,  but  the  use — or  abuse — made  of  tU 
Mr.  Canning  one  day  quoted  Christianity  to  sanction 
Negro  Slavery,  and  Mr.  Wilberfbrce  had  little  to  say  IB 
reply.  And  was  Christ  crucified,  that  black  men  might 
be  scourged  ?  If  so,  he  had  better  been  born  a  Mulatto, 
to  give  both  colours  an  equal  chance  of  freedom,  or  at 
least  salvation. 

Note  2.  Stanza  xxrv. 

When  Bapp  the  Harmonist  embargoed  marriage 

In  his  harmonious  settlement. 

This  extraordinary  and  flourishing  German  colony  • 
America  does  not  entirely  exclude  matrimony,  as  tnt 
"  Shakers"  do;  but  lays  such  restrictions  upon  it  as  pre- 
vent more  than  a  certain  quantum  of  births  within  • 
certain  number  of  years ;  which  births  (as  Mr.  Hulrn* 
observes)  generally  arrive  "  in  a  little  flock  like  those  of 
a  farmer's  lambs,  all  within  the  same  month  perhaps." 
These  Harmonists  (so  called  from  the  name  of  their  set- 
tlement) are  represented  as  a  remarkably  flourishing 
pious,  and  quiet  people.  See  the  various  recent  writer 
on  America. 


710 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


Note  3.  Stanza  xxxviii. 
Nor  canvass  what  "  so  eminent  a  hand  "  meant 
Jacob  Tonson  according  to  Mr.  Pope,  was  accustomed 
to  call  his  writ  jrs  "  ab!e  pens  " — "  persons  of  honour," 
and  especially  "eminent  hands."  Vide  correspond- 
ence, etc.,  etc. 

Note  4.  Stanza  Ixvi. 

While  great  Lucullus'  robe  triomphale  muffles — 
(There  'g  fame) — young  partridge  fillets,  deck'd  with  truffles 

A  dish  "  k  la  Lucullus."  This  hero,  who  conquered 
the  East,  has  left  his  more  extended  celebrity  to  thj 
transplantation  of  cherries  (which  he  first  brought  into 
Europe)  and  the  nomenclature  of  some  very  good  dishes; 
—and  I  am  not  sure  that  (barring  indigestion)  he  has 
not  done  more  service  to  mankind  by  his  cookery  than 
by  his  conquests.  A  cherry-tree  may  weigh  against  a 
bloody  laurel ;  besides,  he  has  contrived  to  earn  celeb- 
rity from  both. 

Note  5.  Stanza  Ixviii. 
But  even  sans  "  confitures,"  it  no  less  true  is, 
There 's  pretty  picking  in  those  "  petits  puits." 

"  Petits  puits  d'amour  garnis  de  confitures,"  a  classical 
and  well-known  dish  for  part  of  the  flank  of  a  second 
coarse. 

Note  6.  Stanza  Ixxxvi. 
For  that  with  me  "s  a  "  sine  qua.' ' 
Subauditur  "  JVon,"  omitted  for  the  sake  of  euphony. 

Note  7.  Stanza  xcvi. 

In  short,  upon  that  subject  I  've  some  qualms  very 
Like  those  of  the  Philosopher  of  Malmsbury. 

Ilobbes ;  who,  doubting  of  his  own  soul,  paid  that 
compliment  to  the  souls  of  other  people  as  to  decline 
their  visits,  of  which  he  had  some  apprehension. 


CANTO  XVI. 


Note  1.  Stanxa  x. 
If  from  a  shell-fish  or  from  cochineal 
The  composition  of  the  old  Tyrian  purple,  whether 
from  a  shell-fish,  or  from  cochineal,  or  from  kermes, 
is  still  an  article  of  dispute  ;  and  even  its  colour — some 
Bay  purple,  others  scarlet :  I  say  nothing. 

Note  2.  Stanza  xliii. 
For  a  spoil'd  carpet — but  the  "  Attic  Bee  " 
Was  much  consoled  by  his  own  repartee. 

I  think  that  it  was  a  carpet  on  which  Diogenes  trod, 
with — "  Thus  I  trample  on  the  pride  of  Plato !" — "With 
greater  pride,"  as  the  other  replied.  But  as  carpets 
are  meant  to  be  trodden  upon,  my  memory  probably 
misgives  me,  and  it  might  be  a  robe,  or  tapestry,  or  a 
lable-cloth,  or  some  other  expensive  and  uncynical  piece 
of  furniture. 

Note  3.  Stanza  xlv. 
With  "  Tu  mi  chamnses  "  from  Portingale, 
To  soothe  our  ears,  lest  Italy  should  fail. 

I  remember  that  the  mayoress  of  a  provincial  town, 


somewhat  surfei'.ed  with  a  similar  dbplay  from  foreign 
parts,  did  richer  indecoro-jsly  break  thrr.ugh  the  ap 
plauses  of  rji  ir.te'.n'ger.i  {.u^ience — intelligent,  I  mean, 
as  to  music, — far  the  '.vcrds,  beside?  being  in  recondit* 
language?  (it  was  some  years  before  the  peace,  ere  all 
the  world  had  travelled,  and  while  I  was  a  collegian) — 
were  rorely  disguised  by  the  performers; — this  mayoress, 
I  say,  broke  out  with,  "Rot  your  Italianos !  frr  my 
part,  I  loves  a  simple  ballat !"  Rossini  will  go  A  good 
way  to  bring  most  people  to  the  same  opinion  some 
day.  Who  would  imagine  that  he  was  to  be  the  suc- 
cessor of  Mozart?  However,  I  state  this  with  diffidence, 
as  a  liege  and  loyal  admirer  of  Italian  music  in  general, 
and  of  much  of  Rossini's:  but  we  may  say,  as  the  con- 
noisseur did  of  painting,  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
"that  the  picture  would  be  better  painted  if  the  painter 
had  taken  more  pains." 

Note  4.  Stanza  lix. 

For  Gothic  daring  shown  in  English  money. 
"  Ausu  Romano,  sere  Veneto  "  is  the  inscription  (and 
well  inscribed  in  this  instance)  on  the  sea  walls  between 
the  Adriatic  and  Venice.  The  walls  were  a  republican 
work  of  the  Venetians ;  the  inscription,  I  believe,  im- 
perial, and  inscribed  by  Napoleon. 

Note  5.  Stanza  Lx. 

"Untying"  squires  "to  fight  against  the  churches." 
"  Though  ye  untie  the  winds,  and  bid  them  fight 
Against  the  churches." — Macbeth. 

Note  6.  Stanza  zcvii. 

They  err — 'tis  merely  what  is  call'd  mobility. 

In  French  "mobilite."    I  am  not  sure  that  mobility 

is  English ;  but  it  is  expressive  of  a  quality  which  rathe: 

belongs  to  other  climates,  though  it  is  sometimes  seen 

to  a  great  extent  in  our  own.     It  may  be  defined  as  an 

excessive  susceptibility  of  immediate  impressions — at 

the  same  time  without  losing  the  past ;  and  is,  though 

sometimes  apparently  useful  to  the  possessor,  a  most 

painful  and  unhappy  attribute. 

Note  7.  Stanza  cii. 
Draperied  her  form  with  curious  felicity. 
"Curiosa  felicitas." — PETRONIUS  ARBITER., 

Note  8.  Stanza  cxir. 
A  noise  like  to  wet  fingers  drawn  on  glass. 
See  the  account  of  the  ghost  of  the  uncle  of  Prince 
Charles  of  Saxony,  raised  by  Schroepfer — "Karl — Karl 
— was — wait  wolt  mich  ?" 

Note  9.  Stanza  cxz. 
How  odd,  a  single  hobgoblin's  nonentity 
Should  cause  more  fear  than  a  whole  host's  idrnlitp! 

"  Shadows  to-night 

Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard 
Than  can  the  substance  of  ten  thousand  soldiers     jtij.,  el» 
Sec  Richard  III. 


711 


[The  following  productions  of  Lord  Byron's  pen  were  not  published  during  his  life; 
and,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  of  them  which  were  attributed  to  him  upon  tencertain 
grounds,  they  have  made  their  appearance,  for  the  first  time,  in  Mr.  Murray's  recent  and 
authoritative  edition  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Byron.  From  that  work  they  have  been 
carefully  selected,  and  added  to  the  present  volume,  with  a  view  of  rendering  it  in  every 
respect  a  complete  edition  of  Byron's  Poetical  Worts.] 


feint*  Crow 

BEING   AN   ALLUSION    IN   ENGLISH   VERSE   TO   THE    EPISTLE    "AD   PISONES,   DE   ARTK   POKTICA,"   AND 
INTENDED    AS   A   SEQUEL   TO  "  ENGLISH    BARDS    AND   SCOTCH   REVIEWERS." 


"  Ergo  fungar  vice  cotis,  annum 
Reddere  quz  ferrum  valet,  eisora  ipsi  secandi." 

HOR.  Ut  Arte  Pott.  304, 306. 

'  Rhymes  are  difficult  things— they  are  stubborn  things,  sir 

FIELDING'S  Amelia,  Vol.  iii.  Book  5.  Ch,?.  5. 


Athens.    Cipuchin  Convent,  March  I2th,  1811. 

WHO  would  not  laugh,  if  Lawrence,  hired  to  grace 
His  costly  canvas  with  each  flatter'd   face, 
Ahused  his  art,  till  Nature,  with  a  blush, 
Saw  cits  grow  centaurs  underneath  his  brush? 
Or,  should  some  limner  join,  for  show  or  sale, 
A.  maid  of  honour  to  a  mermaid's  tail  ? 
Or  low*  Dubost  (as  once  the  world  has  seen) 
Degrade  God's  creatures  in  his  graphic  spleen? 
Not  all  that  forced  politeness,  which  defends 
Fools  in  their  faults,  could  gag  his  grinning  friends. 
Believe  me,  Moschus,  like  that  picture  seems 
The  book  which,  sillier  than  a  sick  man's  dreams, 
Displays  a  crowd  of  figures  incomplete, 
Poetic  nightmares,  without  head  or  feet. 

Poets  and  painters,  as  all  artists  know, 
May  shoot  a  little  with  a  lenpthen'd  bow; 
We  claim  this  mutual  mercy  for  our  task. 
And  grant  in  turn  the  pardon  which  we  ask; 
But  make  not  monsters  spring  from  gentle  dams- 
Birds  breed  not  vipers,  tigers  nurse  not  lambs. 

A  labour'd,  long  exordium,  sometimes  tends 
(Like  patriot  speeches)  but  to  paltry  ends: 
And  nonsense  in  a  lofty  note  goes  down, 
As  pertness  passes  with  a  legal  gown  : 
Thus  many  a  bard  describes  in  pompous  strain 
The  clear  brook  babbling  through  the  goodly  plain  ; 

Humano  capiti  cervicem  pictor  equinam 
Jungere  si  velit,  et  varias  inducore  plumas, 
Undique  collatis  inembris.  nt  turpiter  atrum 
Desinat  in  piscem  mulic.r  formosa  superne; 
Spectatum  aduiissi  risuin  tenoatis.  amici  ? 
Credite,  Pisones,  iste  tahn]a>  (We  librum 
Persimilem,  cujiis,  velut  a>L'ri  snmnia,  vans? 
Fineentur  species,  ut  nee  pes,  nee  caput  uni 
Reddatur  formae.     Pictoribus  atque   poetis 
Quidlibet  audendi  semper  fuit  aqua  potestas. 
Scimus,  et  hanc  veniam  petimusque  damusque  vicis- 

sim : 

Sed  non  tit  placidis  coe'ant  immitia;  non  ut 
Serpentes  avibus  geminentur,  tijrribus  agni. 

Incceptis  gravibus  pleritmque  et  magna  professi 
Purpureus,  late  qui  splendeat,  units  et  alter 


*  In  an  Enzlfch  newspaper,  which  finds  its  way  abroad  wherever  li.ere 
e  Englishmen,  I  read  an  account  of  this  dirty  dauber's  caricature  of  Mr. 
— ,  and  the  conseq-ient  action,  fcc.  The  circumstance  is  probably  too 
w  Koowu  *•"  require  further  comment. 


The  groves  of  Granta,  and  her  gothic  halls, 

King's  Coll.,  Cam's  stream,  stain'd  windows,  and  aid 

walls: 

Or,  in  advent'rous  numbers,  neatly  aims 
To  paint  a  rainbow,  or  the  river  Thames.! 

You  sketch  a  tree,  and  so  perhaps  may  shine- 
But  daub  a  shipwreck  like  an  alehouse  sign; 
You  plan  a  rase — it  dwindles  to  a  pot; 
Then  glide  down  Grub-street — fasting  and  forgot; 
Laugh'd  into  Lethe  by  some  quaint  review. 
Whose  wit  is  never  troublesome  till — true. 

In  fine,  to  whatsoever  you  aspire, 
Let  it  at  least  be  simple  and  entire. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  rhyming  tribe 
(Give  ear,  my  friend,  for  thou  hast  been  a  scribe) 
Are  led  astray  by  some  peculiar  lure. 
I  labour  to  be  brief — become  obscure; 
One  falls  while  following  elegance  too  fast; 
Another  soars,  inflated  with  bombast; 
Too  low  a  third  crawls  on,  afraid  to  fly, 
He  spins  his  subject  to  satiety; 
Absurdly  varying,  he  at  last  engraves 
Fish  in  the  woods,  and  boars  beneath  ths  waves  I 

Unless  your  care's  exact,  your  judgment  nice, 
The  flight  from  folly  leads  but  into  vice; 
None  are  complete,  all  wanting  in  some  part, 
Like  certain  tailors,  limited  in  art. 

Assuiter  pannus;  cum  lucus  et  ara  Dianse, 
Et  properantis  aqua;  per  amcenos  ambitus  agros, 
Atit  fliimen  Rhenuni.  aut  pluvius  describitur  arcut 
Sed  mine  non  erat  his  locus;  et  fortasse  ciipressum 
Scis  simulare:  quid  hoc,  si  fractis  enatat  exspes 
Navibus,  ifre  dato  qui  pingitur?  ampora  cccpit 
Inslitui  :  currente  rota  cur  nrceus  exit? 
Denique  sit  quod  vis,  simplex  duntaxat  et  unuin. 

Maxima  pars  vatutn,  pater,  et  juvenes  patre  digni 
Decipirnur  specie  recti.     Brevis  esse  laboro, 
Obscurus  fio:  stctantem  levia,  norvi 
Deficiunt  animique:  professus  gramlm,  turgei: 
Serpit  humi,  tutus  nimiuin,  timidusque  proeell* > 
Qui  variare  cupit  rom  prodiginliter  unam, 
Delphinnm  sylvis  appingit  fluctibus  aprum. 

In  vitium  ducit  ctilpa;  fuga.  si  caret  arte. 
JEmilium  circa  liiduin  faber  unus  et  unguci 
Exprimet,  et  molles  imitahitu.  are  capil!o», 


t  "  Where  pure  description  heM  thr.  olux  o'  i 


712 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


For  galligaskins  Slowshears  is  your  man, 

Hut  coats  must  claim  another  artisan.* 

Now  this  to  me,  I  own,  seems  much  the  same 

As  Vulcan  s  feet  to  bear  Apollo's  frame; 

Or,  witn  a  fair  complexion,  to  expose 

Black  eyes,  black  ringlets,  but — a  bottle  nose ! 

Dear  authors!  suit  your  topics  to  your  strength, 
And  ponder  well  your  subject,  and  its  length ; 
Nor  lift  your  load,  before  you're  quite  aware 
What  weight  your  shoulders  will,  or  will  not,  bear. 
But  lucid  Order,  and  Wit's  siren  voice, 
Await  the  poet,  skilful  in  his  choice; 
With  native  eloquence  he  soars  along, 
f»race  in  his  thoughts,  and  music  in  his  song. 

Let  judgment  teach  him  wisely  to  combine 
With  future  parts  the  now  omitted  line; 
This  shall  the  author  choose,  or  that  reject, 
Precise  in  style,  and  cautious  to  select. 
Nor  slight  applause  will  candid  pens   afford 
To  him  who  furnishes  a  wanting  word. 
Then  fear  not  if  'tis  needful  to  produce 
Some  term  unknown,  or  obsolete  in  use, 
I  As  fPitt  has  furnish'd  us  a  word  or  two, 
Which  lexicographers  declined  to  do ;) 
So  you  indeed,  with  care, — (but  be  content 
To  take  this  license  rarely) — may  invent. 
New  words  find  credit  in  these  latter  days, 
If  neatly  grafted  on  a  Gallic  phrase. 
What  Chaucer,  Spenser  did,  we  scarce  refuso 
To  Dryden's  or  to  Pope's  maturer  muse. 
If  you  can  add  a  little,  say  why  not, 
As  well  as  William  Pitt  and  Walter  Scott? 
Since  they,  by  force  of  rhyme  and  force  of  lungs, 
Enrich'd  our  Island's  411-um'ted  tongues ; 
'Tis  then— and  shall  be— lawful  to  present 
Reform  in  writing,  as  in  parliament. 

As  forests  shed  their  foliage  by  degrees, 
So  fade  expressions  which  in  season  please. 

Infelix  operis  summa,  quia  ponere  totum 
Nesciet.    Hunc  ego  me,  si  quid  componere  Curem. 
Non  magis  esse  velim,  quam  pravo  vivere  naso, 
Spectandum  nigris  oculis  nigroque  capillo. 

Sumite  matcriem  vestris,  qui  scribitis,  equam 
Viribus;  et  versate  diu  quid  ferre  recusent 
Uuid  valeant  humeri.    Cui  lecta  poteritererit  res, 
Ncc  facundia  deserct  liuiic  nee  lucidus  ordo. 

Ordinis  hiec  virtus  erit  et  venus,  aut  ego  fallor, 
Ut  jam  nunc  dicat,  jam  nunc  debentia  dici 
Pleraque  differat,  et  prasens  in  tempiis  omittat ; 
Hoc  amet,  hoc  spernat  promissi  carminis  auctor. 

In  vcrbis  etiam  tenuis  cautusque   serendis: 
Dixeris  egregie,  notum  si  callida  verbum 
Rcddiderit  junctura  novum.    Si  forte  necesse  est 
Indiciis  monstrare  recentibus  abditn  rerum, 
Fingere  cinctutis  non  exaudiia  Cethegis 
Continget;  dabiturque  licentia  sumpta  pudenter; 
Et  nova  factaque  nuper  habebunt  verba  fideni,  si 
Greeco  fonte  cadant,  parce  detorta.    Quid  autem 
CtEcilip  Plautoque  dabit  Romanus,  ademptum 
Virgilio  Varioque?  ego  cur,  acquirere  pauca 
Si  possum,  invideor;  cum  lingua  Catonis  et  Enni 
Hermonem  pat  Hum  ditaverit,  et  nova  rerum 
Nomina  protulerit?    Licuit,  semperque  licebit, 
Signatum  prtesente  nota  producere  nomen. 

Ut  silva;  foliis  pronos  mutantur  in  annos; 
Piima  cadunt :  ita  verborum  vetus  interit  tetas, 
Et  juvenum  ritu  florent  modo  nata,  vigentque. 
Uebemur  morti  nos  nostraque:  sive  receptus 


Mere  common  mortals  were  commonly  content  with  one  tailorand  with 
Joe  bill,  but  the  more  particular  gentlemen  found  it  impossible  to  confide 
heir  lower  pirments  to  the  makers  of  their  body  clothes.  I  speak  of  the  be- 
tuning  of  1809:  what  reform  may  have  «ince  taken  place  I  neither  know 
»o:  desirs  to  know. 

1  Mr.  Pitt  was  liberal  in  his  additions  to  our  parliamentarv  tongue,  as 
•or  if.  teta  ID  many  publications,  particularly  the  Edinburgh  Review. 


And  we  and  ours,  alas!  are  due  to  fate, 

And  works  and  words  but  dwindle  to  a  date. 

Though  as  a  monarch  nods,  and  commerce  calls. 

Impetuous  rivers  stagnate  in  cinais ; 

Though  swamps  subdued,  and  marshes  drsLn'd,  sailaU 

The  heavy  ploughshare  and  the  yellow  giain. 

And  rising  ports  along  the  busy  shore 

Protect  the  vessel  from  old  ocean's  roar, 

All,  all  must  perish;  but,  surviving  last. 

The  love  of  letters  half  preserves  the  past. 

True,  some  decay,  yet  not  a  few  revive  ;J 

Though  those  shall  sink,  which  now  appear  te  thrire 

As  custom  arbitrates,  whose  shifting  sway 

Our  life  and  language  must  alike  obey. 

The  immortal  wars  which  gods  and  angeU  wage, 
Are  they  not  shown  in  Milton's  sacred  page? 
His  strain  will  teach  what  numbers  best  belong 
To  themes  celestial  told  in  epic  song. 

The  slow,  sad  stanza  will  correctly  paint 
The  lover's  anguish  or  the  friend's  complaint. 
But  which  deserves  the  laurel,  rhyme  or  blank  7 
Which  holds  on  Helicon  the  higher  rank? 
Let  squabbling  critics  by  themselves  dispute 
This  point,  as  puzzling  as  a  Chancery  suit. 

Satiric  rhyme  first  sprang  from  selfish  spleen. 
You  doubt — see  Dryden,  Pope,  St.  Patrick's  dean.§ 

Blank  verse  is  now,  with  one  consent,  allied 
To  Tragedy,  and  rarely  quits  her  side. 
Though  mad  Alinanzor  rhymed  in  Dryden'g  day*, 
No  sing-song  hero  rants  in  modern  plays; 
While  modest  Comedy  her  verse    foregoes 
For  jest  and  pun\  in  very  middling  prose. 
Not  that  our  Bens  or  Beaumonts  show  the  worse, 
Or  lose  one  point,  because  they  wrote  in  verse. 
But  so  Thalia  pleases  to  appear, 
Poor  virgin  !  damn' d  some  twenty  times  a  year! 

Whate'er  the  scene,  let  this  advice  have  weight «- 
Adapt  your  language  to  your  hero's  state. 

Terra  Neptunus  classes  aquilonibus  arcet, 
Regis  opus;  sterilisve  diu  palus,  aptaque  remia 
Vicinas  urbes  alit,  et  grave  sentit  aratrum: 
Seu  cursum  mutavit  iniquum  frugibus  nmnis, 
Doctus  iter  melius;  mortalia  facta  peribunt: 
Nedum  sermonum  stet  honos,  et  gratia  viva*. 
Multa  renascentur,  quffi  jam  cecidere;  cadentqje, 
Qua;  nunc  sunt  in  honore  vocabula,  si  volet  mus; 
Quern  penes  arbitrium  est,  et  jus,  et  norma  loqufcndi 

Res  gestffi  regumque  ducumque  et  tristia  belln. 
Quo  Bcribi  possent  numero  monstravit  Homeruti. 

Versibus  impariter  junctis  querimonia  primum; 
Post  etiam  inclusa  est  voti  sententia  compos. 
Quis  tamen  exiguos  elegos  emiserit  auctor, 
Grammatici  certant,  et  adhuc  sub  judice  lis  est. 

Archilocum  proprio  rabies  armavit  iambo; 
Hunc  socci  cepere  pedem  gramlesque  cothurni, 
Alternis  aptum  sermonibus,  et  populares 
Vincentem  strepitus,  et  natum  rebus  agendia. 

Mtisa  dedit  fidibus  divos,  puerosque  deorum 
Et  pugilem  victorem,  et  equum  certamine  primum 
Et  juvenum  curas  ct  libera  vina  referre. 

Descriptas  servare  vices  operumque  colorea, 
Cur  ego,  si  nequeo  ignoroque,  poeta  salutor? 
Cur  nescire  pudens  prave,  quam  discere  male? 

Versibus  exponi  tragicis  res  comica  non  vult 
Indignatur  item  privatis,  ac  prope  socco 


}  Old  ballads,  old  plays,  and  old  women's  stories,  are  at  present  In  at 
much  request  asnld  wine  or  new  speeches.  In  fact,  this  is  the  mil.enniuM 
of  black-letter:  thanks  to  our  Hebers,  Weben,  and  Scoits ! 

§  Mac  Flecnoc,  the  Dunciad,  and  all  Swift's  lampooning  balla'k.  What- 
ever their  other  works  may  be,  these  originated  in  personal  fec<ings,  and 
angry  retort  on  unworthy  rivals ;  and  though  the  ability  of  these  satires  tie. 
vatu  the  poetical,  their  poignancy  detracts  from  the  personal  character  of 
the  writers. 

II  With  all  the  vulgar  applause  and  critical  abhorrence  oi'puni,  they  ban 
Aristotle  on  their  side,  who  permits  them  to  on'on,  and  gives  them  cou>» 
quencr  by  a  (rave  disquisition. 


HINTS  FROM   HORACE. 


713 


At  times.  Melpomene  forgets  to  groan. 

And  brisk  Thalia  takes  a  serious  tone; 

Nor  unregarded  will  the  act  pass  by 

Where  angry  Townly  lifts  his  voice  on  high. 

Again,  our  Shakspeare  limits  verse  to   kings, 

When  common  prose  will  serve  for  common  things; 

And  I'.vely  Hal  resigns  heroic  ire. 

To    'hollowing  Hotspur"*  and  the  sceptred  sire. 

'Tis  not  enough,  ye  bards,  with  all  your  art, 
To  polish  poems;  they  must  touch  the  heart: 
Where'er  the  scene  be  laid,  whatever  the  song. 
Still  let  it  bear  the  hearer's  soul  along; 
Command  your  audience  or  to  smile  or  weep, 
Whiche'er  may  please  you—anything  but  sleep, 
The  poet  claims  our  tears;  but,  by  his  leave. 
Before  I  shed  them,  let  me  see  him  grieve. 

If  banish'd  Romeo  feign'd  nor  sigh  nor  tear, 
Lull'd  by  his  languor,  I  should  sleep  or  sneer. 
Sad  words,  no  doubt,  become  a  serious  face. 
And  men  look  angry  in  the  proper  place. 
At  double  meanings  folks  seem  wondrous  sly. 
And  sentiment  prescribes  a  pensive  eye; 
For  nature  form'd  at  first  the  inward  man, 
And  actors  copy  nature — when  they  can. 
She  bids  the  beating  heart  with  rapture  bound, 
Raised  to  the  stars,  or  levell'd  with  the  ground; 
And  for  expression's  aid,  'tis  said  or  sung. 
She  gave  our  mind's  interpreter — the  tongue, 
Who,  worn  with  use,  of  late  would  fain  dispense 
At  least  in  theatres)  with  common  sense; 
J'erwhelm  with  sound  the  boxes,  gallery,  pit, 
And  raise  a  laugh  with  anything  but  wit. 

Dignis  carminibus  narrari  ccuna  Thyestse. 
Singula  quaeque  locum  teneant  sortita  decenter. 
Interdum  tamen  et  vocem  commdia  tollit, 
Iratusque  Chremes  tumido  delitigat  ore: 
Et  tragicus  plerumque  dolet  sermone  pedestri. 
Telephus  nt  Peleus,  cum  pauper  et  exul,  uterque 
Projicit  ampullas,  et  sesquipedalia  verba ; 
Si  curat  cor  spectantis  tetigisse  querela. 

Non  satis  est  pulchra  esse  poemata ;  dulcia  sunto, 
Et  quocunque  volent,  animum  auditoris  agunto. 
Ut  ridentibus  arrident,  ita  flentibus   adflent 
Humani  vultus;  si  vis  me  flere  dnlenduni  est 
Primum  ipsi  tibi ;   tune  tua  me  infortuniajtedent. 
Telephe,  vel  Peleu,  male  si  mamlat.i  loqueris, 
Aut  dormitabo,  aut  ridi-bo:  tristia  imestunt 
Vultum  verba  decent;  irntuin,  plena  minarum; 
Ludentem,  lasciva;  severum,  seria  dictu. 
Format-enim  natura  prius  non  intus  ad  omnem 
Fortunarum  habitum ;  juvat,  aut   impellit  ad   iram ! 
Aut  ad  huinum  moeron:  gravi  deducit,  et  angit ; 
Post  effert  animi  motus  interprete  lingua. 
Si  dicentis  erunt  fortunis  absona  dicta, 
Romani  tollent  equites,  peditesque  cachinnum. 

Intererit  inultum,  Davusne  loquatur  an  heros; 
Maturusne  senex,  an  adhuc  florente  jurenta 
Fervidus;  an  matrona  potens,  and  sedula  nutrix; 
Mercatorne  vagus,  cultorne  virentis  agelli ; 
Colchus  an  Assyrius;  Thebis  nutritus.  an  Argis. 

A'lt  famam  cequere,  aut  sibi  convenientia  finge. 
Scriptor  honoratum  si  forte  reponis  Achillem ; 
Impiger,  iracundus,  inexorabilis,  acer, 
Jura  neget  sibi  nata,  nihil  non  arroget  armis. 
Sit  Medea  ferox  invictaque,  flebilis  Ino ; 
Perfidus  Ixion  ;   lo  vaga;  tristis  Orestes; 
Si  quid  inexpertum  seems  committis,  et  audes 
Personam  formare  novam ;  servetur  ad  imum 
Qualis  ab  incepto  processerit,  et  sibi  constet. 

Difficile  est  proprie  communia  dicere  ;  tuque 
Rectius  Iliacum  carmen  deilucis  in  actus, 
iluain  si  proferres  ignota  imlictaque  primus. 
Publics  materies  privati  juris  erit.  si 
Nee  circa  vilem  patulumque  moraberis  orbem ; 
Vec  verbum  verbo  curabis  reddere  fidus 
hiterprcs,  ncc  desilies  imitator  in  arctum 


»  "  And  in  hi: 


rill  hollow,  Mortimer?'— 1  Hairy  If, 

05 


To  skilful  writers  it  will  much  import. 
Whence  spring  their  scenes,  from  common  life  orcrtn 
Whether  they  seek  applause  by  smile  or  tear, 
To  draw  a  "  Lying  Valet,"  or  a  "  Lear," 
A  sage,  or  rakish  youngster  wild  from  school, 
A  wandering  "Peregrine,"  or  plain  "John  Bull;" 
All  persons  please,  when  nature's  VOJCP  prevails, 
Scottish  or  Irish,  born  in  Wilts  or  Wales. 

Or  follow  common  fame,  or  forge  a  plot. 
Who  cares  if  mimic  heroes  lived  or  not? 
One  precept  serves  to  regulate  the  scene: 
Make  it  appear  as  if  it  might  have  been. 

If  some  Drawcansir  you  aspire  to  draw,  t 

Present  him  raving,  and  above  all  law: 
If  female  furies  in  your  schune  are  plann'd, 
Macbeth's  fierce  dame  is  ready  to  your  hand; 
For  tears  and  treachery,  for  good  or  evil, 
Constance,  King  Richard,  Hamlet,  and  the  Devilt 
But  if  a  new  design  you  dare  essay. 
And  freely  wander  from   the  beaten  way, 
True  to  your  characters,  till  all  be  past, 
Preserve  consistency  from  first  to  last. 

'Tis  hard  to  venture  where  our  betters  fail. 
Or  lend  fresh  interest  to  a  twice-told  tale; 
And  yet,  perchance,  'tis  wiser  to  prefer 
A  hackney'd  plot,  than  choose  a  new,  and  err. 
Yet  copy  not  too  closely,  but  record, 
More  justly,  thought  for  thought  than  word  for  word; 
Nor  trace  your  prototype  through  narrow  ways, 
But  only  follow  where  he  merits  praise. 

For  you,  young  bard !  whom  luckless  fate  may  lead 
To  tremble  on  the  nod  of  all  who  read, 
Ere  your  first  score  of  cantos  time  unrolls. 
Beware— for  God's  sake  don't  begin  like  Bowles  If 
"  Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain," 
And  pray,  what  fallows  from  this  boiling  brain?— 
He  sinks  to  Southey's  level  in  a  trice, 
Whose  epic  mountains  never  fail  ,n  mice! 

Unde  pedem  proferre  pudor  vetet,  aut  operis  lex. 
Nee  sic  incipies,  us  scriptor  Cyclicus  olim : 
"  Foltunam  Priami  cantabo,  et  nobile  bellum." 
Quid  dignum  ta,nto  feret  hie  promissor  hiatu 
Parturiunt  monies:  nascetur  ridiculus  mus. 
Uuanto  rectius  hie,  qui  nil  molitur  inepte! 
"  Die  mihi,  Musa.  viruni  eapta  post  tempora  Trojm 
Qui  mores  hominum  multorum  vidit,  et  urbes." 
Non  ftimum  ex  fulgore,  sed  ex  fumo  dare  lucem 
Cogitat,  ut  speciosa  dehinc  miracula  promat, 
Antiphalen,  Scyllamque,  et  cum  Cyclone  Charybdim. 
Nee  redilum  Di'oinedis  ab  inleritu  Meleagri, 
Nee  gemino  bellum  Trojanum  orditur  ab  ovo. 


t  About  two  year*  ago  a  young  man,  named  Townsend,  was  announced 

by  Mr.  Cumterlaud  (in  a  review  since  deceased)  u  being  engaged  in  an 

:pic  poem  lo  be  entitled  '•  Armageddon."    The  plan  and  specimen  promis* 

uuch  ;  bul  I  hope  neither  to  offend  Mr.  Townsend  nor  his  friends,  by  recom- 

nending  to  his  attention  the  linet  of  Horace  lo  which  these  rhymes  allude. 

If  Mr.  Townsend  succeeds  in  his  undertaking,  as  there  is  reason  to  hope, 

how  much  will  the  \vnrld  be  indebted  to  Mr.  Cumberland  for  bringing  him 

before  the  public!    But  till  that  eventful  day  arrives,  it  nii>y  be  doubted 

hether  the  premature  display  of  Lis  plan  (sublime  as  the  ideas  confessedly 

•e)  has  not,  by  raising  expectation  too h'gh.  or  diminishing  curiosity,  by  do 

sloping  his  argument,  rather  incurred  the  hazard  of  injuring  Mr.  TOWB 

nd's  future  prospects.    Mr.  Cumberland  (whose  talents  I  shall  not  depre- 

_  ate  by  the  humble  tribute  of  my  praise)  and  Mr.  Townsend  must  not  icp- 

pose  me  actuated  by  unworthy  motives  in  this  suggestion.   1  v'.sli  the  author 

all  the  success  be  can  wish  himself,  and  shall  be  truly  happy  to  see  epic  po 

etry  weighed  up  from  the  ba'hos  where  it  lies  sunken  with  Souther,  Cottle, 

Cowlev  (Mrs.  or  Abraham),  Ogilvy.  Wilkie,  Pye,  and  all  -he "dull  of  put 

ind  present  days."  Even  if  he  is  not  a  Milton,  he  may  be  better  than  Bladt- 

norc;  if  not  a' Homer,  an  Jtnlimaclna.    I  should  deem  myself  presumpti- 

ius,  as  a  young  man,  in  offering  advice,  were  it  not  addiessed  to  one  tttV 

younger.     Mr.  Townsend  has  the  greatest  difficulties  to  encounter:  bet  ill 

mquering  them  he  will  find  employment ;  in  havlig  conquered  them,  tin 

ward.  I  know  loo  well  "  the  wribhiert  scoff,  the  critic's  contumely,"  ant 

I  am  afraid  time  will  teach  Mr.  Townsend  to  knew  them  better.  Those  wh« 

iucceed.  and  those  who  do  not,  roust  bear  this  alike,  and  it  is  hard  to  taf 

which  have  most  of  it.    I  trust  that  Mr.  Townsend's  share  will  be  frc.m 

ivy:— he  will  soon  know  mankind  well  enougn  not  tc  ittribute  this  a 

The  above  note  was  written  before  the  author  wts  appnnd  of  Mi>  «.*•» 
berlaod's  death. 


714 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Not  so  of  yore  awoke  your  mighty  sire 
The  temper'd  warhlings  of  his  muster  lyre; 
S<ift  as  the  gentler  breathing  of  the  lute, 
"<>f  man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit" 
U.t  sneaks,  but  as  his  subject  swells  along, 
F.nrth.  heaven,  and  hades  echo  with  the  song. 
Still  to  the  midst  of  things  he  hastens  on, 
As  if  we  witnessed  all  already  done; 
Leaves  on  his  path  whatever  seems  too  mean 
T.  raise  the  subject,  or  adorn  the  scene; 
Gives,  as  each  page  improves  upon   the  sight. 
Not  smoke  from  brightness,  but  from  darkness— light; 
And  truth  and  fiction  with  sueh  art  compounds, 
'We  know  not  where  to  fix  their  several  bounds. 
If  you  would  please  the  public,  deign  to  hear 
What  soothes  the  many -Beaded  monster's  ear; 
If  your  heart  triumph  when  the  hands  of  all 
Applaud  in  thunder  at  the  curtain's  fall. 
Deserve  those  plaudits— study  nature's  page. 
And  sketch  the  striking  traits  of  every  age; 
While  varying  man  and  varying  years  unfold 
Life's  little  tale,  so  oft,  so  vainly  told. 
Observe  his  simple  childhood's  dawning  days, 
His  pranks,  his  prate,  his  playmates,  and  his  plays; 
Till  time  at  length  the  mannish  tyro  weans, 
And  prurient  vice  outstrips  his  tardy  teens! 

I!. 'hold  him  freshman !  forced   no  more  to  groan 
O'er  *Virgil's  devilish  verses  and  his  own, 
Prayers  are  too  tedious,  lectures  too  abstruse, 
He  flies  from  T— v— 1's  frown  to  "Fordham's  Mews:" 
(Unlucky  T— v — 1!  doom'd  to  daily  cares 
By  pugilistic  pupils  and  by  bears  t.) 
Fines,  tutors,  tasks,  conventions,  threat  in  vain, 
Before  houndg,  hunters,  and  Newmarket  plain. 
Rough  with  his  elders,  with  his  equals  rash, 
Ci'ril  to  sharpers,  prodigal  of  cash ; 
Constant  to  naught — save  hazard  and  a  whore, 
Yet  cursing  both— for  both  have  made  him  sore ; 
Unread  (unless,  since  books  beguile  disease, 
The  p-x  becomes  his  passage  to  degrees); 
Fool'd,  pillaged,  dunn'd,  he  wastes  his  term  away, 
And,  ui,expell'd  perhaps,  retires  M.  A. 
Master  of  arts!  as  kells  and  clubsj  proclaim, 
Where  scarce  a  blackleg  bears  a  brighter  name ! 

Launch'd  into  life,  extinct  his  early  fire, 
He  apes  the  selfish  prudence  of  his  sire ; 
Marries  for  money,  chooses  friends  for  rank, 
Buys  laud,  and  shrewdly  trusts  not  to  the  Bank ; 

Semper  ad  eventum  festinat;  et  in  medias  res 
Non  secus  ac  notas,  auditorem  rapit,  et  qua; 
Desperat  tractata  nitescere  posse,  relinquit: 
Atque  ita  mentitur,  sic  veris  falsa  remiscet, 
Primo  ne  medium,  medio  ne  discrepet  imum. 

Tu,  quid  ego  et  populus  mecum  desideret,  audi. 
Pi  plausoris  eges  atihra   inanentis,  et  usque 
Sessuri,  donee  cantor,  Vos  plaudite,  dicat; 
yEtatis  cujusque  notandi   sunt  tibi  mores, 
Mobilibusque  decor   naturis  dandus  et  annis. 
Reddere  oui  voces  jam   scit  puer,   et   pede  certo 
Signal  nuii.um ;  gestit   paribus  colludere,  et  iram 
Colligit   ac  ponit  temere,  et  miitatur  in   horas. 
Imberbis  juvcnis,   tandem  custode  remote. 


»  Harvey,  (he  circulator  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  used  to  fline 
tn-.iv  V.r'i'l  in  his  ecstacy  of  admiralion,  and  ay.  "  the  book  had  a  devil." 
ISow,  such  a  character  as  I  am  copying  would  probably  fling  it  away  also, 
But  ra'ber  wish  that  the  devi!  ba-1  the  book ;  not  from  any  dislika  to  the 
piet  but  a  well-founded  horror  of  hexameters.  Indeed  the  public  school 
penance  of  "  long  and  short"  is  enough  to  beget  an  antipathy  to  poetry  for 
the  m'.l  «  rf  a  man's  life,  and.  [*rhaps,  so  far  may  be  an  advantage. 

•'  rnfandum,  regini.  jubes  renovare  dolorem."  I  dare  say  Mr.  T— T— 1 
(M  n  nnm  I  mean  no  affront)  will  understand  me  ;  and  it  is  no  matter  whe- 
ther anv  one  else  does  or  no. — To  the  above  events,  ''quaeque  ipse  miserrima 
,...,  et  quorum  pars  .niagna  fui."  all  time*  and  ttrmt  bear  tes!iinony. 

i  •  Hell,"  a  samir.z-h-iuse  so  called,  where  you  risk  little,  and  are  cheat- 
•d  a  pood  dra..  *•  Club."  a  pleasant  purgatory,  where  you  lose. more,  and 
IT*  an*  tu?Du»ed  to  ue  cheated  at  all 


Sits  in  the  senate;  gels  a  son  and  heir; 
Sends  him  to  Harrow,  for  himself  was  there 
Mute,  though  he  votes,  unless  when  call'd  to  ch,:ei 
His  son's  so  sharp — he'll  see  the  dog  a  peer! 

Manhood  declines— age  palsies  every  limb; 
He  quits  the  scene— or  else  the  scene  quits  him; 
Scrapes  wealth,  o'er  each  departing  penny  grieves 
And  avarice   seizes  all  ambition  leaves; 
("on nis  cent,  per  cent.,  and  smiles,  or  vainly  frets, 
O'er  hoards  diminish'd  by  young  Hopeful's  debts; 
Weighs  well  and  wisely  what  to  sell   or  buy. 
Complete  in  all  life's  lessons— but  to  die; 
Peevish  and  spiteful,  doting,  hard  to  please. 
Commending  every  time,  save  times  like  these; 
Crazed,  querulous,  forsaken,  half  forgot, 
Expires  unwept— is  buried — let  him  rot! 

But  from  the  drama  let  me  not  digress, 
Nor  spare  my  precepts,  though  they  please  you  les» 
Though  women  weep,  and  hardest  hearts  are  stirr'd 
When  what  is  done  is  rather  seen  than  heard, 
Yet  many  deeds  preserved  iii  history's  page 
Are  better  told  than  acted  on   the  stage; 
The  ear  sustains  what  shocks  the  timid  eye, 
And  horror  thus  subsides   to   sympathy. 
True  Briton  all  beside,  I  here  am   French — 
Bloodshed  't  is  surely  better  to   retrench ; 
The  gladiatorial  gore  we  teach  to  flow 
In  tragic  scene  disgusts,  though  but  in  show; 
We  hate  the  carnage  while  we  see  the  trirk, 
And  find  small  sympathy  in  being  sick. 
Not  on  the  stage  the  regicide  Macbeth 
Appals  an  audience  with   a  monarch's  death; 
To  gaze  when  sable  Hubert  threats  to   sear 
Young  Arthur's  eyes,  can  ours,  or  naturt  bear? 
A  §  halter'd  heroine  Johnson  sought  to  slay — 
We  saved  Irene,  but  half  damn'd  the   play. 
And  (Heaven  he  praised!) our  tolerating  times 
Stint  metamorphoses  to  pantomimes, 
And  Lewis'  self,  with  all  his  sprites,  would  quake 
To  change  Earl  Osmond's   negro  to  a  snake  I 
Because,  in  scenes  exciting  joy  or  grief. 
We  loathe  the  action  which  exceeds  belief: 
And  yet,  God  knows!  what  may  not  authors  do, 
Whose   postscripts  prate  of  dyeing  "heroines  blue?' 

Above  all  things,  Dan  Poet,   if  you  can, 
Eke  out  your  acts,  I  pray,  with  mortal  man; 
Nor  call  a  ghost,  unless  some  cursed  scrape 
Must  open  ten  trap-doors  for  your  escape. 

Gaudet  cquis  canibusque,  et  aprici   gramine  campt; 
Cereus  in   vitium  flecti,   nionitoribiis   asper, 
Utilium    Urdus  provisor,   prodigus  a>ris, 
Suhlimis,  cupidiisque,  et   umata   relinquere  pernix 

Conversis  sludiis,  a?tas  animusque  viiilis 
Q,userit  opes,  et  amicitias,  insurvit  honor! ; 
Commisisse  cavet  quod  mox  mutare  laboret. 

Multa  senem  conveniunt  incommoda  ;  vel   quod 
Ciua-rit,  ct  inventis  miser  abstinct,  ac  timet  uti ; 
Vel  quod  res  omnrs  timide  gelideque  ministrat, 
Dilator,  spe  longus,  iners.  avidusque  futiiri; 
Difticilis,  quRruiut,  laudator  temporis  acti 
Sa  puero,  castipator  censorque  niinoruin. 
Multa  feruiit  anni  venientes  c/>inmoda  secum, 
Multa  recedentes  adimunt.    Ne  forte  seniles 
Mandentur  juveni  partes,  pueroque  viriles. 
Semper  in  adjnnctis,  ievoque  morabimur  aptis. 

Aut  agitur  res  in  scenis,  aut  acta   refertur. 


5  "  Irene  had  to  speak  two  lines  with  the  bowstring  round  her  uert !  tot 
the  audience  cried  oul  'Murder!'  and  she  was  obliged  to  be  can -ed  off  the 
s.a.-e."— Botwcll't  Life  of  Johram. 

II  In  the  postscript  to  the  "  Castle  Spec're"Mr.  Lewis  tells  at,  that  though 
Hacks  were  unknown  n  England  at  the  period  of  his  action,  yet  ie  bal 
made  the  anachronkm  to  sel  off  !he  scene  and  if  he  could  h.ve  product" 
the  effect  "by  making  k  «  heroine  blue"-  I  -"uote  h  p-  ~"bl at  h«  wo.M  h»» 
nude  her  I" 


HINTS   FROM   HORACE. 


715 


Of  all  the   mons-./ous  things  I'd   fain  forbid, 
'  loathe  an  opera  worse  than  Dennis  did  ; 
Where  good   and  evil   persons,  right  or  wrong, 
Rage,  love,  and  aught  but  moralize,  in  song. 
Hail,  last  memorial  of  our  foreign    friends 
Wliir.h  Gaul   allows,   and  still  Mesperia  lends! 
Napoleon's  edict!"  no  embargo  lay 
On  whores,  spies    singers,  wisely  shipp'd   away. 
Our  giant  capital,  whose  squares  are  spread 
Where  rustics  earn'd,  and  now  may  beg,  their  bread; 
In  all,  iniquity  is  grown  so  nice, 
It  scorns  amusements  which  are  not  of  price. 
Hence  the  pert  shopkeeper,  whose  throbbing  ear 
Aches  with  the  orchestras  he  pays  to  hear, 
Whom  shame,  not  sympathy,  forbids  to  snore, 
His  anguish  doubling  by  his  own  "encore;" 
Squeezed  in  "  Fop's  Alley,"  jostled  by  the  beaux, 
Teased  with  his  hat,  and  trembling  for  his  toes; 
Scarce  wrestles  through  the  night,  nor  taste  of  ease 
Till  the  dropp'd  curtain  gives  a  glad  release; 
Why  this,  and  more,  he  suffers — can  ye  guess  ? — 
Because  it  costs  him  dear,  and  makes  him  dress! 

So  prosper  eunuchs  from  Etruscan  schools 
Give  us  but  fiddlers,  and  they  're  sure  of  fools  ! 
Ere  scenes  were  play'd  by  many  a  reverend  clerk* 
(What  harm,  if  David  danced  before  the  ark  ?) 
In  Christmas  revels,  simple  country  folks 
Were  pleas'd  with  morrice-mumm'ry  and  coarse  jokes. 
Improving  years,  with  things  no  longer  known, 
Produced  blithe  Punch  and  merry  Madame  Joan. 
Who  still  frisk  on  with  feats  so  lewdly  low, 
Tis  strange  Benvolio  suffers  such  a  show;f 
Suppressing  peer!  to  whom  each  vice  gives  place, 
Oaths,  boxing,  begging, — all,  save  rout  and  race. 

Farce  follow'd  Comedy,  and  reach'd  her  prime 
tn  ever-laughing  Foote's  fantastic  time  : 
Wad  wag !  who  pardon'd  none,  nor  spared  t>e  best, 
And  turn'd  some  very  serious  things  to  jest. 
Nor  church  nor  state  escaped  his  public  sneers. 
Arms  nor  the  gown,  priests,  lawyers,  volunteers: 
4  Alas,  poor  Yorick !"  now  for  ever  mute  ! 
Whoever  loves  a  laugh  must  sigh  for  Foote. 

We  SMile,  perforce,  when  histrionic  scenes* 
Ape  the  swoln  dialogue  of  kings  and  queens, 
When  "Cnrononhotonthologos  must  die," 
And  Author  struts  in  mimic  majesty. 

Moschus!  with  whom  once  more  I  hope  to  sit 
\nd  smile  .it  folly,  if  we  can't  at  wit ; 

Segnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aurem 
duam  quae  sunt  oculis  subjecta  fldelibus,  et  qua; 
Ipse  sibi  tradit  s[K>ctator.    Non  tamen  intus 
Digna  geri,  promes  in  scenam;  multaque  tolles 
Ex  oculis,  qusB  mox  narret  facundia  przsens. 
Ne  pueros  coram  populo  Medea  trucidet ; 
Aut  humana  palam  coquat  exta  nefarius  Atreus; 
Aut  in  avem  Progne  vertatur,  Cadmus  in  anguem 
Quodcunque  ostendis  mini  sic,  incredulus  odi. 

Neve  minor,  neu  sit  quinto  productior  actu 
Fabula,  qua;  posci   vult,  ft  spectata  reponi. 
Nee  deus  intersit,  nisi  dignus  vindice  nodus 
•nciderit.  *  *  * 

Ex  noto  fictum  carmen  sequar.  ut  sibi  quivis 
riperet  idem:  sudet  multum,  frustraque  laboret 
Ausus  idem:  tantiim  series  juncturaque  pollet ; 
Tantum  de  medio  gumtis  accedit  honoris. 


*  "  The  first  theatrical  representations,  entitled  '  Mysteries  and  Moral! 
et,'  we-e  generally  enacted  nt  Ghris'mas,  by  monks  (it  the  only  persons 
who  could  read),  and  latterly  l°y  the  clergy  and  stutlrnts  of  the  universities 
fh«  draniatn  person*  were  usually  Adam.  Pa'er,  Crelestis,  Faith,  Vice,1 
tc.  fcc.— Vtdt  Warton'i  Hillary  of  KnglM  Poetry, 

t  Bruvnlio  does  not  bet  :  hut  even-  man  who  maintains  race-horse*  is  : 
r-imcirr  of  all  Ihr  concomitant  evi's  -f  'be  Hirf.  Avoidine  to  bet  i«  >  lil 
lie  pliarisaical  \-  .'.  an  eiculjntior  I  Ih'nk  not.  I  never  yet  heard  ; 
fava  praised  for  chast;'y  tw-^c  1/12  hcrttlf  did  r  )t  commit  fon-icitinn. 


Yes),  friend!  for  thee  I'll  quit  my  cynic  cell 
And  bear  Swift's  motto,  "Vive  la  bagatelle!" 
Which  charm'd  our  days  in  each  JEgcan  clime, 
As  oft  at  home,  with  revelry  and  rhyme. 
Then  may  Euphrosyne,  who  sped  the  past, 
Soothe  thy  life's  scenes,  nor  leave  thee  in  the  lam 
But  find  in  thine,  like  pagan  Plato'sf  bed, 
Some  merry  manuscript  of  mimes,  when  dead. 

Now  to  the  Drama  let  HJ  bend  our  eyes. 
Where  fctter'd  by  whig  Walpole  low  she  lies; 
Corruption  foil'd  her,  for  she  fear'd  her  glance; 
Decorum  left  her  for  an  opera  dance  1 
Yet  jChesterfield,  whose  polish'd  pen  inveighs 
'Gainst  laughter,  fought  for  freedom  to  our  plays; 
Uncheck'd  by  megrims  of  patrician  brains, 
And  damning  dullness  of  lord  chamberlains. 
Repeal  that  act!  again  let  Humour  roam 
Wild  o'er  the  stage — we  've  time  for  tears  at  home  \ 
Let  "  Archer"  plant  the  horns  on  "  Sullen's"  brows 
And  "Estifania"  gull  her  "Copper|j"  spouse; 
The  moral's  scant — but  that  may  be  excused, 
Men  go  not  to  be  lectured,  tut  amused. 
He  whom  our  plays  dispose  to  good  or  ill 
Must  wear  a  head  in  want  of  Willis'  skill; 
Ay,  but  Mackheath's  example — psha  ! — no  morel 
It  form'd  no  thieves — the  thief  was  form'd  before; 
And  spite  of  puritans  and  Collier's  curse.lT 
Plays  make  mankind  no  better,  and  no  worse. 
Then  spare  our  stage,  ye  methodistic  men  I 
Nor  burn  damn'd  Drury  if  it  rise  again. 
But  why  to  brain-scorch'd  bigots  thus  appeal! 
Can  heavenly  mercy  dwell  with  earthly  zeal? 
For  times  of  fire  and  fagot  let  them  hope; 
Times  dear  alike  to  puritan  or  pope. 
As  pious  Calvin  saw  Servetus  blaze, 
So  would  new  sects  on  newer  victims  gaze. 
E'en  now  UK  songs  of  Solyma  begin ; 
Faith  cants,  «»erplex'd  apologist  of  sin! 
While  the  Lord's  servant  chastens  whom  he  loves, 
And  Simeon  kicks  where  **Baxter  only  "shoves." 

Whom  nature  guides,  so  writes,  that  every  dune*. 
Enraptured,  thinks  to  do  the  same  at  once; 
But  after  inky  thumbs  and  bitten  nails, 
And  twenty  scatter'd  quires,  the  coxcomb  faili. 

Let  pastoral  be  dumb;  for  who  can  hope 
T<f  match  the  youthful  eclogues  of  our  Pope? 
Yet  his  and  Philips'  faults,  of  different  kind, 
For  art  too  rude,  for  nature  too  refined, 

Silvis  deduct!  caveant,  me  judice,  Fauni, 
Ne  velut  innati  triViis,  ac  pene  forenses, 
Aut  nimium  tenens  juvenentur  versibus  unquam, 
Aut  immunda  crepent,  ignominiosaque  dicta. 
Offenduntur  enim,  quibus  est  equus,  et  pater,  et  rei! 
Nee,  si  quid  fricti  ciceris  probat  et  nucis  emtor, 
jEquis  accipiunt  animis,  donantve  corona. 

Syllaba  longa  brevi  subjecta,  vocatur  iambus, 
Pes  citus:  unde  etiam  trimetris  accrescere  jussit 
Nomen  iambeis,  cum  senos  redderet  ictus, 
Primus  ad  extremum  similis  sibi :  non  ita  pridem. 


}  Under  Plato's  pillow  a  volu 

day  be  died.—  fidt  Barthelemi,  DtPauvs,  or  Dioftna  Uatna,  if  igro>> 
able.  De  Pauw  call*  il  a  jeil  book.—  Cumberland,  m  hi«  Obterver, 
ral,  nice  the  sayings  of  "  Publius  Cyrus." 


of  the  Mima  of  Sophrxn  wu  found  I 
if  igr 
term  • 

,  . 

§  His  speech  on  the  licensing  act  it  one  of  his  most  eloquent  efforts. 
II  Michael  Perez,  the  "  Copper  Captain,"  IB  '  lule  a  Wife  and  hart)  • 
Wife." 

H  Jerry  Collier't  controversy  with  Conrreve,  tc.  on  the  tubject  <t  fbt 
drama,  is  too  well  known  to  require  further  comment. 

*»  *  Baiter's  Shove  to  nravy-a—  d  Christians."  The  veritable  title  m  I 
book  once  in  pxrf  repute,  and  likely  enoush  to  he  to  apm.-Mr.  Simeo.  * 
the  very  bullv  of  beliefs,  and  rattieator  of  "  £ood  works."  He  it  ably  f»p- 
porfed  by  John  Stickles,  a  labourer  in  the  same  vin-vard  —  kut  \  my  m 
more,  for  according  to  Johnny  in  full  confrega!  ion,  "  No  Ui  u  i<r  t»t» 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Instruct  how  hard  th«   nedium  't  is  to  hit 
Twixt  too  much  polish  and  too  coarse  a  wit. 

A.  vulgar  scribbler,  certes,  stands  disgraced 
In  this  nice  age,  when  all  aspire  to  taste; 
The  dirty  language,  and  the  noisome  jest, 
Which  pleased  in  Swift  of  yore,  we  now  detest; 
Proscribed  not  only  in  the  world  polite, 
But  even  too  nasty  for  a  city  knight! 

Peace  to  Swift's  faults !  his  wit  hath  made  them  pass, 
Unmatch'd  by  all,  save  matchless  Hubibras ! 
Whose  author  is  perhaps  the  first  we  meet. 
Who  from  our  couplet  lopp'd  two  final  feet ; 
Nor  less  in  merit  than  the  longer  line, 
This  measure  moves  a  favourite  of  the  Nine. 
Though  at  first  view  eight  feet  may  seem  in  vain 
Form'd,  save  in  ode,  to  bear  a  serious  strain, 
Yet  Scott  has  shown  our  wondering  isle  of  late 
This  measure  shrinks  not.  from  a  theme  of  weight. 
An  1,  varied  skilfully,  surpasses  far 
Heroic  rhyme,  but  most  in  love  and  war, 
Wh>se  fluctuations,  tender  or  sublime, 
Are  curb'd  too  much  by  long-recurring  rhyme. 

But  many  a  skilful  judge  abhors  to  see, 
What  few  admire— irregularity. 
Phis  some  vouchsafe  to  pardon;  but  'tis  hard 
When  such  a  word  contents  a  British  bard. 

Aii'l  must  the  bard  his  g'.owing  thoughts  confine, 
Lest  censure  hover  o'er  some  faulty  line!. 
Remove  whate'er  a  critic  may  suspect, 
To  gain  the  paltry  suffrage  of  "correct?" 
Or  prune  the  spirit  of  each  daring  phrase, 
To  fly  from  error,  not  to  merit  praise? 

Ye  who  seek  finish'd  models,  never  cease, 
By  day  and  night,  to  read  the  works  of  Greece. 
But  our  good  fathers  never  bent  their  brains 
j.o  heathen  Greek,  content  with  native  strains: 
The  few  who  read  a  page,  or  used  a  pen. 
Wore  satisfied  with  Chaucer  and  old  Ben ; 
The  jokes  and  numbers  suited  to  their  taste 
Were  quaint  and  careless,  any  thing  but  chaste; 
Yet  whether  right  or  wrong  the  ancient  rules, 
It  will  not  do  to  call  our  fathers  fools ! 
Though  you  and  I,  who  eruditely  know 
To  separate  the  elegant  and  low, 
Can  also,  when  a  hobbling  line  appears, 
Detect  with  fingers  in  default  of  ears. 

Tardior  ut  paulo  graviorque  veniret  ad  aures. 
Spondees  stabiles  in  jura  paterna   recepit 
Commodus  et  putiens;  non  ut'de  sede  secunda 
Cederet  aut  quarta  socialiter.    Hie  et  in  Acci 
Nobilibus  trimetris  apparet  rarus,  et  Enni. 
In  scenam  missos  magno  cum  pondere  versus, 
Aut  opera  celeris  nimium,  curaque  carentis, 
Aut  ignoratse  premit  artis  crimine  turpi. 

Non  quivis  videt  immodulata  poemata  judex ; 
Et  data  Romanis  venia  est  indigna  poetis. 
Idcircone  vagsr,  scribamque  licenter?  an  omnes 
Visuros  peccata  putem  mea;  tutus,  et  intra 
8pem  venite  cautus?  vitavi  denique  culpam, 
Non  laudem  merui.    Vos  exemplaria  Grzca 
Nocturna  versate  manu,  versate  diurna. 
At  vestri  proavi  Plautinos  et  numeros  et 
Latidavere  sales;  nimium  patienter  utrumque, 
Ne  dicam  stulte.  mirati;  si  modo  ego  et  vos 
Scimus  inurbanum  lepido  seponere  dicto, 
Legitimumque  sonum  digitis  callemus  et  aure. 

Ignotum  tragicse  genus  invenisse  Camenie 
Dir.ilur,  et  platistris  vexisse  poemata  Thospis, 
Uure  oanerant  agerentque  peruncti  fecibus  era 
Post  hunc  personjp  dallteque  repertor  honestae 
iKsrhylu.*   et  modicis  instravit  pulpita  tignis, 
Et  nocuit  magnumque  loqui.  nitique  cothurno. 

Sutcessit  vetus  his  comcedia,  non  sine  multa 


In  sooth  I  do  not  know  or  greatly  care 
To  learn  who  our  first  English  strollers  were; 
Or  if,  till  roofs  received  the  vagrant  art, 
Our  muse,  like  that  of  Thespis,  kept  a  cart. 
But  this  is  certain,  since  our  Shakspeare's  days, 
There's  pomp  enough,  if  little  else,  in  plays; 
Nor  will  Melpomene  ascend  her  throne 
Without  high  heels,  white  plume,  and  Bristol  stone 

Old  comedies  still  meet  with  much  applause, 
Though  too  licentious  for  dramatic  laws: 
At  least,  we  moderns,  wisely,  'tis  confest, 
Curtail,  or  silence,  the  lascivious  jest.j 

Whate'er  their  follies,  and  their  faults  beside. 
Our  enterprising  bards  pass  naught  untried; 
Nor  do  they  merit  slight  applause  who  choose 
An  English  subject  for  an  English  muse, 
And  leave  to  minds  which  never  dare  ii.vent 
French  flippancy  and  German  sentiment. 
Where  is  that  living  language  which  could  claim 
Poetic  more,  as  philosophic,  fame. 
If  all  our  bards,  more  patient  of  delay, 
Would  stop,  like  Pope,  to  polish  by  the  way? 

Lords  of  the  quill,  whose  critical  assaults 
O'erlhrow  whole  quartos  with  their  quires  of  fault! 
Who  soon  detect,  and  mark  where'er  we  fail, 
And  prove  our  marble  with  too  nice  a  nail! 
Democritus  himself  was  not  so  bad  ; 
He  only  thought,  but  you  would  make,  us  mad  I 

But,  truth  to  say,  most  rhymers  rarely  guard 
Against  that  ridicule  they  deem  so  hard; 
In  person  negligent,  they  wear,  from  sloth, 
Beards  of  a  week,  and  nails  of  annual  growth: 
Reside  in  garrets,  fly  from  those  they  meet, 
And  walk  in  alleys,  rather  than  the  street 

With  little  rhyme,  less  reason,  if  you  please, 
The  name  of  poet  may  be  got  with  ease. 
So-  that  not  tuns  of  helleboric  juice 
Shall  ever  turn  your  head  to  any  use; 
Write  hut  like  Wordsworth,  live  beside  a  lake, 
And  keep  your  bushy  locks  a  year  from  Blake  ;* 
Then  print  your  book,  once  more  return  to  town. 
And  boys  shall  hunt  your  hardship  up  and  down. 

Am  I  not  wise  if  such  some  poets'  plight, 
To  purge  in  spring  (like  Bayes)  before  I  write? 
If  this  precaution  soften'd  not  my  bile, 
I  know  no  scribbler  with  a  madder  style; 

Laude;  sed  in  vitium  libertas  excidit,  et  vim 
Dignam  lege  regi ;  lex  est  accepta,  chorusque 
Turpiter  obticuit,  sublato  jure  nocendi. 

Nil  intentatum  nostri  liquere  poets; 
Nee  minimum  meruere  decus,  vestigia  Grteca 
Aussi  deserere,  et  celebrare  domestica  facta 
Vel  qni  pratextas,  vel  qui  docuere  togatas. 
Nee  virtute  fortk  clarisve  potentius  armis. 
(luam  lingua,  Latium,  si  non  offenderet  unum 
quenque  poctarum  lima:  labor,  et  mora.    Vos,  6 
Pompilius  sanguis,  carmen   reprehendite,  quod  non 
Multa  dies  et  multa  litura  coercuit,   atque 
Prasectum  decies  non  castigavit  ad  unguem. 

Ingenium  misera  quia  fortunatius  arte 
Credit,  et  excludit  sanos  Helicone  poetas 
Democritus;  bona  pars  non  ungues  ponere  curat 
Non  barbam :  secreta  petit  loca,  balnea  vital. 
Nanciscetur  enim  prelium  nomenque  poets, 
Si  tribus  Anticyris  caput  insnnabile  nonquara 
Tonsori  Licino  commiserit.    O  ego  lievus, 
Qui  purgor  bilem  sub  verni  tcmporis  horaml 
Non  alius  faceret  meliora  poemata:  verum 
Nil  tanti  est:  ergo  fungar  vice  cotis,  acutum 


*  A*  famous  a  tonsor  as  Lu-inus  himself,  and  better  paid,  and  may,  IPkl 
him,  be  one  day  a  senator,  bavins  a  better  qualification  than  one  half  of  tk 
heads  he  crops,  vix.— independence. 


HINTS  FROM   HORACE. 


But  since  (perhaps  my  feelings  are  too  nice) 
(  cannot  purchase  fame  at  such  a  price, 
['II  labour  gratis  as  a  grinder's  wheel. 
And,  blunt  myself,  give  edge  to  others'  steel, 
Nor  write  at  all,  unless  to  teach  the  art 
To  those  rehearsing  for  the  poet's  part ; 
From  Horace  show  the  pleasing  paths  of  song. 
And  from  my  own  example,  what  is  wrong. 

Though  modern  practice  sometimes  differs  quite, 
Tifc  just  as  well  to  think  before  you  write; 
Let  every  book  that  suits  your  theme  be  read, 
Bo  shall  you  trace  it  to  the  fountain-head. 

He  who  has  learnt  the  duty  which  he  owes 
To  friend  and  country,  and  to  pardon  foes; 
Who  models  his  deportment  as  may  best 
Accord  with  brother,  sire,  or  stranger  guest; 
Who  takes  our  laws  and  worship  as  they  are. 
Nor  roars  reform  for  senate,  church,  and  bar; 
In  practice,  rather  than  loud  precept,  wise, 
Bids  not  his  tongue,  but  heart,  philosophize  ; 
Such  is  the  man  the  poet  should  rehearse, 
As  joint  exemplar  of  his  life  and  verse. 

Sometimes  a  sprightly  wit,  and  tale  well  told. 
Without  much  grace,  or  weight,  or  art,  will  hold 
A  longer  empire  o'er  the  public  mind 
Than  sounding  trifles,  empty,  though  refined. 

Unhappy  Greece!  thy  sons  of  ancient  days 
The  muse  may  celebrate  with  perfect  praise. 
Whose  generous  children  narrow'd  not  their  hearts 
With  commerce,  given  alone  to  arms  and  arts. 
Our  boys  (save  those  whom  public  schools  compel 
To  "long  and  short"  before  they're  taught  to  spell) 
From  frugal  fathers  soon  imbibe  by  rote, 
'4A  penny  saved,  my  lad, 's  a  penny  got." 
Babe  of  a  city  birth !  from  sixpence  take 
Two  thirds,  how  much  will  the  remainder  make?— 
"  A  groat." — "  Ah,  bravo  !  Dick  hath  done  the  sum  ! 
He'll  swell  my  fifty  thousand  to  a  plum." 

They  whose  young  souls  receive  this  rust  betimes, 
'Tis  clear,  are  fit  for  any  thing  but  rhymes; 
And  Locke  will  tell  you,  that  the  father's  right 
Who  hides  all  verses  from  his  children's  sight; 

Reddere  quae  ferruni  va'et.  exsors  ipsa  secandi  : 
Munus  et  officium,  nil  scribens  ipse,  docebo; 
Unde  parentur  opes;  quid  alat  formetque  poetam; 
Quid  deceat,  quid  non  ;  quo  virtus,  quo  ferat  error. 

Scribendi  recte,   sapere  est  et  principium  et  fons. 
Rem  tibi  Socraticze  poterunt  ostendere  chartse: 
Verbaque  provisam  rem  non  invita  sequentur. 
(iui  didicit  patrke  quid  debeat,  et  quid   amicis; 
duo  sit  amore  parens,  quo  frator  amandus.  et  hospes ; 
Quod  sit  conscript!,  quod  judicis  officium;  qute 
Partes  in  bellum  missi  ducis ;  ilte  profecto 
Reddere  personae  scil  convenientia  cuique. 
Respicere  exemplar  vitte  morumque  jubebo 
Doctum  imitatorem,  et  vivas  nine  ducere  voces. 

Interdum  speciosa  locis,  morataque  recte 
Fabula,  nullius  veneris,  sine  pondere  et  arte, 
Valdius  oblectat  populum,  meliusque  moratur, 
Qi;am  versus  inopes  rerum  nugseque  canorte. 

Graiis  ingenium,  Graiis  dedit  ore  rotundo 
Musa  loqui;  prater  laudem  nullius  avaris, 
Romani  pueri  longis  rationibus  assem 
Discunt  in  partes  centum  diducere:  dicat 
Filius  Albini,  Si  de  qiiincunce  remota  est 
(Jncia,  quid  superat'  poterat  dixisse — Triens.    Eu  ! 
Rem  poteris  servare  tuam.    Redit  uncia:  quid  fit? 
Semis.     An  hsc  animos  aerugo  et  cura  peculi 
Cum  semel  imbuerit,  spcramus  carinina  fingi 
Posse  linendd  cedro,  et  levi  servanda  cupresso? 

Aut  prodesse  volunt,  ant  delectare  poette; 
Aut  simul  et  jnciimla  et  iponea  dicere  vitce. 
Quidquid  prtecipies.  esto  brevis:   ul  cito  dicta 
Fercipiant  aniini  dociles.  teneantque  fidrles. 
>>mne  supervacuurn  pleno  de  pectore  manat. 


For  poets  (says  this  sage,  and  many  more,*) 
Make  sad  mechanics  with  their  lyric  lore; 
And  Delphi  now,  however  rich  of  old. 
Discovers  little  silver  and  less  gold, 
Because  Parnassus,  though  a  mount  divine, 
Is  poor  as  /rus,f  o»  tn  Irish  mine,} 

Two  objects  a'.vtays  should  the  poet  move. 
Or  one  or  both, — to  please  or  to  improve. 
Whate'er  you  teach,  be  brief,  if  you  design 
For  our  remembrance  your  didactic  line; 
Redundance  places  memory  on  the  rack, 
For  brains  may  be  o'erloaded,  like  the  back. 

Fiction  does  best  when  taught  to  look  like  truth. 
And  fairy  fables  bubble  none  but  youth: 
Expect  no  credit  for  too  wond'rous  tales, 
Since  Jonas  only  springs  alive  from  whales! 

Young  men  with  aught  but  elegance  dispense, 
Maturer  years  require  a  little  sense. 
To  end  at  once:— that  bard  for  all  is  fit 
Who  mingles  well  instruction  wilh  his  wit; 
For  him  reviews  shall  smile,  for  him  o'erflow 
The  patronage  of  Paternoster-row; 
His  book,  with  Longman's  liberal  aid,  shall  pass 
(Who  ne'er  despises  books  that  bring  him  brass); 
Through  three  long  weeks  the  taste  of  London  lead, 
And  cross  St.  George's  Channel  and  the  Tweed. 

But  every  thing  has  faults,  nor  is't  unknown 
That  harps  and  fiddles  often  lose  their  tone, 
And  wayward  voices,  at  their  owner's  call 
With  all  his  best  endeavours,  only  squall; 
Dogs  blink  their  cover,  flints  withhold  their  spark. 
And  double-barrels  (damn  them!)  miss  their  mark.} 

Where  frequent  beauties  strike  the  reader's  view 
\Ve  must  not  quarrel  for  a  blot  or  two; 
But  pardon  equally  to  books  or  men, 
The  slips  of  human  nature,  and  'te  pen. 

Yet  if  an  author,  spite  of  foe  or  friend, 
Despises  all  advice  too  much  to  mend. 
But  ever  twangs  the  same  discordant  string, 
Give  him  no  quarter,  howsoe'er  he  sing. 
Let  JHavard's  fate  o'ertake  him,  who,  for  once 
Produced  a  play  too  dashing  for  a  dunce: 

Ficta  voluptatis  causa,  sint  proxima  veris: 
Nee    quodcunque  volet,  pnscat  sibi  fabula  credi : 
Neu  pransx  Lamia  vivum  puerum  extrahat  alvo. 

Centurix  seniorum  agitant  expertia  frugis: 
Celsi  pnetereunt  austera  poemata  Rhamnes. 
Omne  tulit  punctum,  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci, 
Lectorem  delectando,  pariterque  monendo. 
Hie  meret  sera  liber  Sosiis;  hie  et  mare  transit. 
Et  longum  noto  scriptori  prorogat  revum. 

Sunt  delicta  tamen,  quibus  ignovisse  volimus; 
Nam  neque  chorda  sonuiu  reddit  quern  vult  manui 

et  mens, 

Poscentique  gravem  perssepe  remittit  acutum ; 
Nee  semper  feriet  quodcunque  minabitur  arcus. 
Verum  ubi  plura  nitent  in  carmine,  non  ego  paucil 
Offendar  maculis,  quas  aut  incuria  fudit. 


*  I  have  not  the  original  by  me,  but  'be  Italian  translation  runs  a*  follows  • 
— "  E  una  cnsa  a  mio  credere  molto  stranaganle.che  ua  padrede*tideri.  oper 
metta.  che  suo  figliuolo  coltiri  e  perfezioui  questo  lalen'o."  A  little  further 
on  :  "  Si  trovano  di  rado  nel  Parnaso  le  miniere  d'  oro  e  d'  argento."—  £dt» 

zivne  dti  Fanciulli  di  Sifnor  Lackt.     Venetian  edition. 

t  "  Iro  pauperior :"  this  is  the  same  beeger  who  bored  with  Ulynek  for  a 
pound  of  kid's  fry,  which  he  lost,  and  half  a  dozen  teeth  besides.— Set  Ody» 
«ey,  b.  18. 

t  The  Irish  gold  mine  of  Wicklow,  which  yields  just  ore  enough  10  twe» 
by,  or  gild  a  bad  guinea. 

§  As  Mr.  Pope  took  the  liberty  of  damning  Homer,  to  whom  he  was  imoVr 
,,-eal  obligations—  ".Ind  Homer  (damn  him  !)  caUi"—  it  may  be  presanMsl 
that  any  body  or  any  thine  may  be  damned  in  verse  by  poetical  license  ;  an*. 
'  case'of  accident,  I  beg'leave  to  plead  so  illustrious  a  precedent. 

II  For  the  story  of  Billy  Havard<s  tragedy,  see  ••  Dat  ecS  Life  of  Ow 

rk."  I  believe  it  i»  "Refulus,"  or  "Charles  the  First." -The  moment  it 

a«  known  to  be  hi.«,  the  lh«atre  thinrw*  and  tbe  b~ti<:llei  refuted  lo  |  M 
Ihe  cus'.omari-  sum  forllie  copyrignt 


718 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


At  first   none  deem'd  it  his,  bi  t  when  his  name 
Announced  the  fact — what  then? — it  lost  its  fame. 
Though  all  deplore  when  Milton  deigns  to  doze. 
In  a  long  work  'tis  fair  to  steal  repose. 

As  pictures,  so  shall  poems  be;  some  stand 
The  critic  eye,  and  please  when  near  at  hand; 
But  others  at  a  distance  strike  the  sight ; 
This  seeks  the  shade,  but  that  demands  the  light. 
Nor  dreads  the  connoisseur's  fastidious  view. 
But,  ten  times  scrutinized,  is  ten  times  new. 

Parnassian  pilgrims!  ye  whom  chance  or  choice 
Hath  led  to  listen  to  the  muse's  voice, 
Receive  this  counsel,  and  be  timely  wise; 
Few  reach  the  summit  which  before  you  lies. 
Our  church  and  state,  our  courts  and  camps,  concede 
Reward  to  very  moderate  heads  indeed! 
In  these,  plain  common  sense  will  travel  far; 
All  are  not  Ersk'.ties  who  mislead  the  bar: 
But  poesy  between  the  best  and  worst 
No  mediii.il  knows ;  you  must  be  last  or  first : 
For  midd'ing  poets'  miserable  volumes, 
Are  damn'd  alike  by  gods,  and  men,   and  columns. 

Again,  .ny  Jeffrey!— as  that  sound  inspires, 
How  wakes  my  bosom  to  its  wonted  fires! 
Fires,  such  as  gentle  Caledonians  feel, 
When  Southerns  writhe  upon  their  critic  wheel, 
Or  mild  Eclectics,*  when  some,  worse  than  Turks, 
Would  rob  poor  Faith  to  decorate  "  good  works." 

Aut  humana  parum  cavit  natura.    Quid  ergo? 
Ut  scriptor  si  peccat  idem  librarius  usque, 
Quamvis  est  monitus.  venia  caret;  ut  citharcedus 
Ridetur,  chorda  qui  semper  aberrat  endeni : 
Sic  mihi,  qui  multum  cessat,  fit  Chrerilus  ille, 
Quern  bis  terve  bonum  cum  risu  miror;  et  idem 
Indignor,   quandoque  bonus  dormitat  Homerus 
Verum  operi   longo  fast  est  obrepure  somnum. 

Ut  pictura,  poesis :  et  erit  quae,  si  propius   stes, 
Te  eapict  magis;   et  qusedam,  si  longius  abstes: 
Hsec  amat  obscurum;  volet  haec  sub  luce  videri, 
Judicis  argutum  que  non  formidat  acumen  : 
Hrec  placnit  semel ;  IKPC  decies  lepetita  piacebit. 

O  major  juvenum,  qtiamvis  et  voce  pa tern a 
Fingeris  ad  rectum,  et  per  te  sapis;  hoc  tibi  dictum 
Tolle  memor:  certis  medium  et  tolerabile  rebus 
Recte  concedi  :  consultus  juris,  et  actor 
Tausarum  mediocris  abest  virtute  diserti  . 
Messal*,  nee  scit  quantum  Cassellius  Aulus: 
Sed  tamen  in  pretio  est :  mcdiocribus  c.sac  poetis 
Non  homines,  non  di,  non  concessere  columns. 
Ut  gratas  inter  mensas  symphonia  discors. 
Et  crassum  unguentum,  et  Sardo  cum  melle  papaver 
OfTendtmt.  poterat  duci  quia  crena  sine  istis 
Sir  animis  natiim  inventiimque  poema  juvandis, 
Pi  paulum  a  sum  in  o  decessit,  vergit  ad   imum. 

Ludere  qui  nescit,  campestribus  abstinet  armis, 
Indoctusque  pilse,  piscive,  trochive,  quiescit, 
Ne  spisste  risum  tollaiit  impune  coronse: 


•  To  (he  Eclectic  or  Christian  Reviewers  I  have  to  return  thankk  for  the 
hrrnur  of  tli»»  charily  which  in  1809  induced  them  to  ex|>re»  a  hnpe,  that  a 
tiling  then  published  by  me  n>i?h;  lead  to  certain  consequences,  which,  al- 
though natural  enourh,  surely  came  but  rashly  from  reverend  lips.  I  refer 
them  to  their  own  paees,  where  they  congratulated  themselves  on  the  pros- 
pect of  a  tilt  between  Mr.  Jeffrey  and  myself,  fmm  which  some  ^real  good 
wai  to  accrue,  provided  one  or  both  were  knocked  on  the  head.  Having 
Kirvived  two  yean  and  a  half  those  "Elegies"  which  they  were  kindly  pre- 
paring to  review,  I  have  no  peculiar  euslo  to  rive  them  "  so  joyful  a  trou- 
ble," except,  indeed.  "  upon  compu'sion,  Hal ;"  but  if,  as  David  says  in  the 
"Rivals."  it  should  come  to  "bloody  sword  and  gun  fiehtine."  we  "  won't 
run,  will  we,  Sir  Lucius?"  1  do  not  know  what  I  had  done  to  these  Ec- 
lectic gentlemen  :  my  work*  are  their  lawful  perquisite,  lo  be  hewn  in  pieces 
like  Ajrae.  if  it  shmild  seem  meet  unto  them;  but  why  they  should  be  in 
•urh  a  hurry  to  kill  off  their  author.  I  am  isnorant.  "The  race  is  not 
always  to  the  swift  nor  'he  battle  lo  the  strong :"  and  now,  as  these  Chris- 
tians have  "  smote  me  on  one  cheek, n  I  hold  them  up  the  other  ;  and  in  re- 
turn fir  their  food  wishes.  give  them  an  opportunity  of  repeating  tliem.  Had 
my  other  set  of  men  expressed  such  sentiments,  1  should  have  smiled,  and 
.eft  them  to  the  'recording  ansel,"  but  from  the  Pharisees  of  Christianity 
icency  mifht  be  exnrc'ed.  I  can  assure  these  brethren,  tha',  publ  lean  and 
•nner  as  I  am.  I  would  no'  have  treated  "  mine  enemy's  dot  thus."  To 
ihr«»  tnem  the  superiority  of  my  brotherly  love,  if  ever  the  Reverend 
Messrs.  Simeon  or  R  v,«-l  •'»  shiu'd  be  engaged  in  sucn  a  conflict  as  that  in 
which  they  reiu^'ed  me  to  fall.  I  hope  they  may  escape  with  being  "wing- 
«••«  .T  an)  tnat  Heaviside  may  be  at  hand  to  extract  the  ball. 


Such  ate  the  genial  feelings  thou  canst  claim, 

My  falcon  flies  not  at  ignoble  game. 

Mightiest  of  all  Dunedin's  beasts  of  chase' 

For  thee  my  Pegasus  would  mend  his  pace. 

Arise,  my  Jeffrey!   or  my  inkless  pen 

Shall  never  blunt  its  edge  on  meaner  men; 

Till  thee  or  thine  mine  evil  eye  discerns, 

Alas!  I  cannot  "strike  at  wretched  kernes." 

Inhuman  Saxon  !  wilt  thou  then  resign 

A  muse  and  heart  by  choice  so  wholly  thine? 

Dear,  d — d  contemner  of  my  schoolboy  songs. 

Hast  thou  no  vengeance  for  my  manhood's  wrongs  I 

If  ut. provoked  thou  once  couldst  bid  me  bleed, 

Hast  thou  no  weapon  for  my  daring -deed? 

What !  not  a  word  ! — and  am  I  then  so  low  7 

Wilt  thou  forbear,  who  never  spared  a  foe? 

Hast,  thou  no  wrath,  or  wish  to  give  it  vent? 

No  wits  for  nobles,  dunces  by  descent? 

No  jest  on  "minors,"  quibbles  on  a  name, 

Nor  one  facetious  paragraph  of  blame  ? 

Is  it  for  this  on  Ilion  I  have  stood. 

And  thought  of  Homer  less  than  Holyrood? 

On  shore  of  Euxine  or  JEgean  sea. 

My  hate  untravell'd,  fondly  turn'd  to  thee. 

Ah!  let  me  cease;  in  vain  my  bosom  burns, 

From  Corydon  unkind  Alexisf  turns: 

Thy  rhymes  are  vain  ;  thy  Jeffrey  then  forego, 

Nor  woo  that  anger  which  he  will  not  show. 

What  then? — Edina  starves  some  lanker  son, 

To  write  an  article  thou  canst  not  shun: 

Some  less  fastidious  Scotchman  shall  be  found, 

As  bold  in  Billingsgate,  though  less  renown'd. 

As  if  at  table  some  discordant  dish 
Should  shock  our  optics,  such  as  frogs  for  fish; 
As  oil  in  lieu  of  butter  men  decry. 
And  poppies  please  not  in  a  modern  pie; 
If  all  such  mixtures  then  be  half  a  crime. 
We  must  have  excellence  to  relish  rhyme. 
Mere  roast  and  hoil'd  no  epicure  invites; 
Thus  poetry  disgusts,  or  else  delights. 

Who  shoot  not  flying  rarely  touch  a  gun ; 
Will  he  who  swims  not  to  the  river  run? 
And  men  unpractised  in  exchanging  knocks 
Must  go  to  Jackson  ere  they  dare  to  box. 
Whate'er  the  weapon,  cudgel,  fist,  or  foil. 
None  reach  expertness  without  years  of  toil; 
But  fifty  dunces  can,  with  perfect  ease, 
Tqg  twenty  thousand  couplets  when  they  please. 
Why  not?— shall  I,  thus  qualified  to  sit 
For  rotten  boroughs,  never  show  my  wit? 
Shall  T,  whose  fathers  with  the  quorum  sate, 
And  lived  in  freedom  on  a  fair  estate; 
Who  left  me  heir,  with  stables,  kennels,  packs, 
To  all  their  income,  and  to  twice  its  tax; 
Whose  form  and  pedigree  have  scarce  a  fault, 
Shall  I,  I  say,  suppress  my  attic  salt? 

Thus  think  "the  mob  of  gentlemen;"  but  you, 
Besides  all  this,  must  .have  some  genius  too. 
Be  this  your  sober  judgment,  and  a  rule, 
And  print  not  piping  hot  from  Southey's  school, 

Qui  nescit,  versus  tamen  audet  fingere  I  Quid  ni  ? 

Liber  et  ingenutis  prsesertim  census  equestrem 

Snmmam  nummoriim,  vitioque  remotus  ab  onini. 

Tu  nihil  invita  dices  faciesve  Minerva: 

Id  tibi  ji.idicium  est,  ea  mens;  si  quid  tamen  Mim 

Scripseris,  in  Metii  descendant  judicis  aures, 

Et  patris.  ot  nostras  nonumque  prematur  in  annum 

Membranis  inttis  positis,  dolere  licebit 

Quod  non  edideris;   nescit  vox   missa  reverti. 

Sylvestres  homines  sacer  interpresque  deorttra 
C&dibus  et  victu  fcedo  deterruit  Orpheus; 


luveuiei  ilium,  si  te  hie  fistidit,  Alexia 


HINTS   FROM   HORACE. 


719 


Who  (ere  another  Thalaba  appears;, 

I  trust,  will  spare  us  for  at  least  nine  years. 

And  hark'ye,  Soythey  !*  pray — but  don't  be  vext — 

Burn  all  your  last  three  works— and  half  the  next. 

Hut  why  this  vain  advice?  once  published,  books 

Can  never  be  recall'd — from  pastry-cooks ! 

Though  "  Madoc,"  with  "Pucelle,"t  instead  of  Punch, 

May  travel  back  to  duito  on  a  trunk  !| 

Orpheus,  we  learn  from  Ovid  and  Lempriere, 
Led  all  wild  beasts  but  woman  by  the  ear; 
And  had  he  fiddled  at  the  present  hour. 
We'd  seen  the  lions  waltzing  in  the  Tower; 
And  old  Amphion,  such  were  minstrels  then, 
Had  built  St.  Paul's  without  the  aid  of  Wren. 
Verse  too  was  justice,  and  the  bards  of  Greece 
Did  more  than  constables  to  keep  the  peace ; 
Abolish'd  cuckoldnm  with  much  applause, 
Call'd  county  meetings,  and  enforced  the  laws, 
Cut  down  crown  influence  with  reforming  scythes, 
And  served  the  church  without  demanding  tithes; 
And  hence,  throughout  all  Hellas  and  the  East, 
Each  poet  was  a  prophet  and  a  priest, 
Whose  old-establish'd  board  of  joint  controls 
Included  kingdoms  in  the  cure  of  souls. 

Next  rose  the  martial  Homer,  epic's  prince, 
And  fighting's  been  in  fashion  ever  since; 
And  old  Tyrtaeus,  when  the   Spartans  warr'd, 
(A  limping  leader,  but  a  lofty  bard,) 
Though  wa-ll'd  Ithome  had  resisted  long, 
Reduced  the  fortress  by  the  force  of  song. 

When  oracles  prevail'd,  in  times  of  old, 
In  song  alone  Apollo's  will  was  told. 

»  Mr.  Southey  his  lately  tial  another  canister  to  his  tail  in  the  "  Curse  of 
Kehama,"  maugre  the  neglect  of  Madoc,  &c.,  and  has  in  one  instance  had  a 
wonderful  effect.  A  literary  friend  of  mine,  walking  out  one  lovely  even- 
ing lasl  summer,  on  the  eleventh  bridge  of  the  Paddiugton  canal,  was  alarm- 
ed by  the  ory  of  "one  in  jeopardy  :"  he  rushed  alon<,  collected  a  body  of 
Irish  haymakers  (supping  on  buttermilk  in  an  adjacent  paddock),  procured 
three  rake;,  one  eel-spear,  and  a  landing-net,  and  at  last  (horesco  referens) 
pulled  out— his  own  publisher.  The  unfortunate  man  was  gone  for  ever,  and 
Jo  was  a  large  quarto  wherewith  he  had  taken  the  leap,  which  proved,  on 
inquiry,  'o  have  been  Mr.  Southey's  last  work.  Its  "alacrity  of  sinking" 
was  so  great,  that  it  has  never  since  been  heard  of.  though  some  maintain 
that  it  is  at  this  moment  concealed  at  Alderman  Birch's  pastry  premises, 
Cornhill.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  coroner's  inquest  brought  in  a  verdict  of 
**  Felo  de  bibliopola"  against  a  "  quarto  unknown  ;vaud  circumstantial  evi- 
dence being  since  strong  against  the  "  Curse  of  Kehama"  (of  which  the  above 
word«  are  an  exact  description),  it  will  be  tried  by  its  peers  next  session,  in 
Grub-street.— Arthur,  Alfred,  Daviiieis,  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion,  Exodus, 
Exodia,  Epigonaid,  Calvary,  Fill  of  Cambria,  Siege  of  Acre,  l)on  Roderick, 
and  Tom  Thumb  the  Great,  are  the  names  of  the  twelve  jurors.  The 
judges  are  Rye,  Bowles,  and  the  bellman  of  St.  Sepulchre's.  The  same  ad- 
vocates, pro  and  con,  will  be  employed  as  are  now  engaged  in  Sir  F.  Burden's 
celebrated  cause  in  the  Scotch  court.  The  public  anxiously  await  the  result, 
»nd  all  live  publishers  will  be  subpoenaed  as  witnesses. 

But  Mr. Southey  has  published  the  "  Curse  of  Kehama:"  an  inviting  title 
toquibblers.  By  the  by,  it  is  a  good  deal  beneath  Scott  and  Campbell,  and  not 
much  above  Southey.'to  allow  the  booby  Ballantyne  to  entitle  them,  in  the 
Edinburgh  Annual  "Register  (of  which,  by  the  by,  Southey  is  editor)  "the 
grind  poeticaltriumvirateof  the  day."  But,  on  second  thoughts,  it  can  be  no 
Teat  degree  of  praise  to  be  the  one-eyed  leaders  of  the  blind,  though  they 

ght  as  well  keep  to  themselves  "  Spoil's  thir'y  thousand  copies  sold," 
which  must  sadly  discomfit  poor  Southey^  unsaleable*.  Poor  Southey,  it 
should  seem,  is  the  "  I^pidus"  of  this  poetical  triumvirate.  I  am  only  sur- 
prised to  see  him  in  such  good  company. 

"  Such  things  we  know  are  neither  rich  nor  rare, 
Bui  wonder  how  the  devil  /it  came  there." 

The  trio  are  well  defined  in  the  sixth  proposition  of  Euclid  :  "  Because, 
in  the  triangles  DBC,  ACB,  DB  is  equal  to  AC,  and  BC,  common  to  both ; 
flie  two  sides  DB,  BC,  are  equal  to  the  two  AC,  CB,  each  to  each,  and  the 
«ngle  DBC  a  equal  to  the  angle  ACB :  therefore,  the  base  DC  is  equal  to  the 
base  AB,  and  tne  triangle  DBC  (Mr.  Southey)  is  equal  to  the  triangle  ACB, 
the  lot  to  'he  grralo-,  «  hich  is  absurd,"  IK.— The  editor  of  the  Edinburgh 
Register  will  find  the  rest  of  the  theorem  har;l  by  his  stabling  :  he  has  only 
to  cms.  the  river ;  't  is  the  first  turnpike  t'  other  side  "  Pons  Asinorum.1-* 

t  Voltaire's  "  Pucelle"  is  n->t  quite  so  immaculate  as  Mr.  Southey's  "  Joan 
rl  Arc,"  and  yet  I  am  afraid  the  Frenchman  has  both  more  truth  and  poet- 
ry too  on  his  side — (they  rarely  go  together) — than  our  patriotic  m  instrel, 
who«e  firs!  essay  was  in  praise  of  a  fanatical  French  strumpet,  whose  title 
of  witch  would  be  correct  with  Ihe  change  of  the  first  letter. 

J  Like  Sir  B.  Burgess's  Richard,  the  'enth  book  of  which  I  read  at  Malt*, 
on  a  trunk  of  Eyres,  19.  Cookspur-street.  If  this  be  doubted,  I  shall  buy  a 
portmanteau  to  quote  from. 


Then  if  your  verse  is  what  all  verse  should  be. 
And  gods  were  not  ashamed  on't,  why  should  we? 

The  muse,  like  mortal  females,  may  be  woo'd. 
In  turns  she'll  seem  a  Paphian  or  a  pruiJ. . 
Fierce  as  a  bride  when  first  she  feels  affright 
Mild  as  the  same  upon  the  second  ni^hl. 
Wild  as  the  wife  of  alderman  or  peerv 
Now  for  his  grace,  and  now  a  grenadier  • 
Her  eyes  beseem,  her  heart  belies,  her  zone, 
Ice  in  a  crowd,  and  lava  when  alone. 

If  verse  be  studied  with  some  show  of  art, 
Kind  Nature  always  will  perform  her  part, 
Though  without  genius,  and  a  native  vein 
Of  wit,  we  loathe  an  artificial  strain; 
Yet  art  and  nature  join'd  will  win  the  prize, 
Unless  they  act  like  us  and  our  allies. 

The  youth  who  trains  to  ride  or  run  a  race 
Must  bear  privation  with  unruffled  face. 
Be  call'd  to  labour  when  he  thinks  to  dine. 
And,  harder  still,  leave  wenching  and  his  wine. 
Ladies  who  sing,  at  least  who  sing  at  sight. 
Have  follow'd  Music  through  her  furthest  flight; 
But  rhymers  tell  you  neither  more  nor  less, 
"I've  got  a  pretty  poem  for  the  press;" 
And  that's  enough;  then  write  and  print  so  fast,- 
If  Satan  take  the  hindmost,  who'd  be  last? 
They  storm  the  types,  they  publish,  one  arid  all, 
They  leap  the  counter,  and  they  leave  the  stall. 
Provincial  maidens,  men  of  high  command, 
Yea,  baronets  have  ink'd  the  bloody  hand  ! 
Cash  cannot  quell  them;  Pollia  play'd  this  prank, 
(Then  Phoebus  first  found  credit  in  a  bank!) 
Not  all  the  living  only,  but  the  dead, 
Fool  on,  as  fluent  as  an  Orpheus'  head  ;§ 
Damn'd  all  their  days,  they  posthumously  thrive— 
Dug  up  from,  dust,  though  buried  when  alive  I 
Reviews  record  this  epidemic  crime, 
Those  "Books  of  Martyrs"  to  the  rage  for  rhyme, 
Alas!  woe  worth  the  scribbler!  often  seen 
In  Morning  Post  or  Monthly  Magazine. 
There  lurk  his  earlier  lays;  but  soon,  hot-prest. 
Behold  a  quarto  — Tarts  must  tell  the  rest. 

Dictus  ob  hoc  lenire  tigres,  rabidosque  leones, 
Dicttis  et  Amphion,  Thebana?  conditor  arcis, 
Saxa  movere  sono  testudinis,  et  prece  blanda 
Ducere  quo  vellet:  fuit  IKEC  sapientia  quondam, 
Publica  privatis  sccernere;  sacra  profanis; 
Concubitu  prohibere  vago;  dare  jura  maritis; 
Oppida  moliri ;   leges  iucidere  ligno. 
Sic  honor  et  noinen  divinis  vatibus  atque 
Carminibus  venit.    Post  hos  insignis  Homeru* 
TyrtJEtisque  mares  anirnos  in  Martia  bella 
Versibtis  exacuit;  dicta;  per  carmina  sortes: 
Et  vitse  monslrata  via  est:  et  gratia  regum 
Pieriis  tentala  modis:  ludusque  repertus, 
Et  longoruin  operuin  finis:  ne  forte  pudori 
Sit  tibi  Musa  lyrae  solers,  et  cantor  Apollo. 
Natura  floret  laudabile  carmen,  an  arte, 
Qtixsituin  est:  ego  nee  stiidium  sine  divite  vena, 
Nee  rude  quid  prosit  video  insenium;  alterius  sic 


Tibicen,  didicit  pritis,  extimuitque  magistrum. 
Nunc  satis  est  dixisse;  ego  mira  poemata  pango: 
Occupet  extremum  scabies;  mihi  turpe  relinqui  e« 
Et,  quod  non  didici,  sane  nescire  fateri. 

*******         * 


»  ThisLa'in  has  sorely  puzzled  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  Ballintyne 
B^l  it  meant  the  "Bridge  of  Berwick,"  but  Soulhey  claimed  it  as  half  En- 

•*:  Scott  swore  it  was  vhe  "  Brig  o' Stirling ;"  he  had  just  passed  two 
King  James's  auH  >  dw  Douglasses  over  it.  At  last  it  was  decided  by  Jef- 
frey that  it  meant  nothin  wore  nor  lex  than  the  "counter  of  Archy  Consta- 
tle1!  mop." 


§  Turn  quoque  marmorea  caput  a  cerviee  rerufaiua 
Gtinrite  cum  nie^lio  por'ans  (Eagrius  Hebrui, 
Volveret  Eurydicen  vox  ip-a.  et  friiida  lingua; 
Ah.  miseram  Eurydicen  !  anirra  fugiente  vocabat/ 
Eurydicen  toto  referebant  nYmine  ripz.— 


720 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Then  leave,  ye  wise,  the  lyre's  precarious  chords 

To  muse-mad  baronets  or  madder  lords, 

Or  country  Crispins,  now  grown  somewhat  stale, 

Twin- Doric  minstrels,  drunk  with  Doric  ale! 

Hark  to  those  notes,  narcotically  soft: 

The  cobbler  laureates  sing*  to  Capel  Lofftlt 

Till,  lo!  that  modern  Midas,  as  he  hears, 

Adds  an  ell  growth  to  his  egregious  ears  t 

There  lives  one  druid,  who  prepares  in  time 
'Gainst  future  feuds  his  poor  revenge  of  rhyme; 
Racks  his  dull  memory,  and  his  duller  muse. 
To  publish  faults  which  friendship  should  excuse. 
If  friendship's  nothing,  self-regard  might  teach 
More  polish'd  usage  of  his  parts  of  speech. 
But  what  is  shame,  or  what  is  aught,  to  him? 
He  vents  his  spleen  or  gratifies  his  whim. 
Some  fancied  slight  has  roused  his  lurking  hate, 
Some  folly  cross'd,  some  jest  or  some  debate; 
Up  to  his  den  Sir  Scribbler  hies,  and  soon 
The  gather'd  gall  is  voided  in  lampoon. 
Perhaps  at  some  pert  speech  you've  dared  to  frown. 
Perhaps  your  poem  may  have  pleased  the  town  ; 
If  BO,  alas!  'tis  nature  in  the  man — 
May  heaven  forgive  you,  for  he  never  can! 
Then  be  it  so;  and  may  his  withering  bays 
Bloom  fresh  in  satire,  though  they  fade  in  praise ! 
While  his  lost  songs  no  more  shall  steep  and  stink, 
The  dullest,  (attest  weeds  on  Lethe's  brink. 
But  springing  upwards  from  the  sluggish  mould, 
Be,  (what  they  never  were  before)  be  sold! 
Should  some  rich  bard  (but  such  a  monster  now, 
In  modern  physics,  we  can  scarce  allow) 
Should  gome  pretending  scribbler  of  the  court, 
Borne  rhyming  peer — there's  plenty  of  the  sort} — 
All  but  one  poor  dependent  priest  withdrawn, 
(Ah !  too  regardless  of  his  chaplain's  yawn  !) 


*  I  beg  Nathaniel's  pantos  ;  he  is  not  a  cobbler  ;  it  a  a  tailor,  but  begged 
Capel  Lofft  to  sink  the  profession  in  his  preface  to  t\vo  pair  of  panta  - 
psha  !—  of  cantos,  which  b',  wished  the  public  to  try  on  ;  but  the  sieve  of  a 
patron  let  it  out,  and  so  far  saved  the  expense  of  an  advertisement  to  his 
country  customers.—  Merry's  "  MoorfJeld's  whine"  was  nothing  to  all  this. 
The  •'  Delia  Cruscans"  were  people  of  some  education,  and  no  profession  ; 
but  these  Arcadians  ("  Arcades  arubo"—  bumpkins  bo'h)  send  out  their  na- 
>ive  nonsense  without  the  smallest  alloy,  and  leave  all  the  shoes  and  small- 
clothes in  the  parish  unrepaired,  to  patch  up  Elegies  on  Enclosures  and 
Paeans  to  Gunpowder.  Sitting  on  a  shopboard,  they  describe  fields  of  battle, 
when  the  only  blood  they  ever  saw  was  shed  from  the  finger  ;  and  an  "  Ks- 
tay  oa  War"  is  produced  by  the  ninth  part  of  a  "  poet." 

"  And  own  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tale." 

Did  Nathan  ever  read  that  line  of  Pope  ?  and  if  he  did,  why  not  take  it  as 
his  motto? 

t  This  well-meaning  gentleman  has  spoiled  some  excellent  shoe-makers, 
aid  been  accessary  to  the  poetical  undoing  of  many  of  the  industrious  poor. 
Nathaniel  Bloomfield  and  his  brother  Bobby  have  set  all  Somersetshire  sing- 
ing ;  nor  has  the  malady  confined  itself  to  one  county.  Prait  too  (whoonee 
was  wiser)  has  caught  the  contagion  of  patronage,  and  decoyed  a  poor  fel- 
low named  Blackett  into  poetry;  but  he  died  .luring  the  operation,  leaving 
one  child,  and  two  volumes  of  "Remains''  utterly  destitute.  The  girl,  if 
she  dont  take  a  poetical  twist,  and  come  forth  as  a  shoe-making  Sappho, 
may  do  well  ;  but  the  "  tragedies"  are  as  rickety  as  if  they  had  been  the 
offspring  of  an  Earl  or  a  Seatonian  prize  poet.  The  patrons  of  this  poor 
lad  are  certainly  answerable  for  his  end,  and  it  ought  to  be  an  indictable  of- 
fence. But  this  is  the  least  they  have  done,  for,  by  a  refinement  of  barbari- 
ty. they  have  made  the  (late)  man  posthumously  ridiculous,  by  printing 
what  he  would  have  had  sense  enough  never  to  print  himself.  Ceres  these 
rakers  of  "  Remains"  come  under  the  statute  against  "  resurrection  men." 
What  does  it  Mznify  whether  a  poor,  dear,  dead  dunce  is  to  be  stuck  up  in 
Surgeons'  or  in  Stationers'  Hall  ?  Is  it  so  bad  to  unearth  his  bones  as  his 


blunders  '  Is  it  not  better  to  gibbet  his  body  on  a  heath,  th 
•rtavo  ?  "  We  know  what  we  are,  but  we  know  not  what  we  may  be  ;•> 
ind  it  is  to  be  hoped  we  never  shall  know,  if  a  man  who  has  passed  through 
life  with  a  sort  of  eclat  is  to  find  himself  a  mountebank  on  the  other  side 
•f  Styx,  and  made,  like  poor  Joe  Blackett,  the  laughing-stock  of  purgatory. 
The  plea  of  publication  is  lo  provide  for  the  child  ;  now,  might  not  some  of 
•bis  "  Sutor  ultra  Crepidum's"  friends  and  seducers  hive  done  a  decent  ac- 
tion witbojt  inveigling  Pratt  into  biography?  And  then  his  inscription  split 
iltn  to  many  modicums!—  To  the  Dutchess  of  So-much,  the  Rich!  Hon. 
Pe-and-So,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Somebody,  these  volumes  are,  kc.  fcc."—  why, 
tins  is  doling  out  the  "soft  milk  of  dedication"  in  gills,  —  there  is  but  a  quart, 
•ad  he  divides  it  among  a  doien.  Why,  Pralt,  hadst  thou  not  a  puff  left  ? 
Dost  thou  think  six  families  of  di-tinct  ion  can  share  this  in  quiet  ?—  There  if 
A  child,  a  book,  and  a  dedication  ;  send  the  girl  to  her  grace,  the  volumes  to 
tjiefrocrr.  and  the  dedication  to  the  devil. 

t  Here  will  Mr.  Gifford  allow  me  to  introduce  once  more  to  his  notice 
SM  sol-  survivor,  the  "ultimus  Homanorum,"  the  last  of  the  "Crascan- 

••  -*  Edwin''  the  "  profound.1'  by  our  Lady  of  Punishment  !    here  he 
-    b«-if  is  in  fne  oavs  of  "  •ill  laid  Baviad  the  Correct"    I  thought 


Condemn  the  unlucky  cur;ito  to  recite 

Their  last  dramatic  work  by  candle-light, 

How  would  the  preacher  lurn  each  rueful  leal, 

Dull  as  his  sermons,  but  not  half  so  brief! 

Yet,  since  't  is  promised  at  the  rector's  death. 

He'll  risk  no  living  for  a  little  breath. 

Then  spouts  and  foams,  and  cries  at  every  line 

(The  Lord  forgive  him!)  '-Bravo!  grandl  divine' 

Hoarse  with  those  praises  (which,  by  flatt'ry  fed 

Dependence  barters  for  her  bitter  bread,) 

He  strides  and  stamps  along  with  creaking  boot 

Till  the  floor  echoes  his  emphatic  foot; 

Then  sits  again,  then  rolls  his  pious  eye, 

As  when  the  dying  vicar  will  not  die! 

Nor  feels,  forsooth,  emotion  at  his  heart ; — 

But  all  dissemblers  overact  their  part. 

Ye  who  aspire  to  build  the  lofty  rhyme, 
Believe  not  all  who  laud  your  false  "sublime;" 
But  if  some  friend  shall  hear  your  work,  and  say, 
"  Expunge  that  stanza,  lop  that  line  away," 

*         *         *  Si  carmina  condes, 

Nunquam  te  fallnnt  aiiimi  sub  vulpe  latentes 

Uuimilio  si  quid  recitares,  Corrige,  sodes, 
Hoc  (aiebat)  et  hoc:  melius  te  posse  negares, 
Bis  terque  expertum  frustra,  delere  jtibebat, 
Et  male  tornatos  incudi  reddere  versus. 
Si  defendere  delictum  quam  vertere  malles, 
Nullum  ultra  verbum,  autoperam  insumebat  inane  n 
Quiii  sine  rivali  teque  et  tua  solus  amares. 


Fitzgerald  had  been  the  tail  of  poesy,  but,  alas !  he  is  only  the  pert* 
mate. 

A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE 
MORNING  CHRONICLE. 

"  What  reams  of  paper,  floods  of  ink," 

Do  some  men  spoil,  who  never  think ! 

And  so  perhaps  you  11  say  of  me, 

In  which  your  readers  may  agree. 

Still  I  write  on,  and  tell  you  why: 

Nothing's  so  bad,  you  cant  deny, 

But  may  instruct  or  entertain 

Wilhou't  the  risk  of  giving  pain. 

And  should  you  doubt  what  I  assert, 

The  uame  of  Camden  I  insert, 

Who  novels  read,  and  oft  maintained 

He  here  and  there  some  knowledge  gain'd  • 

Then  why  not  I  indulge  my  pen, 

Though  I  no  fame  or  profit  gain, 

Yet  may  amuse  your  idle  men ; 

Of  whom,  though  some  may  be  severe, 

Others  may  read  without  a  sneer  ? 

Thus  much  premise.],  I  next  proceed 

To  give  you  what  I  feel  my  creed, 

And  in  what  follows  to  display 

Some  humours  of  the  passing  day. 
ON  SOME  MODERN  QUACKS  AND  REFORM1S1I 
In  tracing  of  the  human  mind 

Through  all  its  various  course*. 
Though  strange,  t  is  true,  we  often  find 

It  knows  not  its  resources: 
And  men  through  life  assume  a  part 

For  which  no  talents  they  possess, 
Tet  wonder  that,  with  all  their  art. 

They  meet  no  better  with  success. 
T  is  thus  we  see,  through  life's  career, 

So  few  excel  in  their  profession  ; 
Whereas,  would  each  man  but  appear 

In  what  *s  within  bis  own  possession. 
We  should  not  see  such  daily  quacks 

(For  quacks  there  are  in  every  art) 
Attempting,  by  their  strange  attacks, 

Nor  mean  I  here  the  stage  alone, 

Where  some  deserve  th'  applause  they  meet; 
For  quacks  there  are,  and  they  well  known, 

In  either  house,  who  bold  a  seat. 
Reform  V  the  order  of  the  day,  I  hear, 

To  which  I  cordially  assent : 
But  then  let  this  reform  appear, 

And  ev'ry  class  of  men  cement 
For  if  you  but  reform  a  few. 

And  others  leave  to  their  full  bait, 
fear  you  will  but  little  do. 

And  find  your  time  and  pains  misspent 
Let  each  man  to  hi<  post  assign 'd 

By  Nature,  take  his  part  lo  act. 
And  then  few  causes  shall  w«  find 

To  call  each  man  we  meet— a  quack.* 


ivho  either  appears  to '•  wb»«  n»  i»a»    »««» 


HINTS   FROM   HORACE. 


721 


And,  after  fruitless  efforts,  you  return 
Without  amendment,  and  lie  answers,  "  Burn!" 
That  instant  throw  your  paper  in  the  fire, 
Ask  not  his  thoughts,  or  follow  his  desire; 
But  if  (true  bard !)  you  scorn  to  condescend, 
And  will  not  alter  what  you  can't  defend, 
If  you  will  breed  this  bastard  of  your  brains,* — 
We'll  have  no  words — I've  only  lost  my  pains. 

Yet,  if  you  only  prize  your  favourite  thought 
As  critics  kindly  do,  and  authors  ought; 
If  your  cool  friend  annoy  you  now  and  then, 
And  cross  whole  pages  with  his  plaguy  pen; 
No  matter,  throw  your  ornaments  aside — 
Better  let  him  than  all  the  world  deride, 
Give  light  to  passages  too  much  in  shade, 
Nor  let  a  doubt  obscure  one  verse  you've  made; 
Vour  friend's  "a  Johnson,"  not  to  leave  one  word, 
However  trifling,  which  may  seem  absurd; 
Such  erring  trifles  lead  to  serious  ills, 
And  furnish  food  for  critics, f  or  their  quills. 

As  the  Scotch  fiddle,  with  its  touching  tone, 
Or  the  sad  influence  of  the  angry  moon, 
All  men  avoid  bad  writers'  ready  tongues, 
As  yawning  waiters  flyj  Fitzscribble's  lungs  ; 
Yet  on  he  mouths — ten  minutes — tedious  each 
As  prelate's  homily  or  placeman's  speech; 
Long  as  the  last  years  of  a  lingering  lease. 
When  riot  pauses  until  rents  increase. 
While  such  a  minstrel,  muttering  fustian,  strays 
O'er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  unfrequented  ways, 

Vir  bonus  et  prudens  versus  reprehendet  inertes: 
Culpabit  et  duros;  incomptis  allinet  atrum 
Transvcrso  calamo  sigiium  ;  ambitiosa  recidet 
Ornamentn ;  parum  Claris  lucem  dare  coget; 
Arguet  ambigue  dictum;  mutanda  notabit; 
Fiet  Aristarchus:  nee  dicet,  Cur  ego  amicum 
OfTendam  in  nugis?  has  nugie  seria  ducent 
In  mala  derisum  semel  excepttimque  sinistre. 

Ut  mala  quern  scabies  aut  morhus  regius  urguet, 
Aut  fanaticus  error  et  iracunda  Diana, 
Vesanum  tetigisse  timent  fugiunriue  poetam, 
Qui  sapiunt ;   agitant  pueri,  incautique  sequuntur. 
Hie  dum  sublimes  versus  ructatur,  et  errat 
Si  veluli  merulis  intentus  decidit  auceps 
In  puteum,  foveamve ;  licet,  Succurrite,  longutn 
Clamet,  lo  cives!  non  sit  qui  tollere  curet. 
Si  quis  curet  opem  ferre,  et  demittere  funem, 
Q.UI  scis  an  prudens  hue  se  dejecerit,  atque 
Servari  nolit?     Dicam  :  Siculique  poettc 
Narrabo  iiiteritum.    Deus  immortalis  haberi 
Dum  cupit  Empedocles,  ardentem  frigidus   /Etnam 
Insiluit:  sit  jus  liceatque  perire  poet  is: 
Invitum  qui  servat,  idem  facit  Occident!. 
Nee  semel  hoc  fecit ;  nee,  si  retractus  erit,  jam 
Fiet  homo,  et  ponet  famosse  mortis  amorem. 
Nee  satis  apparel  cur  versus  factitet;  utrum 
Minxi'rit  in  patrios  cineres,  an  triste  bidental 
Moverit  incestus;  certe  furit,  ac  velut  ursus, 


•  Battard  of  yaw  brain*.— Minerva  being  the  first  by  Jupiter's  head-piece, 
ind  a  variety  or  equally  unaccountable  parturitioni  upon  earth,  such  at  Ma- 
4oc,  Sc.  iic.  kc. 

t «  A  eruit  for  the  critics."—  Bayu,  in  lltt  RchtartaL 

And  the  '*  waiter*"  are  the  only  fortunate  people  who  can  "  flyw  from 
•tiem :  all  the  rest,  viz.  the  sad  subscribers  to  the  "  Literary  Fund,"  being 
compelled,  by  co-irteiv,  r  rtiu'  'he  recitation  without  a  hope  of  ejclaim- 
tag,  "  Sic"  (that  :s.  by  »nua*ing  Fitz,  with  bad  wine  or  worse  poetry)  "me 

WYlTlt  ADOllo!" 


If  by  some  chance  he  walks  into  a  well, 
And  shouts  for  succour  with  stentorian  yell, 
"A  rope!  help,  Christians,  as  ye  hope  for  grace  I" 
Nor  woman,  man,  nor  child  will  stir  a  pace: 
For  there  his  carcase  he  might  freely  fling, 
From  frenzy,  or  the  humour  of  the  thing. 
Though  this  has  happen'd  to  more  liants  than  or 
I  'II  tell  you  Budgell's  story,  and  have  done. 

Budgell,  a  rogue  and  rhymester,  for  no  good, 
(Unless  his  case  be  much  misunderstood) 
When  teased  with  creditors'  continual  claims, 
'To  die  like  Cato,"§  leapt  into  the  Thames' 
And  therefore  be  it  lawful  through  the  town 
For  any  bard  to  poison,  hang,  or  drown. 
Who  saves  the  intended  suicide  receives 
Small  thanks  from  him  who  loathes  the  life  he  leave* 
And,  sooth  to  say,  mad  poets  must  not  lose 
The  glory  of  that  death  they  freely  choose. 
Nor  is  it  certain  that  some  sorts  of  verse 
Prick  not  the  poet's  conscience  as  a  curse; 
||  Dosed  with  vile  drams  on  Sunday  he  was  found 
Or  got  a  child  on  consecrated  ground! 
And  hence  is  haunted  with  a  rhyming  rage — 
Fear'd  like  a  bear  just  bursting  from  his  cage. 
If  free,  all  fly  his  versifying  fit, 
Fatal  at  once  to' simpleton  or  wit. 
But  him,  unhappy !  whom  he  seizes, — kirn 
He  flays  with  recitation  limb  by  limb; 
Probes  to  the  quick  where'er  he  makes  his  breach, 
And  gorges  like  a  lawyer  or  a  leech. 

Objectos  caveie  valuit  si  frangere  clathros, 
Indoctum  doctumque  fugat  recitator  acerbns. 
Quern  vero  arripuit,  tenet,  occiditque  lependo, 
Non  missura  culem,  nisi  plena  cruoris,  hiri/ao 


§  On  his  table  were  found  these  words :  If/ml  Colo  did  and  Jlddiim  of 
oroved  cannot  be  wrong-"  But  Addison  did  not  '•  approve  ;*'  and  if  he  had. 
it  would  not  have  mended  the  matter.  He  had  invited  his  daughter  on  th« 
wme  water  party,  but  Miss  Budgell,  by  some  accident,  escaped  thil  last  pa- 
ternal attention.  Thus  fell  the  sycophant  of  "  Alticas,"  and  the  enemy  of 
Pope, 

II  If  "dosed  with,"  &c.  be  censured  as  low,  I  beg  leave  to  refer  to  tbt 
iginal  for  something  still  lower;  and  if  any  reader  will  translate  ,'  Mini- 
erit  in  patries  cineres,"  kc.  into  a  decent  couplet,  I  will  insert  laid  couplet 
a  lieu  of  the  present 


"  D'.fficile  at  propne  communta  dicert."— Mde.  Dacier,  Mde.  de  Sevigne, 
Roileau,  and  others,  have  left  their  dispute  on  the  meaning  of  this  passage  in 
a  tract  considerably  longer  than  the  poem  of  Horace,  ft  is  printed  at  th» 
close  of  the  eleventh  volume  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's  Letters,  edited  by 
Grovelle,  Paris,  IS06.  Presuming  that  all  who  can  construe  may  venture 
an  opinion  on  such  subjects,  particularly  as  so  many  who  can  not  hav* 
taken  the  same  liberty.  I  should  have  held  my  "  farthing  candle"  as  awk- 
wardly as  another,  had  not  my  respect  for  the  wits  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth1* 
Augustan  siecle  induced  me  to  subjoin  these  illustrious  authorities.  1st. 
Boileau  :  "11  esl  difficile  de  trailer  des  sujets  qui  son!  a  la  portee  de  tout  le 
monde  d'une  maniere  qui  vous  les  renHe  propres,  ce  qui  s'appelle  i'jppro- 
prier  un  sujet  par  le  tour  qu'  on  y  donne."  2dly,  Battcul :  f>  Mais  ll  est 
bien  difficile  de  donner  des  traits  propres  et  individuels  aui  etres  purement 
possibles."  3dly,  Dacier :  "  II  est  difficile  de  trailer  conveuablement  ftt 
caracteres  que  tout  le  monde  peut  inventer."  Mde.  de  SevigneN  opinion 
and  translation,  consisting  of  some  thirty  pages.  I  omit,  particularly  as  M. 
Grouvelle  observes  "  La  chose  est  bien  remarquable,  aucune  de  ces  diverse* 
interpreiations  ne  parait  etre  la  veritable."  Bui,  by  way  of  comfort,  it  seem*, 
fifty  years  afterwards,  "  Le  lumineux  Dumarsais"  made  his  appearance  Is) 
set  Horace  on  his  legs  again,  "dissiper  tous  les  nuages,  et  concilier  too  let 
dissentimens ;"  and,  some  fifty  years  hence,  somebody,  still  more  luminous, 
wilt  doubtless  start  up  and  demolish  Dumarsais  and  his  system  on  Ihis 
weighty  affair,  as  if  he  were  no  better  than  Ptolemy  and  Tycho,  or  com- 
men,ts  of  no  more  consequence  than  astronomical  calculations  on  the  present 
comet.  I  am  happy  to  say,  "  la  longueur  de  la  dissertation"  of  M.  D.  pj» 
vents  M.  G.  from  «.yicg  any  more  on  the  matter.  A  better  poet  than  Jloilemm. 
and  at  least  as  good  a  scholar  as  Sevigne.  has  aaid, 

"A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing.*1 
And  by  this  comparison  of  comment)  it  may  be  perceived  liov.  t  food  <«• 
may  be  rendered  w  rjjrilous  to  the  proprietors 


3o2 


96 


722 


to  tfie 


[T  ieie  were  several  editions  of  the  Hours  of  Idleness  published  in  England;  but  no  ono  ol 
hem  unUl  that  of  1832,  contained  all  the  pieces  which  properly  belonged  to  that  collection 
The  following,  when  added  to  those  in  front  of  the  book,  make  up  the  complete  number.] 


ON  A   DISTANT  VIEW  OF  THE  VILLAGE  AND 
SCHOOL  OF  HARROW  ON  THE  HILL. 

Ob !  mihi  pneteritos  referat  si  Jupiter  anno!. 

Virgil,  «neid,  lib.  8,  560. 
1. 

Ye  Kenes  of  my  childhood,  whose  loved  recollection 

Embitters  the  present,  compared  with  the  past; 
Where  science  first  dawn'd  on  the  powers  of  reflection, 
And  friendships  were  form'd  too  romantic  to  last; 

2. 

Where  fanry  yet  joys  to  retrace  the  resemblance 
Of  comrades  in  friendship  and  mischief  allied  ; 
How  welcome  to  me  your  ne'er-fading  remembrance, 
Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is  denied! 

3. 

Again  I  revisit  the  hills  where  we  sported, 
The  streams  where  we  swam,  and  the  fields  where 

we  fought; 

The  school  where,  loud  warn'd  by  the  bell,  we  resorted, 
To  pore  o'er  the  precepts  by  pedagogues  taught. 

4. 

Again  I  behold  where  for  hours  I  have  ponder'd, 
As  reclining,  at  eve,  on  yon  tombstone  I  lay; 
Or  round  the  steep  brow  of  the  churchyard  I  wander'd, 
To  catch  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun's  setting  ray. 

5. 
I  once  more  view  the  room  with  spectators  surrounded, 

Where,  as  Zanga,  I  trod  on  Alonzo  o'erthrown; 
While  to  swell  my  young  pride  such  applauses   re- 
sounded, i 
I  fancied  that  Mossop  himself  was  outshone : 

6. 
Or,  as  Lear,  I  pour'd  forth  the  deep  imprecation, 

By  my  daughters  of  kingdom  and  reason  deprived; 
Tilt,  fired  by  loud  plaudits  and  self-adulation, 
I  regarded  myself  as  a  Garrick  revived. 

7. 
Ye  dreams  of  my  boyhood,  how  much  I  regret  you ! 

Unfaded  your  memory  dwells  in  my  breast  ; 

Though  sad  and  deserted,  I  ne'er  can  forget  you; 

Your  pleasures  may  still  be  in  fancy  possest. 

8. 
To  Ida  full  of!  may  remembrance  restore  me, 

While  fate  shall  the  shades  of  the  future  unroll  t 
Wince  darkness  o'ershadows  the  prospect  before  me, 
More  dear  is  the  beam  of  the  past  to  my  soul. 

9. 
But  it,  through  the  course  of  the  years  which  await  me, 

Oome  new  scene  of  pleasure  should  open  to  view, 
.   will    say,  while  with    rapture   the   thought   shall 

elate  me, 

"  Oh  1  §uch  were  the  days  which  my  *«fancy  knew." 

1806. 


TO  D. 
1. 

In  thee  I  fondly  hoped  to 'clasp 

A  friend,  whom  death  alone  could  aever; 
Till  envy,  with  malignant  grasp, 

Detach'd  thee  from  my  breast  for  ever. 

2. 
True,  she  has  forced  thee  from  my  breast; 

Yet  in  my  heart  thou  keep'st  thy  seat; 
There,  there  thine  image  still  must  rest, 

Until  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat. 

3. 
And,  when  the  grave  restores  her  dead, 

When  life  again  to  dust  is  given. 
On  thy  dear  breast  I'll  lay  my  head — 

Without  thee,  where  would  be  my  heaven  ? 
February,  J803. 

TO  EDDLESTON. 

1, 
Let  Folly  smile,  to  view  the  names 

Of  thee  and  me  in  friendship  twined; 
Yet  Virtue  will  have  greater  claims 
To  love,  than  rank  with  vice  combined. 

2. 
And  though  unequal  is  thy  fate, 

Since  title  deck'd  my  higher  birth; 
Yet  envy  not  this  gaudy  state; 
Thine  is  the  pride  of  modest  worth. 

3. 
Our  souls  at  least  congenial  meet. 

Nor  can  thy  lot  my  rank  disgrace; 
Our  intercourse  is  not  less  sweet, 
Since  worth  of  rank  supplies  the  place. 

Jfmember,  1802. 

REPLY  TO  SOME  VERSES  OF  J.  M  B.  PTGOT.IUUl 

ON  THE  CRUELTY  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 
1. 

Why,  Pigot,  complain 

Of  this  damsel's  disdain, 
Why  thus  in  despair  do  you  fret? 

For  months  you  may  try, 

Yet,  believe  me,  a  sigh 
Will  never  obtain  a  coquette. 
2. 

Would  you  teach  her  to  love? 

For  a  time  seem  to  rove ; 
At  first  she  may  frown  in  a  pet; 

But  leave  her  a  while, 

She  shortly  will  smile. 
And  then  you  may  kiss  your  coquette 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


75* 


For  such  are  the  airs 

Of  these  fanciful  fairs, 
fhry  think  all  our  homage  a  debt; 

Yet  a  partial  neglect 

Soon  takes  an  effect, 
\tid  humbles  the  proudest  coquette. 

4. 

Dissemble  your  pain, 

And  lengthen  your  chain, 
And  seem  her  hauteur  to  regret; 

If  again  you  shall  sigh, 

She  no  more  will  deny 
That  yours  is  the  rosy  coquette. 

5. 

If  still,  from  false  pride, 

Your  pangs  she  deride, 
This  whimsical  virgin  forget; 

Some  other  admire. 

Who  will  melt  with  your  fire, 
And  laugh  at  the  little  coquette. 
G. 

For  me,  I  adore 

Some  twenty  or  more, 
And  love  them  most  dearly;  but  yet, 

Though  my  heart  they  enthral, 

I'd  abandon  them  all, 
Did  they  act  like  your  blooming  coquette. 
7. 

No  longer  repine, 

Adopt  this  design, 
Anil  break  through  her  slight-woven  net ; 

Away  with  despair, 

No  longer  forbear, 
To  fly  from  the  captious  coquette. 
8. 

Then  quit  her,  my  friend  1 

Your  bosom  defend. 
Ere  quite  with  her  snares  you're  beset: 

Lest  your  deep-wounded  heart. 

When  incensed  by  the  smart. 
Should  lead  you  to  curse  the  coquette. 

October  27tA.  1806. 


TO  THE  SIGHING  STREPHON. 
1. 

Your  pardon,  my  friend, 

If  my  rhymes  did  offend, 
Your  pardon,  a  thousand  times  o'er; 

From  friendship  I  strove 

Your  pangs  to  remove, 
But  I  swear  I  will  do  so  no  more. 
2. 

Since  your  beautiful  maid 

Your  flame  has  repaid, 
No  morn  I  your  folly  regret; 

She's  now  the  most  divine. 

And  I  bow  at  the  shrine 
Of  this  quickly  reformed  coquette. 
3. 

Yet  still,  I  must  own, 

I  should  never  have  known 
Prom  your  verses,  what  else  she  deserved 

Your  pain  seem'd  so  great, 

i  pitied  your  fate, 
Aa  your  fair  was  so  devilish  reserved 


4. 

Since  the  balm-breathing  kiss 

Of  this  magical  miss 
Can  such  wonderful  transports  produce; 

Since  the  "world  you  forget. 

When  your  lips  once  have  met," 
My  counsel  will  get  but  abuse. 

5. 

You  say  when  "1  rove, 

I  know  nothing  of  love;" 
'Tis  true,  I  am  given  to  range: 

If  I  rightly  remember, 

I've  loved  a  good  number, 
Yet  there's  pleasure,  at  least,  in  a  change. 

6. 

I  will  not  advance, 

By  the  rules  of  romance, 
To  humour  a  whimsical  fair; 

Though  a  smile  may  delight, 

Yet  a  frown  won't  affright, 
Or  drive  me  to  dreadful  despair. 

7. 

~WhiIe  my  blood  is  thus  warm 
I  ne'er  shall  reform, 
To  mix  in  the  Piatonists'  school; 
Of  this  I  am  sure, 
Was  my  passion  so  pure, 
Thy  mistress  would  think  me  a  fool. 

a 

And  if  I  should  shun 

Every  woman  for  one, 
Whose  image  must  fill  my  whole  breast— 

Whom  I  must  prefer, 

And  sigh  but  for  her  — 
What  an  insult  'twould  be  to  the  rot  I 

9. 

Now,  Strephon,  good  bye; 

I  cannot  deny 
Your  passion  appears  most  absurd  , 

Such  love  as  you  plead 

Is  pure  love  indeed, 
For  it  only  consists  in  the  word. 


TO  MISS  PIGOT. 
1. 

Eliza,  what  fools  are  the  Musselman  sect, 

Who  to  women  deny  the  soul's  future  existence; 
Could  they  see  thee,  Eliza,  they'd  r»wn  their  defect, 

And  this  doctrine  would  meet  with  a  general  resist* 
ancc. 

2. 
Had  their  prophet  possess'd  half  an  atom  of  sense, 

He  ne'er  would  have  women  from  paradise  dnven. 
Instead  of  his  houris,  a  flimsy  pretence, 

With  women  alone  he  had  peopled  his  heaven. 

3. 
Yet  still  to  increase  your  calamities  more, 

Not  content  with  depriving  your  bodies  of  spirit, 
He  allots  one  poor  husband  to  share  amongst  four!— 
With  souls  you'd  dispense;  but  this  last,  who  euuM 
bear  it? 

4. 
His  religirn  to  please  neither  party  is  made; 

On  husbands  'tis  hard,  to  the  wives  the  most  uncivil 
Still  I  can't  contradict,  what  so  oft  has  been  saiit. 
"  Though  women  are  anpels.  vet  wedlock's  the  de»il 


724 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


UINES  WRITTEN  IN  "LETTERS  OF  AN  ITALIAN 
NUN  AND  AN  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN.  BY  J.  J. 
ROUSSEAU.  FOUNDED  ON  FACTS." 

"Away,  away!  your  flattering  arts 
May  now  betray  some  f;>nri'  -r  hearts; 
And  you  will  smile  at  uieu  ueiieving, 
And  they  shall  weep  at  your  deceiving." 

NSWER   TO   THE   FOREGOING,   ADDRESSED   TO    MISS  . 

Dear,  simple  girl,  those  flattering  arts, 

From  which  thou'dst  guard  frail  female  hearts, 

Exist  but  in  imagination,— 

Mere  phantoms  of  thine  own  creation  ; 

For  he  who  views  that  witching  grace, 

That  perfect  form,  that  lovely  face, 

With  eyes  admiring,  oh!  believe  me, 

He  never  wishes  to  deceive  thee: 

Once  in  thy  polish'd  mirror  glance, 

Thou 'It  there  descry  that  elegance 

Which  from  our  sex  demands  such  praises, 

But  envy  in  the  other  raises: 

Then  he  who  tells  thee  of  thy  beauty, 

Believe  me,  only  does  his  duty: 

Ah  I  fly  not  from  the  candid  youth; 

It  is  not  flattery.-'tis  truth. 


THE  CORNELIAN. 

No  specious  splendour  of  this  stone 

Endears  it  to  my  memory  ever; 
With  lustre  only  once  it  shone. 

And  blushes  modest  as  the  giver. 

2. 
Some,  who  can  sneer  at  friendship's  ties. 

Have  for  my  weakness  oft  reproved  me; 
Yet  still  the  simple  gift  I  prue,— 

For  I  am  sure  the  giver  loved  me. 

3. 
He  ofter'd  it  with  downcast  look. 

As  fearful  that  I  might  refuse  it; 
I  told  him  when  the  gift  I  took, 

My  only  fear  should  be  to  lose  it. 

4. 
This  pledge  attentively  I  view'd, 

And  sparkling  as  I  held  it  near, 
Methought  one  drop  the  stone  bedew'd,1 

And  ever  since  I've  loved  a  tear. 

5. 
Still,  to  adorn  his  humble  youth. 

Nor  wealth  nor  birth  their  treasures  yield, 
But  he  who  seeks  the  flowers  of  truth. 

Must  quit  the  garden  for  the  field. 

6. 
Tis  not  the  plant  uprear'd  in  sloth, 

Which  beauty  shows,  and  sheds  perfume; 
The  flowers  which  yield  the  most  of  both 

ID  Nature's  wild  luxuriance  bloom. 

7. 
Had  Fortune  aided  Nature's  care, 

For  once  forgetting  to  be  blind, 
His  would  have  been  an  ample  share, 

If  well-proportion'd  to  his  mind. 

8. 
But  had  thft  goddess  clearly  seen, 

His  form  nad  fix'd  her  fickle  brpast; 
Hei  countless  hoards  would  his  have  been, 

And  tone  remain'd  to  git;  the  rest. 


ON  THE  DEATH   OF  A  YOUNG  LADY 

Cousin  to  the  Author,  and  very  dear  to  him. 

1. 

Hush'd  are  the  winds,  and  still  the  evening  glow 
Not  e'en  a  zephyr,  wanders  through  the  grove, 
Whilst  I  return  to  view  my  Margaret's  tomb, 
Anil  scatter  flowers  on  the  dust  I  love. 

2. 
Within  this  nartow  cell  reclines  her  clay. 

That  clay  where  once  such  animation  beam'd; 
The  King  of  Terrors  seized  her  as  his  prey, 
Not  worth,  nor  beauty,  have  her  life  redeem'd 

3. 
Oh!  could  that  King  of  Terrors  pity  feel, 

Or  Heaven  reverse  the  dread  decrees  of  fate  I 
Not  here  the  mourner  would  his  grief  reveal, 

Nor  here  the  Muse  her  virtues  would  relate. 

4. 
But  wherefore  weep?  her  matchless  spirit  soars 

Beyond  where  splendid  shines  the  orb  of  day; 
And  weeping  angels  lead  her  to  those  bowers 

Where  endless  pleasures  virtue's  deeds  repay. 

5. 
And  shall  presumptuous  mortals  heaven  arraign, 

And,  madly,  godlike  providence  accuse  1 
Ah!  no,  far  fly  from  me  attempts  so  vain, 

I'll  ne'er  submission  to  my  God  refuse. 

«. 
Yet  is  remembrance  of  those  virtues  dear, 

Yet  fresh  the  memory  of  thai  beauteous  face; 
Still  they  call  forth  my  warm  affection's  tear, 

Still  in  my  heart  retain  their  wonted  place. 


TO  EMMA. 
1. 

Since  now  the  hour  is  come  at  last, 

When  you  must  quit  your  anxious  lover; 
Since  now  our  dream  of  bliss  is  past, 

One  pang,  my  girl,  and  all  is  over. 

•2. 
Alas!  that  pang  will  be  severe, 

Which  bids  us  part  to  meet  no  more, 
Which  tears  me  far  from  one  so  dear, 

Departing  for  a  distant  shore. 

3. 

Well:  we  have  pass'd  some  happy  hours, 

And  joy  will  mingle  with  our  tears; 
When  thinking  on  these  ancient  towers, 

The  shelter  of  our  infant  year*; 

4. 
Where  from  the  gothic  casement's  height, 

We  view'd  the  lake,  the  park,  the  dale, 
And  still,  though  tears  obstruct  our  sight. 

We  lingering  look  a  last  farewell 

5. 
O'er  fields  through  which  we  used  to  run, 

And  spend  the  hours  in  childish  play; 
O'er  shades  where,  when  our  race  was  dctte. 

Reposing  on  my  breast  you  lay; 

6. 
Whilst  I,  admiring,  too  remiss, 

Forgot  to  scare  the  hov'ring  ttiea, 
Yet  envied  every  fly  the  kiss 

It  dared  to  give  your  slumbering  \JF»»' 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


7. 
Bee  still  Ihe  little  painted  bark, 

In  which  I  row'd  you  o'er  the  lake; 
Bee  there,  high  waving  o'er  the  park, 
The  elm  I  clamber'd  for  your  sake. 

8. 
These  times  are  past — our  joys  are  gone, 

You  leave  me,  leave  this  happy  vale ; 
These  scents  I  musl  retrace  alone; 
Without  thee  what  will  they  avail? 

9. 
Who  can  conceive,  who  has  nol  proved, 

The  anguish  of  a  lasl  embrace? 
When,  lorn  from  all  you  fondly  loved, 
You  bid  a  long  adieu  lo  peace. 

10. 
This  is  ihe  deepesl  of  our  woes, 

For  ihis  ihese  lears  our  cheeks  bedew; 
This  is  of  love  ihe  final  close, 
Oh,  God,  ihe  fondesi,  lasl  adieu! 


TO  M.  8.  G. 

1. 

WHEKE'BR  I  view  those  lips  of  thine, 
Their  hue  invites  my  fervent  kiss; 
Yet  I  forego  that  bliss  divine, 
Alas  1  it  were  unhallow'd  bliss. 

2. 

Whene'er  I  dream  of  that  pure  breast, 
How  could  I  dwell  upon  its  snows? 
Yet  is  the  daring  wish  represt, 
For  that, — would  banish  its  repose. 

3. 
A  glance  from  thy  soul-searching  eye 

3an  raise  with  hope,  depress  with  fear; 
Yet  I  conceal  my  love,  and  why? 
I  would  not  force  a  painful  tear. 

4. 
I  ne'er  have  told  my  love,  yet  thou 

Hast  seen  my  ardent  flame  too  well; 
And  shall  I  plead  my  passion  now, 
To  make  thy  bosom's  heaven  a  hell  ? 

5. 
No  I  for  thou  never  canst  be  mine. 

United  by  the  priest's  decree; 
By  any  ties  but  those  divine, 
Mine,  my  beloved,  thou  ne'er  shall  be. 

6. 
Then  let  the  secret  fire  consume. 

Let  it  consume,  thou  shall  not  know; 
With  joy  I  courl  a  certain  doom. 
Rather  than  spread  its  guilty  glow. 

7. 
I  will  not  ease  my  tortured  heart. 

By  driving  dove-eyed  peace  from  thine; 
Rather  than  such  a  sting  impart, 
Ea«h  thoughl  presumpluous  I  resign. 

8. 
Yes!  yield  those  lips,  for  which  I'd  brave 

More  than  I  here  shall  dare  to  tell ; 
Thy  innocence  and  mine  to  save, — 
I  bid  thee  now  a  last  farewell. 

9. 

Yes!  yield  that  breast,  to  seek  despair. 
And  hope  no  more  thy  soft  embrace, 
Which  to  obtain  my  soul  would  dare, 
All,  all  reproach,  but  thy  disgrace. 


10. 
At  least  from  guilt  shall  thou  be  free, 

No  matron  shall  thy  shame  reprove; 
Though  cureless  pangs  may  prey  on  me, 

No  martyr  shall  thou   be  to  love. 


TO  CAROLINE. 

1. 
THINK'ST  thou  I  saw  thy  beauteous  eyes 

Suffused  in  tears,  implore  lo  slay; 
And  heard  unmoved  thy  plenteous  sighs, 
Which  said  far  more  than  words  can  say  ) 

2. 
Though  keen  the  grief  thy  tears  exprest, 

When  love  and  hope  lay  both  o'erthrownt 
Yet  still,  my  girl,  this  bleeding  breast 
Throbb'd  with  deep  sorrow  as  thine  own. 

3. 
But  when  our  cheeks  with  anguish  glow'd, 

When  Ihy  sweel  lips  were  join'd  to  mine. 
The  tears  thai  from  my  eyelids  flow'd 
Were  losl  in  those  lhal  fell  from  thine. 

4. 
Thou  could'st  nol  feel  my  burning  cheek. 

Thy  gushing  lears  had  quench'd  its  flame 
And  as  thy  tongue  essay'd  to  speak, 
In  sighs  alone  it  breathed  my  name. 

5. 

And  yel,  my  girl,  we  weep  in  vain, 
In  vain  our  fate  in  sighs  deplore; 
Remembrance  only  can  remain. — 
But  lhat  will  make  us  weep  the  more. 

6. 
Again,  thou  best  beloved,  adieu  I 

Ah!  if  thou  canst  o'ercome  regret, 
Nor  let  thy  mind  past  joys  review, — 
Our  only  hope  is  to  forget! 


TO  CAROLINE. 
1. 

WHEN  I  hear  you  express  an  affection  so  •warm, 
Ne'er  think,  my  beloved,  that  I  do  not  believe; 
For  your  lip  would  the  soul  of  suspicion  disarm, 
And  your  eye  beams  a  ray  which  can  never  deceive 

2. 
Yet  still,  this  fond  bosom  regrets  while  adoring, 

That  love,  like  ihe  leaf,  musl  fall  inlo  the  sear, 

That  age  will  come  on,  when,  remembrance,  deploring, 

Contemplates  Ihe  scenes  of  her  youlh  with  a  tear. 

3. 

That  the  time  must  arrive,  when,  no  longer  retaining 
Their  auburn,  those  locks  must  wave  thin  to  thi 

breeze, 

When  a  few  silver  hairs  of  those  tresses  remaining 
Prove  nature  a  prey  lo  decay  and  disease. 

4. 
Tis  Ihis,  my  beloved,  which  spreads  gloom  o'er  n»» 

fealures, 

Though  I  ne'er  shall  presume  lo  arraign  the  desree 

Which  God  has  proclaim'd  as  the  fate  of  his  creature*, 

In  the  death  which  one  day  will  deprive  you  of  ma 

5. 

Mistake  not,  sweet  sceptic,  the  cause  of  emotion 

No  doubt  can  the  mind  of  your  lover  invade: 

He  worships  each  look  with  «uch  failh'.ul  devwtKMi 

A  smile  can  enchanl,  or  a  .ear  can  dinuad*. 


726 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


But  as  death,  my  behaved,  soon  or  late  shall  o'ertako  us, 
And  our  breasts  which   alive  with   such   sympathy 

glow, 

Will  sleep  in  the  grave  till  the  blast  shall  awake  us, 
When  calling  the  dead,  in  earth's  bosom  laid  low : 

7. 
Oh!  then  let  us  drain,  while  we  may,  draughts  of 

pleasure, 

Which  from  passion  like  ours  may  unceasingly  flow: 
Let  us  pass  round  the  cup  of  love's  bliss  in  full  measure, 
And  quaff  the  contents  as  our  nectar  below. 

1805. 


TO  CAROLINE. 

1. 

Onl  when  shall  the  grave  hide  for  ever  my  sorrow? 
Oh!  when  shall  my  soul  wing  her  flight  from  this 

clay! 

Fhe  present  is  hell,  and  the  coming  to-morrow 
But  brings  with  new  torture,  the  curse  of  to-day. 

2. 

From  my  eye  flows  no  tear,  from  my  lips  fall  no  curses, 
I  blast  not  the  fiends  who  have  hurt'd  me  from  bliss; 
For  poor  is  the  soul  which  bewailing  rehearses 
Its  querulous  grief,  when  in  anguish  like  this. 

3.  *- 

Was  my  eye.  'stead  of  tears,  with  red   fury  flakes 

bright'ning, 
Would  my  lips  breathe  a  flame  which  no  stream  could 

assuage, 
On  our  foes  should  my  glance  lanch  in  vengeance  its 

lightning, 
With  transport  my  tongue  give  a  loose  to  its  rage. 

4. 
But  now  tears  and  curses,  alike  unavailing, 

Would  add  to  the  souls  of  our  tyrants  delight ; 
Could  they  view  us  our  sad  separation  bewailing, 
Their  merciless  hearts  would  rejoice  at  the  sight. 

5. 

Vot  still,  though  we  bend  with  a  feign'd  resignation, 
Life  beams  not  for  us  with  one  ray  that  can  cheer; 
Love  and  hope  upon  earth  bring  no  more  consolation, 
In  the  grave  is  our  hope,  for  in  life  is  our  fear. 

6. 

Oh!  when,  my  adored,  in  the  tomb  will  they  place  me, 
Sine"  in  life,  love  and  friendship  Tor  ever  are  fled? 
If  again  in  the  mansion  of  death  I  embrace  thee, 
Perhaps  they  will  leave  unmolested  the  dead. 


THE  FIRST  KISS  OF  LOVE. 
"  'A  BopfltToj  oe  j£opc5aif 


Anaereon. 


1. 


ft  way  with  tnose  fictions  of  flimsy  romance! 

Those  tissues  of  falsehood  which  folly  has  wove! 
fiivr  me  the  mild  beam  of  the  soul-breathing  glance, 

Or  the  rapt-a/e  which  dwells  on  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

2. 
Ve  rhymers,  whose  bosoms  with  phantasy  glow, 

Whose  pastoral  passions  are  made   for  the  grove, 
r*iom  what  blest  inspiration  your  sonnets  would  flow. 

Could  vou  ever  have  tasted  the  first  kiss  of  love! 


Ff  Apollo  should  e'er  his  assistance  refuse, 

Or  the  Nine  be  disposed  from  your  service  to  rovt 
Invoke  them  no  more,  bid  adieu  to  the  muse. 

And  try  the  effect  of  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

4. 
I  hate  you,  ye  cold  compositions  of  art: 

Though  prudes  may  condemn  me,  and  bigots  reprov», 
1  court  the  effusions  that  spring  from  the  heart 

Which  throbs  with  delight  to  the  first  kiss  of  lov* 

5. 
Your  shepherds,  your  flocks,  those  fantastical  theme* 

Perhaps  may  amuse,  yet  they  never  can  move: 
Arcadia  displays  but  a  region  of  dreams ; 

What  are  visions  like  these  to  the  first  kiss  of  love? 

6. 
Oh!  cease  to  affirm  that  man,  since  his  birth, 

From  Adnm  till  now,  has  with  wretchedness  strove 
Some  portion  of  paradise  still  is  on  earth, 

And  Eden  revives  in  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

7. 

When  age  chills   the   blood,  when  our  pleasures  are 
past— 

For  years  fleet  away  with  the  wings  of  the  dove— 
The  dearest  remembrance  will  still  be  the  last, 

Our  sweetest  memorial  the  first  kiss  of  love. 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  QUAKER. 
Sweet  girl!  though  only  once  we  met, 
That  meeting  I  shall  ne'er  forget; 
And  though  we  ne'er  may  meet  again 
Remembrance  will  thy  form  retain. 
I  would  not  say,  "I  love,"  but  still 
My  senses  struggle  with  my  will: 
In  vain  to  drive  thee  from  my  breast, 
My  thoughts  are  more  and  more  represt, 
In  vain  I  check  the  rising  sighs, 
Another  to  the  last  replies: 
Perhaps  this  is  not  love,  but  yet 
Our  meeting  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

What  though  we  never  silence  broke, 

Our  eyes  a  sweeter  language  spoke; 

The  tongue  in  flattering  falsehood  deals. 

And  tells  a  tale  it  never  feels: 

Deceit  the  guilty  lips  impart. 

And  hush  the  guilty  mandates  of  the  heart; 

But  soul's  interpreters,  the  eyes, 

Spurn  such  restraint,  and  scorn  disguise. 

As  thus  our  glances  oft  conversed, 

And  all  our  bosoms  felt  rehearsed, 

No  spirit,  from  within,  reproved  us, 

Say  rather,  "  'twas  the  spirit  moved  us." 

Though  what  they  utter'd  I  repress, 

Yet  I  conceive  thou'lt  partly  guess, 

For  as  on  thee  my  memory  ponders, 

Perchance  to  me  thine  also  wanders. 

This  for  myself,  at  least,  I'll  say. 

Thy  form  appears  through  night,  through  daj 

Awake,  with  it  my  fancy  teems; 

In  sleep,  it  smiles  in  fleeting  dreams; 

The  vision  charms  the  hours  away, 

And  bids  me  curse  Aurora's  ray 

For  breaking  slumbers  of  delight 

Which  make  me  wish  for  endless  night 

Since,  oh!  wbate'er  my  future  fate, 

Shall  joy  or  woe  my  steps  awai', 

Tempted  by  love,  by  storms  bew  t. 

Thine  image  I  can  ne'er  forget. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


727 


Alas  I  again  no  more  we  meet, 
No  more  our  former  looks  repeat ; 
Then  let  me  breathe  this  parting   prayur, 
The  dictate  of  my  bosom's  care  : 
"May  Heaven  so  guard  my  lovely  Quaker, 
That  anguish  can  ne'er  o'ertake  her; 
That  peace  and  virtue  ne'er  forsake  her, 
But  bliss  be  aye  her  heart's  partaker! 
Oh!  may  the  happy  mortal  fated 
To  be,  by  dearest  ties,  related, 
For  her  each  hour  new  joys  discover, 
And  lose  the  husband  in  the  lover  1 
May  that  fair  bosom  never  know 
What  'tis  to  feel  the  restless  woe 
Which  stings  the  soul,  with  vain  regret, 
Of  him  who  never  can  forget ! 


TO  LESBIA. 
I, 

^esbia!  since  far  from  you  I've  ranged, 

Our  souls  with  fond  affection  glow  not: 
Vou  say  'tis  I,  not  you,  have  changed, 

I'd  tell  why,— but  yet  I  know  not. 

2. 
Vour  polish'd  brow  no  cares  have  crost; 

And,  Lesbia!  we  are  not  much  older. 
Since  trembling  first  my  heart  I  lost. 

Or  told  my  love,  with  hope  grown  bolder. 

b. 
Sixteen  was  then  our  utmost  age, 

Two  years  have  lingering  past  away,  love ! 
And  now  new  thoughts  our  minds  engage, 

At  least  I  feel  disposed  to  stray,  love  1 

4. 

Tis  I  that  am  alone  to  blame, 
I,  that  am  guilty  of  love's  treason; 

Since  your  sweet  breast  is  stilt  the  same. 
Caprice  must  be  my  only  reason. 

5. 
I  do  not,  love!  suspect  your  truth, 

With  jealous  doubt  my  bosom  heaves  not; 
Warm  was  the  passion  of  my  youth, 

One  trace  of  dark  deceit  it  leaves  not. 

6. 
No,  no,  my  flame  was  not  pretended. 

For,  oh!  I  loved  you  most  sincerely; 
And— though  our  dream  at  last  is  ended — 

My  bosom  still  esteems  you  dearly. 

7. 
No  more  we  meet  in  yonder  bowers; 

Absence  has  made  me  prone  to  roving; 
But  older,  firmer  hearts  than  ours 

Have  found  monotony  in  loving. 

8. 
Your  cheek's  soft  bloom  is  unimpair'd, 

New  beauties  still  are  daily  bright'ning. 
Your  eye  for  conquest  beams  prepared, 

The  forge  of  love's  resistless  lightning. 

9. 
Arm'd  thus,  to  make  their  bosoms,  bleed. 

Many  will  throng  to  sigh  like  me,  love! 
More  constant  they  may  prove,  indeed  ; 

Finder,  alas'  they  ne'er  can  be,  love! 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LAD1". 

As  the  author  was  discharging  his  pistols  in  a  garden,  two  ladiet 
near  the  spot  were  alarmed  by  the  sound  of  a  bullet  hissing  Dear  (La 
to  one  of  whom  the  following  stanzzi  were  addressed  the  next  monunj 

1. 

DOUBTLESS,  sweet  girl,  the  hissing  lead, 
Wafting  destruction  o'er  thy  charms, 
And  hurtling  o'er  thy  lovely  head, 
Has  fill'd  that  breast  with  fond  alarm* 

2. 

Surely  some  envious  demon's  force, 
Vex'd  to  behold  such  beauty  here, 
Impell'd  the  bullet's  viewless  course, 
Diverted  from  its  first  career. 

3. 
Yes,  in  that  nearly  fatal  hour 

The  ball  obey'd  some  hell-born  guide 
But  Heaven,  with  interposing  power 
In  pity  turn'd  the  death  aside. 

4. 

Yet,  as  perchance  one  trembling  tear 

Upon  that  thrilling  bosom  fell; 
Which  I,  th'  unconscious  cause  of  fea, 

Extracted  from  its  glistening  cell: 

5. 
Say,  what  dire  penance  can  atone 

For  such  an  outrage  done  to  thee? 
Arraign'd  Before  thy  beauty's  throne, 

What  punishment  wilt  thou  decree? 

C. 
Might  I  perform  the  judge's  part, 

The  sentence  I  should  scarce  deplor* 
It  only  would  restore  a  heart 

Which  but  belong'd  to  thee  before. 

7. 
The  least  atonement  I  can  make 

Is  to  become  no  longer  free ; 
Henceforth  I  breathe  but  for  thy  sake 

Thou  shall  be  all  in  all  to  me. 

8. 
But  thou,  perhaps,  mayst  now  reject 

Such  expiation  o.f  my  guilt: 
Come  then,  some  other  mode  elect; 

Let  it  be  death,  or  what  thou  wili. 

9. 
Choose  then,  relentless!  and  I  swear 

Naught  shall  thy  dread  decree  preven  > 
Yet  hold — one  little  word  forbear  1 

Let  it  be  aught  but  banishment. 


LOVE'S  LAST  ADIEU. 
"Ati  S\  att  pe  ^cuy«." 
•  rfnacreo* 

I. 
THK  roses  of  love  glad  the  garden  of  life, 

Though  nurtured 'mid  weeds  dropping  pestilen 

Till  Time  crops  the  leaves  with  unmerciful  knife, 

Or  prunes  them  for  ever  in  love's  last  adieu ). 

'2. 
In  vain  with  endearments  we  soothe  the  sad  hetrt, 

In  vain  do  we  vow  for  an  age  to  be  true; 
The  chance  of  an  hour  may  command  us  to  poll. 
Or  death  disunite  us  in  love's  last  adieu  I 

3. 
Still  Hope,  breathing  peace  through  tb<?  srief-iwe!>«t 

brent, 
Will  whisper,  "Our  meeting  we  yet  nmv  •»•!••' 


'23 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


With  this  dream  of  deceit  half  our  sorrow's  represt, 
Nor  taste  we  the  poison  of  love's  last  adieu  I 

4. 

Oh!  mark  you  yon  pair:  in  the  sunshine  of  youth 
Love  twined  round  their  childhood   his   flowers  as 

they  grew ; 

They  flourish  awhile  in  the  season  of  truth, 
Till  chill'd  by  the  winter  of  love's  last  adieu! 

5. 
Bweet  lady !  why  thus  doth  a  tear  steal  its  way 

Down  a  cheek  which  outrivals  thy  bosom  in  hue? 
Yet  why  do  I  ask?  to  distraction  a  prey. 
Thy  reason  has  perish'd  with  love's  last  adieu  ! 

6. 
Oh!  who  is  yon  misanthrope,  shunning  mankind? 

From  cities  to  caves  of  the  forest  he  flew : 
There,  raving,  he  howls  his  complaint  to  the  wind; 
The  mountains  reverberate  love's  last  adieu ! 

7. 
Now  hate  rules  a  heart  which  in  love's  easy  chains 

Once  passion's  tumultuous  blandishments  knew; 
Despair  now  inflames  the  dark  tide  of  his  veins; 
He  ponders  in  frenzy  on  love's  last  adieu ! 

8. 

How  he  envies  the  wretch  with  a  soul  wrapt  in  steel 
His  pleasures  are  scarce,  yet  his  troubles  are  fow, 
Who  laughs  at  the  pang  that  he  never  can  feel, 
And  dreads  not  the  anguish  of  love's  last  adieu ! 

9. 
Youth  flies,  life  decays,  even  hope  is  o'ercast; 

No  more  with  love's  former  devotion  we  sue: 
H«  spreads  his  young  wing,  he  retires  with  the  blast ; 
The  shroud  of  affection  is  love's  last  adieu ! 

10. 
[n  this  life  of  probation   for  rapture  divine, 

Astrea*  declares  that  some  penance  is  due; 
From  him  who  has  worshiped  at  love's  gentle  shrine, 
The  att-Aement  is  ample  in  love's  last  adieu! 

11. 

Who  kneels  to  the  god  on  his  al^ar  of  light 
Must  myrtle  and  cypress  alternately  strew: 
His  myrtle,  an  emblem  of  purest  delight; 
His  cypress,  the  garland  of  love's  last  adieu ! 


IMITATION  OF  TIBULLUS. 
"SolpieiiadCerinthum."— it*.  Quart. 

CRUEL  Cerinthus!  does  the  fell  disease 

Which  rackrf  my  breast  your  fickle  bosom  please? 

Alas !  I  wish'd  but  to  o'ercome  the  pain, 

That  I  might  live  for  love  and  you  again: 

But  now  I  scarcely  shall  bewail  my  fate: 

By  death  alone  I  can  avoid  your  hate. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  HORACE. 

ODE    3,   LIB.   3. 
1. 

TUB  man  of  firm  and  noble  soul 
No  factious  clamours  can  control; 
tfr  threafning  tyrant's  darkling  brow 

Can  swerve  him  from  his  just  intent: 
Oaies  the  warring  waves  which  plough, 

B>   Auster  on  the  billows  spent, 
To  curb  the  Adriatic  main, 
Would  awe  his  fix'd  determined  mind  in  vain. 


•  The  Onddws  of  Justice. 


Ay,  and  the  red  right  arm  of  Jove, 
Hurtling  his  lightnings  from  above, 
With  all  his  terrors  then  unfurl'd, 

He  would  unmoved,  unawed  behold: 
The  flames  of  an  expiring  world, 

Again  in  crashing  chaos  roll'd, 
In  vast  promiscuous  ruin  hurl'd, 
Might  light  his  glorious  funeral  pile: 
Still  dauntless  midst  the  wreck  of  earth  he'd  smile 


FUGITIVE   PIECES. 


ANSWER  TO  SOME  ELEGANT  VERSES  SENT  BY 
A  FRIEND  TO  THE  AUTHOR,  COMPLAINING 
THAT  ONE  OF  HIS  DESCRIPTIONS  WAS  RA 
THER  TOO  WARMLY  DRAWN. 

"But  if  an  old  lady,  knight,  priest,  or  physician, 
Should  condemn  me  for  printing  a  second  edition  ; 
If  good  Madam  Squiulum  my  work  should  abuse, 
May  I  venture  to  give  her  a  smack  of  my  muse  "'" 

Jnstey't  New  Bath  Guide,  p.  169. 

CANDOUR  compels  me-,  BECHER  !  to  commend 
The  verse  which  blends  the  censor  with  the  friend. 
Your  strong,  yet  just,  reproof  extorts  applause 
From  me,  the  heedless  and  imprudent  cause. 
For  this  wild  error  which  pervades  my  strain, 
I  sue  for  pardon,— must  I  sue  in  vain? 
The  wise  sometimes  from  Wisdom's  ways  depart; 
Can  youth  then  hush  the  dictates  of  the  heart? 
Precepts  of  prudence  curb,  but  can't  control, 
The  fierce  emotions  of  the  flowing  soul. 
When  love's  delirium  haunts  the  glowing  mind 
Limping  Decorum  lingers  far  behind: 
Vainly  the  dotard  mends  her  prudish  pace, 
Outstript  and  vanquish'd  in  the  mental  chase. 
The  young,  the  old,  have  worn  the  chains  of  love  i 
Let  those  who  ne'er  confined  my  lay  reprove: 
Let  those  whose  souls  contemn  the  pleasing  power 
Their  censures  on  the  hapless  victim  shower. 
Oh!  how  I  hate  the  nttveiess,  frigid  song, 
The  ceaseless  echo  of  the  rhyming  throng, 
Whose  labour'd  lines  in  chilling  numbers  flow, 
To  paint  a  pang  the  author  ne'er  can  knowi 
The  artless  Helicon  I  boast  is  youth;— 
My  lyre,  the  heart;  my  muse,  the  simple  truth. 
Far  be  't  from  me  the  "  virgin's  mind"  to  "  taint.' 
Seduction's  dread  is  here  no  slight  restraint. 
The  maid  whose  virgin  breast  is  void  of  guile 
Whose  wishes  dimple  in  a  modest  smile, 
Whose  downcast  eye  disdains  the  wanton  leer, 
Finn  in  her  virtue's  strength,  yet  not  severe — 
She  whom  a  conscious  grace  shall  thus  refine 
Will  ne'er  be  "tainted"  by  a  strain  of  mine. 
But  for  the  nymph  whose  premature  desires 
Torment  the  bosom  with  unholy  fires, 
No  net  to  snare  her  willing  heart  is  spread; 
She  would  have  fallen,  though  she  ne'er  had  rean 
For  me,  I  fain  would  please  the  chosen  few, 
Whose  souls,  to  feeling  and  to  nature  true. 
Will  spare  the  childish  verse,  and  not  destroy 
The  light  effusions  of  a  heedless  boy. 
I  seek  not  glory  from  the  senseless  crowd; 
Of  fancied  laurels  I  shall  ne'er  be  proud ; 
Their  warmest  plaudits  I  would  scarcely  prize, 
Their  sneers  or  censures  I  alike  despise. 

November  26    1806. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


ON  A  CHANGE  OP  MASTERS  AT  A  GREAT 

PUBLIC  SCHOOL. 

WHERE  are  those  honours,  Ida !  once  your  own, 
When  Probus  fill'd  your  magisterial  throne  ? 
As  ancient  Rome,  fast  falling  to  disgrace, 
Hail'd  a  barbarian  in  her  Caesar's  place, 
So  you,  degenerate,  share  as  hard  a  fate, 
And  seat  Pomposus  where  your  Probus  sate. 
Of  narrow  brain,  yet  of  a  narrower  soul, 
Pomposus  holds  you  in  his  harsh  control; 
Pomposus,  by  no  social  virtue  sway'd, 
With  florid  jargon,  and  with  vain  parade; 
With  noisy  nonsense,  and  new-fangled  rules, 
Buch  as  were  ne'er  before  enforced   in  schools 
Mistaking  pedantry  for  learning's  laws, 
He  governs,  sanction')!  but  by  self-applause. 
With  him  the  same  dire  fate  attending  Rome, 
Ill-fated  Ida!  soon  must   stamp  your  doom: 
Like  her  o'erthrown,  for  ever  lost  to  fame, 
No  trace  of  science  left  you  but  the  name. 

July,  1805. 


CHILDISH  RECOLLECTIONS. 

"  I  cannot  but  remember  such  thing?  were, 
And  were  most  dtar  to  me." 

WHEN  slow  Disease,  with  all  her  host  of  pains. 
Chills  the  warm  tide  which  flows  along  the  veins; 
When  Health,  affrighted,  spreads  her  rosy  wing, 
And  flies  with  every  changing  gale  of  spring; 
Not  to  the  aching  frame  alone  confined, 
Unyielding  pangs  assail  the  drooping  mind: 
What  grisly  forms,  the  spectre-train  of  woe, 
Bid  shuddering  Nature  shrink  beneath  the  blow, 
With  Resignation  wage  relentless  strife, 
While  Hope  retires  appall'd  and  clings  to  life. 
Yet  less  the  pang  when  through  the  tedious  hour 
Remembrance  sheds  around  her  genial  power, 
Calls  back  the  vanish'd  days  to  rapture  given, 
When  love  was  bliss,  and  Beauty  form'd  our  heaven  ; 
Or,  dear  to  youth,  portrays  each  childish  scene, 
Those  fairy  bowers,  where  all  in  turn  have  been. 
As  when  through  clouds  that  pour  the  summer  storm 
The  orb  of  day  unveils  his  distant  form, 
Gilds  with  faint  beams  the  crystal  dews  of  rain, 
And  dimly  twinkles  o'er  the  watery  plain  ; 
Thus,  while  the  future  dark  and  cheerless  gleams, 
The  sun  of  memory,  glowing  through  my  dreams, 
Though  sunk  the  radiance  of  his  former  blaze, 
To  scenes  far  distant  points  his  paler  rays; 
Btill  rules  my  senses  with  unbounded  sway, 
The  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 

Oft  does  my  heart  indulge  the  rising  thought, 
Which  still  recurs,  unlook'd  for  and  unsought ; 
My  soul  to  Fancy's  fond  suggestion  yields, 
And  roams  romantic  o'er  her  airy  fields; 
Scenes  of  my  youth,  develop'd,  crowd  to  view 
I'o  which  I  long  have  bade  a  last  adieu ! 
Seats  of  delight,  inspiring  youthful  themes; 
Friends  lost  to  me  for  aye  except  in  dreams; 
Some  who  in  marble  prematurely  sleep, 
Whose  forms  I  now  remember  but  to  weep; 
Some  who  yet  urge  the  same  scholastic  course 
Of  early  science,  future  fame  the  source ; 
Who,  ftill  contending  in  the  studious  race, 
In  quick  rotation  fill  the  senior  place! 
These  with  a  thousand  visions  now  unite, 
To  dazzle,  though  they  please,  my  aching  sight. 

IDA!  blest  spot    where  Science  holds  her  reign, 
How  joyous  once  I  join'd  thy  youthful  triin  ! 
3P  97 


Bright  in  idea  gleams  thy  lofty  spire, 

Again  I  mingle  with  thy  playful  quire; 

Our  tricks  of  mischief,  every  childish  game, 

Unchanged  by  time  or  distance,  seem  the  same; 

Through  winding  paths,  along  the  glade,  I  traen 

The  social  smile  of  ev'ry  welcome  face; 

My  wonted  haunts,  my  scenes  of  joy  and  woa. 

Each  early  boyish  fri'ind  or  youthful  foe, 

Our  feuds  dissolved,  lut  not  my  friendship  past:— 

I  bless  the  former,  and  forgive  the  last 

Hours  of  my  youth!  when,  nurtured  in  my  breast 

To  love  a  stranger,  friendship  made  me  blest: — 

Friendship,  the  dear  peculiar  bond  of  youth, 

When  every  artless  bosom  throbs  with  truth; 

Untaught  by  wor'^.'y  wisdom  how  to  feign, 

And  check  each  impulse  with  prudential  rein; 

When  all  we  feel,  our  honest  souls  disclose — 

In  love  to  friends,  in  open  hate  to  foes; 

No  varnish'd  tales  the  lips  of  youth  repeat, 

No  dear-bought  knowledge  purchased  by  deceit. 

Hypocrisy,  the  gift  of  lengthen'd  years, 

Matured  by  age,  the  garb  of  prudence  wears. 

When  now  the  boy  is  ripen'd  into  man, 

His  careful  sire  chalks  forth  some  wary  plan  ; 

Instructs  his  son  from  candour's  path  to  shrink, 

Smoothly  to  speak,  and  cautiously  to  think; 

Still  to  assent,  and  never  to  deny — 

A  patron's  praise  can  well  reward  the  lie : 

And  who,  when  Fortune's  warning  voice  is  heart!, 

Would  lose  his  opening  prospects  for  a  word  ? 

Although  against  that  word  his  heart  rebel. 

And  truth,  indignant,  all  his  bosom  swell. 

Away  with  themes  like  this'  not  mine  the  task 
From  flattering  fiends  to  tear  the  hateful  mask; 
Let  keener  bards  delight  in  satire's  sting; 
My  fancy  soars  not  on  Detraction's  wing: 
Once,  and  but  once,  she  aim'd  a  deadly  blow- 
To  hurl  defiance  on   a  secret  foe; 
But  when  that  foe,  from  feeling  or  from  sham*. 
The  cause  unknown,  yet  still  to  me  the  same, 
Warn'd  by  some  friendly  hint,  perchance,  retired. 
With  this  submission  all  her  rage  expired. 
From  dreaded  pangs  that  fe«ble  foe  to  save, 
She  hush'd  her  young  resentment,  and  forgave; 
Or,  if  my  muse  a  pedant's  portrait  drew, 
Pomposus'  virtues  are  but  known  to  few: 
I  never  fear'd  the  young  usurper's  nod, 
And  he  who  wields  must  sometimes  feel  the  rot 
If  since  on  Granta's  failings,  known  to  all 
Who  share  the  converse  of  a  college  hall, 
She  sometimes  trifled  in  a  lighter  strain, 
'Tis  past,  and  thus  she  will  not  fin  again. 
Soon  must  her  early  song  for  ever  cease. 
And  all  may  rail  when  I  shall  rest  in  peace. 

Here  first  remember'd  be  the  joyous  band 
Who  hail'd  me  chief,  obedient  to  command; 
Who  join'd  with  me  in  every  boyish  sport— 
Their  first  adviser,  and  their  last  resort ; 
Nor  shrunk  beneath  the  upstart  pedant's  frown, 
Or  all  the  sable  glories  of  his  gown  ; 
Who,  thus  transplanted  from  his  father's  school 
Unfit  to  govern,  ignorant  of  rule — 
Succeeded  him  whom  all  unite  to  praise, 
The  dear  preceptor  of  my  early  days; 
Probus,  the  pride  of  science,  and  the  boast. 
To  IDA.  now,  alas!  for  ever  lost. 
With  him  for  years  we  search'd  the  classic  page. 
And   fear'd  the  master,  though  we  loved  the  •«*• 
Retired  at  last,  his  small  yet  peaceful  *ent 
From  learning's  labour  '•*  the  b'est  retsesr 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Pomposus  fills  his  magisterial  chair; 
Pomposus  governs,— but,  my  muse,  forbear: 
Contempt,  in  silence,  be  the  pedant's  lot ; 
His  name  and  precepts  be  alike  forgot ; 
tio  more  his  mention  shall  my  verse  degrade, 
To  him  my  tribute  is  already  paid. 

High,  thro'  those  elms  with  hoary  branches  crown'd, 
Fair  Inv's  bower  adorns  the  landscape  round; 
There  Science,  from  her  favoured  seat,  surveys 
The  vale  where  rural  Xature  claims  her  praise ; 
To  her  awhile  resigns  her  youthful  train, 
Who  move  in  joy,  and  dance  along  the  plain; 
In  scalter'd  groups  each  favour'd  haunt  pursue; 
Repeat  old  pastimes,  and  discover  new; 
Flush'd  with  his  rays,  beneath  the  noontide  sun, 
In  rival  bands  between  the  wickets  run, 
Drive  o'er  the  sward  the  ball  with  active  force, 
Or  chase  with  nimble  feel  its  rapid  course. 
But  these  with  slower  steps  direct  their  way 
Where  Brent's  cool  waves  in  limpid  currents  stray; 
While  yonder  few  search  out  some  green  retreat, 
And  arbours  shade  them  from  the  summer  beat: 
Others  again,  a  pert  and  lively  crew, 
S.mie  rough  and  thoughtless  stranger  placed  in  view, 
With  frolic  quaint  their  antic  jests  expose. 
And  tease  the  grumbling  rustic  as  he  goes; 
Nor  rest  with  this,  but  many  a  passing  fray 
Tradition  treasures  for  a  future  day: 
"Twas  here  the  gather'd  swains  for  vengeance  fought, 
And  here  we  earn'd  the  conquest  dearly  bought; 
Here  have  we  fled  before  superior  might. 
And  here  rcnew'd  the' wild  tumultuous  fight." 
While  thus  our  souls  with  early  passions  swell. 
In  lingering  tones  resounds  the  distant  bell; 
Th'  allotted  hour  of  daily  sport  is  o'er. 
And  Learning  beckons  from  her  temple's  door. 
Vo  splendid  tablets  grace  her  simple  hall, 
But  ruder  records  Mil  the  dusky  wall ; 
There,  deeply  carved,  behold!  each  tyro's  name 
Secures  its  owner's  academic  fame; 
Here  mingling  view  the  names  of  sire  and  son — 
The  one  long  graved,  the  other  just  begun  ; 
These  shall  survive  alike  whet,  son  and  sire 
Beneath  one  common  stroke  of  fate  expire : 
Perhaps  their  last  memorial  these  alone, 
Denied  in  death  a  monumental  stone, 
Whilst  to  the  gale  in  mournful  cadence  wave 
The  sighing  weeds  that  hide  their  nameless  gr?-r. 
And  here  my  name,  and  many  an  early   friend's. 
Along  the  wall  in  lengthen'd  line  extends. 
Though  still  our  deeds  amuse  the  youthful  race, 
TV'hr  tread  our  steps,  and  fill  our  former  place, 
Who  young  obey'd  their  lords  in  silent  awe. 
Whose  nod  commanded,  and  whose  voice  was  law, 
And  now  in  turn  possess  the  reins  of  power, 
To  rule  the  little  tyrants  of  an  hour; — 
Though  sometimes  with  the  tales  of  ancient  day 
They  pass  the  dreary  winter's  eve  away — 
"  And  thus  our  former  rulers  stemm'd  the  tide. 
And  thus  they  dealt  the  combat  side  by  side; 
Jw.  ir.  this  pi  ace  the  mouldering  walls  they  scaled, 
Not  bolts  nor  bars  against  their  strength  avail'd; 
Her«-  probu*  came,  the  rising  fray  to  quell. 
Ami  here  he  falter'd  forth  his  last  farewell ; 
An  l  none  one  night  abroad  they  dared  to  roam, 
Wnite  bold  Pomposus  bravely  stay'd  at  home;" — 
Wliik*  this  they  speak,  the  hour  must  soon  arrive. 
Win  q  nainr-s  nf  these,  like  ours,  alone  survive 


Yet  a  few  years,  one  general  wreck  will  wh:lm 
The  faint  remembrance  of  our  fairy  realm. 

Dear  honest  race,  though  now  we  meet  no  more. 
One  last  long  look  on  what  we  were  before — 
Our  first  kind  greetings,  and  our  last  adieu — 
Drew  tears  from  eyes  unused  to  weep  with  you. 
Through  splendid  circles,  fashion's  gaudy  world, 
Where  folly's  glaring  standard  waves  unfurl'd, 
I  plunged  to  drown  in  noise  my  fond  regret. 
And  all  I  sought  or  hoped  was  to  forget. 
Vain  wish!  if  chance  some  well-remember'd  face, 
Some  old  companion  of  my  early  race, 
Advanced  to  claim  his  friend  with  honest  joy. 
My  eyes,  my  heart  proclaim'J  me  still  a  boy  ; 
The  glittering  scene,  the  fluttering  groups  around. 
Were  quite  forgotten  when  my  friend  was  found; 
The  smiles  of  beauty— (for,  alas!  I've  known 
What  'tis  to  bend  before  Love's  mighty  throne)— 
The  smiles  of  beauty,  though  those  smiles  were  oe«! 
Could  hardly  charm  me  when  that  friend  was  near* 
My  thoughts  bewilder'd  in  the  fond  surprise, 
The  woods  of  Ida  danced  before  my  eyes; 
I  saw  the  sprightly  wanderers  pour  along, 
I  saw  andjoin'd  again  the  joyous  throng; 
Panting,  again  I  traced  her  lofty  grove, 
And  friendship's  feelings  triumph'd  over  love. 

Yet  why  should  I  alone  with  such  delight 
Retrace  the  circuit  of  my  former  flight  ? 
Is  there  no  cause  beyond  the  common  claim 
Endear'd  to  all  in  childhood's  very  name? 
Ah!  sure  some  stronger  impulse  vibrates  here, 
Which  whispers  friendship  will  be  doubly  dear 
To  one  who  thus  for  kindred  hearts  must  roam, 
And  seek  abroad  the  love  denied  at  home. 
Those  hearts,  dear  IDA,  have  I  found  in  thee — 
A  home,  a  world,  a  paradise  to  me. 
Stern  death  forbade  my  orphan  youth  to  share 
The  tender  guidance  of  a  father's  care: 
Can  rank,  or  e'en  a  guardian's  name,  supply 
The  love  which  glistens  in  a  father's  eye? 
For  this  can  wealth  or  title's  jound  atone. 
Made  by  a  parent's  early  loss  my  own  ? 
What  brother  springs  a  brother's  love  to  seek? 
What  sister's  gentle  Uirs  has  prest  my  cheek? 
For  me  how  dull  the  vacant  moments  rise. 
To  no  fond  bosom  Tnk'd  by  kindred  ties! 
Oft  in  the  progr.-si  of  some  fleeting  dream 
Frzternal  smiLs  collected  round  me  seem; 
While  stili  tiie  vijions  to  my  heart  are  prest, 
The  voice  of  love  will  murmur  in  my  rest: 
I  hear— I  wake— and  in  the  sound  rejoice; 
I  hear  again — but  ah!  no  brother's  voice, 
A  hermit,  'midst  of  crowds,  I  fain  must  elrai 
Alone,  though  thousand  pilgrims  fill  the  rif  ; 
While  these  a  thousand  kindred  n-reatt*  en '.*»»»«, 
I  cannot  call  one  single  Hossom   n-inc: 
What  then  remains?  in  solitude  to  grocji, 
To  mix  in  friendship  or  to  sigh  alone? 
Thus  must  I  cling  to  some  endearing  hand. 
And  none  more  dear  than  IDA'S  «ocial  band, 

Alonzo!  best  and  dearest  of  my  friends. 
Thy  name  ennobles  him  who  thus  commends; 
From  this  fond  tribute  thou  canst  gain  no  praise, 
The  praise  is  his  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 
Oh!  in  the  promise  of  thj-  aarly  youth, 
If  hope  anticipate  the  words  of  truth. 
Some  loftier  bard  shall  sing  thy  glorious 
To  build  his  own  upon  t)  y  deathless  %n«. 


HOURS   OF   IDLENESS. 


731 


Friend  of  my  heart,  and  foremost  of  the  list 

Of  those  with  whom  I  lived  supremely  blest. 

Oft  bare  we  drain'd  the  font  of  ancient  lore; 

Though  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  Mill  the  more. 

Vet  when  confinement's  lingering  boar  was  done, 

Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  were  one: 

Together  we  impell'd  the  flying  ball; 

Together  waited  in  our  tutor's  hall; 

Together  join'd  in  cricket's  manly  toil. 

Or  shared  the  produce  of  the  river's  spoil ; 

Or  plunging  from  the  green  declining  shore. 

Our  pliant  limbs  the  buoyant  billows  bore; 

In  every  element,  unchanged,  the  same. 

All,  all  that  brothers  should  be  but  the  name. 

Nor  yet  are  yon  forgot,  my  jocund  boy ! 
DAVUS,  the  harbinger  of  childish  Joy ; 
For  ever  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  fun. 
The  laughing  herald  of  the  harmless  pun ; 
Yet  with  a  breast  of  such  materials  made- 
Anxious  to  please,  of  pleasing  half  afraid; 
Candid  and  liberal,  with  a  heart  of  steel 
In  danger's  path,  though  not  untaught  to  feel. 
Still  I  remember  in  the  (actions  strife 
The  rustic's  musket  aim'd  against  my  life: 
High  poised  in  air  the  massy  weapon  bung, 
A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  every  tongue; 
Whilst  I,  in  combat  with  another  foe. 
Fought  on,  unconscious  of  th*  impending  blow ; 
Tour  arm,  brave  boy,  arrested  his  career — 
Forward  you  sprung,  insensible  to  fear; 
Disarm 'd  and  baffled  by  your  conquering  band. 
The  gravelling  savage  roTTd  upon  the  sand: 
An  act  like  this  can  simple  thanks  repay? 
Or  an  the  labours  of  a  grateful  lay  ? 
Oh  no!  whene'er  my  breast  forgets  the  deed. 
That  instant,  DAVCS,  it  deserves  to  Meed. 

Lrcrs!  on  me  thy  claims  are  justly  great: 
Thy  milder  virtues  could  my  muse  relate. 
To  tbee  alone,  unrivalTd,  would  belong 
The  feeble  effort*  of  my  lengthened  song. 
Well  canst  tbou  boast  to  lead  in  senates  fit— 
A  Spartan  firmness  with  Athenian  wit: 
Though  yet  in  embryo  these  perfections  shine. 
LYCOS!  thy  father's  fame  wiU  soon  be  thine. 
Where  learning  nurtures  the  superior  mind. 
What  May  we  hope  from  genius  thus  refined! 
When  time  at  length  matures  thy  growing  yean. 
Bow  wilt  tbou  tower  above  thy  fellow  peers ! 
Prudence  and  sense,  a  spirit  bold  and  free. 
With  honour's  soul,  united  beam  in  tbee. 

SnaH  fair  BOKTAUB  pass  by  unsung? 
From  ancient  lineage,  not  unworthy,  sprang: 
What  though  one  sad  di-wention  bade  us  part, 
That  name  is  yet  embalm'd  within  my  bean; 
Yet  at  the  mention  does  that  bean  rebound. 
And  palpitate  responsive  to  the  sound. 
Envy  dissolved  our  ties,  and  not  onr  win: 
v7«  once  were  friends,— I'll  think  we  are  so  stilL 
A  form  unmatched  in  nature's  partial  mould. 
A  heart  untainted,  we  in  thee  behold : 
fet  not  the  senate's  thunder  tbon  shall  wield. 
Nor  seek  for  glory  in  the  tented  field; 
fo  minds  of  ruder  texture  these  be  given — 
Thy  soul  shall  nearer  soar  its  native  heaven, 
flarly  in  polish'd  conns  might  be  thy  seat, 
Eht  that  thy  tongue  could  never  forge  deceit; 
Tie  courtier's  supple  bow  and  sneering  smile. 
rita  flow  of  mmpliment.  the  slippery  wile. 


Would  make  that  breast  with  indignation  burn. 
And  all  the  glittering  snares  to  tempt  thee  spun. 
Domestic  happiness  will  stamp  thy  fate; 
Sacred  to  lore,  unclouded  e'er  by  hate; 
The  world  admire  thee,  and  thy  friends  adore; 
Ambition's  slave  alone  would  toil  for  more. 
Wow  last,  but  nearest  of  the  social  band, 
See  honest,  open,  generous  CLEOX  stand; 
With  scarce  one  speck  to  cloud  the  pleasing  seen* 
No  vice  degrades  that  purest  soul  serene. 
On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  begun, 
On  the  same  day  onr  studious  race  was  ran ; 
Thus  side  by  side  we  pass'd  onr  first  career, 
Thus  side  by  side  we  strove  for  many  a  year; 
At  last  concluded  oar  scholastic  life. 
We  neither  conquered  in  the  classic  strife ; 
As  speakers  each  supports  an  equal  name, 
And  crowds  allow  to  each  a  partial  fame: 
To  soothe  a  youthful  rival's  early  pride. 
Though  aeon's  candour  would  the  palm  divide. 
Yet  candour's  self  compels  me  now  to  own 
Justice  awards  it  to  my  friend  alone. 

Oh!  friends  regretted,  scenes  for  ever  dear. 
Kemembrance  hails  yon  with  her  warmest  tear! 
Drooping,  she  bends  o'er  pensive  Fancy's  mm, 
To  trace  the  hoars  which  never  can  return; 
Yet  with  the  retrospection  loves  to  dwell. 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  her  last  farewell  I 
Yet  greets  the  triumph  of  my  boyish  mind, 
As  infant  laurels  round  my  head  were  twined 
When  Probns'  praise  repaid  my  lyric  son*, 
Or  placed  me  higher  in  the  studious  throng. 
Or  when  my  first  harangue  received  applause. 
His  sage  instruction  the  primeval  cause. 
What  gratitude  to  him  my  soul  nossest. 
While  hope  of  dawning  honours  filTd  my  breast  I 
For  all  my  bum  We  fame,  to  him  alow 
The  praise  is  doe,  who  made  that  fame  my  own. 
Oh!  could  I  soar  above  these  feeble  lays. 
These  young  effusions  of  my  early  days. 
To  him  my  muse  her  noblest  strain  would  five: 
The  song  might  perish,  b-»t  the  theme  mast  tiv*. 
Yet  why  tar  him  Ike  needless  verse  essay? 
His  honoar'd  name  requires  no  vain  display: 
By  every  son  of  grateful  Ida  West, 
It  finds  an  echo  in  each  youthful  breast; 
A  fame  beyond  the  glories  of  the  Broad. 
Or  all  the  plaudits  of  the  venal  crowd. 

IDA,  not  yet  exhausted  is  the* theme. 
Nor  cloned  the  program  of  my  youthful  dream. 
How  many  a  friend  deserves  the  grateful  strain. 
What  scenes  of  childhood  still  unsung  remain! 
Yet  let  me  hush  Una  echo  of  the  past. 
This  parting  song,  the  dearest  and  the  last; 
And  brood  in  secret  o'er  those  boon  of  joy. 
To  me  a  silent  and  a  sweet  employ. 
Bat  thou  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender  yeaiv 
Are  near  my  own,  whose  worth  my  bean  rrreras 
Henceforth  affection  sweetly  Urns  began. 
Shall  join,  our  bnsomi  and  our  souls  in  one ; 
Without  thy  aid.  no  glory  shall  be  nUae; 
Without  thy  dear  advice,  no  great  design; 
Alike  through  life  esteem'd,  thou  godlike  boy. 
In  war  my  bulwark,  and  in  peace  my  joy." 

To  him  Earyahti:— "Ito  day  dun  ska  me 
The  rising  glories  whkt  ton.  tV*  I  efeia 
Fortune  may  favour,  rt  the  skie*  >u«y  £w* 
Bat  valour,  spile  of  fat*,  c Wains  reauwn. 


V12 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Yet,  ero  from  h,i-  ce  our  eager  steps  depart, 

One  boon  I  bet    tne  nearest  to  my  heart: 

My  mother,  sprung  from  Priam's  royal  line, 

Like  thine  ennobled,  hardly  less  divine, 

Nor  Troy  nor  king  Acestes'  realms  restrain 

Her  feeble  .ige  from  dangers  of  the  main  ; 

Alone  she  came,  all  selfish  fears  above, 

A  bright  example  of  maternal  love. 

Unknown  the  secret  enterprise  I  brave. 

Lest  grief  should  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave; 

From  this  alone  no  fond  adieus  I  seek, 

No  fainting  mother's  lips  have  press'd  my  cheek; 

By  gloomy  night  and  thy  right  hand  I  vow 

Her  parting  tears  would  shake  my  purpose  now: 

Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain, 

In  thee  her  much-loved  child  may  live  again; 

Her  dying  hours  with  pious  conduct  bless, 

Assist  her  wants,  relieve  her  fond  distress. 

So  dear  a  hope  must  all  my  soul  inflame, 

To  rise  in  glory,  or  to  fall  in   fame." 

Struck  with  a  filial  care  so  deeply  felt, 

In  tears  at  once  the  Trojan  warriors  melt : 

Faster  than  all,  lulus'  eyes  o'erflow; 

Such  love  was  his,  and  such  had  been  his  woe. 

"  All  thou  hast  ask'd,  receive,"  the  prince  replied ; 

"Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a  gift  beside. 

To  cheer  thy  mother's  years  shall  be  my  aim, 

Creusa's*  style  but  wanting  to  the  dame. 

Fortune  an  adverse  wayward  course  may  run, 

But  bless'd  thy  mother  in  so  dear  a  son. 

Now,  by  my  life!— my  sire's  most  sacred  oath— 

To  thee  I  pledge  my  full,  my  firmest  troth, 

All  the  rewards  which  once  to  thee  were  vow'd, 

If  thou  shouldst  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestow'd." 

Thus  spoke  the  weeping  prince,  then  forth  to  view 

A  gleaming  falchion  from  the  sheath  he  drew; 

Lycaon's  utmost  skill  had  graced  the   steel, 

For  friends  to  envy  and  for  foes  to  feel ; 

A  tawny  nide,  the  Moorish  lion's  spoil. 

Slain  'mid  the  forest,  in  the  hunter's  toil, 

Mnestheus  to  guard  the  elder  youth  bestows, 

And  old  Alethes'  casque  defends  his  brows. 

Arm'd  thence  they  go,  while  all  th'  assembled  train, 

To  aid  their  cause,  implore  the  gods  in  vain. 

More  than  a  boy,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 

lulus  nolds.  amid  the  chiefs  his  place: 

His  prayer  he  sends ;  but  what  can  prayers  avail, 

Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  galel 

The  trench  is  pass'd,  and,  favour'd  by  the  night, 
Through  sleeping  foes  they  wheel  their  wary  flight. 
When  snail  the  sleep  of  many  a  foe  be  o'er? 
Alas!  some  slumber  who  shall  wake  no  morel 
Chariots  and  bridles,  mix'd  with  arms,  are  seen; 
And  flowing  flasks,  and  scattered  troops  between: 
Bacchus  and  Mars  to  rule  the  camp  combine; 
A  mingled  chaos  this  of  war  and  wine. 
"Now,"  cries  the  first,  "for  deeds  of  blood  prepare, 
With  me  the  conquest  and  the  labour  share: 
Her*  lies  our  path;  lest  any  hand  arise, 
Wacch  taou,  while  many  a  dreaming  chieftain  dies: 
I'll  carve  our  passage  through  the  heedless  foe, 
Ami  clear  thy  road  with  many  a  deadly  blow." 
His  whispering  accents  then  the  youth  repress'd, 
And  pierced  proud  Rhamnes  through  his  panting  breast 
Btntch'd  at  his  ease,  th'  incautious  king  reposed; 
Debauch,  and  not  fatigue,  his  eyes  had  closed: 
I'o  Turnus  dear,  a  prophet  and  a  prince, 
His  omens  more  than  augur's  skill  evince; 


I'M  votlwr  of  lu'v,  l°«t  on  the  night  when  Troy  wu  taken. 


But  he,  who  thus  foretold  the  fate  of  all, 

Could  not  avert  his  own  untimely   fall. 

Next  Remus'  armour-bearer  hapless  fell, 

And  three  unhappy  slaves  the  carnage  swell: 

The  charioteer  along  his  courser's  sides 

Expires,  the  steel  his  sever'd  neck  divides ; 

And,  last,  his  lord  is  number'd  with  the  dead: 

Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping  head : 

From  the  swoll'n  veins  the  blackening  torrerts  poar 

Stain'd  is  the  couch  and  earth  with  clotting  gore. 

Young  Lamyrus  and  Lamus  next  expire, 

And  gay  Serranus,  fill'd  with  youthful  fire: 

Half  the  long  night  in  childish  games  was  pass'd; 

Lull'd  by  the  potent  grape,  he  slept  at  last: 

Ah!  happier  far  had  he  the  morn  survey'd, 

Andjtill  Aurora's  dawn  his  skill  display'd. 

In  slaughter'd  folds,  the  keepers  lost  in  sleep, 
His  hungry  fangs  a  lion  thus  may  steep; 
'Mid  the  sad  flock,  at  dead  of  night,  he  prowls, 
With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  rolls: 
Insatiate  still,  through  teeming  herds  he  roams; 
In  seas  of  gore  the  lordly  tyrant  foams. 

Nor  less  the  other's  deadly  vengeance  came, 
But  falls  on  feeble  crowds  without  a  name: 
His  wound  unconscious  Fadus  scarce  can  feel, 
Yet  wakeful  Rhtesus  sees  the  threatening  steel. 
His  coward  breast  behind  a  jar  he  hides, 
And  vainly  in  the  weak  defence  confides; 
Full  in  his  heart,  the  falchion  search'd  his  veins, 
The  reeking  weapon  bears  alternate  stains ; 
Through  wine  and  blood,  commingling  as  they  flow 
One  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below. 
Now  where  Messapus  dwelt  they  bend  their  way, 
Whose  fire  emits  a  faint  and  trembling  ray; 
There,  unconfin'd,  behold  each  grazing  steed, 
Unwatch'd,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  feed: 
Brave  Nisus  here  arrests  his  comrade's  arm, 
Too  flush'd  with  carnage,  and  with  conquest  warm:— 
"Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  path  is  pass'd; 
Full  foes  enough  to-night  have  breathed  their  last ' 
Soon  will  the  day  those  eastern  clouds  adorn; 
Now  let  us  speed,  nor  tempt  the  rising  morn." 

What  silver  arms,  with  various  art  emboss'd, 
What  bowls  and  mantles  in  confusion  toss'd. 
They  leave  regardless!  yet  one  glittering  prize 
Attracts  the  younger  hero's  wandering  eyes; 
The  gilded  harness  Rhamnes'  coursers  felt. 
The  gems  which  stud  the  monarch's  golden  belt' 
This  from  the  pallid  corse  was  quickly  torn, 
Once  by  a  line  of  former  chieftains  worn. 
Th'  exulting  boy  the  studded  girdle  wears, 
Messapus'  helm  his  bead  in  triumph  bears; 
Then  from  the  tents  their  cautious  steps  they  bend 
To  seek  the  vale  where  safer  paths  extend. 

Just  at  this  hour  a  band  of  Latian  horse 
To  Turnus'  camp  pursue  their  destined  course: 
While  the  slow  foot  their  tardy  march  delay, 
The  knights,  impatient,  spur  along  the  way : 
Three  hundred  mail-clad  men,  by  Volscens  led. 
To  Turnus  with  their  master's  promise  sped: 
Now  they  approach  the  trench,  and  view  the  walls, 
When,  on  the  left,  a  light  reflection  falls; 
The  plunder'd  helmet,  through  the  waning  night. 
Sheds  forth  a  silver  radiance,  glancing  bright. 
Volscens  with  question  loud  the  pair  alarms: — 
"Stand,  stragglers!  stand!  why  early  thus  in  arms' 
From  whence,  to  whom  ?"— He  meets  with  no  »epl>. 
Trusting  the  covert  of  the  night,  they  fly  ; 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


733 


fhe  thicket's  depth  with  lurried  pace  they  tread. 
While  round  the  wood  the  hostile  squadron  spread. 

With  brakes  entangled,  scarce  a  path  between. 
Dreary  and  dark  appears  the  sylvan  scene: 
Euryalus  his  heavy  spoils  impede. 
The  boughs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mislead ; 
But  Nisus  scours  along  the  forest's  maze 
To  where  Latinus'  steeds  in  safety  graze. 
Then  backward  o'er  the  plain  his  eyes  extend, 
On  every  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 
"  O  God !  my  boy,"  he  cries,  "  of  me  bereft, 
In  what  impending  perils  art  thou  left!" 
Listening  he  runs — above  the  waving  trees, 
Tumultuous  voices  swell  the  passing  breeze; 
The  war-cry  rises,  thundering  hoofs  around 
Wake  the  dark  echoes  of  the  trembling  ground. 
Again  he  turns,  of  footsteps  hears  the  noise ; 
The  sound  elates,  the  sight  his  hope  destroys: 
The  hapless  boy  a  ruffian  train  surround, 
While  lengthening  shades  his  weary  way  confound; 
Him  with  loud  shouts  the  furious  knights  pursue, 
Struggling  in  vain,  a  captive  to  the  crew. 
What  can  his  friend  'gainst  thronging  numbers  dare? 
Ah!  must  be  rush,  his  comrade's  fate  to  share? 
What  force,  what  aid,  what  stratagem  essay, 
Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoiler's  prey  ? 
His  life  a  votive  ransom  nobly  give, 
Or  die  with  him  for  whom  he  wish'd  to  live? 
Poising  with  strength  his  lifted  knee  on  high, 
On  Luna's  orb  he  casts  his  frenzied  eye: — 
••Goddess  serene,  transcending  every  star! 
Queen  of  the  sky  whose  beams  are  seen  afar! 
By  night  heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day  the  grove, 
When,  as  chaste  Dian,  here  thou  deign'st  to  rove; 
If  e'er  myself,  or  sire,  have  sought  to  grace 
Thiue  altars  with  the  produce  of  the  chase. 
Speed,  speed  my  dart  to  pierce  yon  vaunting  crowd, 
To  free  nay  friend,  and  scatter  far  the  proud." 
Thus  having  said,  the  hissing  dart  he  flung ; 
Through  parting  shades  the  hurtling  weapon  sung; 
The  thirsty  point  in  Sulmo's  entrails  lay, 
Transfix'd  his  heart,  and  stretch'd  him  on  the  clay: 
He  sobs,  he  dies, — the  troop  in  wild  amaze, 
Unconscious  whence  the  death,  with  horror  gaze. 
While  pale  they  stare,  through  Tagus'  temples  riven, 
A  second  shaft  with  equal  force  is  driven : 
Fierce  Volscens  rolls  around  his  lowering  eyes; 
Veil'd  by  the  night,  secure  the  Trojan  lies. 
Burning  with  wrath,  he  view'd  his  soldiers  fall. 
"Thou  youth  accurst,  thy  life  shall  pay  for  all!" 
Quick  from  the  sheath  his  flaming  glaive  he  drew, 
And,  raging,  on  the  boy  defenceless  flew. 
Nisus  no  more  the  blackening  shade  conceals, 
Forth,  forth  he  starts,  and  all  his  love  reveals; 
Aghast,  confused,  his  fears  to  madness  rise, 
And  pour  these  accents,  shrieking  as  he  flies : 
"Me,  me — your  vengeance  hurl  on  me  alone  ; 
Here  sheathe  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  your  own. 
Ye  starry  spheres  I  thou  conscious  Heaven !  attest  1 
He  could  not— durst  not— lo!  the  guile  confestl 
All,  all  was  mine, — his  early  fate  suspend; 
He  only  loved  too  well  his  hapless  friend: 
Spare,  spare,  ye  chiefs!  from  him  your  rage  remove; 
His  fault  was  friendship,  all  his  crime  was  love." 
He  pray'd  in  vain;  the  dark  assassin's  sword 
Pierced  the  fair  side,  the  snowy  bosom  gored; 
lowly  to  earth  inclines  his  plume-clad  crest, 
\nd  sanguine  torrents  mantle  o'er  Mi*  broast : 
As  some  young  rose,  \vhosr>  blossom  scents  the  air, 
Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  the  share: 
3*2 


Or  crimson  poppy,  sinking  with  the  shower, 
Declining  gently,  falls  a  fading  flower; 
Thus,  sweetly  drooping,  bends  his  lovely  head, 
And  lingering  beauty  hovers  ruund  the" dead. 

But  fiery  Nisus  stems  the  battle's  tide. 
Revenge  his  loader,  and  despair  his  guide ; 
Volscens  he  seeks  amid  the  gathering  host, 
Volscens  must  soon  appease  his  comrade's  ghost; 
Steel,  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  crowds  on  fo«M 
Rage  nerves  his. arm,  fate  gleams  in  every  blow; 
In  vain  beneath  unnumber'd  wounds  he  bleeds. 
Nor  wounds,  nor  death,  distracted  Nisus  heeds; 
In  viewless  circles  wheel'd,  his  falchion  flies, 
Nor  quits  the  hero's  grasp  till  Volscens  dies; 
Deep  in  his  throat  its  end  the  weapon  found, 
The  tyrant's  soul  fled  groaning  through  the  wound 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  fond  affection  proved — 
Dying,  revenged  the  fate  of  him  he  loved; 
Then  on  his  bosom  sought  his  wonted   place. 
And  death  was  heavenly  in  his  friend's  embrace! 

Celestial  pair!  if  aught  my  verse  can  claim. 
Wafted  on  Time's  broad  pinion,  yours  is  fame! 
Ages  on  ages  shall  your  fate  admire, 
No  future  day  shall  see  your  names  expire, 
While  stands  the  Capitol,  immortal  dome! 
And  vanquish'd  millions  hail  their  empress,  Rome! 

ANSWER  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL   POEM,   WRITTEN 
BY  MONTGOMERY,  AUTHOR  OF  "THE  WAN 
DEUER  IN  SWITZERLAND,"  &c.  &c.  ENTITLE!.' 
"  THE  COMMON  LOT." 
1. 
MONTGOMERY  !  true,  the  common  lot 

Of  mortals  lies  in  Lethe's  wave; 
Yet  some  shall  never  be   forgot — 
Some  "fcall  exist  beyond  the  grave. 

2. 
"  Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth," 

The  hero*  rolls  the  tide  of  war ; 

Yet  not  unknown  his  martial  worth. 

Which  glares  a  meteor  from  afar. 

3. 
His  joy  or  grief,  his  weal  or  woe. 

Perchance  may  'scape  the  page  of  fame ; 
Yet  nations  now  unborn  will  know 
The  record  of  his  deathless  name. 

4. 
The  patriot's  and  the  poet's  frame 

Must  share  the  common  tomb  of  all: 
Their  glory  will  not  sleep  the  same; 
That  will  arise  though  empires  fall. 

5. 
The  lustre  of  a  beauty's  eye 

Assumes  the  ghastly  stare  of  death ; 
The  fair,  the  brave,  the  good  must  Jie, 
And  sink  the  yawning  grave  beneath. 

6. 
Once  more  the  speaking  eye  revives. 

Still  beaming  through  the  lover's  strain  j 
For  Petrarch's  Laura  still  survives: 
She  died,  but  ne'er  will  die  again 

7. 
The  rolling  seasons  pass  away. 

And  Time,  untiring,  waves  bin  wing; 
Whilst  honour's  laurels  ne'er  decay, 
But  bloom  in  fresh  unfading  spring. 


No  particu'ir  hero  is  here  alluded  to.    The  exploit!  of  AiTird,  i*» 
mouri,  Edward  (lie  Black  Prince,  anil  in  ir.ore 

ugh,  Frederick  the  Great,  Counl  Salt,  tn 
tar  to  every  historical  reader,  but  the  r-xic*    lace*  of  (heir  birth 
a  very  imall  proportion  of  thi  ir  adoiirr.ri 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


All,     i\  must  «  ?ep  in  grim  repose, 

Col'ected  it    'he  uilent  tomb; 
The  old  and  young,  with  friends  and  foes. 

Festering  alike  in  shrouds,  consume. 

9. 
The  mouldering  marble  lasts  its  day. 

Yet  falls  at  length  an  useless  fane ; 
To  ruin's  ruthluss  fangs  a  prey, 

The  wrecks  of  pillar'd  pride  remain. 

10. 
What  though  the  sculpture  be  destroy'd. 

From  dark  oblivion  meant  to  guard? 
A  bright  renown  shall  be  enjoy'd 

By  those  whose  virtues  claim  reward. 

11. 
Then  do  not  say  the  common  lot 

Of  all  lies  deep  in  Lethe's  wave ; 
Some  few  who  ne'er  will  be  forgot 

Shall  burst  the  bondage  of  the  grave. 


1806. 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  T.  BECKER. 
1. 

I'Z\K  Becher,  you  tell  me  to  mix  with  mankind : 

1  cannot  deny  such  a  precept  is  wise ; 
Out  retirement  accords  with  the  tone  of  my  mind : 
I  will  not  descend  to  a  world  I  despise. 

2. 
Eid  the  senate  or  camp  my  exertions  require, 

Ambition  might  prompt  me,  at  once,  to  go  forth; 
When  infancy's  years  of  probation  expire, 
Perchance  I  may  strive  to  distinguish  my  birth. 

3. 
The  fire  in  the  cavern  of  Etna  conceal'd 

Still  mantles  unseen  in  its  secret  recess: 
At  length  in  a  volume  terrific  reveal'd, 
No  torrent  can  quench  it,  no  bounds  can  repress. 

4. 
Oh!  thus,  the  desire  in  my  bosom  for  fame 

Bids  me  live  but  to  hope  for  posterity's  praise. 

Could  I  soar  with  the  phoenix  on  pinions  of  flame, 

With  him  I  would  wish  to  expire  in  the  blaze. 

5. 

For  the  life  of  a  Fox,  of  a  Chatham  the  death, 
What  censure,   what  danger,   what   woe   would  1 

brave ! 

Their  lives  did  not  end  when  they  yielded  their  breath 
Their  glory  illumines  the  gloom  of  their  grave. 

6. 
Yet  why  should  I  mingle  in  Fashion's  full  herd? 

Why  crouch  to  her  leaders,  or  cringe  to  her  rules? 
Why  bend  to  the  proud,  or  applaud  the  absurd? 
Why  search  for  delight  in  the  friendship  of  fools? 

7. 

have  tasted  the  sweets  and  the  bitters  of  love; 
In  friendship  I  early  was  taught  to  believe; 
rfy  passion  the  matrons  of  prudence  reprove; 
I  have  found  that  a  friend  may  profess,  yet  deceive 

8. 

Jo  me  what  is  wealth?  it  may  pass  in  an  hour, 
If  tyrants  prevail,  or  if  Fortune  should  frown. 
IY>  me  what  is  title?- -the  phantom  of  power; 
To  me  what  is  fashion? — I  seek  but  renown. 

9. 

C*ct;t  is 'a  stranger  as  yet  to  my  soul, 
'  itiL  am  unpractised  to  varnish  the  trr'h; 


Then  why  should  I  live  in  a  hateful  control? 
Why  waste  upon  folly  the  days  of  my  youth? 

TO   MISS  CHAWORTH. 

1. 

On!  had  my  fate  been  join'd  with  thine, 
As  once  this  pledge  appear'd  a  token. 
These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine, 
For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken. 

2. 
To  thee  these  early  faults  I  owe, 

To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving: 
They  know  my  sins,  but  do  riot  know 
'Twas  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving 

3. 

For  once  my  soul,  like  thine,  was  pure, 
And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smother; 
And  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 
Bestovv'd  by  thee  upon  another. 

4. 
Perhaps  his  peace  I  could  destroy, 

And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  him; 
Yet  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy, 
For  thy  dear  sake  I  cannot  hate  him 

5. 
Ah!  since  thy  angel  form  is  gone, 

My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any; 
But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone, 
Attempts,  alas!  to  find  in  many. 

6. 
Then  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid, 

'Twere  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee; 
Nor  Hope,  nor  Memory,  yield  their  aid, 
But  Pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 

7. 
Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years, 

This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasu'es; 
These  varied  loves,  these  matron's  fears, 
These  thoughtless  strains  to  Passion's  measure* 

8. 
If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hush'd : — 

This  cheek,  now  pale  from  early  riot, 
With  Passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  flush'd, 
But  bloom'd  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 

9. 
Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet, 

For  Nature  seem'd  to  smile  before  thee; 
And  once  my  breast  abhorr'd  deceit, 
For  then  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee. 

10. 
But  now  I  seek  for  other  joys ; 

To  think  would  drive  my  soul  to  madness; 
In  thoughtless  throngs  and  empty  noise 
I  conquer  half  my  bosom's  sadness. 

11. 
Yet,  even  in  these  a  thought  will  steal, 

In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavour; 
And  fiends  might  pity  what  I  feel, 
To  know  that  thou  ait  lost   for  ever 

REMEMBRANCE. 
'Tis  done! — I  saw  it  in  my  dreams: 
No  more  with  Hope  the  future  beams; 

My  days  of  happiness  are  few: 
Chill'd  by  misfortune's  wintry  blast, 
My  dawn  of  life  is  overcast, 
Love,  Hope,  and  Joy,  alike  adieu! — 
Would  1  could  add  Remembrance  lo>! 

Lift 


(735) 


THE  BLUES. 

A  LITERARY    ECLOGUE. 


"  Nimium  ne  crede  color!.'1—  Virgil. 
O  Ins!  not,  ve  beautiful  creatures,  to  hue, 
Though  your  '.air  were  as  red  as  your  ttockingt  t 


ECLOGUE  FIRST. 
London. — Before  the  Door  of  a  Lecture  Room. 

Enter  TRACY,  meeting  INKEL. 
Ink.  YOU'RE  too  late. 
Tra.  Is  it  over  ? 

Ink.  Nor  will  be  this  hour. 

But  the  benches  are  cramm'd  like  a  garden  in  flower, 
With  the  pride  of  our  belles,  who  have   made  it  the 

fashion ; 

So  instead  of  "beaux  arts,"  we  may  say  "la  belle  pas- 
sion;" 

For  learning    which  lately  has  taken  the  lead  in 
The  world    and  set  all  the  fine  gentlemen  reading. 
Tra.  I  know  it  too  well,  and   have   worn    out  my 

patience 

With  studying  to  study  your  new  publications. 
There  's  Vamp,  Scamp,  and  Mouthy,  and  Wordswords 

and  Co. 
With  their  damnable — 

Ink.  Hold,  my  good  friend,  do  you  know 

Whom  you  speak  to? 

Tra.  Right  well,  boy,  and  so  does  "  the  Row ;" 

You're  an  author — a  poet — 

Ink.  And  think  you  that  I 

Can  stand  tamely  in  silence,  to  hear  you  decry 
The  Muses? 

Tra.  Excuse  me ;  I  meant  no  offence 

To  the  Nine;  though  the  number  who  make  some  pre- 
tence 

To  their  favours  is  such— but  the  subject  to  drop, 
I  am  just  piping  hot  from  a  publisher's  shop, 
(Next  door  to  the  pastry-cook's;  so  that  when  I 
Cannot  find  the  new  volume  I  wanted  to  buy 
On  the  bibliopole's  shelves,  it  is  only  two  paces. 
As  one  finds  every  author  in  one  of  those  places,) 
Where  I  just  had  been  skimming  a  charming  critique, 
So  studded  with  wit,  and  so  sprinkled  with  Greek! 
Where  your  friend— you  know  who— had  just  got  such 

a  threshing. 

That  is,  as  the  phrase  goes,  extremely  "refreshing." 
What  a  beautiful  word! 

/nfe.  Very  true;  'tis  so  soft 

And  so  cooling— they  use  it  a  little  too  oft ; 
And  the  papers  have  got  it  at  last— but  no  matter. 
So  they've  cut  up  our  friend  then? 

yy^  Not  left  him  a  tatter— 

ot  a  rag  of  his  present  or  past  reputation. 
Which  they  call  a  disgrace  to  the  age 'and  the  nation 
Ink.  I'm   sorry   to   hear   this;    for    friendship,  you 

know — 

Our  no°r  friend!— but  I  thought  it  would  terminate  so 

Out  friendship  is  such,  I'll  read  nothing  to  shock  it. 

Vou  don't  happen  to  have  the  Review  in  your  pocket? 

7V«.  No;  I  left  a  i  mnd  dozen  of  authors  and  others 


Very  sorry,  no  doubt,  since  the  cause  is  a  brother'? 
All  scrambling  and  jostling,  like  so  many  hn)w 
And  on  fire  with  impatience  to  get  the  next  glimpse 
Ink.  Let  us  join  them. 

Tra.  What,  won't  you  return  to  the  lecture 

Ink.  Why,  the  place  is  so  cramm'd,  there 's  not  room 

for  a  spectre. 

Besides,  our  friend  Scamp  is  to-day  so  absurd — 
Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  till  you  hear  him? 
Ink.  I  hear 

Quite  enough;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  retreat 
Was  from  his  vile  nonsense,  no  less  than  the  heat. 
Tra.  I  have  had  no  great  loss  (lien  ? 
Ink.  Loss!— such  a  palaver 

I'd  inoculate  sooner  my  wife  with' the  slaver 
Of  a  dog  when  gone  rabid,  than  listen  two  hours 
To  the  torrent  of  trash  which  around  nim  he  pours, 
Pump'd  up  with  such  effort,  disgorged  with  such  labour 

That come — do   not   make   me   speak   ill   of  one's  • 

neighbour. 
Tra.  I  make  you! 
Ink.  Yes,  you  !  I  said  nothing  until 

You  compell'd  me,  by  speaking  the  truth 

Tra.  To  speak  iUJ 

Is  that  your  deduction  ? 

Ink.  When  speaking  of  Scamp,  ill, 

I  certainly  follow,  not  set  an  example. 
The  fellow's  a  fool,  an  impostor,  a  zany. 

Tra.  And   the  crowd  of  to-day  shows  that  one  rbol 

makes  many. 
But  we  two  will  be  wise. 
Ink.  Pray,  then,  let  us  retire. 

Tra.  I  would,  but 

Ink.  There  must  be  attraction  much  higher 

Than  Scamp,  or  the  Jews'-harp  he  nicknames  his  lyre. 
To  call  you  to  this  hotbed. 

Tra.  I  own  it— 'tis  true — 

A  fair  lady 

Ink.  A  spinster? 

Tra.  Miss  Lilact 

Ink.  The  Blue  1 

The  heiress? 

Tra.  The  angel! 

Ink.  The  devil !  why,  man ! 

Pray  get  out  of  this  hobble  as  fast  as  you  can. 
You  wed  with  Miss  Lilac!  't  would  be  your  perdition' 
She's  a  poet,  a  chymist,  a  mathematician. 
Tra.  I  say  she 's  an  angel. 

Ink.  Say  rather  an  angle. 

If  you  and  she  marry,  you'll  certainly  wrangle. 
I  say  she's  a  Blue,  man,  as  blue  as  tha  ethei. 

Tra.  And  is  that  any  cause  for  not  coming  together? 

Ink.  Humph!  I  can't  say  I  know  any  happy  alliance 

Which    has  lately  sprung  up    from    a  wedlock  witk 

science. 

She's  so  learned  in  all  things,  and  fond  of  conceiv- 
ing 
Herself  in  all  matters  connected  with  learning. 

That 

Tra.  What? 

Ink.  I  perhaps  may  as  well  hold  mjrtonfMi 

Rut  there's  five  hundred  people  can  tell   vou 
wrong. 


736 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


TVa.  You  forget  Lady  Lilac's  as  rich  as  a  Jew. 

Ink.  Is  it  miss  or  the  cash  of  mamma  you  pursue? 

TVa.  Why,  Jack,  I  '11  be  frank  with  you — something 

of  both. 
Hie  girl 's  a  fine  girl. 

Ink.  And  you  feel  nothing  loth 

To  her  good  lady-mother's  reversion;  and  yet 
Her  life  is  as  good  as  your  own,  I  will  bet. 

TVa.  Let  her  live,  and  as  long  as  she  likes ;  I  de- 
mand 

Nothing  more  than    the  heart  of  her  daughter  and 
hand. 

jjtft.  Why,  that  heart's  in  the  inkstand— that  hand 
on  the  pen. 

TVa.  Apropos — Will  you  write  me  a  song  now  and 
then? 

Ink.  To  what  purpose? 

TVa.               You  know,  my  dear  friend,  that  in  prose 
My  talent  is  decent,  as  far  as  it  goes; 
But  in  rhyme 

Ink.  You're  a  terrible  stick,  to  be  sure. 

TVa.  I  own  it ;  and  yet,  in  these  times,  there 's  no  lure 
For  the  heart  of  the  fair  like  a  stanza  or  two; 
And  so,  as  I  can't,  will  you  furnish  a  few? 

Ink.  In  your  name  ? 

TVa.  In  my  name.  I  will  copy  Ihem  out, 

To  slip  into  her  hand  at  the  very  next  rout. 

Ink.  Are  you  so  far  advanced  as  to  hazard  this? 

TVa.  Why, 

Do  you  think  me  subdued  by  a  Blue-stocking's  eye, 
Bo  far  as  to  tremble  to  tell  her  in  rhyme 
What  I've  told  her  in  prose,  at  the  least,  as  sublime? 

Ink.  As  sublime !  If  it  be  so,  no  need  of  my  Muse. 

TVa.  But  consider,   dear   Inkel,    she  's  one   of   the 
"  Blues." 

Ink.  As  sublime! — Mr.  Tracy — I've  nothing  to  say. 
Stick  to  prose — As  sublime ! ! — but    I    wish    you   good 
day. 

TVa.    Nay,    staj,    my    I'ear    fellow— consider — I  'm 
wrong: 

own  it;  but  prithee,  compose  me  the  song. 

Ink.  As  sublime! ! 

TVa.  I  but  used  the  expression  in  haste. 

Ink.  That  may  be,   Mr.  Tracy,   but    shows   damn'd 
bad  taste. 

TVs.  I  own  it — I  know  it  —  acknowledge  it  —  what 
r?an  I  say  to  you  more? 

Ink.  I  see  what  you'd  be  at: 

You  disparage  my  parts  with  insidious  abuse, 
Till  you  think  you  can  turn  them  best  to  your  own 
use. 

TVa.  And  is  that  not  a  sign  I  respect  them  ? 

Ink.  Why  that 

To  be  sure  makes  a  difference. 

TVa.  I  know  what  is  what; 

And  you,  who 're  a  man  of  the  gay  world,  no  less 
Than  a  poet  of  t'other,  may  easily  guess 
That  I  never  could  mean  by  a  word  to  offend 
A  genius  like  you,  and  moreover  my  friend. 

Ink.  No  doubt;  you  by  this  time  should  know  what 

is  due 
\o  a  man  of— but  come — let  us  shake  hands. 

TV  .  You  knew, 

And  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,  how  heartily  I, 
Whatever  you  publish,  am  ready  to  buy. 

Ink.  That's  my  bookseller's  business;  I  care  not  for 

gale; 

indeed  the  best  poems  at  first  rather  fail. 
There  were  Renegade's  epics,  and  Botherby's  plays, 
And  my  own  grand  romance 

TVa  Had  its  full  share  of  praise. 


I  myself  saw  it  pufTd  in  the  "Old  Girl's  Review." 

Ink.  What  Review? 

TVa.  'Tis  the  Englisn  "  Journal  de  TrevouxJ* 

A  clerical  work  of  our  Jesuits  at  home. 
Have  you  never  yet  seen  it  ? 

Ink..  That  pleasure's  to  c»me 

TVa.  Make  haste  then. 

Ink.  Why  so  7 

TVa.  I  have  beard  people  say 

That  it  threaten'd  to  give  up  the  ghost  t'other  day. 

Ink.  Well,  that  is  a  sign  of  some  spirit. 

TVa.  No  doubt 

Shall  you  be  at  the  Countess  of  Fiddlecome's  rout? 

Ink.  I've  a  card,  and  shall  go;  but   at   present,   ai 

soon 
As  friend  Scamp  shall  be  pleased  to  step  down   from 

the  moon, 

(Where  he  seems  to  be  soaring  in  search  of  his  wits,) 
And  an  interval  grants  from  his  lecturing  fits, 
I'm  engaged  to  the  Lady  Bluebottle's  collation, 
To  partake  of  a  luncheon  and  learn'd  conversation  : 
'Tis  a  sort  of  reunion  for  Scamp,  on  the  days 
Of  his  lecture,  to  treat  him  with  cold  tongue  and  praise. 
And  I  own,  for  my  own  part,  that  'tis  not  unpleasant. 
Will  you  go?  There's  Miss  Lilac  will  also  be  present. 

TVa.  That  "  metal 's  attractive." 

Ink.  No  doubt — to  the  pocket. 

TVa.  You  should  rather  encourage  my  passion  than 

shock  it. 
But  let  us  proceed;  for  I  think,  by  the  hum 

Ink.  Yery  true;   let  us  go,   then,   before   they  can 

come, 

Or  else  we'll  be  kept  here  an  hour  at  their  levy, 
On  the  rack  of  cross  questions,  by  all  the  blue  bevy. 
Hark!  Zounds,  they'll  be  on  us;  I  know  by  the  drone 
Of  old  Botherby's  spouting,  ex-cathedra  tone. 
Ay!  there  he  is  at  it.     Poor  Scamp!  better  join 
Your  friends,  or  he  '11  pay  you  back  in  your  own  coin. 

TV<z.  All  fair;  'tis  but  lecture  for  lecture. 

Ink.  That's  clear. 

But  for  God's  sake  let's  go,  or  the  bore  «vill  be  here. 
Come,  come;  nay,  I'm  off.  [Ezit  INKEL. 

TVa.  You  are  right,  and  I '1!  follow; 

'Tis  high  time  for  a  "  Sic  me  servavit  Apollo" 
And  yet  we  shall  have  the  whole  crew  on  our  kibes. 
Blues,  dandies,  and  dowagers,  and  second-hand  scribes. 
All  flocking  to  moisten  their  exquisite  throttles 
With  a  glass  of  Madeira  at  Lady  Bluebottle's. 

[Exit  TRACT. 

ECLOGUE  SECOND. 

Jin  Apartment  in  the  House  O/LADY  BLUEBOTTLE.— 
A  Table  prepared. 

SIR  RICHARD  BLUEBOTTLE,  solus. 
WAS  there  ever  a  man  who  was  married  so  sorry? 
Like  a  fool,  I  must  needs  do  the  thing  in  n  hurry. 
My  life  is  reversed,  and  my  quiet  dpstroy'd ; 
My  days,  which  once  pass'd  in  so  gentle  a  void. 
Must  now,  every  hour  of  the  twelve,  he  employ'd  i 
The  twelve,  do  I  say? — of  the  whole  twenty -foul, 
Is  there  one  which  I  dare  call  my  ow»  any  morel 
What  with  driving,  and  visiting,  dspc.ng  aiid  dining 
What  with  learning,  and  teaching,  and  scribbling,  am 

shining,  * 

In  science  and  art,  I'll  be  curst  if  I  know 
Myself  from  my  wife;  for  rlthough  we  «re  two. 
Yet  she  somehow  contrives  that   all   things    »'ia  I  ka 

done 
In  a  stv  e  that  proclaims  us  eternal!)  one- 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


737 


But  the  thing  of  all  things  which  distresses  me  more 
Than  the  bills  of  the  week  (though  they  trouble   me 

sore) 

'"•  the  numerous,  humorous,  backbiting  crew 
Of  scribblers,  wits,  lecturers,  white,  black,  and  blue, 
Who  are  brought  to  my  house  as  an  inn,  to  my  cost 
•  -For  the  bill  here,  it  seems,  is  defray'd  by  the  host — 
No  pleasure  !  no  leisure !  no  thought  for  my  pains, 
But  to  hear  a  vile  jargon  which  addles  my  brains  ; 
A  smaller  and  chatter,  glean'd  out  of  reviews, 
By  the  rag,  tag,  and  bobtail,  of  those  they  call  "  Blues  ;" 
A  rabble  who  know  not — but  soft,  here  they  come  ! 
Would  to  God  I  were  deaf!  as  I'm  not,  I'll  be  dumb. 

Enter    LADY   BLUEBOTTLE,    Miss  LILAC,    LADY  BLUE- 

MODHT,   MR.  BOTHERBY,   IjiKEL,    TRACY,    MlSS    MAZA- 
RINE, and  others,  with  SCAMP  the  Lecturer,  SfC.  SfC. 

Lady  Blueb.  Ah!  Sir  kichard,    good   morning;   I've 

brought  you  some  friends. 
Sir  Rich,    (boics,   and  afterwards    aside.)    If   friends, 

they're  the  first. 

Lady  Blueb.  But  the  luncheon  attends. 

I  pray  ye  be  seated,  "  sans  ceremonie." 
Mr.  Scamp,  you're   fatigued;  take  your  chair  there, 
next  me.  [They  all  sit. 

Sir  Rich,  (aside.)  If  he  does,  his  fatigue  is  to  come. 
Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Tracy- 

Lady  Bluemount — Miss    Lilac — be    pleased,    pray,    to 

place  ye ; 
And  you,  Mr.  Bolherby — 

Both.  Oh,  my  dear  Lady, 

I  obey. 

Led}  Blueb.  Mr.  Inkcl,  I  ought  to  upbraid  ye ; 
Vou  were  not  at  the  lecture. 

Ink.  Excuse  me,  1  was  ; 

But  the  heat  forced  me  out  in  the  best  part — alas! 
And  when — 

Lady  Blueb.  To  be  sure  it  was  broiling;  but  then 
You  have  lost  such  a  lecture! 
Bjtfi.  The  best  of  the  ten. 

Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  ?  there  are  two  more. 
Both.  Because 

t  defy  him  to  beat  this  day's  wondrous  applause. 
The  very  walls  shook. 

Ink.  Oh,  if  that  be  the  test, 

t  allow  our  friend  Scamp  has  this  day  done  his  best 
Miss  Li'iic,  permit  me  to  help  you  ;— a  wing? 
Mia  Lit.  No  more.  Sir,  I  thank  you.   Who  lectures 

next  spring? 
Both.  Dick  Dander. 

Ink.  That  is,  if  he  lives. 

Miss  Lil.  And  why  not  ? 

Ink.  No  reason  whatever,  save  that  he  'a  a  sot. 
iady  Bluemount!  a  glass  of  Madeira? 
*      Lady  Bluem.  With  pleasure 

Ink.  How  does  your  friend  Wordswords,  that  Winder 

mere  treasure  ? 

Ooes  he  stick  to  his  lakes,  likes  the  leeches  he  sings 
\nd  their  gatherers,   as  Homer   sung  warriois  and 

kings? 

Lady  Blueb.  He  has  just  got  a  place. 
Ink,  As  a  footman  ? 

Lady  Bluen.  For  shame 

Vor  profane  with  your  sneers  so  poetic  a  name. 
Ink.  Nay,  I  meant  him  no  evil,  but  p:tied  his  mas 

ter; 

For  the  poet  of  pedlars  'twere,  sure,  no  disaster 
To  wear  a  new  livery;  the  more,  as  'tis  not 
Tbc  first  time  he  has  turn'd  both  his  creed  and  his  coat 

98 


Lady Blucm.  For  shame!    I    repeat.    If   Sir  Georg* 

could  but  hear 

Lady  Blueb.  Never  mind  our  friend  lake);  we  aU 

know,  my  dear, 
Tis  his  way. 

Sir  Rich.        But  this  place 

Ink.  Is  perhaps  like  friend  Scamp's, 

A  lecturer's. 

Lady  Blueb.  Excuse  me — 'tis  one  in  "the  Stamps:' 
ie  is  made  a   collector. 
Tra.  Collector! 

Sir  Rich.  How? 

Miss  Lil.  What  ? 

Ink.  I  shall  think  of  him  oft  when  I  buy  a  new  bat: 

There  his  works  will  appear 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir,  they  reach  to  the  Ganges. 

Ink.  I  shan't  go  so  far — I  can  have  them  at  Granges.* 
Lady  Blueb.  Oh  fie  I 
JUiss  Lil.  And  for  shame ! 

Lady  Bluem.  You're  too  bad. 

Both.  Very  good 

Lady  Bluem.  How  good  ? 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  naught— 'I is'his  phrase, 

Lady  Bluem.  He  grows  rude. 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  nothing;  nay,  ask  him. 
Lady  Bluem.  Pray,  sir !  did  you  mean 

What  you  say  ? 

Ink.  Never  mind  if  he  did;  'twill  be  seen 

That  whatever  he  means  won't  alloy  what  he  says. 
Both.  Sir! 

Ink.        Pray  be  contenl  with  your  portion  of  praise- 
'T  was  in  your  defence. 

Both.  If  you  please,  with  submission. 

I  can  make  out  my  own. 

Ink.  It  would  be  your  perditioa 

While  you  live,  my  dear  Botherby,  never  defend 
Yourself  or  your  works;  but  leave  both  to  a  friend. 
Apropos— Is  your  play  then  accepted  at  last  ? 
Both.  At  last? 

Ink.  Why  I  thought— that's  to  say— there  had  past 
A  few  green-room  whispers,  which  hinted— you  know 
That  the  taste  of  the  actors  at  best  is  so  so. 
Both.  Sir,  the  green-room's  in  rapture,  and  so 's  the 

committee. 

Ink.  Ay — yours  are  the  plays  for  exciting  our  "pity 
And  fear,'1  as  the  Greek  says :  for  "  purging  the  mind," 
I  doubt  if  you'll  leave  us  an  equal  behind. 
Both.  I  have  written  the  prologue,  and  meant  to  havt 

pray'd 

For  a  spice  of  your  wit  in  an  epilogue's  aid. 
Ink.  Well,  time  enough  yet,  when  the  pUy's  to  b« 

play'd. 
Is  it  cast  yet? 

Bath.  The  actor*  are  fighting  for  parti, 

As  is  usual  in  that  most  litigious  of  arts. 
Lady  Blueb.  We'll  all  make  a  party,  and  go  the Jfr« 

night. 

Tra.  And  you  promised  the  epilogue.  Inkel. 
Ink.  Not  quite 

However,  to  save  my  friend  Botherby  trouble, 
I  'II  do  what  I  can,  though  my  pai.is  must  be  double 
Tra.  Why  so? 

Ink.  To  do  justice  to  what  goes  before. 

Both.  Sir,  I  'm  happy  to  say,  I  've  no  fears  on  that 

score. 
Your  parts,  Mr,  Inkel,  are — 

Ink.  Never  mind  n.in«, 

Stick  to  thoseof  your  play,  which  is  quite  yoj-r  own  Hue 


*  Grange  it  or  wal  a  famous  p utry-cook  and  fruiterer  in  Ficoddl* 


T35 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


L*Jf  Blucm.  You're  z  fugitive  writer,  I   think,  sir, 
of  rhymes  ? 

Ink.  V  "s,  ma'am;   and  a  fugitive  reader  sometimes. 
On  Wordswords,  for  instance,  I  seldom  alight, 
Or  en  Mouthy,  his  friend,  without  taking  to  flight. 

Lady  Blu'.m.  Sir,  your  taste  is  too  common  ;  but  time 

and  posterity 

Will  right  these  great  men,  and  this  age's  severity 
Become  its  reproach. 

Ink.  I've  no  sort  of  objection, 

80  I'm  not  of  the  party  to  take  the  infection. 

Lady  Blueb.  Perhaps  you  have  doubts  that  they  ever 
will  take  1 

Ink.  Not  at  all ;  on  the  contrary,  those  of  the  lake 
Have  taken  already,  and  still  will  continue 
To  take — what  they  can,  from  a  groat  to  a  guinea. 
Of  pension  or  place;— but  the  subject's  a  bore. 

Lady  Blucm.  Well,  sir,  the  time's  coming. 

Ink.  Scamp!  do  n't  you  feel  sore? 

What  say  you  to  this? 

Scamp.  They  have  merit,  I  own  ; 

Though  their  system's  absurdity  keeps  it  unknown. 

Ink.  Then  why  not  unearth  it  in  one  of  your  lectures? 

Scamp.  It  is  only  time   past  which  comes  under  my 
strictures. 

Lady  Blueb.  Come,  a  truce  with  all  tartness : — the  joy 

of  my  heart 

la  to  see  Nature's  triumph  o'er  all  that  is  art. 
Wild  Nature !— Grand  Shakspeare! 

Both.  And  down  Aristotle. 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir  George    thinks   exactly  with   Lady 

Bluebottle ; 
And  my   Lord   Seventy -four,   who  protects  our  dear 

Bard, 

And  who  gave  him  his  place,  has  the  greatest  regard 
For  the  poet,  who,  singing  of  pedlars  and  asses, 
Has  found  out  the  way  to  dispense  with  Parnassus. 

Tra.  And  you,  Scamp! — 

Scamp.  1  needs  must  confess  I  'm  embarrass'd. 

Ink.    Do  n't    call    upon    Scamp,    who 's   already    so 

harass'd 

SVith  old  schools,  and  new  schools,  and  no  schools,  and 
all  schools. 

Tra.  Well,  one  thing  is  certain,  that  some  must  be 

fools. 
I  should  like  to  know  who. 

Ink.  And  I  should  not  be  sorry 

To  know  who  are  not: — it  would  save  us  some  worry. 

Lady  Blueb.  A  truce  with  remark,  and   let  nothing 

control 

This  "  feast  of  our  reason,  and  flow  of  the  soul." 
Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Botherby!  sympathize!—! 
Now  feel  such  a  rapture,  I'm  reaily  to  fly, 
I  feel  so  elastic — "so  buoyant! — so  buoyant!"* 

Ink.  Tracy!  open  the  window. 

Tra  I  wish  her  much  joy  on 't. 

Both.  For  God's  sake,  my  Lady  Bluebottle,  check  not 
This  gentle  emotion,  so  seldom  our  lot 
Upor/  earth.    Give  it  way  ;  't  is  an  impulse  which  lifts 
Our  spirits  from  earth;  the  sublimest  of  gifts; 
Fear  which  poor  Prometheus  was  chain'd  to  his  moun- 
tain. 

T '»  the  source  of  all  sentiment— feeling's  true  foun- 
tain: 

T  in  the  Vision  of  Heaven  upon  Earth :  't  is  the  pas 
Of  the  soul :  't  is  the  seizing  of  shades  as  they  pass, 
Ana  making  them  substance:  'tis  something  divine :— 

Ink.  ShaH  I  help  you,  my  friend,  to  a  little  more  wine  ? 


•  r«t  from  1'fe.  with  the  wordi. 


Both.  I  thank  you  ;  not  any  more,  sir,  till  I  dine. 
Ink.    Apropos — Do  you  dine  with  Sir  Humphrey  to 

day  ? 
Tra.  I  should  think  with  Duke  Humphrey  was  moi« 

in  your  way. 

Ink.  It  might  be  of  yore  ;  but  we  authors  now  look 
To  the  knight,  as  a    landlord,    much   more   than    UM 

Duke. 

The  truth  is,  each  writer  now  quite  at  his  ease  is, 
And  (except  with  his  publisher)  dines  where  he  pleases. 
But  'tis  now  nearly  five,  and  I  must  to  the  Park. 
Tra.  And  I'll  take  a  turn  with  you    there   till  't  ii 

dark. 
And  you,  Scamp— 

Scamp.  Excuse  me ;  I  must  to  my  notes. 

For  my  lecture  next  week. 

Ink.  He  must  mind  whom  he  quotes 

Out  of  "  Elegant  Extracts." 

Lady  Blueb.  Well,  now  we  break  up; 

But  remember  Miss  Diddle  invites  us  to  sup. 
Ink.  Then  at  two  hours  past  midnight  we'll  all  meet 

again, 

For  the  sciences,  sandwiches,  hock,  and  champagne! 
Tra.  And  the  sweet  lobster  salad  I 
Both.  I  honour  that  mea 

For  'tis  then  that  our  feelings  most  genuinely— feel. 
Ink.  True ;  feeling  is  truest  then,   far   beyond  ques- 
tion : 

I  wish  to  the  gods  't  was  the  same  with  digestion  1 
Lady  Blueb.  Pshaw !— never  mind  that ;  for  one  mo- 
ment of  feeling 
Is  worth — God  knows  what. 
Ink.  'T  is  at  least  worth  concealing 

For  itself,  or  what  follows But  here  comes   ^-our 

carriage. 

Sir  Rich,  (aside.)  I  wish  all  these  people  were  d — t 
with  my  marriage!  r Exeunt 


THE 

THIRD  ACT  OF  MANFRED, 

IN   ITS   ORIGINAL  SHAPE, 

AS  FIRST  SENT  TO  THE  PUBLISHER. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — 9  Hall  in  the  Castle  cfManfrtd. 
MANFRED  and  HERMAN. 

Man.  What  is  the  hour? 

Her.  It  wants  but  one  till  sunset 

And  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 

Man.  Say, 

Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  toner 
As  I  directed  ? 

Her.  All,  my  lord,  are  ready : 

Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 

.Van.  It  is  well ; 

Thou  mayst  retire.  [Exit  HER  MA* 

Man.  (alone.)  There  is  a  calm  upon  me— 

Inexplicable  stillness!  which  till  now 
Did  not  belong  to  what  T  knuw  ol  life. 
If  that  1  did  not  know  philjsophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motliest, 
The  merest  word  that  ever  fool'd  the  eat 
From  out  the  schoolman's  jargon    I  shoii.Vl 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  "  Kalon"  found 
And  seated  in  my  soul.    It  will  not  las'. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


739 


Bjt  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but  once: 
It  hath  enlarged  my  thoughts  with  a  new  sense, 
And  1  within  my  tablets  would  note  down 
Diat  there  is  such  a  feeling.     Who  is  there? 

Re-enter  HERMAN. 

Her.  My  lord,  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice  craves 
To  greet  your  presence. 

Enter  the  ABBOT  or  ST.  MAURICE. 
Abbot.  Peace  bo  with  Count  Manfred! 

Man.  Thanks,  holy  father !  welcome  to  these  walls ; 
Thy  presence  honours  them,  and  blesses  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

Abbot.  Would  it  were  so,  Count; 

But  I  would  fain  confei  with  thee  alone. 
Man.    Herman    retire.    What    would   my   reverend 
guest?  [Exit  HERMAN. 

Abbot.  Thus,  without   prelude;— Age    and   zeal,  my 

office. 

And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privilege; 
Our  near,  though  not  acquainted,  neighbourhood 
May  also  be  my  herald.    Rumours  strange, 
And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad, 
And  busy  with  thy  name — a  noble  name 
For  centuries ;  may  he  who  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  unimpair'd! 
Man.  Proceed,— I  listen. 

Abbot.  'Tis    said    thou    holdest   converse   with   the 

things 

Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of  man ; 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dark  abodes, 
TliR  many  evil  and  unheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of  death, 
Thou  communest.    I  know  that  with  mankind, 
Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 
ExcMnge  thy  thoughts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy. 
Man.  And  what    are    they    who    do    avouch    these 

things? 

Abbot.  My  pious  brethren — the  scared  peasantry — 
Even  thy  own  vassals— who  do  look  on  thee 
With  most  unquiet  eyes.    Thy  life's  in  peril. 
Man.  Take  it. 

Abbot.  I  come  to  save,  and  not  destroy — 

I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul; 
But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  and  pity :  reconcile  thee 
With  the  true    church,    and    through    the   church    to 

heaven. 

Man.  I  hear  thee.    This  is  my  reply:  whate'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 
Heaven  and  myself. — I  shall  not  choose  a  mortal 
To  be  my  mediator.     Have  I  sinn'd 
Against  your  ordinances?  prove  and  punish!* 
Abbot.  Then,  hear  and  tremble !  For  the  headstrong 

wretch 

Who  in  the  mail  of  innate  hardihood 
Would  shield  himself,  and  battle  for  his  sins, 
There  is  the  slake  on  earth,  and  beyond  earth  eter 

nal 

Man.  Charity,  most  reverend  father, 
Becomes  thy  lips  so  much  more  than  this  menace, 
That  1  would  call  thee  back  to  it ;  but  say, 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me? 

Abbot.  It  may  be  there  are 

rhine^  that  would  shake  thee — but  I  keep  them  back, 
Ano  give  thee  till  to-morrow  to  repent. 
Hien  if  thou  dost  not  all  devote  thyself 


•  It  w:l!  be  perceived  tint,  it  fa.-  u  Ihit,  the  original  milter  of  the 
Tbml  Act  bu  been  retained. 


To  penance,  and  with  gift  of  all  thy  lands 
To  the  monastery 

Man.  I  understand  thee, — well. 

Abbot.  Expect  no  mercy ;  I  have  warned  thee. 

Man.  (opening  the  casket.)  Stop- 

There  is  a  gift  for  thee  within  this  casket. 

[MANFRED  opens   the    casket,  strikes  a  ligif 
and  burns  some  incense. 

Ho !  Ashtaroth ! 

The  DEMON  ASHTAROTH  appears,  singing  as  follow* 
The  raven  sits 

On  the  raven  stone. 
And  his  black  wing  flits 

O'er  the  milk-white  bone; 
To  and  fro,  as  the  night  winds  blow, 

The  carcass  of  the  assassin  swings, 
And  there  alone,  on  the  raven-stone.t 

The  raven  flap?  his  dusky  wings. 
The  fetters  creak — and  his  ebon  beak 

Croaks  to  the  close  of  the  hollow  sound ; 
And  this  is  the  tune  by  the  light  of  the  moon 

To  which  the  witches  dance  their  round, 
Merrily,  meirily,  cheerily,  cheerily, 

Merrily,  merrily,  speeds  the  ball : 
The  dead  in  their  shrouds,  and  the  demons  in  cloudi, 

Flock  to  the  witches'  carnival. 

Abbot.  I  fear  thee  not — hence — hence — 
A  vaunt  thee,  evil  one! — help,  ho!  without  there  1 

Man.  Convey  this  man    to   the   Shreckhorn — to    itp 

peak- 
To  its  extremes!  peak — watch  with  him  there 
From  now  till  sunrise;  let  him  gaze,  and  know 
He  ne'er  again  will  be  so  near  to  heaven. 
But  harm  him  not;  and,  when  the  moirow  breaks, 
Set  him  down  safe  in  his  cell — away  with  him! 

Ash.  Had  I  not  better  bring  his  brethren  too, 
Convent  and  all,  to  bear  him  company? 

Man.  No,  this  will  serve  for  the  present.   Take  him 
up. 

Ash.  Come,  friar!  now  an  exorcism  or  two, 
And  we  shall  fly  therlighter. 

ASUTAROTH  disappears  tcith  the  ABBOT,  ringing  M 

follow* : 
A  prodigal  son  and  a  maid  undone. 

And  a  widow  re-wedded  within  the  year; 
And  a  worldly  monk  and  a  pregnant  nan, 
Are  things  which  every  day  appear. 
MANFRED  afone. 

Man.  Why  would  this  fool  break  in    on   me,   an* 

force 

My  art  to  pranks  fantastical?— no  matter. 
It  was  not  of  my  seeking.    My  heart  sickens 
And  weighs  a  fix'd  foreboding  on  my  soul; 
But  it  is  calm — calm  as  a  sullen  sea 
After  the  hurricane:  the  winds  are  still, 
But  the  cold  waves  swell  high  and  heavily, 
And  there  is  danger  in  them.    Such  a  rest 
Is  no  repose.    My  life  hath  been  a  combat. 
And  every  thought  a  wound,  till  I  am  Ecarrd 
In  the  immortal  part  of  me.— What  now? 
Re-enter  HERMAN. 

Her.  My  lord,  you  bade  me  wait  on  you  at  luniM 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountain. 

Man.  Doth  he  so? 

I  will  look  on  him. 


the  gibbet,  which'in  Germany  and  Switzerland  U  ;ennanent  usd  ••!• 


74C 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


[MANFRED  advances  to  the  window  of  the  hall. 

Glorious  orb!*  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant  sons 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they,  which  did  draw  down 
The  erring  spirits  who  can  ne  er  return. — 
Most  glorious  orb!  that  wert  a  worship,  ere 
The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  reveal'd. 
Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 
Which  gladden'd,  on  their  mountain  tops,  thn  hearts 
Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  th(.-y  pour'd 
Themselves  in  orisons!  thou  material  God! 
And  representative  of  the  Unknown— 
Who  chose  thee  for  his  shadow!  thou  chief  stai  I 
Centre  of  many  stars!  which  mak'st  our  earth 
Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 
And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  rays ! 
Bire  of  the  seasons!  Monarch  of  the  climes, 
And  those  who  dwell  in  them!  for,  near  or  far, 
Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee, 
Even  as  our  outward  aspects ;— thou  dost  rise, 
And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.   Fare  thee  well! 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.     As  my  first  glance 
Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 
My  latest  look :  thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 
To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  have  been 
Or"  a  more  fatal  nature.    He  is  gone: 
I  follow.  [Exit  MANFRED. 

BCENP  K.. —  The  Mountains — The  Castle  o/  Manfred  at 
tome  distance — A  Terrace  before  a  Tower. — Time,  Twi- 
light. 

HERMAN,  MANUEL,  and  other  Dependants  of  MANFRED. 
Her.  'Tis  strange   enough;    night    after    night,    for 

years, 

He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower, 
Without  a  witness.    I  have  been  within  it, — 
Bo  have  we  all  been  oft-times;  but  from  it, 
Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.    To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  cnamber  where  none  enter;  I  would  give 
The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three  years, 
To  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel.  'T  were  dangerous  : 

Content  thyself  with  what  thou  know'st  already. 

Her.  Ah !  Manuel !  thou  art  elderly  and  wise, 
And  couldst  say  much;  thou   hast   dwelt  within  the 

castle — 
How  many  years  is't? 

Manuel.  Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth, 

I  served  his  lather,  whom  he  naught  resembles. 
Her.  There  he  more  sons  in  like  predicament. 
But  wherein  do  they  differ  ? 

Manuel.  I  speak  not 

Of  features  or  of  form,  but  mind  and  habits: 
Count  Sigisrr.und  was  proud,— but  gay  and  free — 
A  warrior  and  a  reveler ;  he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time. 
Merrier  than  day;  he  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
And  forests  like  a  wo  f,  nor  turn  aside 
Prom  men  and  their  delights. 

Her.  Beshrew  the  hour, 

flut  those  were  jocund  times!  I  would  tha.  such 
Would  visit  the  old  walls  again;  they  look 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 


•  This  Kililoquy,  »nd  »  ere»t  put  of  the  subsequent  Kene  ba«  beta  re- 
nt Md  ilk  lie  Drocot  form  of  the  drama. 


Manuel.  Thesn   walla 

Must  change  their  chieftain  first.    Oh!  I  have  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  these  few  years. t 

Her.  Come,  be  friendly 

Relate  me  some,  to  while  away  our  watch: 
I've  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  happen'd  hereabouts,  by  this  same  tcarer. 

Manuel.  That  was  a  night  indeed!  I  do  remember 
"Twas  twilight,  as  it  may  be  now,  and  such 
Another  evening; — yon  red  cloud,  which  rests 
On  Eigher's  pinnacle,  so  rested  then, — 
So  like  it  that  it  might  be  the  same;  the  wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  the  mountain  snows 
Began  to  glitter  with  the  climbing  moon  ; 
Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  within  his  tower,— 
How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  but  with  him 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings— her,  whom  of  all  earthly  thirgf 
That  lived,  the  only  thing  he  seem'd  to  love. 
As  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do, 
The  Lady  Astarte,  his 

Her.  Look — look — the  tower— 

The  tower's  on  fire.    Oh,  heavens  and   earth!  whal 

sound, 
What  dreadful  sound  is  that?      [A  crash  like  thunder 

Manuel.  Help,  help,    there!— to    the    rescue    of  tha 

Count — 

The  Count's  in  danger, — what  ho!  there!  approach! 
[The  Servants,  Vassals,  and  Peasantry  approach 

stupificd  with  terror. 

If  there  be  any  of  you  who  have  heart 
And  love  of  human  kind,  and  will  to  aid 
Those  in  distress — pause  not — but  follow  me — 
The  portal 's  open,  follow.  [MANUEL  goes  in 

Her.  Come — who  follows  ? 

What,  none  of  ye?— ye  recreants!  shiver  then 
Without.    I  will  not  see  old  Manuel  risk 
His  few  remaining  years  unaided.        [HERMAN  goes  in 

Vassal.  Hark  !— 

No— all  is  silent— not  a  breath— the  flame 
Which  shot  forth  such  a  blaze  is  also  gone : 
What  may  this  mean?  let's  enter! 

Peasant.  Faith,  not  I,— 

Not  that,  if  one,  or  two,  or  more,  will  join, 
I  then  will  stay  behind;  but,  for  my  part, 
I  do  not  see  precisely  to  what  end. 

Vassal.  Cease  your  vain  prating — come. 

Manuel,  (speaking  within.)  'Tis  all  in  vain- 

He  's  dead. 

Her.  (within.)  Not  so — even  now  mcthought  he  moved 
But  it  is  dark— so  bear  him  gently  out— 
Softly — how  cold  he  is !  take  care  of  his  tempies 
In  winding  down  the  staircase. 
Re-enter  MANUEL  and  HERMAN,  bearing  MANFRED  in 
their  arms. 

Manuel.  Hie  to  the  castle,  some  of  ye,  and  bring 
What  aid  you  can.    Saddle  the  barb,  and  speed 
For  the  leech  to  the  city— quick !  some  water  there  I 

Her.  His  cheek  is  black— but  there  is  a  faint  beat 
Still  lingering  about  the  heart.    Some  water. 

f  They  sprinkle  MANFRED  with  water ;  after  a  pauit 
he  gives  some  signs  of  life. 

Manuel.  He  seems  to  strive  to  speak— come— eheerly 

Count! 

He  moves  his  lips— canst  hear  him?  I  am  old 
And  cannot  catch  faint  sounds. 

[HERMAN  inclining  his  head  and  listening, 

Her  I  hear  a  woru 


t  Altered,  in  the  present  form,  to  "  Some  rtranjtt  thingi  in  thf»   Herman' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


"41 


Or  two — but  indistinctly— what  is  next? 
What's  to  be  done?  let's  bear  him  to  the  castle. 

[MANFRED  motions  with  his  hand  not  to  remove  him. 
Manuel.  He  disapproves — and  't  were  of  no  avail — 
Ue  changes  rapidly. 

Her.  'Twill  soon  be  over. 

Manuel  Oh!  what  a  death  is  this!  that  I  should  live 
To  shake  my  gray  hairs  over  the  last  chief 
Of  the  house  of  Sigisraund— And  such  a  death  1 
Alone — we  know  not  how — unshrived — untended — 
With  strange  accompaniments  and  fearful  signs — 
[  shudder  at  the  sight— but  must  not  leave  him. 
Manfred,  (speaking  faintly  and  slowly.)    Old  man  1 
'Tis  not  FO  difficult  to  die. 

[MANFRED,  having  said  this,  expires. 
Her.  His  eyes  are  fix'd  and  lifeless.— He  is  gone. 
Manuel.  Close  them. — My  old  hand  quivers. — He  de- 
parts— 
Whither?  I  dread  to  think — But  he  is  gone! 


TO  MY  DEAR  MAR?  ANNE. 

mt  FOLLOWING  LINES  ARK  THE  EARLIEST  WRITTEN  BY 
LORD  BYRON.  THEY  WERE  ADDRESSED  TO  MISS  CBA 
WORTH,  AFTERWARDS  MRS.  MUSTERS,  IN  1804,  ABOUT 
A  TEAR  BEFORE  HER  MARRIAGE.] 

ADI  EC  to  sweet  Mary  for  ever! 

From  her  I  must  quickly  depart : 
Though  the  fates  us  from  each  other  sever, 

Still  her  image  will  dwell  in  my  heart. 

The  flame  that  within  my  heart  burns 
If  unlike  what  in  lovers'  hearts  glows; 

The  love  which  for  Mary  I  feel 
Is  far  purer  than  Cupid  bestows. 

I  wish  not  your  peace  to  disturb, 

I  wish  not  your  joys  to  molest; 
Mistake  not  my  passion  for  love, 

'T  is  your  friendship  alone  I  request. 

Not  ten  thousand  lovers  could  feel 

The  friendship  my  bosom  contains; 
It  will  ever  within  my  heart  dwell, 
"  While  the  warm  blood  flows  through  my  veins. 

May  the  Ruler  of  Heaven  look  down, 
And  my  Mary  from  evil  defend ! 

May  she  ne'er  know  adversity's  frown, 
May  her  happiness  ne'er  have  an  end  I 

Once  more,  my  sweet  Mary,  adieu  1 
Farewell!  I  with  anguish  repeat, 

For  ever  I'll  think  upon  you, 
While  this  heart  in  my  bosom  shall  beat. 


TO  MISS  CHAWORTH. 
OH  Memory,  torture  me  no  more, 

The  present's  all  o'ercast; 
My  hopes  of  future  bliss  are  o'er, 

In  mercy  veil  the  past. 
Why  bring  those  images  to  view 

I  henceforth  must  resign? 
Ah!  why  those  happy  hours  renew, 

That  never  can  be  mine? 
Past  pleasure  doubles  present  pain, 

To  sorrow  adds  regret. 
Regret  and  hope  are  both  in  vain. 

I  ask  but  to— forget. 

3Q 


FRAGMENT. 

1. 
HILLS  of  Annesley,  bleak  and  barren, 

Where  my  thoughtless  childhood  strry'd, 
How  the  northern  tempests  warring, 
Kowl  above  thy  tufted  shade  1 

2. 
Now  no  more,  the  hours  beguiling. 

Former  favourite  haunts  I  see; 
Now  no  more  my  Mary  smiling 
Makes  ye  seem  a  heaven  to  me. 


180* 


THE  PRAYER  OF  NATURE. 

FATHER  of  Light!  great  God  of  Heaven. 

Hear'st  thou  the  accents  of  despair? 
Can  guilt  like  man's  be  e'er  forgiven  ? 

Can  vice  atone  for  crimes  by  prayer? 
Father  of  Light,  on  thee  I  call ! 

Thou  see'st  my  soul  is  dark  within ; 
Thou  who  can's!  mark  the  sparrow'i  fall. 

Avert  from  me  the  death  of  sin. 
No  shrine  I  seek  to  sects  unknown; 

Oh  point  to  me  the  path  of  truth  I 
Thy  dread  omnipotence  I  own ; 

Spare,  yet  amend,  the  faults  of  youth. 
Let  bigots  rear  a  gloomy  fane, 

Let  superstition  hail  the  pile, 
Let  priests,  to  spread  their  sable  reign, 

With  tales  of  mystic  rites  beguile. 
Shall  man  confine  his  Maker's  sway 

To  Gothic  domes  of  mouldering  stone? 
Thy  temple  is  the  face  of  day  ; 

Earth,  ocean,  heaven  thy  bourn/less  thron* 
Shall  man  condemn  his  race  to  hell 

Unless  they  bend  in  pompous  form 
Tell  us  that  all,  for  one  who  fell, 

Must  perish  in  the  mingling  storm? 
Shall  each  pretend  to  reach  the  skies, 

Yet  doom  his  brother  to  expire, 
Whose  soul  a  different  hope  supplies, 

Or  doctrines  less  severe  inspire? 
Shall  these,  by  creeds  they  can't  expound, 

Prepare  a  fancied  bliss  or  woe? 
Shall  reptiles,  grovelling  on  the  ground, 

Their  great  Creator's  purpose  know? 
Shall  those,  who  live  for  self  alone, 

Whose  years  float  on  in  daily  crime— 
Shall  they  by  Faith  for  guilt  atone. 

And  live  beyond  the  bounds  of  Time? 
Father !  no  prophet's  laws  I  seek,— 

Thy  laws  in  Nature's  works  appear; — 
I  own  myself  corrupt  and  weak, 

Yet  will  I  pray,  for  thou  wilt  hear! 
Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star 

Through  trackless  realms  of  ether's  space  i 
Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war, 

Whose  hand  from  pole  to  pole  I  trace: 
Thou,  who  in  wisdom  placed  me  here, 

Who,  when  thou  wilt,  can  take  me  b«flM 
Ah!  whilst  I  tread  this  earthly  sphere. 

Extend  to  me  thy  wide  defence. 
To  Thee,  my  God,  to  Thee  I  cal! 

Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide, 
By  thy  command  I  rise  or  fall. 

In  thy  protection  1  confide. 
If,  when  this  dust  to  dust  restored 

My  *oul  shall  float  on  airv  ••inf. 


'42 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Haw  shall  thy  glorious  name  adored 

Inspire  her  feeble  voice  to  singl 
But,  if  this  fleeting  spirit  share 

With  clay  the  grave's  eternal  bed, 
While  life  yet  throbs  I  raise  my  prayer, 

Though  doom'd  no  more  to  quit  the  dead. 
To  Thee  I  breathe  my  humble  strain, 

Grateful  for  all  thy  mercies   past, 
And  hope,  my  God,  to  thee  again 

This  erring  life  may  fly  at  last. 

29iA  Dec.  1806. 


ON  REVISITING  HARROW. 

[Seme  yean  ago,  when  at  Harrow,  a  friend  of  (he  author  engraved  on  a 
Mrticular  spot  the  namei  of  both,  with  a  few  additional  worth,  is  a  me 
Borul  Afterward!,  on  receiving  some  real  or  imagined  injury,  the  au 
hor  destroyed  the  frail  record  before  he  left  Harrow.  On  revisiting  the 
•lace  in  1807,  he  wrote  under  it  the  following  stanzas.) 

I. 

HERE  once  engaged  the  stranger's  view 

Young  Friendship's  record,  simply  traced  ; 
Few  were  her  words,— but  yet,  though  few, 
Resentment's  hand  the  line  defaced. 

2. 
Deeply  she  cut— but,  not  erased, 

The  characters  were  still  so  plain, 
That  Friendship  once  return'd  and  gazed,— 
Till  Memory  hail'd  the  words  again. 

3. 
Repentance  placed  them  as  before; 

Forgiveness  join'd  her  gentle  name; 
So  fair  the  inscription  seem'd  once  more, 
That  Friendship  thought  it  still  the  same 

4. 

Tins  might  the  Record  now  have  been ; 
Hut,  ah,  in  spite  of  Hone's  endeavour, 
Or  Friendship's  tears,  Pride  rush'd  between, 
And  blotted  out  the  line  for  ever ! 


•AMITIE  EST  L'AMOUR  SANS  AILES. 

I. 
WHT  should  my  anxious  breast  repine, 

Because  my  youth  is  fled  ? 
Days  of  delight  may  still  be  mine ; 

Affection  is  not  dead. 
In  tracing  back  the  years  of  youth, 
One  firm  record,  one  lasting  truth 

Celestial  consolation  brings: 
Bear  it,  ye  breezes,  to  the  seat, 
Where  first  my  heart  responsive  beat, — 

"Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings!" 

2. 
Through  few,  but  deeply  chequer'd  years, 

What  moments  have  been  mine ! 
Now,  half  obscured  by  clouds  of  tears, 

Now,  brigh*  in  rays  divine ; 
Howe'er  my  future  doom  be  cast, 
My  soul,  enraptured  with  the  past, 

To  one  idea  findly  clings; 
Friendship!  tla    thought  is  all  thine  own. 
Worth  worlds  of  bliss,  that  thought  alone, 

•Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings'' 

3. 
iVhere  yonacr  yew-trees  lightly  wave 

Their  branches  on  the  gale, 
Cnhet-ded  heaves  a  single  prave, 

Which  teii*  the  common  tale ; 


Round  this  unconcious  schoolboys  stray 
Till  the  dull  knell  of  childish  play 

From  yonder  studious  mansion  rings; 
But  here  whene'er  my  footsteps  move, 
My  silent  tears  too  plainly  prove 

"Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wingg!" 

4. 
Oh  Love!  before  thy  glowing  shrine 

My  early  vows  were  paid; 
My  hopes,  my  dreams,  my  heart  was  thin* 

But  these  are  now  decay'd ; 
For  thine  are  pinions  like  the  wind, 
No  trace  of  thee  remains  behind. 

Except,  alas!  thy  jealous  stings. 
Away,  away !  delusive  power, 
Thou  shall  not  haunt  my  coming  hour; 

"Unless,  indeed,  without  thy  wings  1" 

5. 
Seat  of  my  youth!  thy  distant  spire 

Recalls  each  scene  of  joy; 
My  bosom  glows  with  former  fire, — 

In  mind  again  a  boy. 
Thy  grove  of  elms,  thy  verdant  bill, 
Thy  every  path  delights  me  still, 

Each  flower  a  double  fragrance  flings; 
Again,  as  once,  in  converse  gay, 
Each  dear  associate  seems  to  say 

"  Friendship  is  love  without  his  wing*  1" 

6. 
My  Lycus !  wherefore  dost  thou  weep  1 

Thy  falling  tears  restrain; 
Affection  for  a  time  may  sleep, 

But,  oh,  't  will  wake  again. 
Think,  think,  my  friend,  when  next  we  meet 
Our  long-wish'd  interview,  how  sweet! 

From  this  my  hope  of  rapture  springs; 
While  youthful  hearts  thus  fondly  swell, 
Absence,  my  friend,  can  only  tell, 

"Friendship  is  Love  without  his  winggl" 

7. 
In  one,  and  one  alone  deceived, 

Did  I  my  error  mourn  ? 
No — from  oppressive  bonds  relieved, 

I  left  the  wretch  to  scorn. 
I  turn'd  to  those  my  childhood  knew. 
With  feelings  warm,  with  bosoms  true, 

Twined  with  my  heart's  according  string*) 
And  till  those  vital  chords  shall  break, 
For  none  but  these  my  breast  shall  wake, 

"Friendship,  the  power  deprived  of  wings  f 

8. 
Ye  few!  my  soul,  my  life  is  yours, 

My  memory,  and  my  hope ; 
Your  worth  a  lasting  love  insures, 

Unfetter'd  in  its  scope; 
From  smooth  deceit  and  terror  sprung, 
With  aspect  fair  and  honey'd  tongue, 

Let  Adulation  wait  on  kings. 
With  joy  elate,  by  snares  beset, 
We,  we,  my  friends,  can  ne'er  forget 

"Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wing* ," 

9. 
Fictions  and  dreams  inspire  the  bard 

Who  rolls  the  epic  song; 
Friendship  and  Truth  be  my  reward, 

To  me  no  bays  belong; 
If  laurell'd  Fame  but  dwells  with  li<M 
Me  the  enchantrp*    ever  flie», 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


743 


Whose  heart  and  not  whose  fancy  sings: 
Simple  and  young,  I  dare  not  feign, 
Mine  be  the  rude  yet  heartfelt  strain, 

"Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings!" 

December,  1806. 


TO  MY  SON. 
L 

THOSE  flaxen  locks,  those  eyes  of  blue. 
Bright  as  thy  mother's  in  their  hue; 
ThoKu  rosy  lips,  whose  dimples  play 
And  smile  to  steal  the  heart  away, 
Recall  a  scene  of  former  joy, 
And  touch  thy  Father's  heart,  my  Boyl 

2. 

And  thou  canst  lisp  a  father's  name— 
Ah,  William  were  thine  own  the  same, 
No  self-reproach— but,  let  me  cease — 
My  care  for  thee  shall  purchase  peace; 
Thy  mother's  shade  shall  smile  in  joy, 
And  pardon  all  the  past,  my  Boy. 

3. 

Her  lowly  grave  the  turf  has  prest. 
And  thou  hast  known  a  stranger's  breast. 
Derision  sneers  upon  thy  birth. 
And  yields  thee  scarce  a  name  on  earth; 
Yet  shall  not  these  one  hope  destroy, — 
A  Father's  heart  is  thine  my  Boy ! 

4. 

Why,  let  the  world  unfeeling  frown. 
Must  I  fond  Nature's  claim  disown? 
Ah,  no — though  moralists  reprove,  . 
I  hail  thee,  dearest  child  of  love, 
Fair  cherub,  pledge  of  youth  and  joy — 
A  Father  guards  thy  birth,  my  Boy ! 

5. 

Oh,  'twill  be  sweet  in  thee  to  trace 
Ero  age  has  wrinkled  o'er  my  face, 
Ere  half  my  glass  of  life  is  run, 
At  once  a  brother  and  a  son ; 
And  all  my  wane  of  years  employ 
In  justice  done  to  thee,  my  Boy! 

6. 

Although  so  young  thy  heedless  sire, 
Youth  will  not  damp  parental   fire; 
And,  weit  thou  still  less  dear  to  me, 
While  Helen's  form  revives  in  thee. 
The  breast,  which  beat  to  former  joy, 
Will  ne'er  desert  its  pledge,  my  Boy! 

I?07. 

EPITAPH  ON  JOHN  ADAMS,  OF  SOUTHWELL, 

A   CARRIER,    WHO    DIED   OF  DRUNKENNESS. 

JOHN  ADAMS  lies  here,  of  the  parish  of  Southwell, 
A  Carrier,  who  carried  his  can  to  his  mouth  well; 
He  carried  so  much,  and  he  carried  so  fast, 
He  could  carry  no  more — so  was  carried  at  last ; 
For,  the  liquor  he  drank,  being  too  much  for  one, 
He  could  not  carry  off, — so  he  's  now  earn-on. 

Sept.  1807. 


[~n»  fanirwlng  tines  form  the  cm 
-»*B  under  the  melancholy  impressio 


FRAGMENT. 

>n  of  a  poen 


written  by  Lord  By. 
ndie.] 


FORGET  this  world,  my  restless  sprite, 
Turn    t'irc  thy  thoughts  to  heaven: 


There  must  thou  soon  direct  thy  flight, 

If  errors  are  forgiven. 
To  bigots  and  to  sects  unknown, 
Bow  down  beneath  th'  Almighty's  Throne,— 

To  him  address  thy  trembling  prayer: 
He,  who  is  merciful  and  just, 
Will  not  reject  a  child  of  du»t, 

Although  his  meanest  care. 

Father  of  Light !  to  thee  I  call, 

My  soul  is  dark  within; 
Thou,  who  canst  mats  the  sparrow  fall, 

Avert  the  death  of  sin. 
Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star, 
Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war, 

Whose  mantle  is  yon  boundless  sky, 
My  thoughts,  my  words,  my  crimes  forgive ; 
And,  since  I  soon  must  ceise  to  live, 

Instruct  me  how  to  die. 

1W7 


TO  MRS.  ***, 

ON   BEINO  ASKED   MY   REASON  FOR  QUITTING  ENG1AKI 
IN   THE   SPRING. 

WHEN  man,  expell'd  from  Eden's  bowers 
A  moment  linger'd  near  the  gate, 

Each  scene  recall'd  the  vanish'd  hours, 
And  bade  him  curse  his  future  fate. 

But  wandering  on  through  distant  climes, 
He  learnt  to  bear  his  load  of  grief; 

Just  gave  a  sigh  to  other  times, 
And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 

Thus,  Mary,  will  it  be  with  me, 
And  I  must  view  thy  charms  no  more; 

For,  while  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  I  knew  before. 

In  flight  I  shall  be  surely  wise, 
Escaping  from  temptation's  snare; 

I  cannot  view  my  paradise 
Without  the  wish  of  dwelling  there. 

Dee.  2,  180H 


A  LOVE-SONG. 


REMIND  me  not,  remind  me  not, 
Of  those  beloved,  those  vanish'd  hours 
When  ull  my  soul  was  givon  to  thee 
Hours  that  may  never  be  forgot. 
Till  time  unnei^es  our  vital  powers, 
And  thou  and  I  shall  cease  to  be. 

Can  I  forget— canst  thou  forget, 
When  playing  with  thy  golden  hair, 

How  quick  thy  fluttering  h';ar>  did  mo»» 
Oh,  by  my  soul,  I  see  thee  yet, 
With  eyes  so  languid,  breast  so  fair. 
And  lips,  though  silent,  breathing  love. 

When  thus  reclining  on  -ny  breasi. 
Those  eyes  threw  back  a  glance  so  sweet 

As  half  reproach'd  yet  raised  desinj. 
And  still  we  near  and  nearer  prest, 
And  still  our  glowing  lips  would  meei 
As  if  in  kisses  to  expire. 

And  then  those  pensive  eyes  would  clotw 
And  bid  their  lids  each  oth»i  *e«k 
Ceiling  the  azure  orbs  below 


744 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


While  their  long  lashes'  darkening  gloss 
Seem'd  stealing  o'er  tliy  brilliant  cheek, 
Like  raven's  plumage  smooth'd  on  snow. 

I  dreamt  last  night  our  love  return'd, 
And,  sooth  to  say,  that  very  dream 

Was  sweeter  in  its  phanta-jy 
Than  if  for  other  hearts  1  burn'd, 
For  eyes  that  ne'er  like  thine  could  beam 
In  rapture's  wild  reality. 

Then  tell  me  not,  remind  me  not, 
Of  hours  which,  tnough  for  ever  gone, 

Can  still  a  pleasing  dream  restore, 
Till  thou  and  I  shall  be  forgot. 

And  senseless  as  the  mouldering  stone 
Which  tells  that  we  sSall  be  no  more. 


STANZAS 


THERE  was  a  time,  I  need  not  name, 
Since  it  will  ne'er  forgotten  be, 

When  all  our  feelings  were  the  same 
As  still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee. 

And  from  that  hour  when  first  thy  tongue 
Confess'd  a  love  which  equall'd  mine, 

Though  many  a  grief  my  heart  hath  wrung, 
Unknown  and  thus  unfelt  by  thine, 

None,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this— 
To  think  how  all  that  love  hath  flown ; 

Transient  as  every  faithless  kiss, 
But  transient  in  thy  breast  alone. 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew, 
When  late  I  heard  thy  ips  declare, 

In  accents  once  imagined  true, 
Remembrance  of  the  days  that  were. 

Ves!  my  adored,  yet  most  unkind! 

Though  thou  wilt  never  love  again. 
To  me  'tis  doubly  sweet  to  find 

Remembrance  of  that  love  remain. 

Yes!  'tis  a  glorious  thought  to  me, 
Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine, 

Whate'er  thou  art  or  e'er  shall  be, 
Thou  hast  been  dearly,  solely  mine  I 


TO  ****». 

AND  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low? 

Sweet  ladyl  speak  those  words  again: 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so — 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 

My  neart  is  sad,  my  hopes  are  gone, 
My  blood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast; 

And  when  I  perish,  thou  alone 
Wilt  sigh  above  my  place  of  rest. 

And  yet   metninks  a  gleam  of  peace 
l'ioth  through  my  cloud  of  anguish  shine; 

»nd  for  awhile  my  sorrows  cease, 
To  know  thy  heart  hath  felt  for  mine. 

Oh  lady  1  blessed  be  that  tear- 
It  falls  for  one  who  cannot  weep: 

Buf  n  prwioua  drops  are  doubly  dear 
i\)  those  whose  eyes  no  tear  can  steep. 


Sweet  lady  !  once  my  heart  was  warm 
With  every  feeling  soft  as  thine; 

But  beauty's  self  hath  ceased  Vo  charm 
A  wretch  created  to  repine. 

Yet  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low? 

Sweet  lady!  speak  those  words  again; 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so— 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 


SONG. 

FILL  the  goblet  again,  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  glow  which  now   gladdens    my  heart   to    itf 

core; 
Let  us  drink! — who  would  not  ?—  since,  through  life'i 

varied  round, 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply; 
I  have  bask'd  in  the  beam  of  a  dark-rolling  eye; 
I  have  loved! — who  has  not?— but  what  heart  can  de- 
clare 
That  pleasure  existed  while  pasaion  was  there? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when    the   heart's  in   iti 

spring, 

And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 
I  had  friends! — who  has  not? — but  what  tongue  will 

avow? 
That  friends,  rosy  wine!  are  so  faithful  as  thou? 

The  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange, 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam — thou  never  canst 

change: 
Thou  grow'st  old — who  does  not? — but  on  earth  what 

appears, 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its  yean? 

Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow, 

Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below, 

We  are  jealous! — who's  not? — thou  hast  no  such  a! 

loy ; 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we  enjoy. 

Then  the  season  of  youth  and  its  vanities  past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last; 
There  we  find— do  we  not?— in  the  flow  of  the  soul. 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 

When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  open'd  on  earth, 
And  Misery's  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
Hope  was  left,  was  she  not  ?— but  the  goblet  we  kiwi, 
And  care  not  for  hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

Long  life  to  the  grape!  for  when  summer  is  floi  n 

The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  »ur  own : 

We  must  die— who  shall  not  ?— May  our  sins  br  ** 

given, 
And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven. 


STANZAS 

TO   *  *  *,   ON   LEAVING   ENGLAND. 

'Tis  done— and  shivering  in  the  gale 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail; 
And  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast. 
Loud  sings  on  high  the  fresh'ning  blast) 
And  I  must  from  this  land  be  gone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

But  could  I  be  what  I  have  been. 
And  could  I  see  what  I  have 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


746 


Could  I  repose  upon  the  breast 
Which  once  mv  warmest  wishes  oleat— 
I  should  not  seek  another  zone 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

"Tis  long  since  I  beheld  that  eye 
Which  gave  me  bliss  or  misery; 
And  I  have  striven,  but  in  vain, 
Never  to  think  of  it  again; 
For  though  I  fly  from  Albion, 
I  still  can  only  love  but  one. 

As  some  lone  bird,  without  a  mate, 

My  weary  heart  is  desolate; 

I  look  around,  and  cannot  trace 

One  friendly  smile  or  welcome  face,  , 

And  even  in  crowds  am  still  alone 

Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam. 
And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home ; 
Till  I  forget  a  false  fair  face, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting-place; 
My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun, 
But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

The  poorest  veriest  wretch  on  earth 
Still  finds  some  hospitable  hearth, 
Where  friendship's  or  love's  softer  glow 
May  smile  in  joy  or  soothe  in  woe ; 
But  friend  or  leman  I  have  none, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

I  go— but  wheresoe'er  I  flee, 
There's  not  an  eye  will  weep  for  me ; 
There  's  not  a  kind  congenial  heart, 
Where  I  can  claim  the  meanest  part; 
Nor  thou,  who  hast  my  hopes  undone, 
Wilt  sigh,  although  I  love  but  one. 

To  think  of  every  early  scene, 

Of  what  we  are,  and  what  we've  been, 

Would  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe — 

But  mine,  alas!  has  stood  the  blow; 

Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun, 

And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 

\nd  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see, 
And  why  that  early  love  was  crost, 
Thou  know'st  the  best,  I  feel  the  most; 
But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 

I  've  tried  another's  fetters  too, 
With  charms  perchance  as  fair  to  view; 
And  I  would  fain  have  loved  as /well, 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

'T  would  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view, 
And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu; 
Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  that  wanders  o'er  the  deep; 
His  home,  his  hope,  his  youth  are  gone, 
Yet  still  he  loves,  and  loves  but  one. 


LINES  TO  MR.  HODGSON. 

FjUmouth  Roadi,  June  30th,  1909. 
1. 

HUZZA  !  Hodgson,  we  are  going, 

Our  embargo's  off" at  last, 
Favourable  breezes  blowing 

Heml  the  canvas  oVr  the  mast 

3  4*  99 


From  aloft  the  signal 's  streaming, 
Hark!  the  farewell  gun  is  fired: 
Women  screeching,  tars  blaspheming, 
Tell  us  that  our  time  's  expired. 
Here  's  a  rascal 
Come  to  task  all, 
Prying  from  the  custom-house  ; 
Trunks  unpacking, 
Cases  cracking, 
Not  a  corner  for  a  mouse 
'Scapes  unsearch'd  amid  the  racket, 
Ere  we  sail  on  board  the  Packet. 

2. 
Now  our  boatmen  quit  their  mooring. 

And  all  hands  must  ply  the  oar; 
Baggage  from  the  quay  is  lowering, 

We're  impatient — push  from  shore. 
"Have  a  care!  that  case  holds  liquor- 
Stop  the  boat— I  'm  sick— oh  Lord  P 
"Sick,  ma'am,  damme,  you'll  be  sicker 
Ere  you've  been  an  hour  on  board" 
Thus  are  screaming 
Men  and  women,  . 
Cerumen,  ladies,  servants,  Jacks; 
Here  entangling, 
All  are  wrangling, 
Stuck  together  close  as  wax.— 
Such  the  general  noise  and  racket, 
Ere  we  reach  the  Lisbon  Packet. 

3. 

Now  we've  reach'd  her,  lol  the  capUim, 

Gallant  Kidd,  commands  the  crew; 
Passengers  their  berths  are  clapt  in, 
Some  to  grumble,  some  to  spew.  • 
"Heyday!  call  you  that  a  cabin? 

Why,  'tis  hardly  three  feet  square; 
Not  enough  to  stow  Queen  Mab  in — 
Who  the  deuce  can  harbour  there?" 
"  Who,  sir  ?  plentv — 
Nobles  twenty 

Did  at  once  my  vessel  fill."— 
"Did  they?"  Jesus, 
How  you  squeeze  us! 
Would  to  God  they  did  so  still : 
Then  I  'd  scape  the  heat  and  racket 
Of  the  good  ship,  Lisbon  Packet." 

4. 
Fletcher!  Murray!  Bob!  where  are  yo«? 

Stretch'd  along  the  deck  like  logs — 
Bear  a  hand,  you  jolly  tar,  you  I 

Here 's  a  rope's-end  for  the  dogs. 
Hobhouse  muttering  fearful  curses. 
As  the  hatchway  down  he  rolls, 
Now  his  breakfast,  now  his  verses. 
Vomits  forth — and  damns  our  souls. 
"  Here 's  a  stanza 
On  Braganza — 

Help!"— "a  couplet?"— "No,  a  cup 
Of  warm  water — " 
"What's  the  matter?" 
"Zounds!  my  liver's  coming  up, 
I  shall  not  survive  the  rccket 
Of  this  brutal  Lisbon  Packet." 


Now  at  length  we  're  off  for  Turk*) 
Lord  knows  when  we  snail  come  I 

Breezes  foul  and  tempests  murky 
May  unship  us  pn  a  crack. 


710 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


But,  since  life  at  most  a  jest  is, 

As  philosophers  allow, 
Still  to  laugh  by  far  the  best  is; 
Then  laugh  on — as  I  do  now. 
Laugh  at  all  things, 
*Jreat  and  small  things, 
Sick  or  well,  at  sea  or  shore ; 
While  we're  quaffing, 
Let 's  have  laughing— 
Who  the  devil  cares  for  more  ? 
Some  good  winel  and  who  would  lack  it, 
Even  on  board  the  Lisbon  Packet? 


LINES  IN  THE  TRAVELLERS'  BOOK  AT  OR- 
CHOMENUS. 

Ill   THIS   BOOK  A   TRAVELLER   HAD   WRITTEN  : — 

"PAIR  Albion    smiling,  sees  her  son  depart 
To  '.race  the  birth  and  nursery  of  art: 
Nobl«  his  object,  glorious  is  his  aim: 
He  comes  to  Athens,  and  he  writes  his  name." 

IENCATH   WHICH  LORD,  BYRON   INSERTED  THE  FOLLOWING 
REPLY  : — 

TBS  modest  bard,  like  many  a  bard  unknown, 

•ymes  on  our  nr/nes,  but  wisely  hides  his  own: 
But  yet  whoe'er  he  be,  to  say  no  worse. 
Bis  name  would  bring  more  credit  than  his  verse. 


ON  MOORE'S  LAST  OPERATIC  FARCE. 

A  FARCICAL   EPIGRAM. 

Sept.  14,  1811. 

GOOD  plays  are  scarce, 

So  Moore  writes  farce : 
The  poet's  fame  grows  brittle— 

We  knew  before 

That  Little's  Moore, 
Bat  now  'tis  Moore  that's  little. 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  HODGSON, 

IN   AVSWER    TO   SOME    LINES  EXHORTING   HIM   TO    BE 
CHEERFUL   AND  TO  "  BANISH   CARE." 

Newstad  Abbey,  Oct  II,  1811. 

"  OH  i  banish  care" — such  ever  be 
The  motto  of  thy  revelry ! 
Perchance  of  mine,  when  wassail  nights 
Renew  those  riotous  delights, 
Wherewith  the  children  of  Despair 
Lull  the  lone  heart,  and  "banish  care." 
.     But  not  in  morn's  reflecting  hour, 
When  present,  pgst,  and  future  lower, 
When  all  I  loved  is  changed  or  gone. 
Mock  with  such  taunts  the  woes  of  one, 
Whose  every  thought — but  let  them  pass 
Thou  know'st  I  am  not  what  I  was. 
But,  above  all,  if  thou  wouldst  hold 
Place  in  a  heart  that  ne'er  was  cold, 
^y  all  the  powers  that  men  revere, 
By  all  unto  tny  bosom  dear, 
Thy  joys  below,  thy  hopes  above, 
Bpeak— spe»k  of  anything  but  love. 

Tverr    Dng  to  tell,  and  vain  to  hear, 
The  t*.a  of  one  who  scorns  a  tear ; 
And  there  is  little  in  that  tale 
Which  better  bosoms  would  bewail. 
But  mine  has  suffer'd  more  than  well 
T  would  suit  philosophy  to  tell. 


I  've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride, — 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side, — 
Have  seen  the  infant,  which  she  bore, 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wort 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child ; — 
Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain, 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain. 
And  /  have  acted  well  my  part. 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 
Return'd  the  freezing  glance  she  gave. 
Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave;- 
Have  kiss'd,  as  if  without  design. 
The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine, 
And  show'd,  alas !  in  each  caress 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less. 

But  let  this  pass — I  '11  whine  no  more 
Nor  seek  again  an  eastern  shore ; 
The  world  befits  a  busy  brain, — 
I'll  hie  me  to  its  haunts  again. 
But  if,  in  some  succeeding  year, 
When  Britain's  "  May  is  in  the  sere," 
Thou  hear'st  of  one,  whose  deep'ning  crime  I 
Suit  with  the  sablest  of  the  times. 
Of  one,  whom  love  nor  pity  sways, 
Nor  hope  of  fame,  nor  good  men's  praise 
One,  who  in  stern  ambition's  pr.de. 
Perchance  not  blood  shall  turn  aside, 
One  rank'd  in  some  recording  page 
With  the  worst  anarchs  of  the  age, 
Him  wilt  thou  know — and  knotting-  pause, 
Nor  will  the  effect  forget  the  cause. 


ON  LORD  THURLOW'S  POEMS. 

DEDICATED   TO    MR.   ROGERS. 

May,  131) 

1. 

WHEN  Thurlow  this  damn'd  nonsense  sent, 
(I  hope  I  am  not  violent,) 
Nor  men  nor  gods  knew  what  be  meant. 

2. 

And  since  not  ev'n  our  Rogers'  praise 
To  common  sense  his  thoughts  could  raise- 
Why  would  they  let  him  print  his  lays  7 

3. 


To  me,  divine  Apollo,  grant — Ol 
Hermilda's  first  and  second  canto, 
I'm  fitting  up  a  new  portmanteau; 

6. 

And  thus  to  furnish  decent  lining, 
My  own  and  others'  bay*  I'm  twining* 
So,  gentle  Thurlow,  throw  me  thine  in. 


TO  LORD  THURLOW. 

"  I  lay  my  branch  of  lanrel  down. 
Then  thus  to  form  Apollo*  crown 
Let  e?ery  other  bring  bis  own." 

Lord  Tfiialoufi  Una  ttH 
1. 

"  /  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  dam." 
Thou  "lay  thy  branch  of  Iturel  downP 
Why,  what  t^u  'st  stole  is  n«  enow 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


747 


And,  were  il  lawfully  thine  own, 

Does  Rogers  want  it  most,  or  thou  ? 
Keep  to  thyself  thy  wither'd  bough, 

Or  send  i    back  to  Doctor  Donne — 
Were  justice  done  to  both,  I  trow, 

He  'd  have  but  little,  and  thou— none. 
2.  * 

"  Then  thus  to  form  Apollo's  crotcn." 
A  crown !  why,  twist  it  how  you  will, 
Thy  chaplet  must  be  foolscap  still. 
When  next  you  visit  Delphi's  town, 

Inquire  among  your  fellow-lodgers, 
They  '11  tell  you  Phoebus  gave  his  crown, 

Some  years  before  your  birth,  to  Rogers. 

3. 

"  Let  every  other  bring  his  own." 
When  coals  to  Newcastle  are  carried, 

And  owls  sent  to  Athens  as  wonders. 
From  his  spouse  when  the  Regent's  unmarried, 

Or  Liverpool  weeps  o'er  his  blunders; 
When  Tories  and  Whigs  cease  to  quarrel. 

When  Castlereagh's  wife  has  an  heir, 
Then  Rogers  shall  ask  us  for  laurel, 

And  thou  shall  have  plenty  to  spare. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

WRITTEN  THE  EVENING  BEFORE  HIS  VISIT,  IN  COMPANY 
WITH  LORD  BYRON,  TO  MR.  LEIOH  HUNT  IN  COLD  BATH 
FIELDS  PRISON,  MAY  19,  1813. 

OH  you,  who  in  all  names  can  tickle  the  town, 
Anacreon,  Tom   Little,  Tom  Moore,  or  Tom  Brown,— 
For  hang  me  if  I  know  of  which  you  may  most  brag, 
Four  Quarto  two-pounds,   or   your    Two-penny    Post 


But  now  to  my  letter— to  yours  't  is  an  answer — 
To-morrow  be  with  me.  as  soon  as  you  can,  sir, 
AH  ready  and  dress'd  for  proceeding  to  spunge  on 
(According  to  compact)  the  wit  in  the  dungeon — 
Pray  Phoebus  at  length  our  political  malice 
May  not  get  us  lodgings  within  the  same  palace  t 
I  suppose   that    to-night    you  're    engaged  with   some 

codgers, 

And  for  Sotheby's  Blues  have  deserted  Sara  Rogers, 
\nd  I,  though  with  cold  I  have  nearly  my  death  got, 
Must  put  on  my  breeches,  and  wait  on  the  Heathcote. 
But  to-morrow,  at  four,  we  will  both  play  the  Scurra, 
And  you  '11  be  Catullus,  the  Regent  Mamurra. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  EPISTLE  TO  THOMAS 
MOORE. 

Junt,  1814. 
1. 

WHAT  say  /?"— not  a  syllable  further  in  prose; 
"m  your  man  "  of  all  measures,"  dear  Tom, — so,  here 

goes! 

Here  goes,  for  a  swim  on  the  stream  o*  old  Time, 
On  those  buoyant  supporters,  the  bladders  of  rhyme. 
If  our  weight  breaks  them  down,  and  we  sink  in  the 

flood, 

We  are  smother'd,  at  least,  in  respectable  mud, 
Where  the  Divers  of  Bathos  lie  drown'd  in  a  heap, 
And  Southey's  last  Prean  has  pillow'd  his  sleep;— 
Tint  "  Felo  do  se"  who,  half  drunk  with  his  malmsey, 
Wa'k'd  out  of  his  depth  and  was  lost  in  a  calm  sea, 


Singing  "Glory  to  God"  in  a  spick  and  span  stanca 
The   like  (since   Tom   Sternhold  was   choked)    nev»i 

man  saw. 

2_ 

The  papers  have  told  you,  no  doubt,  of  the  fusee*. 
The  fetes,  and  the  gapings  to  get  at  these  Russes, — 
Of  his  Majesty's  suite,    up    from    coachman    to    Het 

man, — 
And  what  dignity  decks    the   flat    face    tf  the  gresJ 

man. 

I  saw  him,  last  week,  at  two  balls  and  a  party,— 
For  a  prince,  his  demeanour  was  rather,  too  hearty. 
You  know,  we  are  used  to  quite  different  graces, 


The  Czar's  look.  I  own,  was  much  brighter  and  brisker 
But  then  he  is  sadly  deficient  in  whisker; 
And  wore  but  a  starless  blue  coat,  and  in  kersey- 
-mere  breeches  whisk'd  round,  in  a  waltz   with   UK 

Jersey, 

Who,  lovely  as  ever,  seem'd  just  as  delighted 
With  majesty's  presence  as  those  she  invited. 


THE  DEVIL'S  DRIVE. 

[Of  this  strange,  wild  poem,  which  extends  to  about  two  hundred  and  Iftf 
lines,  the  only  copy  that  Lord  Byron,  I  believe,  ever  wrote,  he  praentMl 
to  Lord  Holland.  Though  with  a  good  deal  of  vigour  and  imagination,  II 
is,  for  the  most  part,  rather  clumsily  executed,  wanting  the  point  and  con- 
densation of  those  clever  verses  of  Mr.  Coleridge  which  Lord  Byron,  iJop* 
ing  a  notion  long  prevalent,  his  attributed  to  Professor  Person.  There  an, 
however,  some  of  the  itanzai  of  "  The  Devil's  Drive"  well  wsrti  sub- 
serving.]— Moon. 

I. 

THE  Devil  return'd  to  hell  by  two, 

And  he  staid  at  home  till  five ; 
Where  he  dined  on  some  homicides  done  in  ragtut, 

And  a  rebel  or  so  in  an  Irish  stew, 
And  sausages  made  of  a  self-slain  Jew, 
And  bethought  himself  what  next  to  do; 

"  And,"  quoth  he,  "  I  'II  take  a  drive. 
I  walk'd  in  the  morning,  I'll  ride  to-night; 
In  darkness  my  children  take  most  delight. 

And  I'll  see  how  my  favourites  thrive. 

2. 
M  And  what  shall  I  ride  in  V  quoth  Lucifer,  then— 

"If  I  follow'd  my  taste,  indeed, 
I  should  mount  in  a  wagon  of  wounded  men. 

And  smile  to  see  them  bleed. 
But  these  will  be  furnish'd  again  and  again, 

And  at  present  my  purpose  is  speed ; 
To  see  my  manor  as  much  as  I  may, 
And  watch  that  no  souls  shall  be  poach'd  awty. 

3. 
"  I  have  a  state-coach  at  Carlton  House, 

A  chariot  in  Seymour-place  ; 
But  they're  lent  to  two   friends,  who   make    EM 
amends 

By  driving  my  favourite  pace: 
And  they  handle  th>  ir  reins  with  such  a  grace, 
I  have  something  for  both  at  the  end  of  their  taw 

4. 
"  So  now  for  the  earth  to  take  my  chance." 

Then  up  to  the  earth  sprung  he; 
And  making  a  jump  from  Moscow  to  Franca 

He  stepp'd  across  the  sea. 
And  rested  his  hoof  on  a  turnpike  road 
No  very  great  way  from  a  bishop'*  aboda 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


5. 

But  flni  ai  K  flew,  I  forgot  to  say, 
That  he  hovtr'd  a  moment  upon  his  way 

To  look  upon  Leipsic  plain ; 
Ami  BO  sweet  to  his  eye  was  its  sulphury  glare. 
And  so  soft  to  his  car  was  .tie  cry  of  despair. 

That  he  perch'd  on  a  mountain  of  slain : 
And  he  gazed  with  delight  from  its  growing  height, 
Nor  often  on  earth  had  he  seen  such  a  sight, 

Nor  his  work  done  half  so  well : 
For  the  field  ran  so  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead, 

That  it  blush'd  like  the  waves  of  hell! 
Then  loudly,  and  wildly,  and  long  laugh'd  he: 
"  Methinks  they  have  here  little  need  of  me  /" 

*****  » 

8. 
But  the  softest  note  that  soothed  his  ear 

Was  the  sound  of  a  widow  sighing; 
And  the  sweetest  sight  was  the  icy  tear, 
Which  horror  froze  in  the  blue  eye  clear 

Of  a  maid  by  her  lover  lying — 
As  round  her  fell  her  long  fair  hair : 
And  she  look'd  to  heaven  with  that  frenzied  air 
Which  seem'd  to  ask  if  a  God  were  there  1 
And,  stretch'd  by  the  wall  of  a  ruin'd  hut. 
With  its  hollow  cheek,  and  eyes  half  shut, 

A  child  of  famine  dying: 
And  the  carnage  begun,  when  resistance  is  done, 

And  the  fall  of  the  vainly  flying  I 

*****  * 

10. 
But  the  Devil  has  reach'd  our  cliffs  so  white, 

And  what  did  he  there,  I  pray? 
If  his  eyes  were  good,  he  but  saw  by  night 

What  we  see  every  day; 
But  he  made  a  tour,  and  kept  a  journal 
Of  all  the  wondrous  sights  nocturnal. 
And  he  sold  it  in  shares  to  the  Men  of  the  Row, 
Who  bid  pretty  well— but  they  cheated  him,  though! 

11. 
Tke  Devil  first  saw,  as  he  thought,  the  Mail, 

Its  coachman  and  his  coat ; 
So  instead  of  a  pistol  he  cock'd  his  tail, 

And  seized  him  by  the  throat : 
"Aha,"  quoth  he,  "what  have  we  here? 
Tis  a  new  barouche,  and  an  ancient  peer!" 
So  he  sat  him  on  his  box  again, 

And  bade  him  have  no  fear, 
But  be  true  to  his  club,  and  staunch  to  his  rein, 

Hii  brothel,  and  his  beer; 
"Next  to  seeing  a  lord  at  the  council  board, 

I  would  rather  see  him  here." 

17. 
The  Devil  gat  next  to  Westminster. 

And  he  turn'd  "  to  the  room"  of  the  Commons ; 
But  he  heard,  as  he  proposed  to  enter  in  there, 

That  "the  Lords"  had  received  a. summons; 
And  he  thought  as  a  "  quondam  aristocrat," 
He  might  peep  at  the  peers,  though  to  Aear  them 

i   were  flat ; 
And  he  walk'd  up  the  house   so  like  one  of  our 

own, 
Yhd(  they  say  that  he  stood  pretty  near  the  throne. 

18. 
He  «aw  the  Lord  Liverpool  seemingly  wise, 

The  Lord  Westmoreland  certainly  silly, 
And  Johnnv  of  Norfolk— a  man  of  some  size— 
And  Chatham,  so  like  bis  friend  Billy; 


And  he  saw  the  tear-  in  Lord  F.ldon's  eye*. 
Because  the  Catholics  would  not  rise, 
In  spite  of  his  prayers  and  his  prophecies; 
And  he  heard— which  set  Satan  himself  a  staring  - 
A  certain  chief  justice  say  something  like  ntur 

ing. 
And.the  Devil   was   shock'd — and    quoth   be,  " 

must  go, 

For  I  find  we  have  much  better  manners  below 
If  thus  he  harangues  when  he  passes  my  border, 
I  shall  hint  to  friend  Moloak  to  call  him  to  order. 
December,  1813. 


ADDITIONAL  STANZAS,  TO  THE  ODE  TO 
NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 

17. 

THERE  was  a  day— there  was  an  hour, 

While  earth  was  Gaul's — Gaul  thine— 
When  that  immeasurable  power 

Unsated  to  resign 
Had  been  an  act  of  purer  fame 
Than  gathers  round  Marengo'g  name 

And  gilded   thy  decline. 
Through  the  long  twilight  of  all  time 
Despite  some  passing  clouds  of  crime 

18. 
But  thou  forsooth  must  be  a  king 

And  don  the  purple  vest, 
As  if  that  foolish  robe  could  wring 

Remembrance  from  thy  breast. 
Where  is  that  faded  garment?  where 
The  gewgaws  thou  wert  fond  to  wear, 

The  star — the  string — the  crest  ? 
Vain  froward  child  of  empire!  say. 
Are  all  thy  playthings  snatch'd  away? 

lit. 
Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose, 

When  gazing  on  the  great; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows. 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 
Yes— one— the  first— the  last— the  beit— 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeath'd  the  name  of  Washington, 

To  make  man  blush  there  was  but  one! 

April,  1814 


TO  LADY  CAROLINE  LAMB. 

AND  say'st  thou  that  I  have  not  felt, 

Whilst  thou  wert  thus  estranged  from  me* 
Nor  know'st  how  dearly  I  have  dwelt 

On  one  unbroken  dream  of  thee? 
But  love  like  ours  must  never  be, 

And  I  will  learn  to  prize  thee  less; 
As  thou  hast  fled,  so  let  me  flee, 

And  change  the  heart  thou  may'st  not  bleu 

They'll  tell  thee,  Clara!  I  have  seem'd, 

Of  late,  another's  charms  to  woo, 
Nor  sigh'd,  nor  frown'd,  as  if  I  deem'd 

That  thou  wert  banish'd  from  my  view. 
Clara!  this  struggle — to  undo 

What  thou  hast  done  too  well,  for  •» 
This  mask  before  the  kibbling  crew— 

This  treachery— was  truth  to 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


749 


I  have  not  wept  while  thou  wert  gone, 

Nor  worn  one  look  of  sullen  woe ;  . 
But  sought,  in  many,  all  that  one 

(Ah!  need  I  name  her?)  could  bestow. 
It  is  a  duty  which  I  owe 

To  thine — to  thee — to  man — to  God, 
To  crush,  to  quench  this  guilty  glow, 

Ere  yet  the  path  of  crime  be  trod 

But  since  my  breast  is  not  so  pure, 

Since  still  the  vulture  tears  my  heart. 
Let  me  this  agony  endure. 

Not  thee— oh!  dearest  as  thou  art! 
In  mercy,  Clara  I  let  us  part. 

And  I  will  seek,  yet  know  not  how. 
To  shun,  in  time,  the  threatening  dart; 

Guilt  must  not  aim  at  such  as  thou. 

But  thou  must  ait!  me  in  the  task, 

And  nobly  thus  exert  thy  power; 
Then  spurn  me  hence — 'tis  all  I  ask — 

Ere  time  n.ature  a  guiltier  hour; 
Ere  wrath's  impending  vials  shower 

Remorse  redoubled  on  my  bead ; 
Ere  fires  unquenchably  devour 

A  heart,  whose  hope  has  long  been  dead. 

Deceive  no  more  thyself  and  me, 

Deceive  not  better  hearts  than  mine; 
Ah  I  shouldst  thou,  whither  wouldst  thou  flee, 

From  woe  like  ours— from  shame  like  thine  ? 
And,  if  there  be  a  wrath  divine, 

A  pang  beyond  this  fleeting  breath. 
E'en  now  all  future  hopes  resign. 

Such  thoughts  are  guilt— such  guilt  is  death. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

I. 

I  mux  not,  I  trace  not,  I  breathe  not  thy  name, 
There  is  grief  in  the  sound,  there  is  guih  in  the  fame ; 
But  the  tear  which  now  burns  on  my  cheek  may  im- 
part 
The  deep  thoughts  that  dwell  in  that  silence  of  heart. 

2. 

Too  brief  for  our  passion,  too  long  for  our  peace, 
Were  those  hours— can  their  joy  or   their  bitterness 

cease? 
We   repent— we    abjure  — we  will    break    from    our 

chain, — 
We  will  part,— we  will  fly  to— unite  it  again  1 

3. 

Oh!  thine  be  the  gladness,  and  mine  be  the  guilt  I 
Forgive  me,  adored  one! — forsake,  if  thou  wilt; — 
But  the  heart  which  is  thine  shall  expire  undebased, 
And  man  shall  not  break  it— whatever  thou  mayest. 

4. 

And  stein  to  the  haughty,  but  humble  to  thee, 

THU  soul,  in  its  bitterest  blackness,  shall  be; 

And  our  days  seem  as  swift,  and  our  moments  more 

sweet, 
With  thee  by  my  side,  than  with  worlds  at  our  feet. 

5. 

One  sigh  of  thy  sorrow,  one  look  of  thy  Jove, 
Shall  turn  me  or  fix,  shall  reward  or  reprove; 
And  the  heartless  may  wonder  at  all  I  resign — 
Thy  lip  shall  reply,  not  to  them,  but  to  mine. 

May,  1814. 


ADDRESS  INTENDED  TO  BE   EECITED  AT  Til* 

CALEDONIAN  MEETING. 
WHO  bath  not  glow'd  above  the  page  where  fam« 
Hath  fix'd  high  Caledon's  unconquer'd  name ; 
The  mountain-land  which  spurn'd  the  Roman  chain 
And  baffled  back  the  fiery-crested  Dane, 
Whose  bright  claymore  and  hardihood  of  hand 
No  foe  could  tame — no  tyrant  could  command? 
That  race  is  gone— but  still  their  children  breathe. 
And  glory  crowns  them  with  redoubled  wreath : 
O'er  Gael  and  Saxon  mingling  banners  shine, 
And  England!  add  their  stubborn  strength  to  thine. 
The  blood  which  flow'd  with  Wallace  flows  as  free, 
But  now  'tis  only  shed  for  fame  and  thee! 
Oh!  pass  not  by  the  northern  veteran's  claim, 
But  give  support— the  world  hath  given  him  fame) 

The  humbler  ranks,  the  lowly  brave,  who  bled 
While  cheerly  following  where  the  mighty  led. 
Who  sleep  beneath  the  undistinguish'd  sod 
Where  happier  comrades  in  their  triumph  trod. 
To  us  bequeath— 't  is  all  their  fate  allows — 
The  sireless  offspring  and  the  lonely  spouse: 
She  on  high  Albyn's  dusky  hills  may  raise 
The  tearful  eye  in  melancholy  gaze. 
Or  view,  while  shadowy  auguries  disclose 
The  Highland  seer's  anticipated  woes, 
The  bleeding  phantom  of  each  martial  form 
Dim  in  the  cloud,  or  darkling  in  the  storm ; 
While  sad,  she  chants  the  solitary  song, 
The  soft  lament  for  him  who  tarries  long — 
For  him,  whose  distant  relics  vainly  crave 
The  Coronach'*  wild  requiem  to  the  brave. 

'Tis  Heaven — not  man — must  charm  away  the  wo« 

Which  bursts  when  Nature's  feelings  newly  flow 

Yet  tenderness  and  time  may  rob  the  tear 

Of  half  ils  bitterness  for  one  so  dear; 

A  nation's  gratitude  perchance  may  spread 

A  thornless  pillow  for  the  widow'd  head; 

May  lighten  well  her  heart's  maternal  care, 

And  wean  from  penury  the  soldier's  heir. 

May,  1814. 


ON  THE  PRINCE  REGENTS  RETURNING  THH 
PICTURE  OF  SARAH,  COUNTESS  OF  JERSEY 
TO  MRS.  MEE. 

WHEN  the  vain  triumph  of  the  imperial  tord. 
Whom  servile  Rome  obey"d,  and  yet  abhorr'd. 
Gave  to  the  vulgar  gaze  each  glorious  bust,    ' 
That  left  a  likeness  of  the  brave  or  just; 
What  most  admired  each  scrutinizing  eye 
Of  all  that  deck'd  that  pas&ing  pageantry? 
What  spread  from  face  to  face  that  wondering  air  7 
The  thought  of  Brutus— for  his  was  not  there! 
That  absence  proved  his  worth, — that  absence  flx\j 
His  memory  on  the  longing  mind,  unmix'd; 
And  more  decreed  his  glory  to  °ndure, 
Than  all  a  gold  Colossus  could  secure. 

If  thus,  fair  Jersey,  our  desiring  gaze 
Search  for  thy  form,  in  vain  and  mute  amaze, 
Amid  those  pictured  charms,  whose  loveliness, 
Bright  though  they  be.  thine  own  had  render'd  !OM 
If  he.  that  vain  old  man,  whom  truth  admits 
Heir  of  his  father's  throne  and  shatter'd  win. 
If  his  corrupted  eye  and  wither'd  heart 
Could  with  thy  penile  image  bear  depart, 
That  tasteless  shame  be  At*,  and  ours  the  fii«t 
To  gaze  on  Beauty's  band  without  its  chief : 


750 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


fet  coufort  stil!  cue  selfii-h  thought  imparts, 
We  los»  the  portrai*.,  but  preserve  our  hearts. 

What  can  his  vaulted  gallery  now  disclose? 
A  garden  with  ill  flowrrs— except  the  rose;— 
A  fount  that  only  wants  its  living  stream; 
And  night,  with  every  star   save  Dian's  beam. 
Lost  to  our  eyes  the  p.-esen    forms  shall  be, 
That  turn  from  tracing  them  !o  dream  of  thee ; 
And  more  on  that  recull'd  resemblance  pause, 
Than  all  he  skall  not  force  on  our  applause. 

Long  may  thy  yet  meridian  lustre  shine, 
With  all  that  Virtue  asks  of  Homage  thine : 
The  symmetry  of  youth — the  grace  of  mien — 
The  eye  that  gladdens — and  the  brow  serene; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  that  clustering  hat', 
Which  shades,  yet  shows  that  forehead  mor««  than  fairl 
Each  glance  that  wins  us,  and  the  life  that  throws 
A  spell  which  will  not  let  our  looks  repose. 
But  turn  to  gaze  again,  and  find   anew 
Some  charm  that  well  rewards  another  view. 
These  are  not  lessen'd,  these  are  still  as  bright, 
Albeit  too  dazzling  for  a  dotard's  sight ; 
And  these  must  wait  till  every  charm  is  gone 
To  please  the  paltry  heart  that  pleases  none, 
That  dull  cold  sensualist,  whose  sickly  eye 
In  envious  dimness  pass'd  thy  portrait  by ; 
Who  rack'd  his  little  spirit  to  combine 
Its  hate  of  Freedom's  loveliness,  and  thine. 

July,  1814. 

TO  BELSHAZZAR, 
1. 

BELSHAZZAR  !  from  the  banquet  turn, 

Nor  in  thy  sensual  fullness  fall: 
Behold!  while  yet  before  thee  burn 

The  graven  words,  the   glowing  wall. 
Many  a  despot  men  miscall, 

Crown'd  and  anointed  from  on  high; 
But  thou,  the  weakest,  worst  of  all— 

Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die  ? 

2. 
Go  I  dash  the  roses  from  thy  brow — 

Gray  hairs  but  poorly  wreathe  with  them; 
Youth's  garlands  misbecome  thee  now, 

More  than  thy  very  diadem, 
Where  thou  hast  tarnish'd  every  gem : — 

Then  throw  the  worthless  bauble  by, 
Which,  worn  by  thee,  ev'n  slaves  contemn ; 

And  learn  like  better  men  to  die. 

3. 
Oh'  early  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

And  ever  light  of  word  and  worth, 
Whose  soul  expired  ere  youtk  decay'd, 

And  left  thee  but  a  mass  of  earth, 
i'o  see  thee  moves  a  scorner's  mirth : 

But  tears  in  Hope's  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth— 

Unfit  to  govern,  live,  or  die. 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 

W  tne  valley  of  waters  we  wept  o'er  the  day 
WTien  the  host  of  the  stranger  made  Salem  his  prey; 
And  our  heads  on  our  bosoms  all  droopingly  lay, 
Ard  our  hearts  were  so  full  of  the  land  far  away. 

The  King  they  demanded  in  vain— it  lay  still 
B  our  louls  as  the  wind  that  hath  died  on  the  hill, 


They  called  for  the  harp,  but  our  blood  they  shall  spill, 
Ere  our  right  hand  shall  teach  them  one  tone  of  theirskilL 

All  stringlessly  hung  on  the  willow's  sad  tree 
As  dead  as  her  dead  leaf  those  mute  harps  must  ht< 
Our  hands  may  be  fetter'd,  our  tears  still  are  free, 
For  our  God  and  our  glory,  and  Sion !  for  thee. 

October,  1814. 


THEY  say  that  Hope  is  happiness, 
But  genuine  Love  must  prize  the  pait; 

And  Memory  wakes  the  thoughts  that  bletfr- 
They  rose  the  first,  they  set  the  last 

And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 

Was  once  our  only  hope  to  be ; 
And  all  that  hope  adored  and  lost 

Hath  melted  into  memory. 

Alas!  it  is  delusion  all, 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afar, 
Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall, 

Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 

October,  1814. 

LINES  INTENDED  FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  "THI 

SIEGE  OF  CORINTH." 
IN  the  year  since  Jesus  died  for  men. 
Eighteen  hundred  years  and  ten, 
We  w»re  a  gallant  company. 
Riding  j'er  land,  and  sailing  o'er  sea. 
Oh !  but  we  went  merrily  I 
We  forded  the  river  and  clomb  the  high  hill, 
Never  our  steeds  for  a  day  stood  still ; 
Whether  we  lay  in  the  cave  or  the  shed, 
Our  sleep  fell  soft  on  the  hardest  bed ; 
Whether  we  couch'd  in  our  rough  capote, 
On  the  rougher  plank  of  our  gliding  boat, 
Or  stretch'd  on  the  beach,  or  our  saddles  srretd 
As  a  pillow  beneath  the  resting  head. 
Fresh  we  woke  upon  the  morrow: 

All  our  thoughts  and  words  had  scope, 

We  had  health,  and  we  had  hope, 
Toil  and  travel,  but  no  »  rrow. 
We  were  of  all  tongues  a/  I  creeds  ;— 
Some  were  those  who  coun  ,.;d  beads, 
Some  of  mosque,  and  some  of  church, 

And  some,  or  I  mis-say,  of  neither; 
Yet  through  the  wide  world  might  ye  search. 

Nor  find  a  motlier  crew  nor  blither. 

But  some  are  dead,  and  some  are  gone, 
And  some  are  scatter'd  and  alone, 
And  some  are  rebels  on  the  hills* 

That  look  along  Epirus'  valleys. 

Where  freedom  still  at  moments  rallies. 
And  pays  in  blood  oppression's  ills; 

And  some  are  in  a  far  country, 
And  some  all  restlessly  at  home; 

But  never  more,  oh!  never  we 
Shall  meet  to  revel  and  to  roam. 

But  those  hardy  days  flew  cheerily, 

And  when  they  now  fall  drearily, 

My  thoughts,  like  swallows,  skim  the  mall 

And  bear  my  spirit  back  again 

Over  the  earth,  and  through  the  air. 

A  wild  bird,  and  a  wanderer. 

»  The  last  tidino  recently  heard  of  Dervish  (one  nf  tht  Amiooti  «l»0t 
liwed  me)  stale  him  to  be  in  revolt  upon  the  mountains,  it  the hoj  H torn 
of  the  bands  common  in  thai  country  in  times  of  r».  ubl* 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


751 


"Tis  this  that  ever  wakes  my  strain, 

And  oft,  too  oft,  implores  again 

The  few  who  may  endure  my  lay, 

To  follow  me  so  far  away. 

Stranger— wilt  thou  follow  now. 

And  sit  with  me  on  Aero-Corinth's  brow? 

December,  1815. 


EXTRACT  FROM  AN  UNPUBLISHED  POEM. 

COULD  I  remount  the  river  of  my  years. 

To  the  first  fountain  of  our  smiles  and  tears 

I  would  not  trace  again  the  stream  of  hours 

Between  their  outworn  banks  of  wither'd  flowers, 

But  bid  it  flow  as  now — until  it  glides 

Into  the  number  of  the  nameless  tides. 

What  is  this  death  ?—  a  quiet  of  the  heart  ? 
The  whole  of  that  of  which  we  are  a  part  J 
For  life  is  but  a  vision — what  I  see 
Of  all  which  lives  alone  is  life  to  me, 
And  being  so — the  absent  are  the  dead. 
Who  haunt  us  from  tranquillity,  and  spread 
A  dreary  shroud  around  us,  and  invest 
With  sad  remembrancers  our  hours  of  rest. 

The  absent  are  the  dead— for  they  are  cold, 
And  ne'er  can  be  what  once  we  did  behold; 
And  they  are  changed,  and  cheerless, — or  if  yet 
The  unforgotten  do  not  all  forget, 
Since  thus  divided — equal  must  it  be 
If  the  deep  barrier  be  of  earth,  or  sea ; 
It  may  be  both— but  one  day  end  it  must 
In  the  dark  union  of  insensate  dust. 

The  under-earth  inhabitants— are  they 
But  mingled  millions  decomposed  to  clay  7 
The  ashes  of  a  thousand  ages  spread 
Wherever  man  has  trodden  or  shall  tread  ? 
Or  do  they  in  their  silent  cities  dwell 
Each  in  his  incommunicative  cell  ? 
Or  have  they  their  own  language?  and  a  sense 
Of  breathless  being?  darken'd  and  intense 
,>»  midnight  in  her  solitude? — Oh  Earth) 
Where  are  the  past  ?— and  wherefore  had  they  birth? 
The  dead  are  thy  inheritors — and  we 
But  bubbles  on  thy  surface;  and  the  key 
Of  thy  profundity  is  in  the  grave. 
The  ebon  portal  of  thy  peopled  cave, 
Where  I  would  walk  in  spirit,  and  behold 
Our  elements  resolved  to  things  untold, 
And  fathom  hidden  wonders,  and  explore 
The  essence  of  great  bosoms  now  no  more. 


October,  1816. 


TO  AUGUSTA. 


MY  sister!  my  sweet  sister  1  if  a  name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine. 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 
No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine. 
Go  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same— 
A  lov>;d  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 
There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  destiny, — 
world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with  thee. 

it. 

Th»  first  were  nothing— had  I  still  the  last 
It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness; 
But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast, 
And  mine  is  nm  the  wish  to  make  them  less. 


A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and  paal 

Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress; 

Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire  s*   fate  of  yore,- 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 
HI. 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 

In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 

Of  perils,  overlook'd  or  unforeseen, 

I  have  sustain'd  my  share  of  worldly  shocks, 

The  fault  was  mine ;  nor  do  I  seek  to  screen 

My  errors  with  defensive  paradox ; 

I  have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow. 
The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 

IV. 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  reward 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest  since  the  day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that  which  marr'a 
The  gift,— a  fate,  or  will,  that  walk'd  astray; 
And  I  at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard, 
And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of  clay  i 
But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  survive, 

If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 

v. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outlived,  and  yet  I  am  not  old; 
And  when  I  look  on  this  the  petty  spray 
Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which  have  roll'd 
Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away: 
Something— I  know  not  what — does  still  uphoif 
A  spirit  of  slight  patience ;— not  in  vain, 

Even  for,  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 

VI. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me, — or  perhaps  a  cold  despair, 
Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  recur, — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 
(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer. 
And  with  light  armour  we  may  learn  to  bear,) 
Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which  was  not 
The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 

VII. 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 

In  happy  childhood  ;  trees,  and  flowers,  and  brook* 

Which  do  remember  me  cf  where  I  dwelt 

Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books, 

Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 

My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks; 

And  even  at  moments  I  could  think  I  BC« 

Some  living  thing  to  love — but  none  like  thee. 

via. 

Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  create 
A  fund  for  contemplation; — to  admire 
Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date; 
But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  inqnrai 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate. 
For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desile, 
And,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 

Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

iz. 

Oh  that  thou  wert  but  with  me ! — but  I  grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I  have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  rtgret ; 


•  Admiral  Byron  w»  remarkable  for  nevsr  makinr  a  vorage  witkmr 
tempest.    He  was  known  to  the  sailors  by  the  facetioui  name  at  "tent 
wealher  Jack." 

"  But  though  it  were  tempest-tost, 

St",l  his  bark  could  not  be  lost." 

He  returned  safely  from  the  wreck  of  the  Wapr,  (in  Atison'i  Yoytg*,)  u* 
subsequently  circumnavigated  the  world,  many  rears  af'er  >•  «>»»«•*• 
of  a  similar  expedition. 


752 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Tiere  may  be  others  which  I  less  may  show; — 
I  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 

And  the  tide  rising  in  my  alter'd  eye. 

x. 

I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  lake,* 
By  the  old  hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 
Leman's  is  f;iir;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore: 
Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make 
Ere  that  or  than  can  fade  these  eyes  before; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they  are 

Resign 'd  for  ever,  or  divided  far. 

XI. 

The  world  is  all  before  me ;  I  but  ask 
Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply— 
It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask. 
To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky, 
To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a  mask, 
And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 
She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall  be 
My  sister— till  I  look  again  on  thee. 

XII. 

I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one : 
And  that  I  would  not;— for  at  length  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  begun, 
The  earliest— even  the  only  paths  for  me — 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  shun, 
I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be; 
The  passions  which  have  torn  me  would  have  slept; 
T  had  not  suffer'd,  and  thou  hadst  not  wept. 

XIII. 

With  false  ambition  what  had  I  to  do  ? 
Little  with  love,  and  least  of  all  with  fame; 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me  grew 
And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make — a  name 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue  ; 
Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over — I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone  before. 

XIV. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care ; 
I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day; 
Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were; 
My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  but  the  prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils ;  for  I  had  the  share 
Of  life  which  might  have  fill'd  a  century, 

Before  its  fourth  in  time  had  pass'd  me  by. 

xv. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come 
I  am  content ;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 
Not  thankless, — for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would  steal, 
And  for  the  present  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  farther.— Nor  shall  I  conceal 
That  with  all  this  I  still  can  look  around 

%nd  worship  Nature  with  a  thought  profound. 

XVI. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
(  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine; 
We  were  and  are— I  am.  even  as  thou  art- 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign; 
It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart. 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  decline 
We  are  entwined — let  death  come  slow  or  fast, 
HIP  lie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last  I 
October ,  1816. 


•  TV,  Uk.  if  Nemtod  ASber 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

1. 

MY  boat  is  on  the  shore. 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here  's  a  double  health  to  thee  I 

2. 
Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me. 

And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 
And,  whatever  sky 's  above  me, 

Here 's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

3. 
Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me. 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

4. 
Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

5. 
With  that  water  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be— peace  with  thine  and  mine. 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 

July,  1817 


STANZAS  TO  THE  RIVEH  PO. 

I. 
RIVER,  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  walls 

Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  aha 
Walks  by  thy  brink,  and  there  perchance  recall* 
A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me; 

2. 
What  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 

A  mirror  of  my  heart,  where  she  may  read 
The  thousand  thoughts  I  new  betray  to  thee 
Wild  as  thy  wave,  and  headlong  as  thy  speed) 

3. 
What  do  I  say  ?— a  mirror  of  my  heart  1 

Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark,  and  strong? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art, 
And  such  as  thou  art  were  my  passions  long. 

4. 
Time  may  have  somewhat  tamed  them,— not  for  BY* 

Thou  overflow's!  thy  banks,  and  not  for  aye 
Thy  bosom  overboils,  congenial  river  I 
Thy  floods  subside,  and  mine  have  sunk  away. 

5. 
But  left  long  wrecks  behind,  and  now  again. 

Borne  in  our  old  unchanged  career,  we  move; 
Thou  tendest  wildly  onwards  to  the  main, 
And  I — to  loving  one  I  should  not  lore. 

6. 
The  current  I  behold  will  sweep  beneath 

fHer  native  walla,  and  murmur  a'  her  feet; 
Her  eyes  will  look  on  thee,  when  she  sh»<    brctibe 
The  twilight  air,  unharm'd  by  summer'*  heat. 

7. 
She  will  look  on  thee, — I  have  look'd  on  thee, 

Full  of  that  thought ;  and,  from  that  moment.  n«'«i 
Thy  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name,  or  see. 
Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  her  I 


t  The  CouDteu  GuiecWi 


*    , 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


753 


His  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream, — 

Yes!  they  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now: 
Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream, 

That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow  I 

9. 
The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more: 

Will  she  return  bv  whom  that  wave  shall  sweep? — 
DJth  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore, 

I  by  thy  source,  she  by  the  dark-blue  deep. 

10. 
But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 

Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth: 
But  the  distraction  of  a  various  lot, 

As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

11. 

A  stranger  loves  the  lady  of  the  land, 
Born  far    beyond  tne  mountains,  but  his  blood 

Is  al!  meridian,  as  if  never  fann'd 
By  the  bleak  wind  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 
12. 

My  blood  is  all  meridian;  were  it  not, 
I  had  not  left  my  clime,  nor  should  I  be, 

in  spite  of  tortures  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
A  slave  again  of  love,— at  least  of  thee. 
13. 

Tin  vain  to  struggle— let  me  perish  young- 
Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  hrve  loved ; 

To  dust  if  I  return,  from  dust  I  sprung, 
And  then,  at  least,  my  heart  can  ne'er  be  moved. 

June,  1819. 


SONNET  TO  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH 

ON  THE   REPEAL  •>        ''RD   EDWARD   FITZGERALD'S   FOR. 
VITURE. 

To  be  tm>  father  of  the  fatherless. 

To  stretch   the  band   from  the  throne's  height,  and 
raise 

His  offspring,  who  expired  in  other  days 

o  make  thy  sire's  sway  by  a  kingdom  less, — 
~%is  is  to  be  a  monarch,  and   repress 

Envy  into  unutterable  praise. 

dismiss  thy  guard,  and  trust  thee  to  such  traits, 
for  who  would  lift  a  hand,  except  to  bless? 

Were  it  not  easy,  sire?  and  is't  not  sweet 

*  o  make  thyself  beloved  ?  and  to  be 
Omnipotent  by  mercy's  means?  for  thus 

Thy  sovereignty  would  grow  but  more  complete; 
despot  thou,  and  yet  thy  people  free. 

And  by  the  heart,  not  hand,  enslaving  us. 

August,  1819. 


FRANCESCA  OF  RIMINI. 

TRANSLATION   FROM   THE   INFERNO   OF  DANTE, 
CANTO   FIFTH. 

•THE  land  where  I  was  born  sits  by  the  seas, 
Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  Po  descends, 
With  all  his  followars,  in  search  of  peace. 

"*ovc,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehends, 
'k'ized  him  for  the  fair  person  which  was  ta'en 
From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  offends. 

Vive,  who  to  none  beloved  to  love  again 
Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  to  please,  so  strong, 
That    is  thou  seest,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 

Love  to  one  death  conducted  us  along, 
3R  100 


But  Caina  waits  for  him  our  life  who  cndeJ:" 

These  were  the  accents  utter'd  by  her  tongue.— 
Since  first  I  listen'd  to  these  souls  offended, 

I  bow'd  my  visige  and  so  kept  it  till— 

(   then    >, 

"What  think'st  thou?"  said  the  bard;  j  when  j 

unbended, 
And  recommenced:  "  Alas!  unto  such  ill 

How  many  sweet  thoughts,  what  strange  ecstaciel 

Led  these  their  evil  fortune  to  fulfil !" 
And  then  I  turn'd  unto  their  side  my  eyes, 

And  said,  "  Francesca,  thy  sad  destinies 

Have  made  me  sorrow  till  the  tears  arise. 
But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 

By  what  and  how  thy  lovu  to  passion  rose, 

So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognize?" 
Then  she  to  me :  "  The  greatest  of  all  woes 

{recall  to  mind  j 
remind  us  of  j  our  happy  days 

(  this  | 

In    misery,  and  j  that  j  thy  teacher  knows. 
But  if  to  learn  our  passion's  first  root  preyi 
Upon  thy  spirit  with  such  sympathy, 

(      relate      ) 

I  will  |  do*  even  j  as  he  who  weeps  and  says.—— 
We  read  one  day  for  pastime,  seated  nigh. 
Of  Lancilot,  how  love  enchain'd  him  too. 
We  were  alone,  quite  unsuspiciously. 
But  oft  our  eyes  met,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 
All  o'er  discolour'd  by  that  reading  were; 

!       overthrew      i 
us  overthrew;  j 
,  (         desired         ) 

When  we  read  the   j  long-sigh'd  for  j  smile  of  her, 

j  a  fervent ) 

To  be  thus  kiss'd  by  such  j  devoted  j  lover, 
He  who  from  me  ca«»  be  divided  ne'er 
Kiss'd  my  mouth,  trembling  in  the  act  all  ovex 
Accursed  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote  I 

That  day  we  did  no  further  leaf  uncover. 

While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot. 
The  other  wept,  so  that  with  pity's  thralls 
I  swoon'd  as  if  by  death  I  had  been  smote, 
And  fell  down  ev  ••    as  a  dead  body  falls." 

.your  March,  182*. 

sue  for  1  x 
•mle   '•• 

ANZAS, 

TO   HER    WHO   BEST  CAN   UNDERSTAND  Til E it 

BE  it  sot  we  part  for  evert 
Let  the  past  as  Mining  be  ;— 

Had  I  only  lojed  thee,  never 
Hadst  thou  been  thus  dear  to  me. 

Had  I  loved  and  thus  been  slighted. 
That  I  better  could  have  borne ;- 

Love  is  quell'd,  when  unrequited. 
By  the  rising  pulse  of  scorn. 

Pride  may  cool  what  passion  heated, 
Time  will  tame  the  wayward  will; 

But  the  heart  in  friendship  cheated 
Throbs  with  woe's  most  maddening  turiH. 

Had  I  loved,  I  now  might  hate  thee. 

In  tlii1    hatred  solace  seek, 
Might  «xult  to  execrate  thee, 

And,  in  words,  my  vengeance  WTWIK. 


*  In  tome  oftheeditions.it  ii  "dire," in  others "  too ;"-  _ 
ference  twlween  "  raying"  and  "  doing,"  wh.ch  I  know  »4  bcw  *  tatt 
Ask  Foicolo.    The  d — -J  editions  driv   me  aud 


954 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


But  there  is  a  silent  sorrow, 
Which  can  find  no  vent  in  speech, 

Which  disdains  relief  to  borrow 
Frou,  tl^  heights  that  song  can  reach. 

Like  a  ciankless  chain  enthralling, — 
Like-  the  sleepless  dreams  that  mock, — 

Like  the  frigid  ice-drops  falling 
From  the  surf-surrounded  rock. 

Such  the  cold  and  sickening  feeling 
Thou  hast  caused  this  heart  to  know, 

Stabb'd  the  deeper  by  concealing 
From  the  world  its  bitter  woe. 

Oace  it  fondly,  proudly,  deemed  thee 
AH  that  fancy's  self  could  paint, 

Once  it  honour'd  and  esteem'd  thee, 
As  its  idol  and  its  saint  1 

More  than  woman  thou  wast  to  me; 

Not  as  man  I  look'd  on  tbee; — 
Why  like  woman  then  undo  me! 

Why  "  heap  man's  worst  curse  on  me." 

Wast  thou  but  a  fiend,  assuming 
friendship's  smile,  and  woman's  art, 

And  in  borrow'd  beauty  blooming, 
Trifling  with 'a  trusted  heart  1 

By  that  eye  which  once  could  glisten 

With  opposing  glance  to  me ; 
By  that  ear  which  once  could  listen 

To  each  tale  I  told  to  thee: — 

By  that  lip,  its  smile  bestowing, 
Which  could  soften  sorrow's  gush; — 

By  that  eheek,  once  brightly  glowing 
With  pure  friendship's  well-feigned  blush; 

By  all  those  false  charms  united,— 
Thou  hast  wrought  thy  wanton  will, 

And,  without  compunction,  blighted 
What  "  thou  wouldst  not  kindly  kill." 

Yet  I  curse  thee  not  in  sadness, 
Still,  I  feel  how  dear  thou  wert; 

Oh  I  t  could  not — e'en  in  ji.ndness— 
Doom  thee  to  thy  j^t^e-'crt ! 

Live  I  and  when  my  *i.ff*\f  o^er, 
Should  thine  own  he  le^gttien'd  long, 

Thou  raay'st  then,  too  fate,  discover 
By  thy  feelings,  all  my  wrong. 

When  thy  beauties  all  are  faded, — 
When  thy  flatterers  fawn  no  more,— 

Ere  the  solemn  shroud  hath  shaded 
Some  regardless  reptile's  store, — 

Ere  that  hour,  false  syren,  hear  me  I 
Thou  may'st  feel  what  I  do  now, 

While  my  spirit,  hovering  near  thee, 
Whispers  friendship's  broken  vow. 

But  'tis  useless  to  upbraid  thee 
With  thy  past  or  present  state; 

What  thou  wast,  my  fancy  made  thee, 
What  thou  art.  I  know  too  late. 


TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON. 

1. 

Too  have  ask'd  for  a  verse : — the  request 
!>.  a  rhymer  'twere  strange  to  deny; 

Rut  my  Hippoc.ene  was  but  my  breast, 
And  my  feelings  (its  fountain)  are  dry. 


2. 
Were  I  now  as  I  was,  I  had  sung 

What  Lawrence  has  painted  so  we.l; 
But  the  strain  would  expire  on  my  tongue. 

And  the  theme  is  too  soft  for  my  shell. 

3. 

I  am  ashes  where  once  I  was  fire. 

And  the  bard  in  my  bosom  is  dead; 
What  I  loved  I  now  merely  admire, 

And  my  heart  is  as  gray  as  my  head. 

4. 
My  life  is  not  dated  by  years — 

There  are  moments  which  act  as  a  plough. 
And  there  is  not  a  furrow  appear* 

But  is  deep  in  my  soul  as  my  brow. 

5. 

Let  the  young  and  the  brilliant  aspire 
To  sing  what  I  gaze  on  in  vain  : 

For  sorrow  has  torn  from  my  lyre 
The  string  which  was  worthy  the  strain. 
April,  1833. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN  ON   THE   ROAD   BETWEEN    FLORENCE    AXB    PU4 
1. 

OH,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twentjr 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty 

2. 
What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the   brow  that   u 

wrinkled? 

'T  is  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled. 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary! 
What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  gloryt 

3. 

Oh  Fame !  if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
'Twas  less  for  thf?  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

4. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  theei 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my  story, 
I  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

December,  1821. 


IMPROMPTU. 

ON   LADT   BLESSISGTON   EXPRESSING  HER   INTENTION  • 

TAKING   THE   VILLA   CALLED   "It  PARADISC," 

NEAR   GENOA. 

BENEATH  Blessington's  eyes 

The  reclaim'd  Paradise 
Should  be  free  as  the  former  from  evil  J 

But  if  the  new  Eve 

For  an  apple  should  grieve, 
Wh.it  mortal  would  not  play  the  Devil?* 

J3pril,  1893. 


«  The  Genoese  win  had  alread 
Takins  it  into  their  heaiU  that  this 
dence,  they  laid,  "  II  Dimvolo  e  an 


threadbare  jest  to  I  to 
fixed  on  for  h  •  »^n  I 
Paradisu."  -A  to 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


766 


TO  A  VAIN  LADY. 

AH,  heedless  girl!  why  thus  disclose 
A'liat  ne'er  was  meant  fcr  other  ears? 

Why  thus  destroy  thine  own  repose 
And  dig  the  source  of  future  tears  ? 

Oh,  thou  wilt  weep,  imprudent  maid, 
While  lurking  envious  foes  will  smile, 

For  all  the  follies  thou  hast  said 
Of  those  who  spoke  but  to  beguile. 

Vain  girl!  thy  ling'ring  woes  are  nigh, 
If  thou  believ'st  what  striplings  say: 

Oh,  from  the  deep  temptation  fly, 
Nor  fall  the  specious  spoiler's  prey. 

Dost  thou  repeat,  in  childish  boast, 
The  words  man  utters  to  deceive? 

Thy  peace,  thy  hope,  thy  all  is  lost, 
If  thou  can'st  venture  to  believe. 

While  now  amongst  thy  female  peers 
Thou  tell'st  again  the  soothing  tale, 

Canst  thou  not  mark  the  rising  sneers 
Duplicity  in  vain  would  veil  ? 

These  tales  in  secret  silence  hush, 
Nor  make  thyself  the  public  gaze: 

What  modest  maid  without  a  blush 
Recounts  a  flattering  coxcomb's  praise? 

Will  not  the  laughing  boy  despise 
Her  who  relates  each  fond  conceit — 

Who,  thinking  Heaven  is  in  her  eyes, 
Yet  cannot  see  the  slight  deceit? 

For  she  who  takes  a  soft  delight 
These  amorous  nothings  in  revealing, 

Must  credit  all  we  say  or  write. 
While  vanity  prevents  concealing. 

Cease,  if  you  prize  your  beauty's  reign  I 

No  jealousy  bids  me  reprove: 
One,  who  is  thus  from  nature  vain, 

I  pity,  but  I  cannot  love. 

January  15,  1807. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  MUSE. 

root?  Power!  who  hast  ruled  me  through  infancy's 
days, 

Young  offspring  of  Fancy,  't  is  time  we  should  part ; 
ITien  rise  on  the  pale  this  the  last  of  my  lays, 

The  coldest  effusion  which  springs  from  my  heart. 

This  bosom,  responsive  to  rapture  no  more, 
Shall  hush  thy  wild  notes,  nor  implore  thee  to  sing; 

The  feelings  of  childhood,  which  taught  thee  to  soar. 
Are  wafted  far  distant  on  Apathy's  wing. 

Though  simple  the  themes  of  my  rude  flowing  Lyre, 
Yet  even  these  themes  are  departed  for  ever; 

No  more  beams  the  eyes  which  my  dream  could    in- 
spire, 
My  visions  are  flown,  to  return, — alas,  never  I 

When  drain'd  is  the  nectar  which  gladdens  the  bowl, 
How  vain  is  the  effort  delight  to  prolong! 

When  cold  is  the  beauty  which  dwelt  in  my  soul, 
Whaf.  magic  of  Fancy  can  lengthen  my  song? 

f.an  the  lips  sing  of  Love  in  the  desert  alone, 
Of  kisses  and  smiles  which  they  now  must  resign? 

Or  dwell  with  delight  on  the  hours  that  ale  flown? 
Ah,  no !  for  those  hours  can  no  longer  be  mine. 


|  Can  they  speak  of  the  friends  that  I  ii\«d  but  to  love) 

!     Ah,  surely  affection  ennobles  the  strain  1 

I  But  how  can  my  numbers  in  sympathy  move 

I     When  I  scarcely  can  hope  to  behold  them  again  T 

Can  I  sing  of  the  deeds  which  my  Fathers  have  done 
And  raise  my  loud  harp  to   the   fame  of  my  sirea 

For  glories  like  theirs,  oh,  how  faint  is  my  tonel 
For  Heroes'  exploits  how  unequal  my  fires  I 

Untouch'd,  then,  my  Lyre  shall  reply  to  the  blast — 
'T  is  hush'd ;  and  my  feeble  endeavours  are  o'er ; 

And  those  who  have  heard  it  will  pardon  the  past, 
When  they  know  that  its  murmurs  shall  vibrate  DC 
more. 

And  soon  shall  its  wild  erring  notes  be  forgot, 
Since  early  affection  and  love  is  o'ercast: 

Oh!  blest  had  my  fate  been,  and  happy  my  lot, 
Had  the  first  strain  of  love  been  the  dearest,  the  last. 

Farewell,  my  young  Muse!  since  we  now  can    ne'ei 

meet ; 

If  our  songs  have  been  languid,  they  surely  are  fewi 
Let  us  hope  that  the  present  at  least  will  be  tweet — 
The  present— which  seals  our  eternal  Adieu. 

1807. 

TO  ANNE. 

On!  Anne,  your  offences  to  me  have  been  grievous; 

I  thought  from  my  wrath  no  atonement  could  save 

you; 
But  woman  is  made  to  command  and  deceive  us— 

I  look'd  in  your  face,  and  I  almost  forgave  you. 

I  vow'd  I  could  ne'er  for  a  r..oment  respect  you. 
Yet  thought  that  a  day's  separation  was  long: 

When  we  met,  I  determin'd  again  to  suspect  you— 
Your  smile  soon  convinced  me  suspicion  was  wrong 

I  swore,  in  a  transport  of  young  indignation, 
With  fervent  contempt  evermore  to  disdain  you : 

I  saw  you — my  anger  became  admiration; 
And  now,  all  my  wish,  all  my  hope  's  to  regain  yon 

With  beauty  like  yours,  oh,  how  vain  the  contention. 

Thus  lowly  I  sue  for  forgiveness  before  you; — 
At  once  to  conclude  such  a  fruitless  dissension, 

Be  false,  my  sweet  Anne,  when  I  cease  to  adore  yon 
January  16,  1807. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

OH  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  the  Fates  have  decree* 
The  heart  which  adores  you  should  wish  to  dissever  > 

Such  Fates  were  to  me  most  unkind  ones  indeed,— 
To  bear  me  from  love  and  from  beauty  for  ever. 

Your  frowns,  lovely  girl,  are  the  Fates  which  alone 
Could  bid  me  from  fond  admiration  refrain; 

By  these,  every  hope,  every  wish  were  ft'erthiown. 
Till  smiles  should  restore  me  to  rapture  again. 

As  the  ivy  and  oak,  in  the  forest  entwined. 

The  rage  of  the  tempest  united  must  A'eathej, 
My  love  and  my  life  were  by  nature  design'd 

To  flourish  alike,  or  to  perish  togetlier. 

Then  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  the   fates    have  ev 

creed, 

Your  lover  should  bid  you  a  lasting  adifu, 

Ti'.l  Fate  can  ordain  that  his  bosom  shall  bleed. 

His  soul,  his  existence,  are  centred  in  you 

'*> 


766 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OP  A  SONNET  BEGINNING, 

'<U.D  U   MY   VERSE,'  YOO   SAY,  'AND   YET   HO   TEAR.'" 

THY  verge  is  "sad"  enough,  no  doubt: 
A  devilish  deal  more  sad  than  witty! 

Why  we  should  weep  I  can't  find  out, 
Unless  for  thet  we  weep  in  pity. 

TTet  there  is  one  I  pity  more ; 

And  much,  alas!  I  think  he  needs  it: 
For  he,  I'm  sure,  will  suffer  sore. 

Who,  to  his  own  misfortune,  reads  it. 

Thy  rhymes,  without  the  aid  of  magic, 
May  once  be  read— but  never  after: 

Yet  their  effect's  by  no  means  tragic. 
Although  by  far  too  dull  for  laughter. 

But  would  you  make  our  bosoms  bleed, 
And  of  no  common  pang  complain— 

tf  you  would  make  us  weep  indeed, 
Tell  us,  you'll  read  them  o'er  again. 

March  8,  1807. 


ON  FINDING  A  FAN. 

In  one  who  felt  as  once  he  felt. 

This  might,  perhaps,  have  fann'd  the  flame ; 
But  now  his  heart  no  more  will  melt, 

Because  that  heart  is  not  the  same. 

As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low, 
The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light, 

And  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow, 
Now  quenches  all  their  blaze  in   night. 

Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires— 
As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers — 

While  every  hope  of  love  expires. 
Extinguished  with  the  dying  embers. 

The  first,  though  nos  a  spark  survive. 
Some  careful  hand  may  teach  to  burn ; 

The  last,  alas !  can  ne'er  survive ; 
No  touch  can  bid  its  warmth  return. 

Or,  if  it  chance  to  wake  again. 
Not  always  doom'd  its  heat  to  smother, 

It  sheds  (so  wayward  fates  ordain) 
Its  former  warmth  around  another. 

1807. 


TO  AN  OAK  AT  NEWSTEAD.* 

ak!  when  I  planted  thee  deep  in  the  ground, 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than  mine ; 
That  thy  dark-waving  branches  would  flourish  around, 
And  ivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 

Buch,  sucn  was  my  hope,  when,  in  infancy's  years, 
On  the  land  of  my  fathers  I  rear'd  thee  with  pride: 

1  ney  are  past,  and  I  water  thy  stem  with  my  tears, — 
Thy  decay  not  the  weeds  that  surround  thee  can  hide. 


•  Lord  Byron,  on  his  first  arrival  at  New«tead,  in  1798,  planted  in  oak 
Hi  UK  unlr'n.  and  nouriihed  the  fancy,  that  u  the  tree  flourished  so  should 
M.  On  revisiting  the  abbey,  durin?  Lnrd  Grey  Je  Ruthven's  residence  there, 
k*  founJ  fit  oak  choked  up  by  weeds,  and  almost  destroyed  ;— hence  these 
tun.  Shortly  af'-tr  Colonel  Wildman.  the  present  proprietor,  took  posses- 
HOB,  h*  one  day  noticed  it  ami  said  to  the  servant  who  was  with  him,  "  Here 
a  a  fine  younjr  oak  ;  but  it  must  be  cut  down  as  it  ^rnwt  in  an  improper 
place  '— u  I  hope  not,  sir,"  replied  the  man  ;  "  for  it  *s  the  one  that  my 
•ord  was  w  fond  of,  because  he  set  it  himself.''  The  Colonel  has,  of  course, 
jkf »  every  possible  ere  of  it.  It  is  already  inquired  after,  by  strangers,  ss 
"Thi  B^ran  Oak,"  tni  promises  to  uliare,  in  after  times,  the  celebrity  ol 
tiuknvtm  mulnerrt.  and  Pope's  w  How.— Moon 


I  left  thee,  my  Oak,  and,  since  that  fatal  hour, 
A  stranger  has  dwelt  in  the  hall  of  my  sire: 

Till  manhood  shall  crown  me,  not  mine  is  tha  powi 
But  his,  whose  neglect  may  have  bade  thee  expiit 

Oh!  hardy  thou  wert — even  now  little  care 
Might  revive  thy  young  head,  and  thy  wounds  genv 
heal: 

But  thou  wert  not  fated  affection  to  share — 
For  who  could  suppose  that  a  stranger  would  feei 

Ah,  droop  not,  my  Oak!  lift  thy  head  for  awhile; 

Ere  twice  round  yon  Glory  this  planet  shall  run. 
The  hand  of  thy  Master  will  teach  thee  to  smile, 

When  Infancy's  years  of  probation  are  done. 

Oh,  live  then,  my  Oak !  tow'r  aloft  from  the  weed*, 
That  clog  thy  young  growth,  and  assist  thy  decaj 

For  still  in  thy  bosom  are  life's  early  seeds, 
And  still  may  thy  branches  their  beauty  display 

Oh!  yet,  if  maturity's  years  may  be  thine. 
Though  /  shall  lie  low  in  the  cavern  of  death, 

On  thy  leaves  yet  the  day-beam  of  ages  may  shine 
Uninjured  by  time,  or  the  rude  winter's  breath. 

For  centuries  still  may  thy  boughs  lightly  wave 
O'er  the  corse  of  thy  lord  in  thy  canopy  laid ; 

While  the  branches  thus  gratefully  shelter  his  grava 
The  chief  who  survives  may  recline  in  thy  shade. 

And  as  he,  with  his  boys,  shall  revisit  this  spot. 
He  will  tell  them  in  whispers  more  softly  to  tread 

Oh!  surely,  by  these  I  shall  ne'er  be  forgot: 
Remembrance  still  hallows  the  dust  of  the  dead. 

And  here,  will  they  say,  when  in  life's  glowing  prime 
Perhaps  he  has  pour'd  forth  his  young  simple  lay, 

And  here  must  he  sleep,  till  the  moments  of  time 
Are  lost  in  the  hours  of  Eternity's  day. 

1807 


DEDICATION  TO  DON  JUAN.f 
l. 

BOB  SODTHEY  !  you  're  a  poet — Poet-laureate, 

And  representative  of  all  the  race. 
Although  'tis  true  that  you  lurn'd  out  a  Tory  at 

Last, — yours  has  lately  been  a  common  case, — 
And  now,  my  Epic  Renegade!  what  are  y».  at? 

With  all  the  Lakers,  in  and  out  of  place  ? 
A  nest  of  tuneful  persons,  to  my  eye 
Like  "  four  and  twenty  Blackbirds  in  a  pye ; 

ii. 
"  Which  pye  being  open'd,  they  began  to  sing,' 

(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds  good,) 
"A  dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  King," 

Or  Regent,  who  admires  such  kind  of  food  ;— 
And  Coleridge,  too,  has  lately  taken  wing, 

But  like  a  hawk  encumber'd  with  his  hood,— 
Explaining  metaphysics  to  the  nation — 
I  wish  he  would  explain  his  explanation. 

in. 
You,  Bob!  are  rather  insolent,  you  know, 

At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 
To  supersede  all  warblers  here  below, 

And  he  the  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish; 


t  This  "  Dedication"  was  suppressed,  in  1SI9.  with  T/ir  1  Byron's  i  octu 
consent ;  but,  shortly  after  his  death,  its  existence  bettn.*  notorious  jn  r*f) 
sequence  of  an  article  in  the  Westminster  Review,  <euerally  ascribed  k 
Sir  John  Hobhouse ;  and,  for  several  years  'he  verse*  /wye  been  wllim;  » 
dreets  as  a  broadside.  It  could,  thcreWt,  terv  no  purpose-  to  exciUM 
them  on  the  present  occasion. — Moort, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


75 


And  then  you  overstrain  yourself,  or  so, 

And  tumble  downward 'like  the  flying  fish 
Gasping  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too  high,  Bob, 
And  fall,  for  lack  of  moisture  quite  a-dry,  Bob! 

IV. 

And  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  long  "Excursion," 

(1  think  the  quarto  holds  five  hundred  pages,) 
Has  given  a  sample  from  the  vasty  version 

Of  his  new  system  to  perplex  the  sages; 
T  is  poetry — at  least  by  his  assertion, 

And  may  appear  so  when  the  dog-star  rages — 
And  he  who  understands  it  would  be  able 
To  add  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

v. 
You — Gentlemen!  by  dint  of  long  seclusion 

Prom  better  company,  have  kept  your  own 
At  Kesvvick,  and,  through  still  continued  fusion 

Of  one  another's  minds,  at  last  have  grown 
To  deem  as  a  most  logical  conclusion, 

That  Poesy  has  wreaths  for  you  alone: 
There  is  a  narrowness  in  such  a  notion, 
Which  makes  me  wish  you  'd  change  your  lakes  for 
ocean. 

VI. 

I  would  not  imitate  the  petty  thought, 
Nor  coin  my  self-love  to  so  base  a  vice. 

For  all  the  glory  your  conversion  brought, 
Since  gold  alone  should  not  have  been  its  price. 

You  have  your  salary;  was't  for  that  you  wrought? 
And  Wordsworth  has  his  place  in  the  Excise.* 

You're  shabby  fellows— true— but  poets  still, 

And  duly  seated  on  the  immortal  hill. 

TO. 

Your  bays  may  hide  the  boKlness  of  your  brows— 
Perhaps  some  virtuous  blushes; — let  them  go — 

To  you  I  envy  neither  fruit  nor  boughs— 
And  for  the  fame  you  would  engross  below, 

The  field  is  universal,  and  allows 
Scope  to  all  such  as  feel  the  inherent  glow: 

Scott,  Rogers,  Campbell,  Moore,  and  Crabbe,  will  try 

•Gainst  you  the  question  with  posterity. 

VIII. 

For  me,  who,  wandering  with  pedestrian  Muses, 
Contend  not  with  you  on  the  winged  steed, 

I  wish  your  fate  may  yield  ye,  when  she  chooses, 
The  fame  you  envy,  anJ  the  skill  you  need; 

And  recollect  a  poet  nothing  loses 
In  giving  to  his  brethren  their  full  meed 

Of  merit,  and  complaint  of  present  days 

la  not  the  certain  path  to  future  praise. 

IX. 

He  that  reserves  his  laurels  for  posterity 

(Who  does  not  often  claim  the  bright  reversion) 
Has  generally  no  great  crop  to  spare  it,  he 

Being  only  injured  by  his  own  assertion  ; 
And  although  here  and  there  some  glorious  rarity 

Arise  like  Titan  from  the  sea's  immersion, 
The  major  part  of  such  appellants  go 
To — God  knows  where— for  no  one  else  can  know. 

x. 
If,  faMen  in  evil  days  on  evil  tongues, 

MiUon  appeal'd  to  the  Avenger,  Time, 
If  Time,  the  Avenger,  execrates  his  wrongs, 

And  makes  the  word  "  Miltonic"  mean  "»uWim«," 


He  deign'd  not  to  belie  his  soul  in  songi, 

Nor  turn  his  very  talent  to  a  crime, 
He  did  not  lothe  the  Sire  to  laud  the  Eon 
But  closed  the  tyrant-hater  he  begun. 

XI. 

Think'st  thou,  could  he— the  blind  Old  MB n— arise 
Like  Samuel  from  the  grave,  to  freeze  ones  mon. 

The  blood  of  monarchs  with  his  prophecies, 
Or  be  alive  again— again  all  hoar 

With  time  and  trials,  and  those  helpless  eye* 
And   heartless   daughters — worn  —  and  pale-  tM 
poor; 

Would  he  adore  a  sultan  ?  he  obey 

The  intellectual  eunuch  Castlereagh  ?J 

XII. 

Cold-blooded,  smooth-faced,  placid  miscreant  I 
Dabbling  its  sle<.-k  young  hands  in  Erin's  gore 

And  thus  for  wider  carnage  taught  to  pant, 
Transferr'd  to  gorge  upon  a  sister  shore. 

The  vulgarest  tool  that  tyranny  could  want, 
With  just  enough  of  talent,  and  no  more. 

To  lengthen  fetters  by  another  fix'd, 

And  offer  poison  long  already  mix'd. 

XIII. 

An  orator  of  such  set  trash  of  phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately  vile, 
That  even  its  grossest  flatterers  dare  not  prais*, 

Nor  foes — all  nations — condescend  to  smile, — 
Not  even  a  sprightly  blunder's  spark  can  blaze 

From  that  Ixion  grindstone's  ceaseless  toil, 
That  turns  and  turns  to  give  the  world  a  notion 
Of  endless  torments  and  perpetual  motion 

XIV. 

A  bungler  even  in  its  disgusting  trade, 

And  botching,  patching,  leaving  still  behind 
Something  of  which  its  masters  are   afraid, 

States  to  be  curb'd,  and  thoughts  to  be  confined 
Conspiracy  or  Congress  to  be   made — 

Cobbling  at  manacles  for  all  mankind — 
A  tinkering  slave-maker,  who  mends  old  chain*. 
With  God  and  man's  abhorrence  for  its  gain*. 

xv. 
If  we  may  judge  of  matter  by  the  mind. 

Emasculated  to  the  marrow  It 
Hath  but  two  objects,  how  to  serve,  and  bind, 

Deeming  the  chain  it  wears  even  men  may  fit, 
Eutropius  of  its  many  masters,— blind 

To  worth  as  freedom,  wisdom  as  to  wit, 
Fearless — because  no  feeling  dwells  in  ice 
Its  very  courage  stagnates  to  a  vice. 

XVI. 

Where  shall  I  turn  me  not  to  view  its  bonds, 

For  I  will  never  feel  them;— Italy! 
Thy  late  reviving  Roman  soul  desponds 

Beneath  the  lie  this  State-thing  breathed  o'er  thee  - 
Thy  clanking  chain,  and  Erin's  yet  green  wounds. 

Have  voices — tongues  to  cry  aloud  for  me. 
Europe  has  slaves — allies — kings — armies  still, 
And  Southey  lives  to  sing  them  very  ill. 


t  "  Pale,  but  not  cadaverous  ;"— Milton's  two  elder  daughters  are  lam  % 
have  robbed  him  of  his  books,  besides  cheating  and  plaguing  b  jn  m  tM 
economy  of  his  house,  &c.  IK.  His  feelings  on  such  an  outrage,  both  M  • 
parent  and  a  scholar,  must  have  been  singularly  painful.  Hayley  xnira.n* 
him  to  Lear.  See  part  third,  Life  of  Milton,  by  W.  Havlev  (or  Hailcr  » 
spelt  in  the  edition  before  me.) 
JOr,— 

"Would  ht  subside  Into  a  hackr,ey  Laureate— 

A  scribbling,  self-sold,  soul-hired,  scorn 'd  Iseariotr* 

I  doubt  if  "  Laureate"  and  "  Iwariol"  be  good  rhymes,  but  must  Hi,  •  Ms> 
on  did  to  Sylvester,  who  challenged  him  to  rhyme  with— 
"  I,  John  Sylvester, 

Lay  with  your  sisrer." 

Jonson  answered,— "  I,  Ben  Jonson.  lay  with  vour  /ife."  Sylvertn  u» 
ed,— '•  That  is  uot  rhrnw  »  -"  No  "  said  B<n  Jonsco;  «lw«     i>»iu>» 


758 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Meantime — Sir  Laureate — I  proceed  to  dedicate, 
In  honest  simple  verse,  this  song  to  you, 

And,  if  in  flattering  strains  I  do  not  predicate, 
Tit  that  I  still  retain  my  "  buff  and  blue;" 

My  politics  as  yet  are  all  to  educate: 
Apostasy 's  so  fashionable,  too. 

To  keep  one  creed  's  a  task  grown  quite  Herculean  ; 

;«  it  not  so,  my  Tory,  ultra-Julian?* 
Venice,  September  16,  1818. 


FRAGMENT 

OH  TH«  BACK  OF  THE  POET'S  MS.  OF  CANTO  I. 
OF  DON  JUAN. 

.  WOULD  to  heaven  that  I  were  so  much  clay, 
Ai  I  am  blood,  bone,  marrow,  passion,  feeling — 

Because  at  least  the  past  were  pass'd  away — 
And  for  the  future— (but  I  write  this  reeling, 

Having  got  drunk  exceedingly  to-day. 
So  that  I  seem  to  stand  upon  the  ceiling) 

i  say — the  future  is  a  serious  matter — 

And  so— for  God's  sake— hock  and  soda-water ! 


PARENTHETICAL  ADDRESS.f 

BY    DR.    PLAGIARY. 

Half  (total,  with  acknowledgments,  to  be  spoken  in  an  inarticulate  voice 
by  Muter  P.  »t  the  opening  of  the  next  new  theatre.— Stolen  parti  mirlc- 
ed  with  the  inverted  commas  of  quotation— thus  " ". 

"  WHEN  energising  objects  men  pursue," 

Then  Lord  knows  what  is  writ  by  Lord   knows  who. 

*  A  modest  monologue  you  here  survey," 

Hiss'd  from  the  theatre  the  "other  day," 

As  if  Sir  Fretful  wrote  "  the  slumberous"  verse. 

And  gave  his  son  "  the  rubbish"  to  rehearse. 

"Yet  at  the  thing  you'd  never  be  amazed," 

Knew  you  the  rumpus  which  the  author  raised; 

"Nor  even  here  your  smiles  would  be  represt," 

Knew  you  these  lines — the  badness  of  the  best. 

"Flame I  fire!    and    flame!!"    (words    borrowed    from 

Lucretius,) 

"Dread  metaphors  which  open  wounds"  like  issues! 
•And  sleeping  pangs  awake— and— but  away" 
(Confound  me  if  I  know  what  next  to  say.) 
"Lo  Hope  reviving  re-expands  her  wings," 
And  Master  G —  recites  what  Doctor  Busby  sings  ! — 
"  If  mighty  things  with  small  we  may  compare," 
(Translated  from  the  grammar  for  the  fair !) 
Dramatic  "spirit  drives  a  conquering  car," 
And  burn'd  poor  Moscow  like  a  tub  of  "  tar." 
This  spirit  Wellington  has  shown  in  Spain." 
To  furnish  melodramea  for  Drury  Lane 
"Another  Marlborough  points  to  Blenheim's  story," 
And  George  and  I  will  dramatize  it  for  ye. 

'  In  arts  and  sciences  our  isle  hath  shown" 
(This  deep  discovery  is  mine  alone.) 
"Oh  British  poesy,  whose  powers  inspire" 
My  verse— or  I'm  a  fool— and  Fame's  a  liar, 
"  Thee  we  invoke,  your  sister  arts  implore" 
With  "smiles,"  and  " lyres,"  and  " pencils," and  much 
more. 


•  I  Allude  not  to  our  friend  Landor'i  hero,  the  traitor  Count  Julian,  but  to 
Ubliooi  hero,  vulgarly  yclept  "  The  Apostate." 

Among  the  addresses  tent  in  to  the  Drury  Lane  Committee,  was  one  by 
•>     Riwfcf    euUtled  "A  Monologue,"  of  which  the  above  it  a  parody.— 


These,  if  we  win  the  Graces,  too,  we  gai«i 

Disgraces,  too!  "inseparable  train!" 

"  Three    who   have   stolen    their   witching   airt>   from 

Cupid" 

(You  all  know  what  I  mean,  unless  you're  stupid  •> 
"Harmonious  throng"  that  I  have  kept  in  petto, 
Now  to  produce  in  a  "divine  sestetto"!/ 
"  While  Poesy,"  with  these  delightful  doxies, 
"Sustains  her  part"  in  all  the  "upper"  boxes  I 
"Thus  lifted  gloriously,  you'll  soar  along," 
Borne  in  the  vast  balloon  of  Busby's  song; 
"  Shine  in  your  farce,  masque,  scenery,  and  play" 
(For  this  last  line  George  had  a  holiday.) 
"  Old  Drury  never,  never  soar'd  so  high," 
So  says  the  manager,  and  so  says  I. 
"But  hold,  you  say,  this  self-complacent  boast;" 
Is  this  the  poem  which  the  public  lost  ?  4 
"True  —  true — that   lowers    at   once   our   mounting 

pride ;" 

But  lo! — the  papers  print  what  you  deride. 
"'Tis  ours  to  look  on  you — you  hold  the  prize," 
'Tis  twenty  guineas,  as  they  advertise! 
"  A  double  blessing  your  rewards  impart" — 
I  wish  I  had  them,  then,  with  all  my  heart 
"Our  twofold  feeling  owns  its  twofold  cause," 
Why  son  and  I  both  beg  for  your  applause. 
"When  in  your  fostering  beams  you  bid  us  live,* 
My  next  subscription  list  shall  say  how  much  you  give ' 

October,  1812. 


[Instead  of  the  lines  to  Inez,  which  now  stand  in  the  First  Canto  of  (  illd* 
Harold,  Lord  Byron  had  originally  written  the  following'] 

1. 

OH  never  talk  again  to  me 

Of  northern  climes  and  British  ladies; 
It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see. 

Like  me,  the  lovely  girl  of  Cadiz. 
Although  her  eye  be  not  of  blue. 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  English  lasses, 
How  far  its  own  expressive  hue 

The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses! 

2. 
Prometheus-like,  from  heaven  she  stole 

The  fire,  that  through  those  silken  lashes 
In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes: 
And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthen'd  flow  her  raven  tresses, 
You'd  swear  each  clustering  lock  could  feo^ 

And  curl'd  to  give  her  neck  caresses. 

3. 
Our  English  maids  are  long  to  woo. 

And  frigid  even  in  possession ; 
And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view. 

Their  lips  are  clow  a»  Love's  iv>t.fc«w'o» 
But  born  beneath  a  brighter  sun. 

For  love  ordain'd  the  Spanish  mam  is, 
And  who, — when  fondly,  fairly  won, — 

Enchants  you  like  the  Girl  of  Cadizf 

4. 
The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette, 

Nor  joys  to  see  a  lover  tremble, 
And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate, 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dis~emnle 
Her  heart  can  ne'er  be  bought  01  s>I.— 

Howe'er  it  beats,  it  beats  sinci  rely  ; 
And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  £old, 

'Twill  love  you  long  ana  love  you  dearly 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


75U 


5. 
The  Spanish  girl  t»  it  meets  your  love 

Ne'er  taunts  you  with  a  mock  denial, 
For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 

Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain, 

!-he  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger; 
And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain, 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love's  avenger. 

6. 
And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star, 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero, 
Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 

Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero, 
Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairy  hand 

Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hesper, 
Or  join  devotion's  choral  band, 

To  cliaunt  the  sweet  and  hallow'd  vesper; — 

7. 
In  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 

Of  all  who  venture  to  behold  her; 
Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove 

Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder: 
Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  roam, 

Where  many  a  soft  and  melting  maid  is, 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

May  match  the  dark-eyed  Girl  of  Cadiz. 


FAREWELL  TO  MALTA. 

ADIEU,  ye  joys  of  La  Valette! 

Adieu,  sirocco,  sun,  and  sweat ! 

Adieu,  the  palace  rarely  entered! 

Adieu,  ye  mansions  where — I  've  ventur'd! 

Adieu,  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs ! 

(How  suieiy  he  who  mounts  you  swears  !) 

Adieu,  ye  merchants  often  failing! 

Adieu,  thou  mob  forever  railing! 

Adieu,  ye  packets — without  letters ! 

Adieu,  ye  fools — who  ape  your  betters! 

Adieu,  thou  damned'st  quarantine, 

That  gave  me  fever,  and  the  spleen! 

Adieu  that  stage  which  makes  us  yawn,  Sin, 

Adieu  his  Excellency's  dancers! 

Adieu  to  Peter— whom  no  fault  'a  in, 

But  could  not  teach  a  colonel  waltzing : 

Adieu,  ye  females  fraught  with  graces! 

Adieu  red  coats,  and  redder  faces  ! 

Adieu  the  supercilious  air 

Of  all  that  strut  "  en  militaire !" 

I  go — but  God  knows  when,  or  why. 

To  smoky  towns  and  cloudy  sky. 

To  things  (the  honest  truth  to  say) 

As  bad— but  in  a  different  way.— 

Farewell  to  these,  but  not  adieu, 
Triumphant  sons  of  truest  blue! 
While  either  Adriatic  shore, 
And  fallen  chiefs,  and  fleets  no  more, 
And  nightly  smiles,  and  daily  dinners, 
Proclaim  you  war  and  women's  winners. 
Pardon  my  Muse,  who  apt  to  prate  is. 
And  take  my  rhyme — because  'tis  "gratia." 

And  now  I  've  got  to  Mrs.  Fraser, 
Ferhaps  you  think  I  mean  to  praise  her— 
Atitl  were  I  vain  qnough  to  think 
My  praise  was  worth  this  drop  of  ink, 
A  line — or  two— were  no  hard  matter, 
A*  here    indeed,  I  neeil  not  flitfpr- 


But  she  must  be  content  tc  shine 
In  better  praises  than  in  mine, 
With  lively  air,  and  open  !)«ut, 
And  fashion's  ease,  without  its    art, 
Her  hours  can  gaily  glide  along, 
Nor  ask  the  aid  of  idle  song. — 

And  now,  O  Malta!  since  thou'st  got  M, 
Thou  little  military  hothouse! 
I'll  not  offend  with  words  uncivil, 
And  wish  thee  rudely  at  the  Devil, 
But  only  staie  from  out  my  casement, 
And  ask,  for  what  is  such  a  place  meant? 
Then,  in  my  solitary  nook, 
Return  to  scribbling,  or  a  hook, 
Or  take  my  physic  while  I  'm  able 
(Two  spoonfuls  hourly  by  the  label,) 
Prefer  my  nightcap  to  my  beaver, 
And  bless  the  gods — I've  got  a  feverl 
May  26,  1811. 


Endorsement  to  the  Deed  of  Separation,  in  tit 
April  o/  1816. 

A  YEAR  ago  you  swore,  fond  she ! 

'To  love,  to  honour,'  and  so  forth  : 
Such  was  the  vow  you  pledged  to  m«. 

And  here  's  exactly  what  'tis  worth. 

To  Penelope,  January  2,  1821 

This  day,  of  all  our  days,  has  done 

The  worst  for  me  and  you. — 
*Ti«  just  six  years  since  we  were  one, 

And  Jive  since  we  were  two. 


WHO  kill'd  John  Keats? 
•  I,'  says  the  Quarterly, 
So  savage  and  Tartarly; 

'  'T  was  one  of  my  feats.' 

Who  shot  the  arrow? 
'The  poet-priest  Milman 
(So  ready  to  kill  man,) 

Or  Southey  or  Barrow. 


SONG  FOR  THE  LUDDITES. 
i. 

As  the  Liberty  lads  o'er  the  eea 
Bought  their  freedom,  and  cheaply,  with  blooo. 

So  we,  boys,  we 
Will  die  righting,  or  line  free  — 
And  down  with  all  kings  but  King  Luddl 

n. 

When  the  web  that  we  weave  in  complete 
And  the  shuttle  exchanged  for  the  sword 

We  will  fling  the  winding-sheet 

O'er  the  despot  at  our  feet, 
And  dye  it  deep  in  the  gore  he  has 


Though  black  as  his  heart  its  hue. 

Since  his  veins  are  corrupted  to  mud, 
Yet  this  is  the  dew 
Which  the  tree  shall  r<*now 

Ol  liberty,  planted  t>y  Lutfd  1 


700 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


THE  CHAIN  I  GAVE. 

(From  the  Turkish.) 

THB  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  view, 

The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound; 
The  heart  that  offer'd  both  was  true, 

And  ill  deserved  the  fate  it  found. 
Those  gifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  spell 

Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine ; 
And  they  have  done  their  duty  well,— 

Alas !  they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 
That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link, 

But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch ; 
That  lute  was  sweet— till  thou  couldst  think 

In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 
Let  him  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 

The  chain  which  shiver'd  in  his  graup, 
Who  saw  that  lute  refuse   to  sound, 

Restring  the  chords,  renew  the  clasp. 
When  thou  wert  changed,  they  alter'd  too; 

The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute. 
;Tis  past— to  them  and  thee  adieu- 
False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  silent  lute, 


SUBSTITUTE  FOR  AN  EPITAPH. 
Rii»n  Reader!  take  your  choice  to  cry  or  laugh; 
Here  HAROLD  lies— but  Where's  his  Epitaph? 
If  such  you  seek,  try  Westminster,  and  view 
Ten  thousand  just  as  fit  for  him  as  you. 

Athens. 

"PTTAPH  FOR  JOSEPH  BLACKETT,  LATE  POET 

AND  SHOEMAKER. 
STRANOBR!  behold,  interr'd  together, 
The  soulii  of  learning  and  of  leather. 
Poor  Joe  is  gone,  but  left  his  all: 
You  '11  find  his  relics  in  a  stall. 
His  works  were  neat,  and  often  found 
Well  stitch'd,  and  with  morocco  bound. 
Tread  lightly— where  the  bard  is  laid 
He  cannot  mend  the  shoe  he  made ; 
Yet  is  he  happy  in  his  hole, 
With  verse  immortal  as  his  srie. 
But  Btill  to  business  he  held  fast, 
And  stuck  to  Phoebus  to  the  last. 
Then  who  shall  say  so  good  a  fellow 
Was  only  "leather  and  prunella?" 
For  character— he  did  not  lack  it ; 
And  if  he  did,  't  were  shame  to  "  Black-it." 
Malta,  JUay  16,  1811. 

t*0  WE  'LL  GO  NO  MORE  A  ROVING. 

I. 
So  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

So  late  into  the  night. 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

n. 
for  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 

And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 
A  ad  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe. 

And  love  itself  have  rest. 

in. 
ntough  the  night  was  made  for  loving 

And  the  day  returns  too  soon, 
Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 

9v  the  light  of  the  moon 


LINES, 

ON    HEARING   THAT   LADY    BYRON   WAS  ILL 

AND  thou  wert  sad— yet  I  was  not  with  thea ; 

And  thou  wert  sick,  and  yet  I  was  not  near; 
Methought  th.it  joy  and  health  alone  could  be 

Where  I  was  not — and  pain  and  sorrow  herel 
And  is  it  thus?— it  is  as  I  foretold. 

And  shall  be  more  so;  for  the  mind  recoils 
Upon  itself,  and  the  wreck'd  heart  lies  cold, 

While  heaviness  collects  the  shatter'd  spoils. 
It  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 

We  feel  benumb'd,  and  wish  to  be  no  more. 

But  in  the  after-silence  on  the  shore, 
When  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life. 

I  am  too  well  avenged! — but  'twas  my  right; 

Whale'er  my  sins  might  be,  thou  wert  not  sent 
To  be  the  Nemesis  who  should  requite — 

Nor  did  Heaven  choose  so  near  an  instrument. 
Mercy  is  for  the  merciful! — if  thou 
Hast  been  of  such,  't  will  be  accorded  now. 
Thy  nights  are  banish'd  from  the  realms  of  sleep  V— 

Yes  !  they  may  flatter  thee,  but  thou  shalt  feel 

A  hollow  agony  which  will  not  heal, 
For  thou  art  pillow'd  on  a  curse  too  deep; 
Thou  hast  sown  in  my  sorrow,  and  must  reap 

The  bitter  harvest  in  a  woe  as  real! 

I  have  had  many  foes,  but  none  like  thee ; 

For  'gainst  the  rest  myself  I  could  defend, 

And  be  avenged,  or  turn  them  into  friend;  - 
But  thou  in  safe  implacability 
Hadst    naught   to   dread  —  in    thy   own    weakness 

shielded, 
And  in  my  love,  which  hath  but  too  much  yielded. 

And'  spared,    for   thy   sake,    some  I  should   not 

spare — 

And  thus  upon  the  world— trust  in  thy  truth- 
Ami  the  wild  fame  of  my  ungovern'd  youth — 

On  things  that  were  not,  and  on  things  that  are- 
Even  upon  such  a  basis  hast  thou  built 
A  monument,  whose  cement  hath  been  guilt  I 

The  moral  Clytemnestra  of  thy  lord, 
And  hew'd  down,  with  an  unsuspected  sword, 
Fame,  peace,  and  hope — and  all  the  better  life 

Which,  but  for  this  cold  treason  of  thy  heart, 
Might  still  have  risen  from  out  the  grave  of  strife, 
And  found  a  nobler  duty  than  to  part. 

But  of  thy  virtues  didst  thou  make  a  vice, 
Trafficking  with  them  in  a  purpose  cold, 
For  present  anger,  and  for  future  gold— 
And  buying  others'  grief  at  any  price. 
And  thus  once  enter'd  into  crooked  way*, 
The  early  truth,  which  was  thy  proper  praise, 
Did  not  still  walk  beside  thee — but  at  times, 
And  with  a  breast  unknowing  its  own  crimes. 
Deceit,  averments  incompatible, 
Equivocations,  and  tliu  thoughts  which  dwell 

In  Janus-spirits-  -tlie  significant  eye 
Which  learns  to  lie  with  silence — the  pretez* 
Of  Prudence,  with  advantages  annex'd — 
The  acquiescence  in  all  things  which  tend. 
No  natter  how,  to  the  desired  end — 

All  found  a  place  in  thy  philosophy. 
Phe  means  were  worthy,  and  the  end  it  won- 
I  would  not  do  by  thee  as  thou  hast  done  I 

September    18J8. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


761 


TO  *  *  *. 
BOT  onee  I  dared  to  lift  my  eyes — 

To  lift  my  eyes  to  thee; 
And  since  that  day,  beneath  the  skies 

No  other  sights  they  see. 

In  vain  sleep  shuts  them  in  the  night— 

The  nfght  grows  day  to  me; 
Presenting  idly  to  my  sight 

What  still  a  dream  must  be. 
A  fatal  dream— for  many  a  bar 

Divides  thy  fate  from  mine; 
And  still  my  passions  wake  and  war. 

But  peace  be  still  with  thine. 


MARTIAL,  LIB.  I.  Eno.  L 

Hie  at,  qutm  legi%  ille,  quemre  quirii, 
Tola  notus  in  orb*  Martiilis,  fee. 

HE  unto  whom  thou  art  so  partial, 
Oh,  reader!  is  the  well-known  Martial. 
The  Epigrammatist:  while  living, 
Give  him  the  fame  thou  wouhlst  be  giving; 
So  shall  he  bear,  and  feel,  and  know  it — 
Post-obits  rarely  reach  a  poet. 


EPIGRAM. 

IN  digging  up  your  bones,  Tom  Paine 
Will.  Cobbet  has  done  well: 

You  visit  him  on  earth  again, 
He'll  visit  you  in  hell. 


TO   DIVEa 

A.   FRAGMENT. 

IT!»HAPPY  DIVES:  in  an  evil  hour 
'Gainst  Nature's  voiec  seduced  to  deeds  accurst) 
Once  Fortune's  minion,  now  thou  feel'st  her  power; 
Wrath's  vial  on  thy  lofty  head  hath  burst. 
In  Wit,  in  Genius,  as  in  Wealth  the  fust, 
How  wond'rous  bright  thy  blooming  morn  arose  1 
But  thou  wert  smitten  with  th'  unhallow'd  thirst 
Of  Crime  unnamed,  and  thy  sad  noon  must  close 
In  scorn,  and  solitude  unsought,  the  worst  of  woes. 

1811. 


VERSES  FOUND  IN  A  SUMMER-HOUSE  AT 
HALES-OWEN. 

WHKH  Dryden's  fool,  "unknowing  what  he  sought," 

His  hours  in  whistling  spent.  "  for  want  of  thought," 

This  guiltless  oaf  his  vacancy  of  sense 

Supplied,  and  amply  too,  by  innocence; 

Did  modern  swains,  possess'd  of  Cymon's  powers, 

In  Cymon's  manner  waste  their  leisure  hours, 

Th'  offended  guests  would  not,  with  blushing,  see 

These  fair  green  walks  disgraced  by  infamy. 

Severe  the  fate  of  modern  fools,  alas  t 

When  vice  and  folly  mark  them  as  they  pas*. 

Like  noxious  reptiles  o'er  the  whiten'd  wall, 

Fhe  filth  they  leave  still  points  out  where  they  crawl. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

iE,  beauty  and  poet,  has  two  little  crime*; 
irakos   her  own  face.-,  and  does  not  make  her 
rhymes. 

101 


NEW  DUET. 

To  the  tone  of  "  Why,  how  BOW,  uncy  Jtdtr" 

WHY,  how  now,  saucy  Tom? 

If  you  thus  must  ramble, 
I  will  publish  some 

Remarks  on  Mister  Campbell. 

ANSWER. 

Why,  how  now.  Parson  Bowles? 

Sure  the  priest  is  maudlin  I 
(To  the  public)  How  can  you,  d—  n  your  souls 

Listen  to  his  twaddling  7 


EPIGRAMS. 

OB,  Castlereaghl  thou  art  a  patriot  now; 
Cato  died  for  his  country,  so  didst  thou: 
He  perish'd  rather  than  see  Rome  enslaved, 
Thou  cutt'st  thy  throat  that  Britain  may  be  ured 


So  Castlereagh  has  cut  his  throat  1— The 
Of  this  is, — that  his  own  was  not  the  first. 

So  He  has  cut  his  throat  at  last  I— Re  I  Wbof 
The  man  who  cut  his  country's  long  ago. 


THE  CONQUEST. 

i. 
THE  Son  of  Love  and  Lord  of  War  I  sing ; 

Him  who  made  England  bow  to  Normandy, 
And  left  the  name  of  conqueror  more  than  king 

To  his  unconquerable  dynasty. 
Not  fann'd  alone  by  Victory's  fleeting  wing, 

He  rear'ri  his  bold  and  brilliant  throne  on  hi|bj 
The  Bastard  kept,  like  lions,  his  prey  fast, 
And  Britain's  bravest  victor  was  the  last. 

March  8-»,  1833. 


VERSICLES.  f 

I  READ  the  "  Christabel ;" 

Very  well: 
I  read  the  "Missionary;" 

Pretty— very : 
I  tried  at  "  Ilderim;" 

Ahem! 
I  read  a  sheet  of  "Marg'ret  of  Jtnjenf 

Can  you  ? 
I  turn'd  a  page  of  Scott's  "  Waterloo ;" 

Pooh!  pooh 
I  look'd  at  Wordsworth's  milk-white  "  Ry Istont  DM  f 

Hillo! 

&.C.  &c.  &C. 


EPIGRAM, 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  KBLHTEKES. 

IT,  for  silver  or  for  gold. 

You  could  melt  ten  thousand  pimplts 

Into  half  a  dozen  dimples. 
Then  your  face  we  might  behold, 

Looking,  doubtless,  much  more  snugly- 

Yet  even  then  't  would  b«  d — d  Uf hr 


702 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


TO  MR.  MUHRAY. 

To  hook  the  reader,  you,  John  Murray, 

Have  publisb'd  "  Anjou's  Margaret," 

Which  won't  be  sold  otf  in  a  hurry, 

(At  least,  it  has  not  been  as  yet;) 

Am1  then,  still  further  to  bewilder  'em, 

Without  remorse  you  set  up  "  Ilderim ;" 

So  mind  you  don't  get  into  debt. 
Because  as  how,  if  you  should  fail, 
These  books  would  be  but  baddish  bait 

And  mind  you  do  not  let  escape 
These  rhymes  to  Morning  Post  or  Perry, 
Which  would  be  vtry  treacherous — very, 

And  get  me  into  such  a  scrape  1 
For,  firstly,  I  should  have  to  sally, 
All  in  my  little  boat,  against  a  Galley; 

And,  should  I  chance  to  slay  the  Assyrian  wight, 

Have  next  to  combat  with  tbe  female  knight. 
March  25,  1817. 


EPISTLE  FROM  MR.  MURRAY  TO  DR.  POLI- 
DORI. 

DEAR  Doctor,  I  have  read  your  play, 
Which  is  a  good  one  in  its  way, — 
Purges  the  eyes  and  moves  the  bowels, 
And  drenches  handkerchiefs  like  towels 
With  tears,  that,  in  a  flux  of  grief, 
Afford  hysterical  relief 
To  shatter'd  nerves  and  quicken'd  pulses, 
Which  your  catastrophe  convulses. 

I  like  your  moral  and  machinery; 
Your  plot,  too,  has  such  scope  for  scenery 
Your  dialogue  is  apt  and  smart; 
The  plays's  concoction  full  of  art ; 
Your  hero  raves,  your  heroine  cries, 
All  stab,  and  every  body  dies. 
In  short,  your  tragedy  would  be 
The  very  thing  to  hear  and  see: 
And  for  a  piece  of  publication, 
If  I  decline  on  this  occasion, 
It  is  not  that  I  am  not  sensible 
'     To  merits  in  themselves  ostensible; 
But— and  I  grieve  to  speak  it— plays 
Are  drugs — mere  drugs,  sir— now-a-days. 
!  had  a  heavy  loss  by  "Manuel," — 
Too  lucky  if  it  prove  not  annual, — 
And  Sotheby,  with  his  "  Orestes," 
(Which,  by  the  by,  the  author's  best  is,) 
Has  lain  so  very  long  on  hand, 
That  I  despair  of  all  demand. 
I've  advertised,  but  see  my  books, 
Or  only  watch  my  shopman's  looks; — 
Still  Ivan,  Ina,  and  such  lumber, 
My  back-shop  glut,  my  shelves  encumber. 

There's  Byron  too,  who  once  did  better 
Has  sent  me,  folded  in  a  letter, 
H.  sort  of— it's  no  more  a  drama 
Than  Darnley,  Ivan,  or  Keharua; 
Bo  aiter'd  since  last  year  his  pen  is, 
I  think  he's  lost  his  wits  at  Venice. 
">  short,  sir,  what  with  one  and  t'other, 
I  dare  not  venture  on  another. 
I  write  in  haste;  excuse  each  blunder; 
Th«  coaches  fnrougl>  the  streets  so  thunder, 
Mjr  room's  so  full — we've  Gifford  here 
Reading  MS.,  with  Hookman  Frcre, 


Pronouncing  on  the  ntxins  and  particle* 
Of  some  of  our  forthcoming  Article*. 

The  Quarterly— Ah,  sir,  if  you 
Had  but  the  gen  (us  to  review  I — 
A  smart  critique  upon  St.  Helena, 
Or  if  you  only  would  but  tell  in  a 
Short  compass  what— but,  to  resume: 
As  I  was  saying,  sir,  tbe  room— 
The  room 's  so  full  of  wus  and  bard«, 
Crabbes,  Campbells,  Crokers,  Freres,  »a*  W«r4i 
And  others,  neither  bards  nor  wits: — 
My  humble  tenement  admits 
All  persons  in  tbe  dress  of  gent., 
From  Mr.  Hammond  to  Dog  Dent. 

A  party  dines  with  me  to-day, 
All  clever  men,  who  make  their  way; 
Crabbe,  Malcolm,  Hamilton,  and  Chantrey 
Are  all  partakers  of  my  pantry. 
They're  at  this  moment  in  discussion 
On  poor  De  StaeTs  late  dissolution. 
Her  book,  they  say,  was  in  advance — 
Pray  Heaven,  she  tell  the  truth  of  France! 
Thus  run  our  time  and  tongues  away. — 
But,  to  return,  sir,  to  your  play: 
Sorry,  sir,  but  I  cannot  deal, 
Unless  't  were  acted  by  O'Neil. 
My  hands  so  full,  my  head  so  busy, 
I'm  almost  dead,  and  always  dizzy; 
And  so,  with  endless  truth  and  hurry, 
Dear  Doctor,  I  am  yours, 

JOHN  MURRA.T 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

MY  dear  Mr.  Murray, 
You're  in  a  damn'd  hurry 

To  set  up  this  ultimate  Canto; 
But  (if  they  don't  rob  us) 
You'll  see  Mr.  Hobhouse 

Will  bring  it  safe  in  his  portmanteau. 

For  the  Journal  you  hint  of, 
As  ready  to  print  off, 

No  doubt  you  do  right  to  commend  It; 
But  as  yet  I  have  writ  off 
The  devil  a  bit  of 

Our  "  Beppo  :" — when  copied,  1 11  send  it. 

Then  you  've  *  *  *  's  Tour,— 
No  great  things,  to  be  sure,— 

You  could  hardly  begin  with  a  leM  work; 
FOP  the  pompous  rascallion, 
Who  don't  speak  Italian 

Nor  French,  must  have  scribbled  by  gueM-woffc 

You  can  make  any  loss  op 
With  "Spence"  and  his  gossip, 

A  work  which  must  surely  succeed; 
Then  Queen  Mary's  Epistle-craft, 
With  the  new  "  Fytte"  of  "  Whistleeraft," 

Must  make  people  purchase  and  read. 

Then  you  've  General  Gordon, 
Who  girded  his  sword  on. 

To  serve  with  a  Muscovite  master 
And  help  him  ta  polish 
A  nation  so  owlish, 

They  thought  shaving  their  bgorda  a  4inMM 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


763 


for  the  man,  "poor  ami  shrewd," 
With  whom  you  'd  conclude 

A  compact  without  more  delay, 
Perhaps  some  such  pen  it 
full  extant  in  Venice; 

But  please,  sir,  to  mention  your  pay 

K«n»c«,  January  8,  1818. 


TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

STRAHAN,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the   times, 
Patron  and  publisher  of  rhymes, 
For  thee  the  bard  up  Pindua  climbs, 
My  Murray. 

To  thee,  with  hope  and  terror  dumb, 
The  unfledged  MS.  authors  come: 
Thou  printest  all — and  sellest  some — 
My  Murray. 

Upon  thy  table's  baize  so  green 
The  last  new  Quarterly  is  seen, — 
But  where  is  thy  new  Magazine, 
My  Murray? 

Along  thy  sprucest  book-shelves  shine 
The  work*  tbou  deemest  most  divine—- 
The M  Art  of  Cookery,"  and  mine, 
My  Murray. 

Tours,  Travels,  Essays,  too,  I  wist, 
And  Sermons  to  thy  mill  bring  grist; 
And  then  thou  hast  the  "  Navy  List," 
My  Murray. 

And  Heaven  forbid  I  should  conclude 
Without  "  the  Board  of  Longitude," 
Although  this  narrow  paper  would, 
My  Murray! 

reniee,  March  25,  1818. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE 
WHAT  are  you  doing  now, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore? 
What  are  you  doing  now, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore? 
Sighing  or  suing  now, 
Rhyming  or  wooing  now, 
Billing  or  cooing  now. 

Which,  Thomas  Moore? 

But  the  Carnival's  coming, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore  I 
The  Carnival's  coming. 

Ob  Thomas  Moore  I 
Masking  and  humming, 
Fifing  and  drumming, 
Guitarring  and  strumming, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore ! 


STANZAS. 

n  man  hath  no  freedom  to  fight  for  at  home, 
Let  him  combat  for  that  of  his  neighbours; 
Let  him  think  of  the  glories  of  Greece  and  of  Rome, 
And  get  knock'd  on  the  bead  for  his  labours. 

To  do  good  to  mankind  is  the  chivalrous  plan, 

And  is  always  as  nobly  requited; 
Then  battle  for  freedom  wherever  you  can, 

And,  if  not  shot  or  hang'd,  vou'll  get  knighted. 


EPITAPH  FOR  WILLIAM  PITT. 

WITH  death  doom'd  to  grapple 

Beneath  this  cold  slab,  he 
Who  lied  in  the  Chapel 

Now  lies  in  the  Abbey. 


ON  MY  WEDDING-DAY. 

HERB'S  a  happy  new  year!  but  with  rtason 

I  beg  you  Ml  permit  me  to  say- 
Wish  me  many  returns  of  the  tcatm, 
But  as  Jew  as  you  please  of  the  day 


EPIGRAM. 

THE  world  is  a  bundle  of  hay. 
Mankind  are  the  asses  who  pull; 

Each  tugs  in  a  different  way. 
And  the  greatest  of  all  is  John  Bull. 


THE  CHARITY  BALL. 

[On  heariof  that  tidy  Byron  hid  been  Fatrone»  of  «B*n  a  «U  of  tarn* 
charity  at  Hincklejr.] 

WHAT  matter  the  pangs  of  a  husband  and  fa  the,' 
If  his  sorrows  in  exile  be  great  or  be  small. 

So  the  Pharisee's  glories  around  ber  she  gather, 
And  the  saint  patronizes  her  "charity  ball  I" 

What  matters— a    heart    which,    though   faulty,  wu 
feeling, 

Be  driven  to  excesses  which  once  eou.ti  appal- 
That  the  sinner  should  suffer  is  only  fair  dealing. 

As  the  saint  keeps  her  charity  back  for  "  the  ball  f 


EPIGRAM, 

ON   THE    BRASIERS1    COMPANY   HA. VINO   RESOLVED  TO   PRE- 
SENT AN  ADDRESS   TO   QUEEN   CAROLINE. 

THE  brasiers,  it  seems,  are  preparing  to  pass 
An  address,  and  present  it  themselves  all  in  bra*}— 
A  superfluous  pageant— for,  by  the  Lord  Harry! 
They'll  find  where  they  are  going   much  more    t&M 
they  carry. 


TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

FOR  Orford  and  for  Waldegrare 

You  give  much  more  than  me  you  gate  i 

Which  is  not  fairly  to  behave, 

My  Murray. 

Because  if  a  live  dog,  'tis  said, 
Be  worth  a  lion  fairly  sped, 
A  live  lord  must  be  worth  taw  dead. 
My  Murray. 

And  if,  as  the  opinion  goes, 
Verse  hath  a  better  sale  than  prow- 
Certes,  I  should  have  more  than  those. 
My  Murray. 

But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  cramm'd. 
So,  if  yo*  mil,  I  shan't  be  shamm'd 
And  if  you  tcon't,  you  may  be  damn  t 
My  Murray. 


7C4 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


OX  THE  BIRTH  OF  JOHN   WILLIAM  RIZZO 
HOPPNER. 

ilii  father's  tense,  his  mother's  grace, 
In  him,  I  hope,  will  always  fit  so; 

With— still  to  keep  him  in  good  case— 
The  health  and  appetite  of  Rizzio. 


STANZAS,  TO  A  HINDOO  AIR. 

[TbcM  Tenet  were  written  by  Lord  Byron  a  little  before  he  left  Italy  for 
Greece.  They  wen  meant  to  suit  the  Hindoitanee  air—"  Alia  Malla  Pun- 
ea,*  which  the  Counter  Guiccioli  was  fond  of  tinging.] 

OH  I— my  lonely— lonely— lonely— Pillow!   • 

Where  is  my  lover?  where  is  my  lover? 

Is  it  his  bark  which  my  dreary  dreams  discover? 

Far— far  away]  and  alone  along  the  billow? 

Oh!  my  lonely— lonely— lonely— Pillow! 

Why  mast  my  head  ache  where  his  gentle  brow  lay  ? 

How  the  long  night  flags  lovelessly  and  slowly. 

And  my  head  droops  over  thee  like  the  willow. — 

Oh!  thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  Pillow! 

Send  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from  oreaking, 

la  return  for  the  tears  I  shed  upon  thee  waking; 

Let  me  not  die  till  he  comes  back  o'er  the  billow. — 

Then  if  thou  wilt — no  more  my  lonely  Pillow, 

In  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold  him, 

And  then  expire  of  the  joy— but  to  behold  him  I 

Ob!  my  lone  bosom! — oh!  my  lonely  Pillow' 


STANZAS. 

["  CODLD   LOVB   TOR   «VKR."J 
t 

COCLD  Love  for  ever 
Run  like  a  river. 
And  Time's  endeavour 

Be  tried  in  vain — 
No  other  pleasure 
With  this  could  measure  ; 
And  like  a  treasure 

We'd  hug  the  chain. 
But  since  our  sighing 
Ends  not  in  dying, 
And  form'd  for  flying, 

Love  plumes  his  wing; 
Then  for  this  reason 
Let's  love  a  season; 
But  let  that  season  be  only  Spring. 

n. 

When  lovers  parted 
Feel  broken-hearted. 
And,  all  hopes  thwarted, 

Expect  to  die; 
A  few  years  older, 
Ah!  how  much  colder 
They  might  behold  her 

For  whom  they  sigh! 
When  link'd  together, 
In  every  weather, 
They  pluck  Love's  feather 

From  out  his  wing — 
He'll  stay  for  ever, 
But  sadly  shiver 
•Vithou*  his  plumage,  when  past  the  Spring. 


Like  Chiefs  of  Faction, 
His  life  is  action— 
A  formal  paction 

That  curbs  his  reign 
Obscures  his  glory. 
Despot  no  more,  he 
Such  territory 

Quits  with  disdain. 
Still,  still  advancing. 
With  banners  glancing. 
His  power  enhancing, 

He  must  move  on— 
Repose  but  cloys  him. 
Retreat  destroys  him. 
Love  brooks  not  a  degraded  throne. 

IV. 

Wait  not,  fond  lover! 
Till  years  are  over. 
And  then  recover, 

As  from  a  dream. 
While  each,  bewailing 
The  other's  failing, 
With  wrath  and  railing, 

AH  hideous  seem— 
While  first  decreasing, 
Yet  not  quite  ceasing. 
Wait  not  till  teasing 

All  passion  blight : 
If  once  diminish'd. 
Love's  reign  is  finish'd— 
Then  part  in  friendship,— and  bid  good  oiffafc 

v. 

So  shall  Affection 
To  recollection 
The  dear  connexion 

Bring  back  with  joy: 
You  had  not  waited 
Till,  tired  or  hated, 
Your  passions  sated 

Began  to  cloy. 
Your  last  embrace* 
Leave  no  cold  traces— 
The  same  fond  faces 

As  through  the  past; 
And  eyes,  the  mirrors 
Of  your  sweet  errors. 
Reflect  butVapture— not  least,  though  IM 


True,  separations 

Ask  more  than  patience; 

What  desperations 

From  such  have  risen! 
But  yet  remaining. 
What  is't  but  chaining 
Hearts  which,  once  waning. 

Beat  'gainst  their  prison? 
Time  can  but  cloy  love. 
And  use  destroy  love: 
The  winged  boy.  Love, 

Is  but  for  boys — 
You'll  find  it  torture 
Though  sharper,  shorter, 
To  wean,  and  not  wear  out,  your  joyi 


THE  END. 


A     000112767 


or,,  ,TU.-  University  of  California 
SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Return  this  material  to  the  library 
from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


764 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


(Ot  THE  BIRTH  OF  JOHN   WILLIAM  RIZZO 
HOPPNER. 

Ill*  father's  sense,  his  mother's  grace, 
In  him,  I  hope,  will  always  fit  so; 

With— still  to  keep  him  in  good  case— 
The  health  and  appetite  of  Rizzio. 


STANZAS,  TO  A  HINDOO  AIR. 

[These  Tern  were  written  by  Lord  Byron  *  little  before  he  left  Italy  for 
Greece.  They  were  meant  to  suit  the  Hindostanee  air—"  Alia  Malla  Pun- 
a,*  which  the  Counted  Guiccioli  wit  food  of  tinging.  1 

OH!— my  lonely— lonely— lonely— Pillow!   • 

Where  is  my  lover?  where  is  my  lover? 

Is  it  his  bark  which  my  dreary  dreams  discover? 

Far— far  awayl  and  alone  along  the  billow? 

Oh!  my  lonely— lonely— lonely— Pillow! 

Why  must  my  head  ache  where  his  gentle  brow  lay  ? 

How  the  long  night  flags  lovelessly  and  slowly, 

And  my  head  droops  over  thee  like  the  willow. — 

Oh!  thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  Pillow! 

Send  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from  oreaking, 

In  return  for  the  tears  I  shed  upon  thee  waking; 

Let  me  not  die  till  he  comes  back  o'er  the  billow, 

Then  if  thou  wilt — no  more  my  lonely  Pillow, 

In  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold  him, 

And  then  expire  of  the  joy— but  to  behold  him  I 

Oh!  my  lone  bosom! — oh!  my  lonely  Pillow) 


STANZAS. 

["  COULD   LOV«  FOR   EVKR."J 

I. 

COULD  Love  for  ever 
Run  like  a  river, 
And  Time's  endeavour 

Be  tried  in  vain — 
No  other  pleasure 
With  this  could  measure ; 
And  like  a  treasure 

We'd  hug  the  chain. 
But  since  our  sighing 
Ends  not  in  dying. 
And  form'd  for  flying, 

Love  plumes  his  wing; 
Then  for  this  reason 
Let 's  love  a  season ; 
But  let  that  season  be  only  Spring. 

II. 

When  lovers  parted 
Feel  broken-hearted, 
And,  all  hopes  thwarted, 

Expect  to  die; 
A  few  years  older, 
Ah!  how  much  colder 
They  might  behold  her 

For  whom  they  sigh! 
When  link'd  together, 
In  every  weather, 
They  pluck  Love's  feather 

From  out  his  wing- 
He '11  stay  for  ever, 
But  wdljr  shiver 

his  plumage,  when  past  the  Spring. 


Like  Chiefs  of  Faction, 
His  life  is  action— 
A  formal  paction 

That  curbs  his  reign 
Obscures  his  glory. 
Despot  no  more,  he 
Such  territory 

Quits  with  -disdain. 
Still,  still  advancing. 
With  banners  glancing. 
His  power  enhancing. 

He  must  move  on — 
Repose  but  cloys  him. 
Retreat  destroys  him. 
Love  brooks  not  a  degraded  throw*. 

IV. 

Wait  not,  fond  lover! 
Till  years  are  over. 
And  then  recover. 

As  from  a  dream. 
While  each,  bewailing 
The  other's  failing, 
With  wrath  and  railing. 

All  hideous  seem — 
While  first  decreasing, 
Yet  not  quite  ceasing, 
Wait  not  till  teasing 

All  passion  blight : 
If  once  diminish'd, 
Love's  reign  is  flnish'd— 
Then  part  in  friendship,— and  bid  food-oiftti 

v. 

So  shall  Affection 
To  recollection 
The  dear  connexion 

Bring  back  with  joy: 
You  had  not  waited 
Till,  tired  or  hated. 
Your  passions  sated 

Began  to  cloy. 
Your  last  embraces 
Leave  no  cold  traces — 
The  same  fond  faces 

As  through  the  past; 
And  eyes,  the  mirrors 
Of  your  sweet  errors. 
Reflect  but»rapture— not  least,  though  IMI 


True,  separations 

Ask  more  than  patience; 

What  desperations 

From  such  have  risen ! 
But  yet  remaining. 
What  is't  but  chaining 
Hearts  which,  once  waning, 

Beat  'gainst  their  prison  f 
Time  can  but  cloy  love, 
And  use  destroy  love: 
The  winged  boy,  Love, 

Is  but  for  boys— 
You'll  find  it  torture 
Though  sharper,  shorter, 
To  wean,  and  not  wear  out,  your  Joyi 


THE  END. 


000  112  767 


SC'  i 


MAR 


Ml 
1 


[Written,  for  tiie  Crescent  City  Courier,] 

By  Miss'E.'A.  DOOUTTLE. 

OLD  LETTERS.  ' 

Old  letters!  ah,  how  dear  they  are, 

Yet  different  though  they  bo, 
They  each  alone,  in  easy  tone, ' 

Hold  some  sweet  charm  for  me; 
While  looking  o'er  an  old  worn  tr'unk 

Uutouched,  unseen  for  years, 
I  ramo  across  these  relics  hid,  ' 
.  That  brought  the  scalding  tears. 

And  woke  a  thousand  happy  thoughts, 

With  sun  and 'shade"  o'ercast, 
Ho  turned  again,  with  joy  and  pain, 

Old  pictures  of  tiie  past; 
In  bunches  tied  with  cord  am]  thread, 

And  soma  with  ribbons  old. 
Were  bound  around  their  bordera  black 

That  some  sad  story  told. 

With  here  and  there  a  tear-stained  word, 

Blurred  almost  out  of  sight, 
And  many  ending  with  these  words, 

"God  bless  and  guide  you  right—;" 
And  lochs  of  hair  now  hid  between, ' 

Theiv  pages' yellow  rim,  '•' 

'ith  name  and  age,  birth  and  death, 

P;iu:e  1  wn  so  light  within. 

And  where  "is  one*  who  dow  not  hold, 

Within  their  inmost  heart, 
-  A  Jpeasuf €«cl^,  .sorqe  sacred  gift, 

Yet  of  their  Jives  a  part;' 
So,  while  the  years  roll  on  the  same, 

And  lifejfefelij  earthly  fettera, 
I  cling  witlflovo  to  this  old  buncfi 

Of  worn  and  faded  letters. 


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